“You can wipe that fucking grin off your face, you smug git,” Wicklow snapped. “We know for a fact that you’re Tommy Blackbird.”
I straightened up again. It was going to be a long day.
Once we had the right information everything quickly dropped into place,” Wicklow slid the first photograph forward. “Candela Waterbrook lived in the squat with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes, you!” He counted through the photos and selecting my fifth angel. “Also, Jackie Nolan worked in an art supply shop. The shop’s ledger recorded anyone collecting an order over a certain amount. Jackie wrote the name Tommy Blackbird against a large order on the day before she went missing. An eyewitness described a man fitting your description hovering in the doorway of a disused shop where Jackie had been waiting for her friend prior to her disappearance.’
“And that’s your proof?”
Wicklow tapped the photographs. “You gave us all the proof we needed. Only it took Tina Whiteoaks to point it out to us. By the way, she’s doing fine. Doctors tell us she is recovering well. One thing in your favour. You had the decency not to rape her.”
“No beauty in violence, Heythorp,” I said. “Art’s about capturing beauty.”
“That’s all very well, but you made her suffer in other ways.” Wicklow slammed his hand down on the photos.
I shrugged.
“She’s safe now. Thanks to her colleague. We’ll make you pay for what you have done. Tina uncovered your secret. Having the paintings’ faces enlarged we saw that Tina’s theory checked out. We already have your signed confession, you might say.” Heythorp laughed.
“I can see a similarity,” Wicklow said, pointing to the jawlines and high cheekbones. “Don’t you think so?”
“So what? It proves nothing. I copied them from photos in the newspapers.”
“If my memory serves me well, Ravencroft,” Wicklow said, flicking through his notebook. “You told us back in 1966, you didn’t have time to read the papers, nor did you have a television. So I find it hard to believe your inspiration came from the newspaper.”
“Jenny gave me a copy.”
“That’ll be your agent’s secretary, Jenny Flood,” Heythorp said, making a note.
“Yes. She always had papers in the office.”
“Right, you’ve admitted to kidnapping Tina, so why not the others?”
“I’m not admitting—” I began to say just as the door burst open and a tall, well-dressed man carrying a briefcase entered.
“Stop right there!” he exclaimed, his face set hard. “You’ve no right questioning my client without me being present.”
“Who might you be?” Heythorp asked, rising from his seat as Wicklow gathered up the documents along with the photographs.
“I’m here on behalf of Mr Ravencroft’s father. He has engaged my services for his son. I request that you stop questioning him immediately until I’ve had a chance to speak with my client.”
“His father?” Heythorp and Wicklow said in unison while looking at me.
I shook my head, unable to decide which one of us was more surprised.
Chapter Thirty-Two
1972
Once again I found myself waiting alone. A heated discussion was going on outside the room between Heythorp, Wicklow, and the solicitor. When the door opened again, the last person on earth I was expecting to see walked in.
“We have such little time. I’m sure you have much you want to say to me,” he said, with a slight nod of the head.
Finally I get to meet my mother’s agent, Chuck Sparks. As I look into his dark stormy-blue eyes it’s clear to me why Basil kept us apart. Chuck studied me at great lengths, but I guess I was doing the same. His reddish-brown skin stretched over the same high cheekbones, together with the same long straight nose, almond-shaped eyes, and fullness of lips that I possessed. Mother had undoubtedly betrayed Donald Ravencroft.
“What took you so long to make contact with me, if indeed you are my father?”
“I understand your animosity, James.” Chuck spoke in a slow easy tone with a hint of his Native American accent.
“If you’re here hoping for forgiveness, I’m sorry but I’m all out.”
“No, never. I am sorry I did not make contact with you sooner. If I had, then maybe we both would not have been misled.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“Two reasons. Firstly, I owe it to the man you called your father.”
I laughed, whether out of shock or surprise, I didn’t know. “Yeah right. What about my mother?”
He lowered his head.
“Oh, you’ve forgotten about her. She was good enough to fuck, but not to marry.”
Chuck’s eyes darkened and he let his breath out slowly. “I do not care whatever you may think of me, but do not talk about your mother in those tones. You know nothing of your mother’s life before you were born.”
