“I really don’t understand what the problem was, Jenny. A simple enough job to do!” Basil’s voice boomed through the half-open door.
I had never before heard him lose his temper with Jenny. I moved closer to the door and listened. So softly spoken was Jenny, I was unable to hear her replies clearly.
“Well, that’s just not good enough.” Basil thumped her desk. “If you’re having any problems with sourcing the posters, I needed to know straightaway. I’m so disappointed with them. They’re cheap and nasty!”
Jenny mumbled something about the company promising her they were of high— but Basil cut her off.
“Time is running out, Jenny and we needed at least…”
The telephone rang, cutting Basil off mid-flow.
The next voice I heard was Jenny.
“Hello, Hallward Gallery. Jenny Flood speaking, how can I help you?” Her voice conveyed no hint of what had just happened. “Yes, he’s in today. Please hold on a moment, and I’ll find out if he’s free to speak to you.”
“Who is it?” Basil demanded.
Jenny lowered her voice so I was unable to hear her answer. I glanced across Basil’s desk. His telephone tempted me, but I fought back the urge to pick it up and listen in. I opened Basil’s office door a little further and saw that Jenny’s door was ajar. I waited, hoping to learn the identity of the caller. Jenny’s door opened and Basil came out, his back towards me.
“It’s a newspaper reporter, Mr Hallward.”
“What? Why are they calling me?”
“Mr Hallward, don’t you remember you asked me to get in contact with the editor. You wanted an article on Joseph Easter to help publicise his launch party.”
“Oh yes, of course. Sorry, I’ve a lot on my mind. Right, I’ll take that in my office. Thank you.”
I grabbed the newspaper off Basil’s desk and slumped into the chair. The headline that greeted me was the one I had seen on the newsagent’s billboard.
Another Young Girl Missing!
No new leads’ police report. Jackie Nolan’s parents ask how many more families must suffer!
Basil entered and nodded in the direction of the phone. “I’ll be with you in a moment, James.”
“Okay.” I mouthed, giving the newspaper a shake before turning a page.
Basil swung his chair around and faced the window. The view over the neglected garden was far more peaceful than the busy road. He rested his feet on the window ledge and leaned back.
“Hello, Basil Hallward speaking. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Yes, I’m happy to answer your questions over the phone. I was expecting a reporter to come to my gallery with a photographer.” Basil tapped his foot against the window glass.
“Yes, of course. I understand. Surely you would want to take some pictures of Easter with his work to illustrate your article.” Basil’s tone was sharp, I thought as I turned the page.
“Yes. He’s a fairly new artist.” Basil’s foot tapped a little faster. “He’s doing very well in America. Yes, he’s a local boy so it would be, as you say, of local interest mainly. Look, I’m giving you the opportunity to interview the next big name on the British art scene. No, of course not, I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to do your job. Yes, he’s doing extremely well in America…”
Basil lowered his feet and sat forward. The muscles in his back twitched. If he didn’t calm down, he would say something he would regret. “Yes, I know that, but…” His voice wavered, but he held fast. “Okay, yes, if you could. Of course, yes, but my secretary did explain all of this to your chief editor.” He inhaled deeply and let his breath out slowly as he listened. “That’s right. The exhibition launch is in three weeks, which is why we contacted you a month ago. Yes, I will pay for a two-page spread. Let me pass you back to my secretary.” Basil swung his chair around. On seeing me watching him, he rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk.
“Yes, of course, she knows more about the numbers we’re expecting to come. That I cannot say exactly but there will be an interesting cross-section of art lovers. My secretary has all the details. I’m looking forward to reading the piece. Yes, and thank you for your time, too. Have a good day.” He jabbed a finger at the telephone keypad. After making sure Jenny had taken the call back, he slammed the receiver down.
“What a fucking moron!” Basil yanked his desk drawer open and pulling out two glasses, followed by a bottle of Johnnie Walker. After sloshing out a couple of drinks, he passed one over to me and then took a deep swallow of his. He stood and leant against the window, glass in hand. His anger was like a physical beast in the room. The muscles under the tight cut of his jacket tensed briefly.
I sipped my drink and waited. Basil hunched his shoulders. “I need more. There must be more.” He placed his empty glass on his desk, and refilled it, before offering to top mine up.
“No thanks, I have enough.” I covered my glass with my hand.
He nodded and dropped back into his seat. The air in the room shifted, and I knew somehow whatever came next, I wasn’t going to like it. After recapping the bottle, Basil placed his glass directly in front of him and leant towards me.
It reminded me of waiting for mother. The air always buzzed with excitement and promise. You knew whatever happened next was going to be unforgettable. I lifted my glass and took a sip, watching Basil over the rim. I sensed his doubt. His look screamed his indecisiveness and radiated off him like heat from a bonfire.
“James…”
I just knew by the tone of his voice what he was about to ask.
“I know I’ve asked before but could you…” he rushed on. “I mean, would you allow me to… at least to show some of your mother’s unknown works at Easter’s launch?”
I folded the newspaper carefully and tossed it onto his desk. Was he crazy enough to believe I would allow him to use mother’s paintings to bring the punters to Easter’s launch! Did he have no faith in his golden boy? I swallowed my drink before standing.
