Paint a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  “Here, take this, it might come in handy one day. You plug it into a laptop and follow the instructions, enter the keywords you want it to pick up. It downloads all documents containing those words. Real James Bond stuff.”

  Alice took the stick. “So this is how you get your material is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t use it for my stories, that’s just to spy on my girlfriend!” He laughed. “I’ve probably made it sound as if councillors are all a bunch of crooks, which they’re not. Most of them are decent people doing a difficult job the best they can. But sometimes they make mistakes.”

  “But how can the rest of us be sure of that, when the local paper won’t print stories when councillors do something they shouldn’t?”

  “That’s a good question. There is nowhere near enough scrutiny of local government in my opinion. Very little of what it does gets reported in the media. I suppose people aren’t interested. Now …” He stood up. “I must go or I’ll be late for my meeting.”

  “Well, thank you so much, it’s been fascinating.”

  Alice watched Freddie saunter out of the pub, then she tapped Joe on his arm.

  “Ready?”

  “Would you wait a while now. Rory McIlroy’s only on the sixteenth.”

  Chapter 19

  Alice got out of bed, stumbled into the living area and checked the news. The Courier had a small story on the break-in at the gallery, saying only that it was investigating further. The police had contained the news, for the time being at least.

  Whilst she was at the laptop, she ordered a copy of the title register for Dunn Road from the Land Registry, as Freddie Garfield had suggested.

  After the meeting with Freddie, Joe had treated her to lunch and they had visited the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy. Joe’s mood was easy, Alice was relaxed and neither of them mentioned Uncle Patrick’s party. Or her moving in with him.

  Alice heated a couple of flatbreads and filled them with the remains of the previous evening’s chicken chow mein. She stepped onto Daisy’s deck, stretched out both arms, lifted her face to the sun and turned a slow circle on the spot. She gulped in a big breath and exhaled. A seagull watched her from Daisy’s roof until Alice shooed it away.

  She walked along Sam’s Lane to Roddy’s barge and stepped onto the gangway. He was on the deck, lying back in a deckchair. He pushed hands and feet away from his body and luxuriated in a long stretch.

  Alice wanted to tell him about the Augustus John theft. She craved his coolness after Duncan Jones’s panic and indecision, but now that she saw him she was not sure if she could face him. It would mean relating the whole naked story, with no made-up bits. Lying to him would be impossible.

  He hadn’t yet noticed her and she stalled, watching as he reached underneath the deckchair feeling for a packet of Gauloise and a lighter. He took a long drag and blew out a train of smoke. He rested his head against the deckchair and let his hands drop to the barge’s deck.

  “Hey, Roddy!”

  He looked up with a start. “I was just having a break. I’ve been painting.”

  “So I see.” Alice studied the work on the easel. “That’s the old mastery beginning to shine through, Roddy. Gosh, it’s exciting to see a painting emerge from a blank canvas. It’s looking strong – I really like it.”

  “It’s coming, I suppose, if slowly.” He hauled himself out of the deckchair and straightened up.

  “I mean it, Roddy. What do you think – would you like it to go in the show?”

  Roddy tugged his beard and examined the painting. “Well, I was starting to think it was okay. If you really do like it, I could consider submitting it.”

  “Excellent. There’s plenty of time before I close off submissions, so take your time.”

  Roddy took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m in.”

  “Yippee!”

  “Finish the painting. Write a catalogue of amusing stories. You are quite the taskmaster, Miss Haydon!” He grinned. “Now, give me a couple of minutes to get changed and you can come with me to drag a funny story out of Sarah Duxton.”

  “Seeing as you’re on a roll, why don’t you carry on painting. I’ve got plenty of work to do.”

  Roddy’s shoulders dropped a little.

  “I’ll crack on then,” he said. “If you insist …”

  Alice walked away, then stopped. She would tell him now after all. She started back, but when she got to the gangway, Roddy was lying back in the deckchair, his battered hat covering his face.

  Livvie Manners leant over The Coffee Pot’s counter, one hand tucked under her chin, reading from a sheaf of papers.

  “Slow morning?”

  Livvie slid the papers into a clear plastic wallet and clipped it closed. “It’s Jason Marley’s. He’s put together a history of the Dunn Road opposition group’s activities. I thought it would be helpful background, as I’ve joined the group.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be making protest banners?”

  “You bet! I’m so pumped about this – it’s my chance to stick it to the council big time.”

  Alice dropped her bag on the floor and was about to climb onto one of the high stools.

  “Hey,” she said. “Let’s sit on the sofa, I’ve got some free time and we can have a proper chat.”

  Alice kicked off her burgundy Vans and curled her legs underneath her as she settled into the massive brown leather sofa. Livvie set down glasses of cold water on a low table and sat beside her friend.

  “So, what’s up with you, Alice? You don’t look your usual perky self. Is something worrying you?”

  Alice wanted to spill the whole story – everything. Keeping it to herself was a burden she could do without. However, fond as she was of her friend, she knew that Livvie liked to talk, and with so many customers the news would be around the town in five minutes.

