How To Hide A Body

How To Bribe A Grandma

I rarely visited the houses of my clients twice. After going back to Steve McQueen's fake house for the second time I knew why.

As we pulled into the gravel driveway for the second time, I was hit with sudden, unwanted nostalgia. This is the location which dragged me into a web of tricks and treachery. I rated the Uber driver five-stars as he brought the car to stop. He had been friendly and had refused to give Bart the AUX cord, which saved the rest of us from an awful journey of Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond.

Bart got out first, carrying the cardboard box containing the painting under his arm. He ran around the vehicle and opened the door for me. As soon as I had stepped out the car, he slammed the door shut, leaving Cléo trapped inside. She knocked angrily on the window and mouthed some French swear words at Bart, who ignored them and walked off to knock on the mahogany door. I sighed and opened the door for her.

I thanked the Uber driver who sped off, leaving the three of us in the barren gravel path. When I had first come to this manor, I hadn't really taken in the glory of it. I was too busy looking down at the floor, in an effort to keep my face covered. If only I had known that it had been futile to hide myself like that, he had already known my true identity. The stone house stood opposite a green and flowering meadow. A small stream, which separated the meadow from the manor's property, gurgled cheerfully. Beautiful rose bushes blossomed on either side of the path which led from the gravel driveway to the two gloomy oak doors.

Bart knocked on the door for a second time. Still no answer. Bart and I had a mutual agreement, that if someone does not answer after the third knock, we do some maintenance and remove the door.

Bart passed the painting to me and knocked once more, getting ready to throw himself at it. We waited a few seconds, but the doorknob didn't flinch. We exchanged glances and I nodded. He smiled and cracked his knuckles. He took a couple of steps backwards and prepared himself for the blow-

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" said a voice as frail as lace from within. Bart's shoulders slumped in disappointment and he stepped off of the doormat, which I didn't remember being there the last time we had come. It was dark and had white letters painted on it. It said, "The dog chooses our guests".

The golden doorknob, polished by a multiplicity of hands, wriggled and the door opened. A small wrinkled whitehaired woman stood before us, her curlers twisting her shock of blue hair in unnatural directions. She wore a silk dressing gown with luminescent flowers, which wrapped around her perfectly postured shoulders. She wore pink feathered slippers which fluttered softly in the gentle breeze. She held a tommy gun in one hand. I looked at her in adoration. I wanted to be like her when I grew up.

"Who are you?" she asked in a sour voice, clutching the hilt of the gun.

"Uh, we wanted to ask if you rent out this building?" Cléo inquired, eyeing the gun, cautiously.

"I did." She looked into the distance as if she was having war flashbacks.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Magnus happened! My grandson," she spat. "He wrecked the place. He couldn't even last three days before smashing everything to pieces! Stupid boy. I told my daughter to give him up for adoption as soon as I saw how much he cried."

I stifled a laugh. The man who had made me run around stealing and poisoning and blowing things up left, right and centre, had a complicated relationship with his (awesome) grandma. "Could you elaborate?" I asked. I knew if I kept pressing I would get some great pressure points I could use on Magnus. How the tables have turned.

"He told us he needed to meet someone. He stayed in the cottage in the backyard, but he kicked us out of the manor during the day," she said, as if the story left a bad taste in her mouth, "One night we woke up to a horrific racket. My husband and I ran to the cottage to see what was going on. We found Magnus smashing up our porcelain, tearing our paintings, throwing our crystal..." she choked back a sob, "He's a stupid and disturbed boy who acts on emotion. Anyway, he was muttering something. That boy never spoke eloquently. I wanted to give him elocution lessons." she spat.

"What did he say?" Cléo inquired. I shot her an evil glance at the interruption. She didn't seem to notice.

"You ask a lot of questions! He was saying something about him being pathetic –no lies there- and some bloke called Jackson something... I don't know, it happened ages ago! But since that evening, no one is allowed to stay here — not even family. Definitely not family. So, I am sorry, but I can't help you," she explained, starting to close the door on us.

I stuck my foot in the door. It hurt. "Ma'am!" I protested. She whipped the door open and held the gun to my face. I didn't flinch, which must have impressed her as she lowered it again and allowed me to speak, "We don't need to rent anything. We would just like to know where your grandson lives." I asked, soothingly.

She eyed us carefully. "He usually doesn't like disclosing that kind of information with anyone," she muttered, "Sorry but I can't help you," she started to close the door.

"Please, he wants to kill someone!" Cléo begged, cupping her hands together. She made eye-contact with me and winked. She had once told me that she was great with the elderly. There was a moment of silence; then the old woman took a deep breath in.

She raised her eyebrows as if saying, Finally. "He won't kill anyone. He has never been able to. Sorry, I can't help you," she repeated. Cléo looked offended.

"Wait!" I yelled, "You said he tore apart your paintings?"

"Yes, the ungrateful boy! One was an original Picasso!" she complained.

"Well, I prefer Van Gogh over Picasso," I said, showing her the cardboard box.

"Everyone's a critic." She spat, about to slam the door once again.

"Listen," I insisted, kneeling down. I whipped out my pocket knife and cut through the tape.

"What are you doing?" Bart looked at me cautiously. I ignored him. I must have caught her attention, because the old woman put her gun on the floor and peered curiously at the parcel. I lifted the lid and gently removed the painting from the box, which was wrapped in bubble wrap. I then cut the bubble wrap and removed the protective cocoon.

Cléo gasped. "Is that-"

"It is." I muttered, sadly.

"What are you doing with Van Gogh's self-portrait!" Cléo shouted at me.

"It was supposed to be a gift for you. But you did chuck your luggage on top of it, I don't think you'd be the right fit," I teased. Cléo folded her arms, as if to stop herself from slapping me.

"It's an original?" Magnus' grandmother inquired, kneeling down, her joints cracking as she did so, to get a proper look at the masterpiece. I almost wanted to cry. The painting was beautiful. The colours blended together seamlessly, the strokes were careful and bold and daring. I was about to give away a piece of history, voluntarily.

"Yes," I breathed, holding back a sob, "and it's all yours. If you give us the information we need."

"One second," the old lady said, closing the door and bustling inside.

"You didn't tell me it was a Van Gogh!" Cléo screamed. I shushed her, which only aggravated her. The grandmother came back out with a small note. It said 39 Erpressung Straße Salzburg Österreich.

She passed it to Bart, "This is his address in Salzburg. He owns a house there. Don't tell him you got it from me," she winked at me. I gingerly picked up the painting and handed it to her. She marvelled at it and I bit my tongue out of jealousy. She then reached out her hand and I shook it with my own, "Pleasure doing business with you," she smiled. I glanced at Cléo, who looked close to tears.

Bart whipped out his phone and took down the address. While I thanked the old lady for the address (and not killing us), I saw Bart book two plane tickets to Salzburg. I kicked his shin, which made him change it to three.