“No, Basil you can’t. I thought I’d made that clear to you the last time. You, more than most, should understand how much she suffered for her art. Let me reiterate. Nobody, not even me, will use her fame to advance their career.”
“You’re right. I am sorry, James.” Basil leant back in his seat, glass in hand. “I shouldn’t have asked you again.” He nudged the newspaper with his fingertips, turning the headlines towards him. “I guess I’m a bit strung out at the moment.” A pained expression crossed his face.
I placed both my hands on his desk and leant towards him. “I know it’s none of my business, but I hope you don’t mind me saying, Basil.”
The tension in his face deepened and creased his forehead. He gave a slight nod.
“You were way out of order with Jenny. She’s a good hard-working kid. You’re bloody lucky to have her.”
“Don’t I know it?’ He reached for the paper, with a flick of his wrist, he turned it over. I wondered if he was trying to create the illusion that he hadn’t really read it, but I knew differently.
“If Jenny packs up and leaves, you’ll only have yourself to blame.” As I moved away from Basil’s desk, he looked up.
“The blame is all mine and not Jenny’s. That’s what comes of cutting corners I should’ve listened to her in the first place.” He tossed the paper aside.
“It’s good to hear you appreciate her.”
“I do. I allowed non-important things to cloud my judgement. And this isn’t helping either.” Basil picked up the newspaper and waved it at me before condemning it to the wastepaper basket.
“What’s in the paper that’s stressing you out?”
“Oh, never mind. Let’s get back to business. How’s the Cohen painting coming along? I hope it’s finished because the client has been asking after it.”
“It’s getting there. It’ll be ready this week.”
“Ready as in dry enough to frame, James?”
“A done deal.”
“Gl
ad to hear something’s going right. I won’t keep you any longer, James. As you pass Jenny, please tell her I need to speak to her privately before we get any more interruptions.”
Later in the week I received a phone call from Jenny asking about the Cohen painting.
“James, Basil wants it pronto.”
“Is everything okay, Jenny?” I detected sadness in her voice.
“Oh, Basil isn’t happy about Easter’s article. It was published today.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“After all the fuss he made, James, I think he got off lightly.”
“What do you mean? The article was just a bit of marketing to spread the word, so what went wrong.”
“Oh, you know what he’s like, just can’t go with the flow. Why do you think he leaves me to deal with such things? All he needed to do was agree to the first draft they sent him. No, he wanted more spice. His words, not mine, ‘Call yourself reporters, well report and make it more interesting!’ So they did. Though, having said that, I too would like to know where they got their information. Do you want me to send you a copy, James? It makes for fascinating reading.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll pick up a copy when I bring the painting in.”
Father never allowed daily newspapers into the house, so I stuck with this tradition of not having them. Father’s biblical quote on such idle chatter, no good comes from scandalmongers, never stopped Mrs P from collecting the reviews of mother’s exhibitions from all sorts of different magazines and newspapers.
“That’ll be great, James.” Jenny’s temperament lightened. “Mr Cohen will be pleased. It’s for his wife’s birthday. I’ll see you later then.”
The drive into London helped to clear the cobwebs, giving me a chance to mull things over as I sped along with the windows down and the radio blaring. My most pressing problem was where I could find my next angel, but a nagging question from years ago had raised its head again. While in the process of overtaking a slow-moving car on a tight bend in the road, the question leapt into my thoughts, like an unsolved crossword puzzle you had given up on finding the last answer, but somehow your mind hadn’t. Who had taken the photo of Candela and Basil on the night of the Hockley exhibition, and then a year later sent it into the newspaper office?
At the time, I would’ve placed my bet on Easter but I knew he never owned a camera, let alone had one with him on that evening. Of course one automatically assumed it was one of the press photographers at the exhibition, but it made no sense at all that they would’ve missed a golden opportunity to further their career when the police issued an appeal for any information. Surely any of the photographers there on that evening in 1963 were only interested in the celebrities rather than the rest of us. I hoped my early departure and lack of status meant I missed being photographed, but I also missed out on the drinks and drugs.
As I raced towards London, it occurred to me. Had the police searched the press photographers’ photographs for Tommy Blackbird at that time? Maybe I was lucky and achieved what I had set out to do that night. Tommy was missing, but the police seemed to have overlooked him too.
Had Easter appeared in any of the photographs with Candela? And why hadn’t the police made more of a fuss about Basil’s involvement? Surely there was enough to link him to all the cases so far.
I parked up in the gallery car park and darted across the road to the newsagents. I was too early for Basil, so headed to St. Clair’s bistro for a drink and a bite to eat before delivering the finished painting. In the bistro, towards the back I found a quiet spot and wiped the table down with a paper napkin before spreading the newspaper. I began to read the two-page spread about Easter as I waited for my order.
At the beginning of the article was what appeared to be a recent photograph of Joseph Easter standing solemnly beside one of his paintings. The caption beneath the photo stated he had just returned from a successful tour in America, but what caught my attention was a smaller picture further down the page.
