Paint a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  Alice saw whatever colour was left in Duncan’s face drain away at the thought of explaining to Vivien Taylor that her prized Augustus John drawing had been stolen from his gallery.

  “My officers are in the store room, so if you would go and give them as much information as you can please, that would be helpful. Ask for DS Riley.”

  “Of course.”

  Alice’s heart galloped as she made her way to the door to the basement. She was disorientated, clinging onto the banister as she crept down the stairs. The last time she was on these steps, she had felt giddy too, but with excitement. Stefan had just told her that she might have something special on her hands, and she had already been planning the rest of her career around it. How could it have all disappeared so quickly?

  She found a pale and strained Tommy Norton in the basement, with a uniformed police officer. Another man was poking around, making notes in a black book.

  Debris littered the basement. Dollops of red paint splayed across the floor and halfway up the side wall beside some overturned shelves. The thief must have rustled around the shelves, knocking off tools, brushes and tins of paint in the process.

  In the storage units, paintings sprouted torn bubble wrap, with some hanging out of their compartments. Others lay on the floor, wrappings ripped open, exposing the images inside. They looked disheartened in the dull light, ashamed at not being good enough to steal.

  Tommy hurried over, running a hand through his hair.

  “Hell, Alice! The drawing’s been stolen. I can’t believe it.”

  “So I hear. The Augustus John. Was anything else taken?”

  “Yes, we think two others, at least.”

  The officer who had been taking notes introduced himself as DS Nick Riley, and he handed Alice a clipboard.

  “I understand from Mr Norton that you’re the senior curator.” Alice nodded. “I’ve been told this is a list of paintings for an upcoming exhibition. Can you confirm that please?”

  Alice looked at the clipboard. Squiggles danced on the page, but she assumed it was the right list, so she nodded.

  “The titles with a red tick are paintings that you checked and deposited down here? Is that correct?” Alice nodded on cue. “From our preliminary investigation, we know that three of these paintings are missing. The ones highlighted in green.”

  Nicholas Waites’ painting was marked, as was a fine nineteenth-century watercolour of Great Wheaton’s High Street, which usually hung in the bar at The Bull Hotel. But it was ‘Untitled by Augustus John; lender Vivien Taylor’ that screeched at Alice. Her precious Augustus John had been stolen.

  There had never been a break-in at Gregory’s House before. Why now? She felt sick, wishing the ground would open up and leave someone else to deal with … everything.

  “Are you sure?” she said. “I mean are you sure those works have actually been stolen? They’re not still here somewhere?”

  DS Riley smiled. “We’ve searched thoroughly, but the paintings are not in the building and we’ve found clear evidence of a break-in. We’ll search the area outside of course, but in the meantime, we are assuming the paintings have been stolen.”

  DS Riley pointed to the clipboard. “I need a copy of that list please. We have more questions, too, so I’d appreciate it if you stayed around a bit longer.” He moved away, leaving Tommy and Alice alone.

  “When do you think it happened, Tommy?” Alice whispered, peeking at the police officers, though their backs were turned.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything unusual when I arrived this morning. But I discovered the store room door was unlocked when I went to get some tools. I came down and found this mess. So, I guess it must have happened sometime during the night. Though I don’t know how they got in the building without setting the alarm off.”

  Alice’s stomach lurched and she leaned against the wall, afraid she really would fall over. She went over her movements with Stefan. They had wrapped up the drawing and put it back in its storage unit. She was sure about that. Then they had locked up and left. But had she remembered to put the alarm back on?

  She was not even supposed to have been in the gallery at all. She felt hot and clammy and her heart hammered in her ears. She had to get away, so she ran for the stairs.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Tommy shouted.

  She turned and held up the exhibition list.

  “I’m going to get a copy of this for the police,” she said, and ran up the stairs to the office.

  At her touch, the photocopier clicked and whirred into life, flashing blue lights before it settled into action mode. There was no settling for Alice though, as she paced around the office searching her memory of the night before, going through the sequence again and again.

  What would she tell the police when they asked her when she had last seen the drawing? She did not like the idea of premeditated lying, but what would be the harm, if she just said she had been at home? Quietly by herself. With no witnesses. She had not stolen the drawing herself, surely everyone would know that.

  The CCTV cameras were dummies, so there would not be any footage of her entering the building. But the alarm. It would register that it had been disarmed, and the time that it had been turned off. She could say she’d come into the office to pick something up. But what? She’d have to find a good reason – and fast.

  What about Duncan? What would she say to him? She couldn’t tell him she had brought Stefan to the gallery. Not now.

  Stefan! She had to tell him. She dialled his number but got his voicemail. She left a message asking him to call her urgently and on no account to speak to anyone else first.

  Her hands were shaking as she put the exhibition list on the glass and pressed Copy.

