You should’ve seen Picasso’s face when he saw what was on that laptop.
Here he was: ‘Aagh. Aagh.’ I thought he was gonna have a heart attack. He was watching himself killing Gemma. Thought I’d treat him to a spot of home entertainment. I don’t think Picasso should watch himself killing people on laptops. It’s bad for his nerves. He should go and see a doctor about it.
Did you ever see those old films based on Greek mythology? Where one of the goddesses fights her corner and Zeus fights his, and somebody who has offended the gods has to be snuffed out. ‘Release the Kraken,’ Zeus commands, and everybody goes ‘Aagh!’ as this big dinosaur-type crocodile comes up out of the sea and licks its lips at the sight of this poor virgin who’s been bound to a cliff to be gobbled up. Must have been handy having your own Kraken to get shot of people.
Well Picasso was gonna be mine. Release Picasso! In Clonkeelin.
Now for the plan I had in mind to work, I had to see to it that the laptop I was using, not the one I’d left in Picasso’s, would eventually land in Chilly Winters’ lap. And I had to make Winters believe that it wasn’t me but his daughter who had been communicating with Picasso. And she had to appear to be in control, not intimidated by him, relaxed, casual. Why? Because relaxed casual threats from the right quarters are far more intimidating than giving your opponent the impression that you fear him. That weakens threats. In this instance, forget all that crap about women being frightened by killers. I had to make Winters believe that Lucille had the power to frighten Picasso more than the other way round, through the information she held on him, and her use of what she would believe to be her anonymity being preserved via modern technology. This is the information-technology age.
‘Good evening, Cornelius,’ I typed. ‘And how are you?’ Spot of informality there for me old mate Picasso. I like that. It fits in with the ‘casual threats’ approach. Just because you can put a guy away and ruin his life doesn’t mean you can’t be friendly.
He looked around him as if somehow he was going to see where I was.
‘You can speak,’ I typed. ‘I can both hear and see you.’
He peered into the camera I’d connected to the top of the upright lid as if he expected me to peer back at him. In close-up like this it hit me again that I knew him from somewhere, but I just couldn’t place him. Nah. I already had him. I’d seen letters addressed to him on his sideboard during my first visit. Cornelius Hockler. Faces might change a little over the years but names don’t. And who could fail to recognise a name like that? Me and old Corn went way back.
Anyway, ‘Sit down and be comfortable,’ I typed.
He pulled up a chair.
‘That’s better. Nice and comfy?’
Here he was: ‘Yes, yes,’ nodding away at the same time. I’d say he was more surprised by that laptop than his victims had been by him.
‘Who … who are you?’ he asked.
‘A benefactor.’
‘A benefactor?’
‘Yes, Cornelius. I want you to work for me.’
‘Me? Work for you? In what capacity?’
‘In your field of expertise.’
That one threw him. ‘You wish me to paint for you?’
‘Your other field.’
‘My other field?’
‘Now don’t be modest, Cornelius. Think of the Irish word for church.’
‘I’m afraid Irish was not one of my subjects.’
‘It begins with a “K”.’
He considered it long enough to say, ‘K … k … k …?’ then shook his head. I thought he was gonna come out with ‘Ku Klux Klan’ for a minute.
‘I’ll give you a clue. Sick: three letters, then front it with a “K”.’
A big deep-thought face showed up. ‘Sick, three letters … ill … ill … kill … You want me to kill for you?’
‘Don’t look so shocked, Cornelius. Right now you’re doing it for free.’
‘You wish me to become an assassin?’
‘That’s one way of seeing it.’
He was seeing it another way, the crafty bastard. Gone was the musing and the deep thought. Now he was arching an eyebrow, the way people do when a big opportunity has just turned up.
Here he was: ‘A paid assassin?’
Fuck me, the cunt was looking for a backhander. Which threw me. I hadn’t expected it. I’d expected him to be biting his nails. Why was he asking me that? Maybe he was after a job. Whatever it was, he interpreted my silence for what it was – I was weighing up what he’d said.
Then he put a head on it. ‘Would there be … a …’ he said. I could smell that something else was on the way. But not ‘… a possibility of a small advance?’
A small fucking advance? The gall of the bastard. This guy had an odd way of treating blackmailers.
‘You appreciate, Cornelius – “Cornelius”, such a lovely name—’
‘Thank you.’
‘—that I can persuade you to work for me.’
‘So I have observed.’
‘And that a copy of this evidence will find its way to the law if anything should ever happen to me.’
‘Please do not forget to take your vitamins.’
He always had a sense of humour. ‘So we have an understanding?’
‘Male or female?’
‘Who?’
‘Your difficulties?’
Amy and Edna Donavan were first in line. I began with them.
‘Female.’
‘Pretty?’
Pretty? What was he after – girls to paint? ‘Not especially. Why?’
‘Age?’
‘Fifties.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. I couldn’t countenance ladies of an advanced age. I just couldn’t.’
‘Fifty’s not advanced.’
‘Quite. But my models are always much younger.’
That’s all I needed – a fussy serial killer. ‘The victims’ gender and ages are neither here nor there. They won’t be modelling for you.’
‘And the riding crop?’ (The one I’d left beside the laptop.)
‘Bring it and the other gear with you.’
‘To where?’
‘Clonkeelin.’
‘Why?’
‘Instructions will arrive in a minute. Study them on your way over. You’ll have thirty minutes. Don’t let me down.’
Well, well, well, whaddayaknow. That’s my big word for the day. So Corn was coming to work for me.
Corn wasn’t a bad old boy, as it happens. Come to think of it, he was a bad old boy. Me and him used to share the same dormitory. The size of him should’ve given him away sooner. He was always a lanky bastard. Mind you, like myself, he’d put on a bit of weight since then.
Hope he isn’t afraid of wasps.