Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “Who…?”

  “Don’t play dumb, James. You know who!”

  At the sound of Basil’s voice, I spun around.

  Basil was unrecognisable. Smoke-blackened and flush faced, he stood ungroomed and unshaven. The knees on his creased suit were wet and stained. With bulging eyes, he yelled, “you bastard James! All these fucking years, and it was you all along.”

  “Yes, it was me. Someone had to inform the police about your thieving. What was so difficult about the word NO?”

  “What the hell are you talking about Ravencroft? You little shit! You set me up for murder. All these years I’ve had that hanging over my head. I could kill you right now!” He rushed towards me, fists flailing.

  Heythorp stepped in front. “Mr Hallward, we don’t have time for your gripes.”

  “Do you know what this little sod’s done? He’s burnt all her paintings.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, Hallward! It’s the girl that concerns me. Not fucking paintings! Where is she, Ravencroft?”

  “What girl?”

  Heythorp grabbed the collar of my jacket, slamming me against the cupboards. “Right you little shit, stop playing games! We know she’s here somewhere, so either tell us where, or we tear the place apart.”

  I shoved his hands away. “Back off!” I straightened my jacket. “I’ll get you for assault!”

  “Really, Ravencroft.” Heythorp snarled as he leant in, squaring up to me. “I think you’ve just confessed to murder. I have witnesses too, right?”

  “That’s what I heard, Sarge,” said a fresh-faced bobby.

  “What murder? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “You think I’m some dull-wit, don’t you, you little jumped up shit?” Heythorp’s lips narrowed to black lines.

  “I haven’t seen a warrant yet. I thought you were here because of that thieving bastard!” I pointed at Basil.

  Heythorp shook his head. “No, we fucking ain’t. We’re here for the girl! So where is she?”

  “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “You know full well, James.” Basil snarled. “We saw you follow her up the road after your exhibition. My American friend and I drove past you.”

  Heythorp turned on Basil. “Will you shut up, sir, and allow us to do our job? You’ve no rights to be here.”

  “And you believe him, the thieving bastard?” I said.

  “As you’re not going to answer my question, sir. I shall take matters into my own hands.” Heythorp stepped back from me, his face rigid. “George—” He addressed the fresh-faced bobby.

  Wicklow appeared in the doorway to the hall. “Sarge—!” On seeing me, he said, “Well, there you are, Mr Ravencroft. You’ve finally surfaced then. We thought you might miss all our fun when you didn’t answer the front door.”

  “Any luck, Hayden?” Heythorp asked.

  “I need a word, Sarge.” Wicklow kept his eyes on me.

  “Did you check the cellar?”

  “Yes, Sarge. It’s all clear. But get this. The fucking roof is lit up like a Christmas tree. I told you, Sarge, there’s another room up there. The lads and I are sure we’ve just heard banging coming from the attic.”

  Heythorp’s face was a mask of control as he addressed the room. “Right lads. This is it! Time to take the place apart, Wicklow—”

  “Yes, Sarge?”

  “I’ve told you I don’t know,”

  “Really, Ravencroft. Just spill the beans. Sarge and I know this house is full of little hidey-holes, so show us the one upstairs.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the kitchen.

  I kicked out, but Heythorp grabbed my other arm.

  “I’m glad you’re being cooperative, Mr Ravencroft.” Heythorp turned to Basil. “You! Stay here!”

  “But—”

  “George, don’t let him out of your sight. Do you understand?”

  The bobby nodded.

  “Oh, and when Andy and the other lads have finished searching the outbuildings, get them to guard the exits. Take Mr Hallward through to the kitchen. If he needs a slash, take him into the garden. But whatever you do, keep him in sight.”

  As they dragged me into the hall, I heard Basil complaining about his treatment. “For fuck’s sake, let me go! I can walk on my own.” I demanded as they marched me up the stairs between them. On reaching the landing, I saw two more Bobbies appear from mother’s studio.

  “Any luck boys?” Heythorp asked.