  Her eyes swept the room and lit on the cupboard in Duncan’s office. He usually kept a bottle of whisky inside, so she tiptoed into the office and opened the cupboard door. Sure enough there was a half-full bottle of Jameson, partially hidden behind a stack of plastic cups. She picked up the bottle and poured a measure, her hand shaking, into one of the cups. She took a large gulp and closed her eyes, relishing the hit to her head and the burn at the back of her throat.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Duncan’s voice came from behind her with unusual authority.

  A layer of embarrassment on top of her anxiety rendered her speechless. All she could do was hold up the cup to show a smidge of amber liquor at the bottom.

  Duncan gave her a look of uncharacteristic sternness that filled her with dread. He hesitated, then his face softened.

  “Here, pass it over.”

  Duncan perched on the edge of his desk and took a swig from the bottle.

  “What am I going to do, Alice?” He put a hand on the top of his head. Alice had no answer.

  “DI Salisbury said he would speak to Vivien Taylor. It’s for the best I think.”

  “Yes. Better it comes from him.”

  “And he’s going to ask the media for a black-out over the next couple of days. He doesn’t want details in the press yet.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “It’s the end of the gallery. And the end of me. You don’t survive things like this, not in a small town. Perhaps I should resign immediately. What do you think?”

  Alice tried to consider his question; but her thoughts were on her own future. Now might be a good time to tell him about Stefan’s visit to the gallery. He would surely understand that she was only being diligent, authenticating a work that was in doubt. Duncan admired Stefan and would trust to his professionalism in ensuring the drawing was stored correctly.

  But when she opened her mouth to speak, something entirely different came out.

  “Somebody has stolen a masterpiece. It’s the second piece from the centenary exhibition that’s gone missing. I’m going to hunt down both those artworks and
I won’t stop until I’ve got them back.”

  Chapter 18

  Nathan Salisbury’s face smiled from Alice’s open book. She smiled back. He blew a kiss; Alice giggled.

  “Huh?” Joe looked up from his phone.

  “Oh … just something funny in my book.”

  She held up the offending object, hoping it would hide her heated cheeks. Joe went back to his work and Alice watched the countryside trundle by, until the train reached London.

  They ambled along Kensington High Street. A man was selling cut-out masks of the royal family, and tourists with faces locked on mobile screens occasionally surfaced to check where they were. Joe walked ahead of her, heading for Kensington Palace Gardens. Alice had not been to London since moving out over a year ago and had forgotten how … London it was.

  On the journey down, she decided that she would forget about Jason Marley and the Augustus John theft. She wanted to focus on Joe. They planned a stroll around the park, followed by a leisurely lunch, just enjoying each other’s company.

  But first, she had an appointment with Freddie Garfield and she mulled over the points she wanted to cover with him.

  They entered a gloomy, dingy pub that smelt of yesterday’s chips and today’s sweat. Alice recognised Freddie from Finn’s description. He was sitting up at the bar, sweeping through his phone, occasionally glancing at golf highlights on a large-screen TV on the wall.

  “Thank you so much for meeting me, Freddie. I appreciate you taking the time.”

  “It’s no problem, I had a free slot before my next meeting. I should thank you for coming all the way down here, I’m delighted someone has finally taken an interest in my research at the Courier.”

  Joe ordered drinks and sat on a bar stool. He nodded at the TV screen. “I’ll catch up with the Open while you two chat.”

  Alice noticed a table of smartly attired older customers and pulled at the bottom of her shorts.

  “Actually, I was intrigued by your call,” said Freddie. “It’s been a while since I worked on the de Havilland story.”

  “I only found it by chance, but I’m glad I did.” Alice pulled out a high stool and plonked her bag on the counter.

  “It was a shame the paper didn’t make more of it. But Julian de Havilland kept his seat at the by-election, as well as the business portfolio. He was an influential councillor, so the editor buried the story. I moved on and I guess it got forgotten.”

  “Is Julian de Havilland really that powerful? I don’t mean to sound naïve, but he’s only in charge of one part of the council’s business. How far can one councillor’s influence extend?”

  “As his role is effectively head of the local business community, potentially everywhere. He helps local companies grow and attracts businesses from outside the area. He’s a good networker, too. He’s been a trustee on charity boards, a school governor and patron of a whole load of other organisations.” Freddie tipped the last peanuts from a bag into his open palm. “Personally, I think that’s a problem and that was the bit of my story the editor didn’t like.” He threw the peanuts in his mouth.

  “What bit of the story? There’s more than just the donation?”

  “Sorry, I thought that’s why you wanted to meet me, to talk about the other stuff.”

  “Please, do enlighten me.”

  “Shall we sit at one of the tables? They’re more comfortable.”

  Freddie squeezed himself between a round table and a studded burgundy leather couch. Alice slipped in beside him.

  “I got interested in Shaker and de Havilland after the donation story. Shaker had already been barred from holding any directorships and he sounded like a shady character to me, so I did some digging around. I discovered that he was one of three directors of a family business, which did very well. But when he got involved with some new companies, he left the day-to-day running of the family business to the other two directors.”

