by Roz Goldie
“Actually, we are doing them a favour. Despite their opposition and the negative publicity, we’ve improved the housing market – prices are going up here. That is surely to their benefit.”
“Perhaps, it’s all about control. They do what they want and resent anyone they can’t dominate!”
* * *
Veronica had woken at 9:00 to the smell of bacon frying. The previous evening’s nausea at the smell of death in Eliza’s house had gone, and she was now extremely hungry. She opened her eyes, confirming that she was not in her own bed. Her mouth was dry, and she wanted a drink of water and a hot shower. Dressed in her underwear, she saw her clothes folded neatly on an armchair opposite the bed. She was in a guestroom, in what was now Jack Summers’ house.
“Veronica, breakfast’s ready – take a dressing gown from my room and come on down,” Jack shouted up the stairs cheerfully.
Happy to let Jack make decisions, as she had barely regained consciousness, Veronica drank from the water bottle on the bedside table and went in search of a robe from Jack’s room.
“Right, oh. Down in a minute,” she croaked, clearing her throat.
Veronica Pilchard had been deeply shaken by the sight and smell of bloody murder – although in truth, it was mainly the pungent, rancid smell of blood that seemed to linger in her nose and mouth.
“Good morning, Veronica. Bacon, eggs and fried bread – washed down with hot, sweet tea – that’s what you need after last night’s crime scene,” Jack spoke from experience. There was something about smell that permeated the darkest reaches of the psyche, holding a power to resist all forgetting. Somehow, sights could be processed rather like television pictures. Smell could hang around one’s emotions for considerably longer.
“Thanks, Jack.” She sat at the table overlooking a large backyard that had been carefully planted with shrubs and herbs along the pathway from the patio outside the glass extension to the back wall. The sun shone brightly into a large kitchen-diner.
Jack took a large plate of Ulster fry from the oven and set it down in front of his guest. “You need tea – coffee and cigarettes can wait until later.” His tone was almost paternal, as he poured the brown liquid into a china beaker and sat beside her. “Nico is away for a couple of days, but he’s staying on here until he gets a billet of his own.”
‘Okay’ was all that she said for the next ten minutes, as she tucked into the meal and drank two beakers of strong, heavily sugared tea.
Jack had finished the same dish before he’d called Veronica and now sat drinking his tea, waiting for her to come back to full animation.
“It’s as well we didn’t finish the wine,” Veronica said, as she pushed an empty plate away from her. “That was great, Jack. Thanks.”
Deciding that their discussion of the brutal murder could wait for a short while longer, he suggested she take a shower. They had more formal statements to make to the local police that day, and should expect a long morning ahead of them.
Standing under a steady stream of hot water and still digesting a substantial breakfast, Veronica felt a surreal sense of security and happiness. Of course, she usually experienced a sense of bliss when she had eaten well, but there was something else. She’d lost that oppressive sense of foreboding. Jack’s wisdom in making a cooked breakfast, and his consideration, touched her. For the brief time in his kitchen, she’d lost that sense of loneliness which had stayed with her since the day Harry had returned and told her he was buying their home. She’d carried the rejection and aloneness without realising it had become a permanent shroud of misery that never completely went away – except for the occasional moment with her mystery man, Mitchell.
In his professional role as a serving Detective Inspector, Jack had explained that Veronica Pilchard had reported serious concerns about a neighbour, and had not been able to get any response when she called – even though there was a light in a window. She had seen a stranger leaving the victim’s home early that morning – which is why they had taken the liberty of entering the house. Given that, the horrific sight and smell of such a brutal killing had caused Ms Pilchard so much emotional and physical distress that the investigating officer had agreed that they should attend together and mid-morning rather than at the start of the day.
Seasoned as he was in the business of violent crime scenes, Jack was nearly as shaken by the scene of crime as Veronica. He wanted them to have time to talk over their story, avoiding all mention of skeleton keys. He anticipated that the SOCOs would not have finished their work and that the evidence that Veronica could provide would be relevant – possibly giving the police their only lead.
* * *
Margaret Beightin had not yet mentioned her forthcoming visit to the Stewart Gallery to her friend Veronica Pilchard. Although eager to involve Veronica, she felt it was more pressing to get her to move from Montague Road. If possible, she could settle both issues satisfactorily that afternoon.
Margaret had left Cressida Colliers in the certain knowledge that the Stewart Gallery now held the paintings, which Sir John Colliers had obtained so recently. What she couldn’t understand was how Colliers had come into their possession and from whom they been procured. Although it was quite illogical, she felt Veronica would somehow help her get to the bottom of the matter.
As she had some time before Veronica was due to arrive, she set about some background research on Luke and Conor – and the known whereabouts of their work. She leafed through her collection of books on Irish and Ulster art, finding much of the material superficial and subjective, so she turned to the internet – only to be met by an overabundance of sites. Not one to be overwhelmed by such a challenge, Margaret Beightin refined her search and found a small number of highly informative sites, saving the references, including her favourites from a social network site on fake art and counterfeiters in the 21st century.
