by Ali Knight
As I remove the cardboard there’s a noise from the bedroom that freezes me to my seat. A mobile is ringing. It rings for a long time as I stand motionless in a flat that is not my own, eyes fixed on the door that’s not quite closed. The silence booms when the rings cease. He’s here, and guilt steals over me at invading his personal space. But the flat doesn’t reverberate with the noise of another person. I cross towards the bedroom and slowly push the door with one finger, watching it swing inwards without a sound.
The bad smell is you, Lex.
He’s lying at an awkward angle across the bed, facing the ceiling. One of his trainers has come off and lies sole-upwards on the carpet. I swallow down my dread and force myself to take a step into the room. His head is an oozing mess where he’s been hit by something heavy and blunt, his eyes stare dully up to nothing. Wound twice around his neck is a length of white rope, the ends frayed. Black bruises cover nearly all his neck. He struggled at the end.
I nearly jump out of my skin as his mobile beeps with an incoming voicemail. I can hear my breath coming fast and shallow, I’m about to have a panic attack and that stings me into action. I can’t see his phone and realise that he’s lying on it. I grope underneath his heavy back, staring intently at the wardrobe doors to avoid his eyes. I pull out the phone but it’s got a lock on it and I can’t prise open his secrets. I wipe it and put it down.
I stand uselessly, unsure what to do next. Lex, Lex, give me a sign, please give me a sign of what unfolded here. I try to take in the crime scene with a forensic eye. The flat’s tidy, the bed made, there are no cups or ashtrays or half-finished bottles of wine or lines of coke. I check the dishwasher. The cycle has run with a selection of cups, plates and cutlery; there are no wine glasses. The drying rack is empty. I check for a dust outline from missing objects, but Rosa does her job well. There’s nothing.
This wasn’t a social call, but you let someone you knew in here, someone you knew so well that they could surprise you in your own bedroom. I look around for anything heavy that looks like it might have been used to hit Lex on the head, but decide it’s probobly been taken. I wonder if it’s been dumped in the canal. What did they hit you with, Lex? The blow didn’t kill you, but it incapacitated you. You would have known what was coming.
Oh, Lex, forgive me my suspicions and my self-righteousness. Our car crash together takes on an entirely different hue, the innocent, scared man fighting shadows. I stand for a few more minutes, hoping something is offered up, but there is nothing.
I close the door and wipe it with my sleeve. Out here in the corridor I can hear the thum-thum of next door’s fashionable music and a woman’s laughter. A guy is enjoying living in a loft in Central London. I bet the postcode attracts women back here with little effort. But I have to get out.
Only when I’m half a mile away do I use a payphone to make an anonymous 999 call. Five minutes further on I fall to the wet pavement and howl, partly with the shock of what I have discovered and also with the horror of how stupid I have been at a moment when I needed to be clinical. I left my beer bottle next to his laptop, my saliva glistening on the rim.
38
Jessie unchains the metal gate outside her studio, struggling in the gloom with the padlock. ‘I know it’s a pain, but the shop down the road was ramraided the other day.’
‘I thought that had died out in the nineties.’
‘A recession re-emergence, apparently.’ I’m not sure whether a thief would think it worth ruining a car for one of Jessie’s paintings but I let that slide. She’s here, that’s the main – the only – thing that matters. I’ve got a bit of space to think what I’m going to do next. I can’t go home however desperate I am to see the kids; the police would pick me up as the prime suspect in Lex’s murder. ‘How are you? Have you managed to sort things out with Paul?’ I stare at her blankly as she taps her finger against her temple as we head up the stairs to her studio. ‘Keep up, Kate! You thought he was having an affair.’ It’s as if time has wrinkled and I’ve stepped across vast swathes without a blink. An affair. How quaint that sounds and how far we have moved from there. Jessie’s been busying about in her creative bubble, as uninformed and unaware as newly arrived immigrant cleaner. We enter the studio and I sling my bag and myself down on a varnish-splattered school bench next to a Calor Gas heater. ‘By the way, I’ve got a business meeting in about half an hour. I know it’s a bit late but she couldn’t fit me in any other time. So you may want to make yourself scarce for that, then we can go out for a drink after.’