I slammed my fist on the table. The sound rattled around the room while some of the foul tea leapt from the cup. It raced across the surface of the table and dripped off the end, to pool on the floor.
“My whole life has been a lie. My mother betrayed my father. Sorry, the man I thought of as my father, and then she killed herself, going to her grave without loving any of us,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Your mother was an emotional person. She loved the idea of being in love. Unfortunately she directed her love towards the wrong person. If only she had recognised the love Donald had for her. It’s why her paintings had such a powerful message. Jane’s creative soul could not recognise the world for what it is, as the rest of us do.” He paused, realising what he had said.
He was right. I didn’t see the world as others did. “All great art is about death. Mother killed herself because you betrayed her.”
“We were never lovers.”
“Then how can I possibly be your son?”
Chuck covered his face with his hands and then swept them over his head. “I made a mistake. It should not have happened. Yes, I invited her to London. Yes, I financed the exhibition of her earlier work. I hoped if it were successful, it would be enough to get her to exhibit her latest works. Only Jane misunderstood my intentions, she believed I was creating a means in which we both could deceive our loved ones. Your mother returned to England after suffering a breakdown. She hoped by returning to her homeland she would regain her ability to paint again.”
“So she suffered from depression?”
“Yes. But do not blame me for it. You need to understand I made it clear to her, I did not love her in the way she wanted.”
“You were married at that time?”
“Yes, very much so and happily. I have four fine sons. They help run my business. We manage a wide array of different artists including Native Americans. It was while I was managing your mother’s career in America that the misunderstanding came about. Jane misinterpreted my gentle words of encouragement as being a declaration of love. She contacted me not long after she arrived in England to say she was happily married and painting again. I was elated. At last she had what she needed, love and her art.”
“Why didn’t you stay away from her then?”
Chuck looked down at his hands. “If I could turn back time, undo what happened that night, I would.” He inhaled and let it out slowly. “Do not think that I am not aware of the damage caused in a moment of weakness. We allowed the excitement of a successful exhibition mixed with too much drink to destroy everything.”
A noise outside made us both look towards the door. As the voices faded, Chuck continued.
“Donald was a far better man than I was. He told me about you, not for any malicious reason, only because he thought I should know.”
“So he knew I wasn’t his son?”
“Oh yes. Your parents did not have an intimate relationship. I don’t think she was punishing Donald at all. More herself unable to live with what she had done, by betraying him and their marriage vow
s.”
“You’re right. I came across her journal. After she slept with you she didn’t feel good enough for him.” I was wondering whether he would class me as one of his fine sons. I guessed not, not after what I had done in the name of beauty and art.
“When I bought the gallery, it was a bit of a gamble, but I decided to specialise in individual artists. That’s when I stumbled across Jane Elspeth Maedere’s work. Her paintings were so powerful that they spoke to me. I was introduced to her through a mutual friend. I thought she was both beautiful and talented, but also very naïve which made her vulnerable.
“So you took advantage.”
“No, I did not. If anything, she took advantage of me.”
“But you just said she was vulnerable!”
He hesitated. “You’re right. Nothing quite like an old fool, James. I am not here son to destroy the image you have of your mother.”
“You are not my father!”
“Please, our time is short. My lawyer will be in soon. They are getting ready to charge you. I will do all I can for you, though I do not see any way of getting you off, only a more lenient sentence maybe.”
“I don’t need your help?”
“That maybe so, but I am not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Jane and Donald. I feel it is the right thing to do.”
“You knew my father?”
“In a way yes, I did. He was a compassionate man who truly loved you and Jane. Jane was fond of taunting him, telling him that you were not his.”
“It wasn’t only my father who suffered her wrath.”
Chuck closed his eyes as though he too felt the pain. “I am sorry.” His voice no more than a whisper. As his tone deepened, his accent became clearer. “Donald sent word of Jane’s death. Did you know that?”
When I didn’t react to his statement, he went on. “A few years later he wrote and told me about the onset of his illness. I do not think he expected me to reply.” Chuck paused as though contemplating the letter.