  “All the rooms on this floor are clear, Sarge. The noises from above aren’t so distinct now. We’ve had a good look but can’t find any access to the floor above.’

  Heythorp yanked my arm back and got in my face again. “You’re pissing me off, Ravencroft!” He spat the words in my face. “Bet you think it’s hilarious making us look like a bunch of bloody incompetents. If you don’t want to suffer some real police brutality, you better tell us what we need to know!”

  I said nothing.

  “Wicklow, time to get the party started. No one will hear Ravencroft’s screams when he has a little accident.”

  “Not out here. The next house is miles away.”

  “Right, Mike. Take your men and start stripping the wooden panelling off the wall. Go through the place like a dose of salts. Do whatever you need to do. She’s here somewhere.”

  A loud crash made everyone look upwards.

  “Jesus Christ, No! She’s in the main studio. If she’s touched the painting, I’ll—” I jerked my arms free, bolted down the corridor. I slammed my hand against the wall.

  A panel popped open. I dashed up the steps two at a time, but before the second safety door had a chance to close, I heard Heythorp shout. “I can’t hold it. Jam it with something.”

  “Bloody hell, I just fucking knew it!’ Wicklow exclaimed. “If he had one, why not others.”

  In the centre of the studio, bathed in bright light, Tina lay spread-eagled on her back covered by a white silk gown, the contours of her body clearly visible. To one side of her, my large studio easel lay on its back, too, while the painting rested against a chest of drawers undamaged. It had skidded across the floor when the easel fell. Luckily, landed paint side up.

  I dived across the room and snatched up my precious painting. I slid it into the drying rack out of sight among the other ‘Of Land and Sea’ paintings. I moved away from the rack, just as the sound of pounding feet came up the stairs.

  Wicklow burst into the studio, hunched with his legs apart and feet firmly planted. He held his arms bent at the elbows as though ready to tackle an escaped animal. As Heythorp’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, I lifted my hands in a defensive stance, bracing myself for their violence.

  Tina moaned.

  Wicklow dropped to his knees and gently pressed his hand against her shoulder. “Tina Whiteoaks, it’s okay, love. You’re in good hands now.” He lifted his black eyes to me as he shouted into his radio. “We’ll need a doctor. Now!”

  “You can count yourself fucking lucky, Ravencroft,” Heythorp said, as the studio filled with his lads. “If she dies, you’ll be charged with murder. Mike, get a full set of Ravencroft’s dabs for elimination purposes. Send up two of the lads so we can start dusting the whole place— you never know what else we might find. Get someone to read him his rights. Then, get him out of here. Now! We’ll continue this at the station, Ravencroft.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  1972

  I had been waiting for nearly ten hours for police to track down a solicitor so they could question me further. Mr Bennett, father’s solicitor, had passed away years ago, but I had no idea whether his son had taken over the practice or not. I wondered if the police had interviewed Lydia and Robert, my half-siblings.

  No, of course they were no longer my half-siblings. Maybe they already knew about mother and her indiscretion. It would explain why they never really treated me like a kid brother who needed their support. The last time we had spoken was just before the reading o
f father’s Will. Sorry, Donald Ravencroft’s Will, the man I once called my father. Lydia and Robert’s mother had left them both comfortably well off, so I never saw nor heard from either one of them again, once their father’s solicitor settled the Ravencroft’s estate.

  My arse ached from sitting on a hard chair. In an effort to get more comfortable, I stretched my legs. I would’ve preferred to pace the room, but they had chained me to the table. So far, Heythorp had only given me one toilet break and a cup of disgustingly bright orange-coloured tea in the time I had been waiting. After taking a sip of it, I pushed it aside.

  I glanced up at the grubby ceiling tiles and began to count them. The dull grey walls seemed to close in, making me more aware that my future would be a lot less colourful. Halfway through counting the tiles for the second time the door opened. It crashed against the wall with a bang. Heythorp entered carrying a large brown folder under his arm, instead of a solicitor. Without a word, he dropped the folder onto the table causing the film on the tea to ripple as he took the seat opposite.