‘Lex has been murdered.’ Jessie stops moving, a canvas a useless prop in her arms. ‘I just found his body. The police will think I killed him, they already think I killed Melody.’ A look I’m most familiar with dawns on Jessie’s face: slack-jawed incomprehension. ‘The same method was used on both . . .’ I tail off, realising I’m going to have to go back to the beginning. I watch her eyes blinking and her eyebrows dancing as she struggles to process what she’s hearing.
‘Why?’ She’s getting angry now. ‘Why was Lex killed?’
‘I don’t know. He must have found something.’
‘What did he find, Kate? Think!’
‘I don’t know.’ I study Jessie’s brittle fingernails as they clasp the canvas, see hangnails sharp as razors poking skywards, dried out by turps and cold studios, chapped by work at the artistic coalface. Hands say a lot about a person. Melody’s fingernails were short and electric blue and clashed with her dress; Paul’s hands are warm and soft, used to clicking from one PowerPoint presentation to another. ‘Something crucial enough it was worth killing him for.’
Jessie puts the canvas against the wall and rubs her palms down paint-stained trousers and grabs her knees, as if trying to protect herself from what she’s hearing. ‘You really think Paul did it?’
I start to cry with the hopelessness of it all. ‘I don’t know, but how I can think anything else! Portia has given Paul his alibi—’
‘Portia Wetherall?’
‘The same.’
‘She’s my business meeting. We’re trying to find a solution to the problem with Raiph’s commission. He doesn’t like it.’
‘Oh.’
‘He insisted on seeing it when I’d only really just begun; he wanted to see my work in progress, something I normally never let people do, but Portia twisted my arm and now he wants me to change it even though it’s unfinished! They all think they‘re the bloody Medicis, ordering people around.’
‘Oh dear. I put in a good word for you with Portia, I thought it would be a nice bit of work.’
‘Well, in the light of the uplift, as the Americans say, in my career, it’s looking like a savvy investment for Raiph, and he’s still not happy!’
‘Where is it?’ She walks over to the far side of the studio and pulls back a piece of material protecting a canvas. The picture is in Jessie’s usual style, vibrant, primary colours bleed into one another, saucer-shaped eyes sit in livid-pink face flesh. Raiph’s grey suit is still just an outline but there are the beginnings of huge, distorted shoulders. It’s art that demands attention, a long way from a watercolour on the wall of a restaurant chain. ‘Why did he have such a strong reaction? He knew what your style was.’
‘He didn’t like what I’d written.’
Jessie’s ‘signature’ is a word or phrase that floats in the lurid-coloured space next to her subject’s head. On this picture emerald lettering dances next to Raiph’s face: ‘Green green grass’.
Jessie’s mobile rings. ‘I’ll be right down,’ she says, turning to me and registering my look of alarm. ‘It’s Portia—’
‘I can’t see anybody—’
‘You sure? You want to ask her about her alibi for Paul?’
Our eyes lock in understanding. ‘Don’t tell her about Lex,’ I say. ‘I doubt it’s public knowledge yet.’
‘I’ll bring her up.’ She picks up her keys and disappears out of the door; several moments later they both walk back in the roo
m.
When Portia sees me she exclaims loudly and makes a show of hugging me closely and kissing me on both cheeks as if defying the prevailing public opinion. ‘My God, what are they putting you and your family through!’ I stay mute as she continues. ‘I know it’s hard but you mustn’t read those pieces, remember it’s only entertainment at your expense. However, I do think Paul’s been very slow off the mark here. You need a PR, someone who can represent your family and speak on your behalf. At a time like this you need a professional in your corner.’ She sits down on the bench and opens her bag, pulling out her phone. ‘You’re twisting and turning this way and that in the glare of the media but it’s time to take control. Now, I know a very good reputational management firm whose boss is an old friend of mine, you really should give him a call. Mention my name, please.’ She pulls a leather-bound notebook from her bag, takes out a sheet of paper and writes a number down. ‘Is this your bag?’ She tucks the paper underneath it. ‘By all means send his bill to my office.’