  “There’s lots of work stuff that’s not going how I’d hoped,” she said. “The centenary exhibition seemed like such an easy show to put on …” She rubbed her hand over the sofa’s worn arm.

  “Well, I’m sure nobody expected an attempted break-in at the gallery. That can’t have happened many times before.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it has.” Alice’s voice sounded small, even to her.

  A customer strode across the café and handed Livvie his bill along with a ten pound note. “Thanks, Livvie, keep the change.”

  When he’d gone, she turned to Alice. “Hey, it’s only work. Now, more important: how’s that gorgeous man? Good day in London yesterday?”

  “Yeah, it was lovely. We didn’t do a lot, but it was fun being together.”

  “How did his uncle’s birthday party go? I bet he loved catching up with his family.”

  “He adores big family get-togethers, so he had a great time.” Alice dropped her chin to her chest. “Furious with me for not going, though.”

  “You can’t be surprised, Alice, you did let him down right at the last minute.” Livvie’s words were firm, but her eyes were soft. “To be honest, I don’t know why you don’t move in with him. He only lives around the corner and you can still keep Daisy, somewhere to go if you need some space. What are you afraid of?”

  Alice moved her feet off the sofa and slipped back into her shoes.

  “I’m not afraid, I just don’t feel it’s the right time.”

  “You know you can’t spend your life running away from men and relationships.” Livvie squeezed her arm. “Is this about your father?”

  Alice flinched.

  “The thing is Livvie, there was no warning. One day my father was there and the next he wasn’t. He walked out one morning and I never heard from him again. I searched for him everywhere I went; bus stops, parks, shops … But I never found him. And now I feel as if I never existed for him, as if I was never really there. I just couldn’t cope with another ma
n walking out on me, and as long as I’m not actually living with Joe, well, there’s a distance. Do you see?”

  Livvie pulled Alice’s head onto her shoulder. “Your father abandoned you and hurt you badly. He should have kept in touch, that’s what fathers are supposed to do. But what he did was not your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  Alice searched Livvie face. “How can you know that?”

  “You were only a child when he left; he was a responsible adult. Or should have been.” She brushed a stray hair out of Alice’s eye. “But not every man behaves like that. Joe wouldn’t. He’s sweet and considerate. He’d sooner throw himself in front of a train than leave you without saying a word. Okay, he was angry with you for not going to Galway with him, but he came back didn’t he? He’s here Alice. Your father’s not.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And that means a lot. Honey, what I’m trying to say is that while your father will always be a part of you, you have to move on. He left you, but you can leave him behind and you should. Instead, open up to Joe. He’s far more reliable!”

  Alice pushed herself up and held both Livvie’s hands in hers. She felt a lightness she hadn’t felt for days.

  “Thank you, Livvie, I’ll have a think about it, a proper think. I know that Joe’s a good man and I don’t want to lose him. I’ll just have to pluck up the courage to tell him I like him.”

  “Atta girl. Now off you go and find the Augustus John that was stolen from the gallery.”

  Alice’s mouth dropped open. Everyone must know that the drawing was missing, despite the best efforts of the police to suppress the news.

  The centenary exhibition was turning into a car crash, and she was beginning to wonder whether being a senior curator was worth the aggravation.

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s a small town, Alice.”

  Back home, Alice slammed Daisy’s hatch door shut and leant her head against it.

  “Holy frick,” she said. “What am I going to do?”

  She stumbled into the bathroom, threw off her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning it up to the maximum. Shafts of cooling water pummelled her skin, stinging yet revitalising. Feeling refreshed, Alice pulled on a pair of navy shorts and a white vest top and plaited her wet hair.

  She picked up her laptop and sat on the sofa. Great Wheaton Courier’s Breaking News page flashed across her screen:

  Valuable artworks stolen from Gregory’s House Art Gallery.

  Rats! Still, they didn’t mention any names, or show pictures of the missing works. And nothing more on Jason Marley.

  She slammed the laptop lid down and paced around the saloon. A call to Stefan Erickson elicited no response. Waiting for something to happen was killing.

  Round the saloon again. At the bookshelf, she ran her finger along the collection of paperbacks she had bought from charity shops but had yet to open. She passed the elephant painting she had brought back from India. Alice loved this piece – the majestic animal, the intricately patterned cloth over its back, the young girl in a crimson sari leading it. Painted on brown silk, the delicate work always brought a smile to her face.

  She pulled out her special CD and danced her way through Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off”. Then she clicked back to the beginning and turned up the volume. After four takes, she sat on the sofa, picked up her laptop and braved her inbox.

  An email from Freddie Garfield, with documents attached that he thought she would find interesting. She printed them out on her old printer, picked out a couple of red liquorice shoelaces from the sweet jar and lay back on the sofa to read them.

  First was a blank tender application for a council catering contract. She flicked through it, skipping over the boring parts – essentially all of it. She thought of Livvie, and the hours she must put into these things.

  She allowed the form to slip off her knee and glide to the carpet. She bit off the top of a shoelace and wrapped the rest around her finger.

  The rest of Freddie’s package was a mix of reports, newspaper cuttings and party policy papers. But there was one thread holding everything together – the name Julian de Havilland appeared in every one.