  I waited for him to speak. He didn’t even bother to make eye contact with me but just flicked the folder open, took out some sheaves of paper. After scanning a couple of sheets, he leant back in his chair and began to read.

  The disturbance of the fine film on the top of the teacup made me recall ripples of a different kind. A long-ago school summer holiday when I had woken early and jumped out of bed. On drawing back the dormitory curtains, I was greeted with a cloudless blue sky. Not wishing to miss the perfect light, I had dressed quickly eager to finish my painting of the priory.

  The happiness I had felt in the morning was shattered as I sat soaked through, panting and trembling uncontrollably in the hot sunshine. Beside me, my painting lay destroyed on an upturned easel. I hugged my knees to my chest and scanned the lake waiting for Miss Dearborn, but all that broke the surface was a string of bubbles. Then nothing, but stillness.

  The water betrayed nothing of what had happened moments before. One moment Miss Dearborn stood naked before me, tormenting me with her filthy words. The next there was a splash.

  The water chilliness hit me with a paralysing force, stealing my body heat as a weight around my waist thrashing wildly as it dragged me down. The pressure on my chest forced my lungs to burn as if on fire, while dirty water tried to seep between my lips. An explosion of air bubbles escaped from me when I saw what was weighing me down.

  Through the murky water, a pair of wide, vacant eyes in a pale stony face stared up. The ghost of my long-dead mother was coming for me with arms outstretched. At its centre of her face, her mouth screamed inaudibly for her revenge. A tangled mass of black hair rippled tentacle-like stretching towards me. Its fine tendrils brushed against my body and face. A sense of anguish raced through me. I struggled to free myself before my muscles weakened. I tugged at the fingers which dug into my flesh as the darkness threatened to swallow me whole. My head pounded as my mind screamed for oxygen. With inexplicable strength, I kicked out, twisting my body at the same time. My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached towards the flickering light.

  On breaking the surface, I gulped in air as the brightness of the sun blinded me. Once my lungs allowed me to, I swam to the shore. I lay on my back panting. The pain in my chest was unbearable. As my breathing eased, I sat up expecting to see Miss Dearborn sprawled in the sunshine beside me.

  I couldn’t say for sure how long I sat scanning the surface of the lake, but once the sun had lost its heat, I gathered up my belongings and left. Miss Dearborn robbed me of my innocence and left a dark shadow in its place.

  Heythorp’s face revealed nothing of what he was reading. He had questioned me about Miss Dearborn years ago after including her name in the list of missing women, but she had no rights to be there. She wasn’t one of my angels, nor was Mrs Loring.

  I had locked away the events of that fateful day. To be quite honest, I never really believed it had happened. As far as I was aware, no one else knew. At the time, no one came forward with any information as to what had happened to her. As for Jonesy, what did he know?

  That summer he had gone home for the holidays. After the school break, life at the priory had carried on as normal, apart from having a new art teacher. Later in the year, news of the lady in the lake surfaced, when an article in the local newspaper recorded Miss Dearborn’s death as being by misadventure, as she was well known for wild water swimming.

  Heythorp called out. “Come in!” when a sharp knock at the door disturbed his peace.

  I looked up expectantly and Wicklow entered, carrying two mugs, with an envelope tucked under his arm. After placing the mugs on the table he took the empty seat next to his boss, laying the envelope beside the documents Heythorp had already read.

  No words passed between them. Heythorp continued to thumb through the report, examining each sheet before placing it face down with the rest. Wicklow lifted his cup and took a nervous sip, testing the heat of the liquid against his lips. Finally, Heythorp leaned forward. His eyes held a bleak expression, one I recognised, but couldn’t read.

  I held my tongue and waited for him.

  Heythorp and Wicklow looked shattered. Neither looked as though they had grabbed any sleep in the time I had been waiting. Both of them had dark circles beneath their eyes and stubble. After taking a sip of his drink, Heythorp coughed, cleared his throat, and then took another sip. On lowering his cup, he patted the pile of papers and said, “You need to understand the state of play. Do you remember me telling you about my gut feeling?”