‘Do you want a drink, Portia?’ Jessie asks, and Portia accepts a glass of water. Her neat shoes and pricey trouser suit look comically out of place in this rat warren of studio spaces, her convertible is likely to be nicked at any moment outside, but she looks like she’s enjoying herself.
‘If there is anything else I can do to help, just call me. I mean that.’
‘Why did you give Paul an alibi?’
Portia doesn’t flinch, she turns to me directly. She’s used to awkward questions. ‘I gave him an alibi because I met him. I take it you want to know as much as possible about what happened with Paul the night Melody was killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘Why did you meet him?’
Portia takes a sip of water, looks around for somewhere to put her glass and settles on the floor. She pauses, thinking about what she’s going to say. ‘OK, Kate, I have often wondered what I’d say if you asked me that, but on reflection the best thing is simply the truth. There’s no opportunity for being caught out later if you tell the truth.’ Dread begins to rock-climb my spine. ‘I’ve tried to be as specific as I can be about the time, but inevitably I’m not a hundred per cent sure when it was that we met.’
‘Which was?’
‘Ten-thirty, maybe as late as ten-forty-five.’
Jessie glances at me, amazed. She’d be hard-pressed to remember the day something happened, let alone the divisions of an hour.
‘We talked in my car, partly because it was pouring with rain. It was quite a short meeting.’ Portia gets off the bench and walks slowly behind it.
‘And why did you—?’
‘I’m CEO of a company that turns over around two billion pounds a year. I’m captain of a ship that many want to steer, if you’ll pardon the analogy. Since the first part of the sale of Forwood, Paul has been a shareholder in CPTV. Shareholder votes are important in deciding a company’s direction and who leads said company. I was canvassing Paul’s opinion, if you like.’
‘Why didn’t you say all this right at the beginning? Why did Paul keep it secret?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that. I don’t want to second-guess him but I suppose meeting at night in a car, when you retell it like that, it sounds a little . . . grubby. When the police asked me specific questions I could corroborate. I’m also guessing that Lex didn’t know about our meeting—’
‘Why not?’
‘Lex and Paul are equal partners in Forwood, but in the event of that changing—’
‘Is that changing?’
‘These are hypotheticals. I wanted Paul on my side. I believe he’s a rising star. I feel we can work well in the future and I was stating my case. To be blunt, I’d rather have him on board than Lex.’ Portia glances from me to Jessie. ‘Founders lose control of their companies all the time. Power blocks and alliances change surprisingly quickly. That’s just how business is. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t pay attention to that.’
‘Is this illegal?’ asks Jessie.
Portia laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She walks over to the portrait of Raiph. ‘I’ve found over the years that it tends to be those who have the least experience of business dealings who think of them in the most melodramatic terms, be they journalists, Hollywood scriptwriters – or artists.’ Portia smiles her winning smile. ‘The truth is really just lots of diligent, law-abiding work.’ She regards the painting for a long time, really taking it in, and then gives a low laugh. ‘So this is what is causing the kerfuffle.’ She pauses. ‘I like it, Jessie, I really do. But to get on you have to be smart and that involves compromise. It’s true of every transaction, from business to making art.’ Portia has a lovely voice. It’s soft and melodious but full of quiet authority. When she talks you simply want to listen. I can imagine her having a roomful of men in her thrall. ‘Even artists have to compromise their vision or their ideals some of the time.’
‘I won’t do it,’ Jessie blurts. ‘Sell out and you’re dead artistically.’
‘Was Paul drunk when you met him that night?’
