to dry; the different colours drying at different speeds. The earth colours, as used in this painting, might take a couple of days, whereas a red might need a week or more to be touch-dry. Total dryness can take up to a year. I tested the surface with my fingers, to feel what it could tell me. Not much. He could, of course, have been working on it for months, developing minute areas with infinite patience.
That hint of a smile on her face doesn't fool me. I reckon someone in the room has just broken wind, and, being a lady, she's desperately trying to pretend she didn't hear them. I think she'd look better with a big, lecherous grin. If the paint wasn't completely dry I should be able to do it with my fingertips. I tried to draw the corners of the mouth upwards, pressing hard on the surface. It was too late. She looked a little more as if she was about to lose control, but not as manic as I'd hoped for. I glanced around for materials, then pulled open the drawer in the table.
All his paints were neatly laid out, as per the rainbow. I went straight to the short end of the spectrum and selected a colour.
Cadmium scarlet, perfect. Squeezing the paint directly from the tube on to the canvas, I gave her a luscious, Monroesque pout although it did look as if she'd applied her lipstick while riding a horse.
I placed the squashed tube back in the drawer without putting the top back on and moved up the frequency range. Something had to be done about those eyebrows and the receding hairline. Chrome yellow; a bit cool, but it'd do. I gave her two arching brows, then, working outwards from the parting, masses of looping, blonde curls. Bet she'd always wanted to be a blonde. Half a tube of lamp black provided eyelashes that looked like lawn rakes. I closed the drawer and examined my handiwork. Well, at least it was original.
At that point I should have left. I'd penetrated their empire and guaranteed them a bad case of dysentery when they found out. I should have organised twenty-four-hour surveillance. Over the years, there've been a lot of things I should have done, but didn't. Besides, I've always had an interest in interior decoration. I just had to have a look at Mr. Cakebread's private suite. I presumed that was where the door at the far end of the room led.
The handle turned silently and the door swung inwards when gently pushed. It was almost pitch black inside, except for a flickering blue glow reflecting off the shiny surfaces. As the door swung wider I saw the source of it. High in a corner was a small black-and-white closed-circuit TV monitor, showing the big door at the side, where I had entered the building.
'Come in, Charlie,' said a familiar voice, and the lights flashed on.
Rudi Truscott was standing at the far side of the room. He had a smug expression on his face and a Smith and Wesson in his hand. It was a Lady Smith, one of a neat little series of weapons designed for American women to carry in their purses. It was a thirty-eight, though, and would fell a moose at this range.
'Pizza Express,' I said. 'Did anybody here order a quattro stagioniV 'Sit down,' he commanded, gesturing towards an armchair, 'and keep your tiresome humour to yourself.'
Ouch! That hurt. He placed himself on an upright chair at the other side of the room. I glanced round at the furnishings. There was a lot of lilac. The style was Puffs Boudoir, with heavy Cocktail Bar influences.
'Nice room,' I said. 'Did you choose the colours?' No answer, just a contemptuous stare.
'I, er, I saw your painting.' I gestured towards the outer room. 'It's good, one of your best. But surely you're not going to try to heist the Mona Lisa, are you?'
He sniggered. 'No. While I am confident I can reproduce Leonardo's masterpiece, he unfortunately used inferior materials. I am unable to do justice to the surface cracks that it is covered with. The picture is just a little present for the wife of a friend. She says it's her favourite painting.'
'Good,' I replied, nodding my approval. 'Good. I'm sure she'll appreciate it. Tell me, what's her second favourite: the white horses galloping through the waves, or the Burmese lady with the green face?'
'You're a sarcastic bastard,' he hissed. 'You always were. But we won't have to put up with you for much longer.'
'Why? What are you going to do?' I asked. It seemed a reasonable question. I was genuinely interested.
'You'll find out.'
'I'd never have thought of you as a killer, Rudi,' I told him.
'I'm not'
'Aren't you? What about old Jamie?'
'Who's old Jamie?'
'You remember. The tramp whose body we found in your cottage. We've been looking for you for his murder.'
Fear flickered across his face for a moment. The gun wavered alarmingly. 'I didn't kill him,' he hissed. 'He… died.'
'Did he? And what did you do to help the process? Give him a litre of Bell's and tell him to get it down? It amounts to the same thing in my book.'
His eyes flashed up towards the TV monitor and he smiled. 'Fortunately, Priest, your book is not the one we're working from.'
I followed his gaze. The big door was open and the Rolls was coming through. As it slid shut again Truscott said: 'Get up, it's time to go.' He pointed towards the exit. 'Walk slowly, and don't try anything.'
I walked slowly. Very slowly. I was hoping he'd come up close behind me, but he was wary.
'Faster!' he snapped.
We were approaching the painting, which was angled away from us, towards the outer door. I glanced back at him and said: 'Yes, it's a really nice picture.' We'd reached it now. I went on: 'It needed a few small alterations, though, so I made them for you. I hope you don't mind.'
I grabbed the top of the easel and turned it so he could appreciate my handiwork. With the lights on it wasn't La Gioconda any more; it was Barbara Cartland, after being ravished by the Chipping Sodbury chapter of Hell's Angels.
His face contorted in horror: 'You bastard!' he screamed.
One second later the picture, with easel still attached, hit him in the mouth and I was out through the door.
Cakebread was opening the boot of the Rolls. He looked up when he heard the commotion and his natural look of self-satisfaction turned to panic when he saw me. I was down the stairs in three leaps and already running when my feet hit the ground. Truscott fired. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete in front of me, nearly hitting Cakebread.
'Three seconds, dear God,' I prayed. 'Three seconds, that's all I ask, with my hands round his throat.'
I nearly made it. With five yards to go Cakebread delved into the boot and spun in my direction. I found myself charging towards the pitiless black orifices of a sawn-off shotgun.
Plan B. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. I executed a body-swerve and change of direction that would have graced any football field in the world, and headed for the door. But you can't outrun a twelve-bore.
The noise, the pain and the impact all hit me at once. The blast caught me in the right side, spinning me round. My legs tangled and I went down. The only thought in my head was 'keep moving'. I rolled over and over. Then I was scrabbling forward on my hands and knees and finally on my feet again. I thumbed the door catch with my free hand the one that wasn't holding my guts in yanked it open and spilled out on to the welcoming pavement.
Penny Throstle owns a craft shop in the new riverside development at Oldfield. She sells rugs and blankets that she weaves herself on a Victorian floor loom, purchased when the company that had hitherto owned it fell victim to advancing technology and cheap imports. She was given the option to buy the three similar ones in the mill at the same knockdown price, so she took those, too. The intention was to use them for spares, or restore them for sale to another small operator.
Fortunately she did neither, and all four are now in use.
The rugs are usually hung on walls as decoration, being far too expensive to walk on or throw over the bed. Her designs come from all around the world, as well as the original ones she develops herself. Ms Throstle was doing quite nicely, thank you, until she made a rug for Mr. Rahkshan. Now she is doing very well indeed.
Mr. Rahkshan is a silversmith, and owns the shop next door. He is a Muslim. One day, in a period when Ms Throstle was beguiled by the geometric patterns of Islamic art and producing beautiful works under its heady influence, she made Mr. Rahkshan a prayer mat. Her motives were not purely spiritual she fancied him madly. The design was based on five lines, radiating from a point halfway along one side. Mr.