  I didn’t respond, knowing there was no point.

  “Well, let me remind you. Last year was the third time we had visited your home. Remember how we stood outside chatting while my colleague here.” He gestured to Wicklow. “Spoke to your gardener.’

  I gave a nod. Not in the way of an answer, more to show I was listening.

  “It doesn’t really matter if you don’t. You see, my colleagues and I have been busy sorting through the pieces of the puzzle, and we had a problem. You see, the pieces don’t fit.” He patted the pile again. “You won’t believe how difficult it can be to build a case against the main suspect when none of the parts fit comfortably. As you know, it’s your right to remain silent until your solicitor arrives. But please feel free to interrupt me during this little chat.”

  I straightened up in my seat.

  Heythorp picked up his cup again and took a sip. On setting it down, he said to his colleague, “I don’t know about you, Hayden, but it pisses me off when the criminals get all the rights, while the victims’ families suffer. A single act of murder destroys so much. It makes me sick.”

  “Bloody awful I know, Sarge.” Wicklow placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “All those wasted man-hours on circumstantial evidence and for what? So that some jumped up little lawyer can say you’re damaged goods. It’s not your fault.”

  I shrugged.

  “You mislead us with your so-called missing paintings. Were you hoping we’d see you as a victim?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh yes, they were stolen. Amazingly, without that lead from you, it might’ve taken us a little longer to make a connection. You see, Ravencroft, your problem made us step back from ours and gave us a different viewpoint.” He picked up the envelope Wicklow had brought in, pulled out some photos and fanned them across the table. “That’s when we realised what the common link was between everything. Art, as simple as that art.”

  Heythorp tapped the photographs with his forefinger. Close-ups of nine angels’ faces. Each of loving brushstrokes was clearly visible for all to see.

  “Before we go any further, I want an answer to something that has bugged me for years. At the time you should’ve been questioned further. If I had maybe Annie Linton would’ve been alive today.”

  “Annie Linton?”

  “Please don’t pretend you don’t know who she was, Ravencroft!”

  “Was? Are you saying Anni
e Linton is dead?”

  “You were there when Tamsin Loring crashed her car. After all, a blind spot without witnesses is an ideal place for murder, don’t you think?”

  “Just now you were talking about art being the link. Now you’re linking Mrs Loring and Annie Linton. I don’t get the connection. Mrs Loring died because she’d been drinking and misjudged a corner.”

  “Our duty is to the victims to find out the truth, Ravencroft,” Wicklow stated.

  “Right, I get that! “What’s this art link you’re talking about?”

  “You went to speak to Mrs Loring about painting a portrait.”

  “I don’t paint portraits.” I glanced down at my nine.

  Heythorp ignored my comment. “Basil Hallward is an art dealer who introduced you, the artist, to her.”

  “That’s it?” I stretched my leg again. “Not really evidence of a crime.”

  “Annie hasn’t made any contact with her family, just like the rest of the girls, so what other conclusion can we draw?”

  I leant forward. “It’s guesswork on your behalf then?”

  “God willing we’ll find a witness when a man commits a crime,” Heythorp said. “Let’s get back to my question, shall we?”

  “So you’re putting faith in God to do your job. Why’s that? You’ve no faith of your own ability?’

  “In our line of business, Ravencroft, we use whatever is available. You’ll be surprised what reveals itself to us these days. Forensic science they call it. Your agent Basil told us about some cushions you lent him. It’s surprising the amount of forensic evidence we’ll be able to recover from them. So back to my original question about a blind spot without witnesses is an ideal place for murder. We know you were there when Tamsin Loring was killed.”

  “Your question sounds a little loaded.”

  He smirked.

  “Yes, I was at the golf club, with my agent, on the same day she died. You already have that on record.”

  “You told us you left before her. Do you mean the building and the car park or just the building?”

  “Where are you going with this? I had nothing to do with Mrs Loring’s death. I would rather not answer any more of your questions.”