She was feeling rather smug as she closed her iPad, pleased that an older lady with no training could get so much information in a relatively short search. It was now nearly 2. She was hungry and went in pursuit of a quick lunch.
* * *
Veronica was confident that her responsibility for entering Eliza Taunter’s home would exonerate DI Jack Summers from any sanction. She had been astounded that he had so readily agreed to break in. He seemed to be a changed man since his father’s death.
The policewoman who took her statement was DI Emily Brown. A suitably senior officer for such a serious investigation she knew Veronica’s name from the radio.
“You produce the Barry Doyle Show, don’t you?” she introduced the topic as an ice-breaker, as she had found witnesses to murder were often quite distracted when asked for evidence.
“Yes, Barry and I go back a long way – and we weren’t always on such good working relations,” Veronica smiled. “He is a consummate broadcaster, so I was grateful to team up with him,” she paused, sighed and continued, “However, I am here today for other reasons. How can I help?”
“Just tell me why you were concerned about your neighbour and what you saw.”
Veronica did not put a tooth in it. She described Professor Eliza Taunter as she saw her – a bit of an imposter. She went through the story of how Eliza had made serious allegations of misbehaviour against her student, Sandy Hughes, but had failed to attend the disciplinary hearing – although she appeared to be at home. There had been a light on and a stranger leaving the house early in the morning.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I had this gnawing sense of trouble brewing all day long. Anyway, by the time I got home that evening, I decided I’d call on Eliza. There was a light on upstairs, but I got no answer, so I rang the doorbell and hammered on the door and shouted. Since I got no response, I rang DI Summers. He is a neighbour, and I wanted his advice. I told him I thought something serious might have happened to Eliza, and we went in.”
“Can you describe this stranger who left the house?”
“Not really. It was a man – about six
feet, maybe taller. It wasn’t quite light, so I didn’t get a good look at him. He was carrying a large bundle, a square parcel,” Veronica stopped. “Now that I bring it back to mind, the bundle was wrapped in material, not paper, as it flapped like cloth in the breeze, as he opened the front gate.”
“Let me put it another way. Why were you suspicious about a man leaving the professor’s house? Might she not have had male visitors or a boyfriend? She was divorced and living alone.”
“Not Eliza. I haven’t been at Marianne’s for long, but I got to know quite a lot about Eliza Taunter – apart from having her on the Barry Doyle Show. She was not hospitable. She never had visitors, for her entertainment was a seminar or conference, where someone else did the cooking and paid the bills.” Veronica knew this was a very unflattering picture and could see the policewoman’s eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“DI Brown, I am telling you the truth as I see it. It would be a lie to say that I thought Eliza was a pleasant, honest or sociable person – she was not the friendly type. That was why I thought it suspicious to see a man exiting after what might otherwise look like a one-night stand.”
“Your candour does you credit, Ms Pilchard.”
“Oh, do call me ‘Veronica’. I am a very direct sort of person. It goes with the territory. Broadcasting is not for the faint-hearted.”
“Well, Veronica, this stranger will almost certainly have left some forensic evidence behind. If it is there, our SOCOs will find it.”
“I wish I could tell you something of greater help. I did not like Eliza Taunter, but no one should… I mean, that shouldn’t happen to a dog. And actually, I was going to apologise for having set her up on Barry’s show – she did make an ass of herself,” Veronica finished with a glum contrite expression.
DI Emily Brown was impressed with Veronica’s statement, uncompromising and brutally honest as it was. She stood up and held out her hand, “Thank you, Veronica. I will have this typed up, and you can sign it before you leave. It should not take long.”
Veronica shook her hand. “I am happy to wait for as long as it takes. And if I think of anything – even the tiniest detail – I will report it immediately.”
“Good, people do remember small things but often don’t come back to us.”
Sitting alone in the evidence room, Veronica checked her phone. It was not yet midday, and she had plenty of time to make her meeting with Margaret.
* * *
Jack Summers sailed through his formal interview about the murder of Eliza Taunter. The victim was now referred to by her given surname – without title or honour. DI Emily Brown had delegated the task to her sergeant, knowing that Jack had an exemplary record and was a witness, rather than a suspect in this murder case.
DI Summers went through the details in a precise tie-line. He reminded the officer that Eliza Taunter was, of course, known to the police due to the kidnapping of the young Italian, Nicola Tebaldi, who had been incarcerated in the basement of her home in the recent past. Although the culprit had not been found, police in Belfast and in Manchester knew him to be Leo Richards, the victim’s former husband.
Veronica Pilchard was a known and trusted supporter of the police, had expressed serious concern and provided good reason for suspecting foul play – and had come to him about the matter. He had gone with her to investigate.
“And you know what we found. In fact, at this stage, your SOCOs and forensics people will know a lot more than I do.”
Jack paused and looked straight into the face of the interviewing policeman. “I could add the few details that Veronica had told me – about seeing a stranger leaving the house early in the morning. However, that would be hearsay. Presumably, the victim was dead well before then.”
“Quite. I think DI Brown will have that covered.”
“Is there anything else I can add?” Jack had carefully avoided mention of the method used to gain entry to Eliza’s home.