  Freddie’s phone lit up and he turned it over.

  “But behind his back, the other two were syphoning money off from the company into their own bank accounts and eventually they ran the business into the ground. The company ended up in the hands of receivers, who discovered some kind of internal irregularity in a sale of shares from Shaker back to the company. He had to give all the money back and he was barred as a result.”

  “It sounds like it wasn’t really his fault?”

  “Well, not directly. But when you’re a company director, you’re responsible for everything whether you know about it or not.”

  “It must have given him a bad reputation, especially after the donation scandal. It’s odd that Shaker got caught out twice by deals that someone else hadn’t done properly. Apparently one of his advisers organised the donation to Julian de Havilland. It seems he’s been unlucky.”

  “Or perhaps he was just careless.” Freddie smiled. “And the moral of the story is …?”

  “Something about advisers!” Alice laughed.

  A loud “Cheers!” erupted from the older men on the next table. They clinked their glasses together and gulped down whisky.

  “So, what else did you find out?”

  “I was researching the new shopping centre at Dunn Road and I looked through some of the council’s tendering procedures. One of George Shaker’s companies had submitted an application to provide all the fittings for the development. Other companies also tendered, but Shaker got the business. Signed off by … ”

  “Julian de Havilland,” said Alice. “When was that?”

  “A few months before the election donation business.”

  “So, it looks like a contract from de Havilland in exchange for a campaign donation from Shaker. That’s a nice little deal!”

  “It is, and I’m not convinced it was the only one between them either. Anyway, at that point I was told to drop the story.”

  “My friend Livvie complains that she never gets a contract with the council, that all the business goes to the same few companies.”

  “That was my feeling too, though I’d not done enough research to confirm it.”

  “And nobody at the Courier picked up any of this when you left, I take it?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’d got so interested in it I couldn’t let it go. I carried on poking around and gathered together a pile of material. But then I got this job and dropped it. I kept everything though. If you’re interested, I can dig it out for you.”

  “Please do, I’d love to see it. So, what do you think of Julian de Havilland? Is he a real baddie, or a goodie disguised as a baddie?”

  “I like to keep an open mind on people and it could be that George Shaker’s companies won the council’s business because they were the best. And that he happened to donate to Julian’s campaign because he wanted to. But I don’t think so. I can’t explain it – it just didn’t feel right.”

  Alice finished her lemonade and put the empty glass on the sticky table top.

  “There was something else I wanted to ask you. I’m trying to find out the identity of someone with the initials ‘HSD’. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Freddie glanced up and moved his head from side to side as if he was reading the answer on the ceiling.

  “No, I can’t say that it does. Is it someone from Great Wheaton?”

  “Yes. Whoever it was borrowed a painting from the council’s art collection which was already promised to my gallery.”

  “I didn’t know the council had an art collection, or that people could borrow from it.”

  “It’s not a well-known fact. Perhaps there’s something in your box of tricks that will help me identify HSD. I’m impressed that you’ve still got all your research material – I don’t keep any of my notes when I move companies.”

  “I try to keep all my research, you never know when you’ll need it.” He waved his phone. �
��Actually, I think I’ve got something here for you.”

  Freddie scrolled through his folders and Alice pondered the turn the Julian de Havilland story had taken. Dodgy contracts could now be added to a dodgy donation.

  “Freddie, did you ever come across Jason Marley?”

  “Talk of the devil. That’s what I’m looking for – it’s about Jason Marley.”

  Alice told him about the letter she received from ‘JM’ and Jason’s subsequent death.

  “Jeez, poor guy.” Freddie put the phone down, held the table and pushed his shoulders back into the couch. “Matter of fact he contacted me about eighteen months ago, asking for a meeting.”

  Chatter rose at the next table, so Alice moved closer to Freddie. “Really? What did he say?”

  “He was more interested in what I had to say. He pumped me on what I knew about the Dunn Road development, which as it turned out was less than he knew.”

  “Here we go,” said Freddie. He picked up his phone and turned it towards Alice. “It’s a note I made during our meeting, me and Marley. He kept going on about who owned the Dunn Road site and that I should look into it. I was going to get someone to check the Land Registry, but I never did. Not after that letter.”

  “Letter?”

  “Yeah, it was delivered to my office. A sheet of lined paper, like something you would tear out of an exercise book, with letters cut out from newspapers. ‘Drop Dunn’ it said, or something similar.” Freddie laughed, wiggled his fingers in front of his face. “Ooooh! Real Scooby Doo stuff.”

  “A threat? Oh my God, you must have been terrified.” Alice gripped Freddie’s arm.

  “Not really. I’ve had a few warnings in my time, even a punch or two, but this was kindergarten stuff.” He smiled and winked at Alice. “I wouldn’t worry about Jason Marley if I were you. He probably didn’t know any more about Beach than you do.”

  A light breeze played on the back of her neck, as if someone was blowing on it. She swirled around, but there was nobody there.

  Freddie put a hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a memory stick.