Paint a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  There was a knock on the hatch door.

  “Come in, Roddy,” she yelled.

  The door opened. “It’s me,” said Joe. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  “No, absolutely not, come on in.” She caught the clock on the wall. “Gosh, is that the time already? I haven’t even started dinner.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Joe put a bulging plastic bag on the kitchen counter. “I’m cooking.”

  “No way. I’ve planned what I’m going to make, bought all the stuff and even printed out the recipe. I’m determined to cook for you for a change. Here’s a cold beer – why don’t you sit on the deck until it’s ready.”

  She had not made a pasta sauce from scratch before. But if Nigella could whip up a sauce in five minutes, how hard could it be?

  She fluffed up her hair, pouted at the frying pan and set about preparing dinner.

  Chapter 25

  Duncan Jones’ email could not have been clearer.

  ‘I am not paying for plinths – use the painting you already have.’

  With Nicholas Waites’ painting and the Augustus John drawing stolen, Alice was rapidly out of stars for the centenary exhibition.

  She could still save face if the exhibition was a critical and popular success. She wanted Roddy’s new work in the show, but she could not bank on him finishing it in time. That only left Nicholas’ figurines.

  She wondered how Nathan Salisbury’s police investigation was progressing. And then she wondered how Nathan Salisbury was progressing.

  “Morning.” Joe emerged from the cabin. “How’s it going?”

  Alice snapped back into the real world.

  “Slowly. I’m spending so much time on my investigation that the day job is taking a hit.”

  “You could leave the investigating to the police you know, it is their job after all.”

  “I could. But I want to do it.”

  Joe rubbed his chin and padded over to the kitchen. Alice fiddled with her phone, avoiding his gaze.

  “I was thinking I would join you at the demo this morning,” said Joe. “I’d like to take a few action shots. That’s if you’ve decided to go.”

  “I am going, so by all means come too.” A thought occurred to her. “Do you ever regret giving up the war reporting, Joe? Shooting demos is hardly the same as shooting war zones.”

  “The only real difference between a demo and guerrilla warfare is the choice of weapon. They are both about conflict and both generally pitch the establishment on one side and the resistance on the other.”

  He sat on the sofa arm and moved a strand of Alice’s hair away from her eye. “Do I miss traipsing around the world’s trouble spots instead of spending more time with you?” He brushed her forehead with his lips. “No, I don’t.”

  She looked at him, but could not meet his eyes, so she watched her finger as she ran it along his forearm. “There’s some leftover pasta from last night’s dinner if you want to heat it up.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pick up some breakfast on the way.”

  The traffic lights flicked from amber to green but the cars remained still, blocked by a row of bodies lying across the road.

  Protestors, arms aloft, banners and posters raised to the sky, surged down the footpaths on both sides of the street. Many chanted “Play parks not retail parks!” and “Our children’s future!”, the slogans scrawled on the back of cereal packets and stuck onto wooden poles with duct tape. Protestors weaved around stationary cars, defiantly thrusting their banners at the occupants.

  Earlier, Alice had joined Roddy and Livvie at the beginning of the march. Holding one of Roddy’s placards, it was not long before she was swept up in the crowd, feeding from its energy.

  “No to retail parks!” she shouted with gusto. “Yes to play parks!” Intoxicated by adrenaline, she chanted louder and marched harder. When the rally reached the stationary traffic, Alice ran ahead to get a better view of the lie-in protest.

  A car horn blasted loud and insistent, and other horns joined in solidarity. People got out of their vehicles, craning necks for a better look. The protestors’ chants were countered by shouts from the occupants, the two factions squaring up like opposing teams at a football match. A police siren sounded from behind, then faded into the cacophony of shouts and blasts.

  Alice hovered on the footpath near the traffic lights, right by the lie-in. She scanned the scene behind and in front, soaking it all in. Faces filled with aggression, passion, distaste. Faces looking out of windows high above the street, some passive, some cheering the crowd on, taking sides. She recognised Flora from The Bull, waving her arms as she hung out of a top storey window.

  Outside the town hall opposite, security guards and police officers stood by the locked front door. They edged closer together as the stand-off intensified. Two floors up, safe behind a window, a line of onlookers surveyed the scene with varying degrees of amusement and annoyance. Alice did not notice Julian de Havilland at first, but when she did spot him, his eyes were already locked on her. It was too late to duck away, so she stared back. Two sets of eyes boring into each other, one in reproach and one in defiance.

  A woman circled around a blue Mercedes chanting “Development out!”, swaying her banner in time to her incantation.

  “Get that banner off my car,” shouted the driver. “You may not have a job to go to, but I do.”

  “We have a right to protest. And I didn’t touch your car.”

  “Take your protest somewhere else!” yelled another.

  “Stop complaining, we’re doing this for everyone’s benefit.”

  Recognising her, Alice shouted out, “Julia! Over here!”

  Julia Marsh looked up and wended her way through the cars to join Alice. She was holding a Roddy Rafferty special, one with a pair of squirrels in the corner.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” said Alice.

  “It’s a good turnout,” Julia shouted. “Lovely that people want to support Jason Marley and I’m delighted to see you here too.”