Easter and Candela had their arms wrapped around each other. In the gap between their heads, in the background of the photo, clearly visible was Tommy Blackbird with his gappy grin. Where in hell had that photograph come from?
I read on. The article described Easter’s heartbreak at the loss of his girlfriend five years ago after an argument at Hockley art exhibition. He told the reporter that the police had listed Candela Waterbrooks as being the first of five women who had mysteriously disappeared from the local area:
‘Five years ago a young woman disappeared off the face of the earth with no explanation, and no one seems to care,’ said the broken-hearted artist. ‘Candela was my first love, my only real love. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about her and wonder what has become of her.’
When asked whether she might have just walked out on him wanting nothing more to do with him after their argument at the art exhibition, Easter wiped his eyes before answering.
‘To this day I’ve remained in contact with her devastated parents. It’s one thing to say she walked out on me, but her parents… never. They were always very close. She had sent them a letter two days before she went missing, saying she was coming home.’
Our reporter asked Easter about a photograph sent to our office anonymously a few years ago. It showed Candela Waterbrooks talking to Easter’s agent, Basil Hallward, on the evening of the David Hockney Art Exhibition in 1963.
Stunned Easter said he was unable to comment any further on this revelation.
Our reporter then pushed him further, asking what his views were on the fact that the newspaper’s sources revealed that the police had questioned his agent on several occasions to do with the disappearances of Candela and the other missing girls.
The artist stated that he was unaware that police had questioned Mr Hallward about his girlfriend, Ms Waterbrooks. Joseph Easter then would only answer questions about his up and coming exhibition at The Picton-Warlow Gallery’.
“Here you go, love.” The waitress startled me as she set my order down. I thanked her and carried on reading, hoping she would take the hint, but she lingered. “It’s shocking, isn’t it?” She pointed at the paper. “I read that this morning. Such a sweet thing, too.” She pulled a cloth from her pocket and wiped the table next to mine. “Her poor family. Fancy losing a loved one like that, and not know what ’appened to them.”
The waitress’s face was pleasant enough but was spoiled by her excessive use of make-up. Lumpy mascara clogged her lashes, while heavy black kohl-lined her eyes. Added to this, her pencilled brows, heavily powdered face and blusher gave her a clown-like appearance. Though, the harsh lighting in the bistro could not rob her thick hair of its rich shades of natural brown. She had plaited it, then looped it up and pinned it at the back of her head under a nylon pink cap.
“Most of those girls who have disappeared come from around ‘ere.” She straightened up the condiments and then replenished the napkin holder.
“Sorry?” I noticed her nicotine-stained forefingers and thin pinched lips.
“Of course, the police never asked me about the other two that went missing.” Once satisfied that the table was ready for the next customer, she faced me.
“Didn’t they? I read somewhere that the police had issued an appeal for any information. I bet you hear all sorts of things that would’ve been of interest to them.”
“You’re right there, love.” She peeked over her shoulder towards the counter and leant towards me, giving me a whiff of her stale breath and cheap perfume.
“I knew Annie Linton as well as Candela. My friend, Dido, was a close friend of Jackie who went missing last year. Of course, we all knew Bella who disappeared four years ago. She was last seen leaving the bookshop, where she worked. For all I know, I could be next.” The waitress wiped her eyes on a napkin.
“You’ll be quite safe, I’m sure. Just take care when heading home late at night.”
“What makes you say that? Is that when h
e takes them?”
“Why are you so sure it’s a man?’ I glanced down at the paper in hope she would take a hint.
“Of course, it’s a man.” She waved the napkin at my paper. “It said in there that the police were questioning the owner of the art gallery, just down the road from here, Mr Hallward, but they freed him to do it again.” She shrugged her shoulders and gave the table she had already cleaned another wipe. “Of course, they might not have enough evidence, I suppose.” She wiped the table opposite mine, before adding more napkins to its holder. “Can’t imagine why a woman would kidnap women. Then again, it takes all sorts, doesn’t it? Perhaps you should ask them to look into the fact that it might be a woman.”
“Why would they be interested in what I have to say?”
“You did say they were asking for information. Anyway, it’ll sound better coming from you, than an uneducated woman. If they haven’t caught the killer after all these years…”
“How can you be so sure they’re dead?’ I said, cutting her off.
“She wouldn’t have let her parents worry so. Nor would’ve Annie or Jackie. Anyway, it’s been nice chatting with you, mister.”
I nodded and picked up my tea, swallowing it down in one gulp before wrapping my sandwich in a napkin and stuffing it into my pocket. By the time she was back at the counter, I was out the door. As it swung shut, the overhead bell rang.
Back at my car I tossed the newspaper onto the driver’s seat before getting the carefully wrapped painting out of the boot. On entering the gallery showroom via the back door, I heard Basil’s blaring voice. Only this time he was not shouting at his secretary. Jenny ushered me into her office and closed the door, something she rarely did. She took the painting from me and placed it into a large steel cabinet. On the carefully stacked shelves, I caught sight of Easter’s work ready for his launch.
“What’s upset him this time?”
“Can’t you guess?” Jenny sighed. “It isn’t him who’s upset, James, its Easter.”
Stone Angels Page 18