I noticed that someone had tried to paint the ceiling tiles and began to wonder what else I had missed. I recalled Donald clearly struggling to breathe as he sat in his chair beside the fire, constantly cold and reading a letter. Had that letter been from this man, my mother’s lover, years after her death?
“Donald always wrote to me as though we were old acquaintances, sharing the news of a mutual friend. He kept me up to date on you. I guess he took comfort in knowing you had a relative left in the world after he had gone.”
I rested my elbows on the table. The handcuffs rattled as though reminding us of my fate. “Maybe if you had married Jane, she would’ve been a different person. Maybe if she had fallen in love with Donald, she would’ve been truly happy, but unable to create her stunning works of art.”
“True.” Chuck pulled a chemist’s photograph envelope from his pocket. “Oh yes. I was given these.” He flicked open the envelope, and I recognised the photos as the ones I had given to Wicklow. Chuck fanned them out, each one recording mother’s descent into madness.
I looked away, knowing what he was thinking.
“It is a shame that I could not have seen these for myself. Basil Hallward had deceived me. For years, I believed he was paving the way to bring us together. Instead, I found out too late that he was taking your mother’s paintings without consent from you. Clever of you to use her code, the one Jane and I had created to stop fake copies of her paintings making their way onto the black market all those years ago. It’s ironic that your trap to catch him caused your own downfall.”
“So it was you who went to the police then?”
“Yes. In America I reported the theft believing I was helping you.”
“What about my Stone Angels?”
“Basil has sold all of them, but I have the tenth one. The police gave it to me.”
“So he has profited from me in the end.”
“For a while, yes. But do not worry, James. I am planning to sue Mr Hallward on the grounds he has ruined my reputation by selling me stolen paintings.”
“Thank you. Please keep mother’s paintings. I’ve no use for them where I’m going.”
“I will look after everything for you as your father wished me to do.”
“Thank you, Chuck. I’m not a son you can be proud of, am I?”
He shook his head. “You have made quite a name for yourself. I have heard that the other nine paintings have changed hands for large sums already. Going by the many offers I have received for the tenth one, your fame will be far greater than your mother’s in more ways than one.”
The sound of the door opening made Chuck reach for my hand. “I’m glad for the chance to speak to you. I will see if I can visit you again before I return home.”
“I’m sorry Mr Sparks, but your time is up,” said the stern-faced solicitor.
David Chamberlain, the solicitor, had finished introducing himself and explained what my charges were, when Heythorp and Wicklow returned, both were clean-shaven and wore freshly pressed suits. Wicklow laid the folder back on the table and opened it. The enlarged photographs of the stone angels’ heads lay on the top of the pile.
“Now to get down to business,” Heythorp said in a dry tone, “You’re under arrest for the kidnap and imprisonment of Tina Whiteoaks. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry but you need to voice your answer.”
“Yes.” My mind was still on what Chuck had told me.
“I also need to ask you some questions about the remains of the bodies found at your property today.” Wicklow leaned forward.
“Now wait a minute,” Chamberlain said. “I haven’t briefed my client about this new information.”
“Oh, haven’t you?” Wicklow said. “That’s because we’ve only just received the information this afternoon.”
“Understandably we had to follow up on it before we were in a position to pass it on to you,” Heythorp said, his expression darkening. “Our informant led us to the burial site of the other eight missing women. So we’re now in a position to charge your client with abduction, imprisonment, and the murder of those eight women. We hope to add Phoebe Browning to the list once we have received further forensic evidence. Also we are able to link some missing chicken wire to the body of Miss Browning and your client.”
“There’s still the evidence of the photograph showing Mr Hallward speaking to the first victim,” David Chamberlain said.
“There’s a problem with that as we now have the negatives which that single still came from, and show Mr Hallward wasn’t the last person to see Candela alive.”
The voices of the two police officers and my solicitor faded as my thoughts returned to my stone angels, captured forever on canvas. No one but me will ever truly appreciate their beauty.
As their painted faces stared back at me from the photographs spread out on the table, I wondered whether they will ever find a home with those who truly loved them for their beauty. Now I understood mother’s madness and recognised that art was about monetary gain and not beauty after all.
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Chapter 1
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