  “I’m so glad I came. It’s just brilliant.”

  “I hope we’ll get a positive outcome.”

  “I thought it had already been decided that the shopping centre was going ahead.”

  “It has.” Julia moved closer, shouting louder. “But Jason was pushing for a judicial review, which could stop the process. He seemed to think there was a chance it would work, as he knew all about Carrie.”

  A shrill scream from one of the prostrate figures on the road pierced the air.

  “Let go of me, you fat toady!” yelled a bearded man from the tarmac, as someone in checked shorts tried to drag him away by his foot. The protestor flipped onto his stomach, lashed out with his free arm and thumped his attacker’s leg.

  “Leave him, Darren.” An ash-haired woman pulled him away. “It’s not worth it.”

  Darren, apparently trained for obedience, duly desisted and the protestor resumed his prostrate position on the road.

  Alice’s heart clanged and her stomach danced. “Here, hold this.” She shoved her placard at Julia and flew across the road towards a group of spectators.

  “What are you all looking at?” the bearded protestor snapped. “Don’t stand there gawping, join us!” He grabbed a handful of leaflets from underneath his head and threw them at the onlookers.

  A man next to Alice stepped forward, grabbed the leaflets and threw them across the road. “I’ve had enough of this.” He placed his foot on the side of the prostrate protestor’s thigh and nudged him a couple of times. “Time to get up, mate.”

  The protestor grabbed the man’s ankle, yanking it towards him, then let go. The attacker lost his balance and fell over. A punch was thrown and one returned. Hair was pulled. Someone yelped. Alice gulped. The two men wrestled. Arms and legs thrashed. A foot kicked Alice
’s ankle. She shuffled backwards, but was blocked by the crowd behind.

  Shouts of encouragement interspersed with jeers came from the swelling mass. The crowd packed together, penning Alice between the brawlers and the mob. She pushed back against the wall of bodies, groping for a gap.

  Another fight broke out beside her and she was buffeted one way, then back again. Bodies closed in, blotting out the light. A placard slammed into her face, and she felt the hot sting of blood above her eyebrow. It trickled over her eye and down her cheek. Tears welled, blinding the other eye.

  Alice fell and, struggling to get up, crawled through and around a thicket of legs. She fell again. She rolled over and found herself back among the original fighters, still hammering each other on the tarmac. She felt a blow on her shoulder and lashed out. Someone trod on her hair. She yelped and crossed her arms over her head. The crowd seemed to close in, towering over her. Darker. Louder. A kick. A bellow. A whistle.

  A strong grip grabbed her arm, hauled her to her feet and pushed her along. She dragged a hand over her eyes, wiping stinging tears and blood, but it blurred her vision further. She had no idea where she was. One foot tripped against the other, but her invisible helper held on, steadying her with a hand on each elbow. Half-blind and now unable to move her arms, she allowed herself to be pushed up a couple of steps and thrust into a seat.

  A door slammed. A van door. Silence.

  “Crap!” she said aloud. “I’ve been arrested.”

  Chapter 26

  Alice perched on a sun lounger on Daisy’s deck. Joe crouched beside her, his hand in hers.

  “It wasn’t until I heard the woman say I was in an ambulance,” Alice said, “that I realised I hadn’t been arrested. It was all so confusing.” She fought to contain a sob, but it escaped and she tightened her grip on Joe’s hand.

  “It was chaos, I know.” He stroked her arm. “Good job that para saw you when she did. That’s a nasty cut on your forehead.”

  Alice reached above her eye, tracing the strips of medical tape with her finger. A slow stretch down to pull off her black Vans released blistered toes.

  “Gosh, my feet are killing me. Someone stamped on my toes, so they were already hurting when I found Chatsworth Road blocked off and had to walk the long way home.”

  Tears trickled down her face. She lifted a hand to brush them away, but couldn’t find the energy. Joe cupped her elbow, inching her towards him. She crumbled into his arms, nestling her cheek in the soft curve between neck and shoulder. His hand stroked the back of her head and her body slackened.

  “I was so scared.”

  “I know.”

  Alice broke from the embrace.

  “Are you feeling okay, Alice?”

  “I’m just tired.”

  She lay back on the lounger and closed her eyes. Her head throbbed and the bruises on her arms and legs seemed to throb in sympathy. Opening her eyes, she saw Joe leaning against Daisy’s side.

  “So, how did you get on? Did you take many pictures?”

  “Yeah, lots. It was surprisingly heated for a respectable middle-class demo. To tell you the truth, I was only expecting a quiet march down the high street, not a full-blown brawl on the tarmac.”

  “I’m glad,” said Alice. “Not about the brawl, but I was afraid you’d be bored. Must have felt like old times.”

  “Hello you two.” Roddy was walking across the gangway. “Just wanted to make sure you were alright. We lost you and … Dear girl, you’ve been fighting again.” He rested a hand on the lounger beside Alice’s head. “How many times have I told you!” He winked.

  Alice squeezed out a wry smile. “You should see the other girl.”

  “I can see that you’ve been well attended too. No broken bones I hope.”