  She read Freddie’s handwritten notes of a conversation he had had with the Electoral Commission about the dodgy election donation. The Commission had received an anonymous tip-off. “Who?” Freddie had written in the margin, but if he had attempted to answer his own question there was no evidence of it.

  There were photos of Julian de Havilland shaking hands with all kinds of people. He always struck the same pose for the camera, standing with the other party to his left, his right arm across his body, clasping their hand with studied machismo. He even wore the same grey suit. In one picture, he was standing in a building site wearing a hi-viz yellow jacket over his suit, a hard hat almost covering his eyes. Alice did not recognise either of the men flanking him, and squinted at the caption underneath.

  Bang!

  “What the—?” Alice turned to find Roddy knocking on the window.

  “Alice Haydon, open up!”

  She returned his wave, though her eyes were pulled back to the picture.

  Roddy opened the hatch door and stepped in. “Dear girl, what have you been up to? I rapped on the door loud enough to wake the dead, but you didn’t answer. Are you alright?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, I just didn’t hear you.” She sat up. “Did you want something?”

  “Only to ask you over for a drink, I’ve finished painting for the day. I thought you might like a break too.” He pointed at the papers littering the floor. “Good grief, what is this mess?”

  “I’ve discovered the identity of HSD, the person who has Beach.” Alice waved a newspaper cutting in the air. “It’s here, in this picture. Julian de Havilland is standing next to Edward Hacker, managing partner of Hacker, Stanley and Dole. HSD.”

  Chapter 20

  “They’re the lawyers on the high street aren’t they?” said Roddy. “But are you sure about the connection? I thought HSD was a person.”

  “Vivien Taylor told me that HSD was a benefactor and I just assumed it was a person. This picture from the Courier shows Edward Hacker as sponsor of the 2014 Great Wheaton Arts Society annual exhibition. That proves he has an interest in art.” She put the cutting on the table. “It also proves that the most senior person at HSD knows Julian de Havilland. And both HSD and Julian borrowed paintings from the council. Surely, it must be the same HSD?”

  “It does seem likely.” Roddy perched on a corner of the coffee table. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Vivien said Beach was in this benefactor’s office, so I’m going to ask him to give it back.”

  Roddy raised his eyebrows. “But—”

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. It’s not his painting after all.”

  “Now that you’ve got the Augustus John drawing, does it matter that you don’t have Beach?”

  Alice felt a little wave of nausea. She should tell Roddy about the drawing. He would find out sooner or later – better he heard it from her first. She fiddled with the plait lying over her shoulder.

  “Dear girl, whatever’s worrying you, spit it out, and quick. I can’t abide girls who play with their hair.”

  So, she told him. He listened without interruption and then said:

  “Losing Vivien Taylor’s prized drawing, then bullying her generous benefactors into giving you their favourite painting, and all in the same twenty-four hours. Some chutzpah!”

  “What do I do now, Roddy?” Alice stretched her arms wide.

  “The last time I asked myself that question, I woke up ten years later with a monumental hangover. However, seeing as you’ve asked me so nicely, I’ll try think of another solution.”

  Alice’s mobile beeped and she snatched it up. “It’s Stefan Erickson.”
r />   “Good, ask him for his advice.”

  Alice related the story again and as the Swede responded, his monotone voice cooled her aching head and calmed her breathing. She closed her eyes and listened.

  “Thank you,” she said finally. “I know that’s good advice.”

  She put the phone down.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He said to stay calm.”

  “That’s Scandinavian pragmatism for you.” Roddy gave a little snort. “Did he have any practical suggestions?”

  “He said we have to stop the Courier printing pictures of the drawing. Claudia has already agreed to put off the piece on Vivien’s unveiling party until next week. But I don’t know how to stop her publishing pictures of the drawing, especially now she knows about the break-in.”

  “Hmmm. There’s a question. And one that requires an urgent and serious answer …” – Roddy shifted to the sofa – “which I can’t supply, regrettably.”

  “We need to get the drawing back.” Alice jumped off the sofa and knelt down beside the coffee table. “If we can track it down quickly, we’ll avoid having to deal with Vivien and my reputation may remain intact.”

  “This tracking down of paintings is becoming exhausting. Besides, we are not detectives.”

  “Let’s pretend that we are. If we think like detectives, we can follow the trail straight to the drawing.” She tapped her palm on the table top. “So, the first thing we need is a list of suspects.” She turned over a pizza delivery leaflet and picked up a pen. “Who are the prime suspects?”

  “Every art dealer, collector and crime lord in the world. Oh, and your average thief!”

  “Very funny. Though I suppose you’re right, a rare Augustus John would attract that sort of attention. Okay, we’ll narrow it down and concentrate on the people in this area. Let’s have some names.”

  “I’ll consult my little black book and pick out the ones with ‘arch criminal’ beside their name.”

  “Roddy, please help! Now, a whole party full of people saw the drawing at Vivien’s, so its existence was common knowledge. However, it was taken from the gallery and because of Vivien’s fear of the work being stolen – God, to think of it! – only a few people knew when it would be delivered.”