Portia turns to me, confused that I’m still on the same subject. ‘No, he didn’t seem so.’ She’s back in selling mode to Jessie. ‘We all work hard. Jessie, you toil away here in this studio that I’ll guess is too cold in the winter and stifling in the summer; Kate’s spinning too many plates, wondering when they’re going to fall; I grind away at the office. We all want payback for that work. Payback comes in many forms—’
‘Did you arrange the meeting?’ I persist.
‘Yes I did.’
‘How? How did you do it?’
‘I don’t recall exactly but I probably talked to him about it.’
‘This is why I hate commissions,’ moans Jessie. ‘Either you buy into the artist’s vision or you stay away.’
‘He’s bought into your vision,’ soothes Portia. ‘But the bottom line is that what Raiph doesn’t want,’ she points at the words on the canvas, ‘Raiph gets changed.’
‘So he’s not compromising!’ I say.
Portia looks at me ruefully. ‘When you get that powerful you don’t have to.’
‘What does it mean anyway, “Green green grass”?’ I ask, coming up and standing close to the canvas.
Jessie comes alive now. ‘It’s from the Tom Jones song, about a man dreaming of his childhood home and its beauty and innocence when in fact he’s on death row and is only going to get home in a coffin.’
I turn to Portia and we give each other a look. ‘And the relevance is . . . ?’ I ask.
‘I’m making a statement about how far he’s come, from his seemingly idyllic Irish village, the innocence of his youth has been corrupted by the callousness of the business environment. He’s on a mental death row, trapped behind bars of his own making.’
‘And you’re surprised he doesn’t like it?’
Portia interjects. ‘I thought I might be able to talk Jessie round to a more . . . accommodating . . . viewpoint to keep Raiph happy.’
Jessie’s digging in. ‘He’s turning my art into some pretty irrelevance that hangs above a fireplace. I might as well have become an interior decorator—’
‘A cushion chucker,’ I say.
‘Yes, a bloody cushion chucker!’
Portia laughs. ‘I can see why you two are friends. Personally, I love your work, Jessie, you could write anything next to my picture and I’d take in on the chin. I’m annoyed Raiph got in before me for a commission, to be honest. Now I feel I can’t ask for one; I don’t want to be seen to be slavishly imitating his ideas. You have to be very careful how you position yourself, in media businesses and in the art market.’
‘Of course you can have a picture!’ Now it’s Jessie whose in selling mode, smelling another sale. I’m getting annoyed, Portia’s not even seeing this alibi conversation as important, but it’s life or death to me. It’s time to shock her out of her safe zone.
‘Lex has been murdered.’
Now I get a reaction, now I’m the centre of attention. Portia loses her composure for a moment as she stares at me and I fancy I see fear in her eyes. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Not many people do.’ There’s an awkward silence.
‘How did he die?’
‘The same way as Melody.’
‘A copycat?’ She pulls out her phone, her hand shaking. She’s about to dial but thinks better of it. ‘Do you know anything about “Bloodhound”? Raiph was asking about it.’
I sit down slowly on a paint-splattered chair to try to cover my shock. I want my voice to sound normal. ‘Bloodhound?’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know. When did he ask you?’
‘A few days ago. Lex had said it was his next big thing.’
I shake my head, the world coming into sharper focus as elation thrills through me. Got you, Raiph.
‘Kate? Oh, Kate, I think—’ Jessie’s staring out of the large studio windows at the street. Something in her voice makes me rush to take a look and instantly I know everything I need to know. Two squad cars have pulled up outside, dark shapes spilling from opening doors. I grab my bag and run for the exit. ‘Kate!’ Jessie is shouting after me. ‘Wait!’
No, I can’t wait Jessie. I’m out of time. I won’t go back in that cell and impotently wait for others to write my story for me. With this crucial new information I can compose the ending myself, I am still in control. Jessie has grabbed me and is shoving something into my palm. She’s handed me her bike key. ‘Take the stairs at the end of the corridor. Go out past the toilets.’