  “No, just cuts and bruises, luckily. I was rescued by a policeman otherwise it could have been a lot worse. How did you get on?”

  “We caused havoc and stuck two fingers up at the council. Job well done, I’d say. Though the best bit is that you’ve kicked the Augustus John story off the Courier’s front page.”

  Alice jerked upright. “Oh, that is good news. There must be a lot of coverage of the demo.”

  “Finn Kinnaman was there taking pictures, really good ones too. There’s a ton of them on the Courier’s website.”

  “There were lots of arrests, so they have stories about those as well,” said Roddy. “Including dear Julia Marsh. And I didn’t think she was capable of a mischievous thought.” He patted the sun lounger. “I won’t keep you, I just popped in to check you got back alright.”

  Alice stretched her arms high, raised and lowered her shoulders, hoping to relieve the tension tightening her muscles. She looked at Joe, so steady and purposeful.

  “How do you do it, Joe?”

  “What’s that?” He sat on the director’s chair.

  “Stay so calm, while everything around you is spiralling out of control?”

  “When I’m taking pictures, I just focus on the job I’m doing. And try to stay out of the way.”

  “Don’t you ever feel the urge to jump in and take sides, especially when someone small gets pummelled by someone bigger?”

  “I did when I first started and I’ve got the scars to prove it.” He rubbed the white line down his cheek. “In a war zone, you see lots of nasty things. But it’s not my fight, I’m just an observer. People don’t appreciate you interfering. I learnt that the hard way.”

  For a moment, Alice wondered whether observing rather than acting was an option for her too.

  She eased herself out of the lounger. “I’m going down to clean up.”

  In the cabin, she stared at her reflection. A lump was growing underneath the cut on her forehead, whilst a dark shadow formed beneath her eye.

  She rubbed her arm, pushing up her t-shirt sleeve to reveal a collection of darkening bruises. She ached all over and her legs felt wobbly, so she lay down on the bed.

  The centenary exhibition, she decided, was beyond saving. How did she always manage to make such a mess of things? In the space of just a few days a dead body had practically bobbed up in front of her, a prize drawing had been stolen on her shift, probably gone forever. Beach was, well, wherever Edward Hacker had hidden it. And Duncan was furious with her.

  As if that was not enough, she had hacked off the councillors, the gallery’s principal funders. Vivien Taylor had not thanked her for the flowers. And Julian de Havilland had seen her getting stuck into the protest against his flagship new shopping centre.

  Whatever happened to her nice little curating job? Step up while Jenna’s away, Duncan had said. Just gather up a few paintings and stick them on the wall. What could possibly go wrong?

  It must be her. Chaos hid around every corner waiting to jump out at her when she was least expecting it. Or maybe she just wasn’t suited to curating. Should she give it up and do something else?

  Maybe Roddy was right, perhaps it was time to settle down. Joe wanted her to move in with him and she knew he wanted a family. She could stay at home and play with babies all day. Leave the real work to the grown-ups.

  Alice glanced around the cabin and over to her incident board, where her eye caught the postcard of Augustus John’s girl. It was times like this when she missed her father the most. How she envied her girlfriends as they recounted their fathers’ advice on everything from boyfriends, to moving out and moving on. Sometimes, she could barely listen.

  In heavier moments, the envy was too much and she railed against her father, who had so casually walked out on his family – and on her. She wondered whether he had done the same with his second family, as she assumed he had another wife and more children. Knowing that he might have done so did not make her feel any better.

  Alice got up and unpinned the postcard. The girl’s face faded away and in its place was an outline of he
r father’s features. She gazed into the blank hooded eyes.

  “Are you ever coming back, Dad?”

  She chucked the postcard on the coffee table, and the very movement seemed to replenish her energy. She swiped up the postcard again and pinned it back on the board, thumping in the pin with her fist. She strode around the cabin, feeling her aches ease away and her limbs grow stronger. She stood in front of the incident board, legs astride, and titled her chin.

  “It would be silly to give up the opportunity I’ve waited so long for,” she said to the girl. “Especially after everything I’ve been through. I think I deserve this chance.

  I can make the centenary exhibition the best show the gallery has ever had. And I’m damn well going to do it.”

  Chapter 27

  The police station’s waiting room was cramped and stifling, one corner fan having little impact on its sweaty occupants. Alice sat beside a tattooed man, whose manspreading legs pushed her into the obese teenage girl on her other side. She rubbed clammy palms together, and learnt from a poster on the wall how to prevent pickpockets.

  Alice should have given a statement before now, but she had been deliberating whether to tell them about Stefan Erickson’s visit. The gallery’s alarm system would record that it had been disengaged that evening and the police would know that now. Alice assumed they would think it was one of the staff, but she could not know whether they suspected her.

  Withholding information from the police was risky, but she calculated it was preferable to exposing the undiscovered Augustus John artwork. If that was made public, she would be hounded for keeping the news to herself, then castigated for losing the drawing.

  She had fixed on a story that was true, if incomplete, and she had just given her prepared statement to two police officers. However, any hope of finding out what the police knew of Stefan’s visit evaporated quickly. The officers didn’t know anything about anything. All questions had to be put to DI Salisbury.