“No, DI Summers, I think that is all. Thank you. I will have this typed up for you to sign.” He looked at Jack and smiled, “And quickly. I don’t want to keep you hanging about, sir.”
“As long as it takes, I don’t pull rank, Sergeant, but thanks.” Jack was contented with himself and quite sure Veronica would have avoided any mention of their breaking into Eliza’s. As he thought about it, he realised that he didn’t care. He should have been concerned as this was a breach of conduct, but he felt indifferent about that.
Waiting to sign his statement, Jack checked his phone to find a short text from Veronica – “All done. C u later. VP.”
He replied, “Fine. Let me know where + when. J.”
* * *
Sir John Colliers was in splendid form. He had the paintings in his possession, and Frederick Stewart was about to arrive to take possession of them with at least one prospective buyer other than Secretary of State, Clive Heedon. Stewart was less than forthcoming about this other client, but Colliers was not concerned so long as large sums of money changed hands in the near future – thus repaying his considerable investment handsomely.
When Cressida asked if she could take the pre-Christmas river cruise, he hardly listened to a word she said. Wrapped up in a dream of greater riches than he had ever known, and the prospect of a continued source of lesser but still profitable fake art – coming on stream at discrete intervals – he looked surprised when his wife said, “John, I was asking about my taking time for a cruise – in December. Is that agreeable with you?”
“What? Yes, fine.” He almost said ‘whatever’.
“Good. Then Margaret and I shall book our places this week.” Cressida was hurt by this snub, eyeing a husband who had become colder and more distant with every year. “And I shan’t have to impose on Belinda this time.”
“Good, yes, my dear. That will be fine.” He waved her away as if she were some bothersome underling.
Cressida swallowed, feeling offended but a newfound anger replaced what would usually have been meekness. He was simply rude! Oh, how she appreciated her dear friend Margaret! Her honesty was direct and even blunt, but never boorish or offensive like John’s or Belinda’s. She drew herself up to her full height, breathed in and relaxed before starting a conversation.
“John, I can see you are spellbound by these new acquisitions. Humour me and tell me about this windfall.” There was an air of suspicion and resentment about Lady Cressida Colliers that her husband simply could not see – from the great elevation of his status as President of the Royal Society.
He turned to her, with a surprised look on his face. “They are not watercolours, my dear. They are paintings by Louis le Brocquy, John Luke and William Conor. They are masterpieces, although as you will understand, they are from very different stables.”
Colliers proceeded to lecture his wife on the subject of the painters – sounding more like a used car salesman than an art buff, and she indulged him for a full ten minutes.
“Indeed. That is impressive! So, how did you come to get hold of them?” Cressida was asking the questions that she correctly guessed Margaret might ask. She had not been entirely fooled when her friend, Lady Beightin, had brought up the subject of the pictures quite out of context.
“Good luck and good contacts, my dear. Clive Heedon knows this fellow Leo Richards and put him in touch with me. I met him first, saw documentation and agreed a negotiated price. After that, his representative, Peter Saunders, brought the product,” he paused, savouring his choice of word, ‘product’.
Cressida thought the term singularly inappropriate, but smiled. “So, this Mr Richards is not from here?” Her voice was laced with feigned, sugary innocence.
“Gracious me, no!” Colliers looked as his wife. ‘Thick’ was the word that sprang to mind. When he had married her, she was a slender, young thing, but age and childbearing had thickened her waist – and seemingly her brain, by the sound of her at that moment. “Actually, he’s English, but he has retired to the South of France to pursue his artistic
interests. I will be keeping in touch with him.”
Cressida was concentrating hard to remember every detail – which she would note down and pass on to Margaret. “Well, you are a man of substance, John, and I am sure Mr Richards is fortunate to have come across you.” She turned and left her husband to his venal reveries.
In her own room, she took out her gardening diary and penned in the names of the painters and the names, Leo Richards and Peter Saunders.
* * *
Nicola Tebaldi was looking for a more permanent residence now that old George Summers had died and his summer-time housesitting had come to an end. He appreciated the fact that Jack was allowing him to stay on in the interim.
“Thank you, Jack. I will pay you rent, of course.”
“Nico, you certainly will not! You are practically family after all the years you were here for my father!” Jack still could not use the word ‘Dad’ without getting very emotional.
“Giorgio was a wonderful man, Jack, and treated me like family.”
“And what about your own family, Nico? Aren’t you going to visit your grandparents before teaching starts?”
“My teaching has all been rearranged, so I guess I do have time for a few days off. I really should go and see them.”
A day later, Nico was beginning his journey to his grandparent’s farm just outside the village of Poggiduomo, near Verona.
He arrived to a tumultuous welcome and an unexpected reception for half the population of the village.
“Bravo Nico! Bravissimo Nico!” the small crowd roared as he came through the gate of the farmhouse.
“We shall have to call you Salvatore from now on! The saved one!” The local priest stepped forward.
Nonno Tebaldi embraced the young man. “Ciao, Nico. We are so pleased to see you really are safe.”
“Mario, I told you the Lord would look after him.” Nico’s grandmother smiled indulgently and hugged her precious grandson.