Paint a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  She scanned down the register until she came to Carrie Developments. There was a short description of the business, given as international construction and project development. Next came the directors and shareholders section – the company stakeholders and the people who pocketed the profits. There was one named director only: Edward Hacker of Hacker, Stanley & Dole.

  Alice said the name aloud, as though to make sure. As a solicitor, Hacker would likely be acting on behalf of an unnamed shadow director – a client or clients so keen to mask their identity they had hidden behind yet another layer of anonymity. The brains and money behind Carrie Developments could well lie elsewhere.

  Alice scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, added it to her incident board and sat on the edge of the coffee table. Julian de Havilland’s line had grown with Felicity Gault’s information. Julian, too, was one of Alice’s main suspects for the Augustus John theft.

  There was only one way to find out what the man was up to. Alice called Julian’s office at the town hall and was not surprised when a familiar voice answered the phone.

  “This is becoming a habit, Helen.”

  “How can I help you?” said an unfazed Helen Yardley.

  “I’d like to make an appointment to see Councillor Julian de Havilland, please.”

  “What for?” said Helen, a chill in her voice. “I mean, what is the meeting about?”

  “I noticed that he’d borrowed a number of paintings from the council’s collection and I wondered what attracted him to those pieces.” Alice was stalling, looking at Julian’s picture on the incident board. “It’s for the exhibition catalogue I’m putting together.”

  “Councillor de Havilland is not lending a painting to the exhibition, so I’m not sure why you need to speak to him.”

  “I know he’s not personally lending, but the council is. And as he’s a senior member of the council, I wanted to capture his thoughts.”

  “He’s very busy at the moment, Alice.”

  “I thought he would like to be part of the exhibition, seeing as it involves a number of local businesses. The Courier is lending a painting, for example. And so is Hacker, Stanley & Dole.”

  Helen snatched a breath, then dropped silent. “Okay. I’ll juggle a few things around and email you a time.”

  Alice couldn’t be sure whether Helen really was going to arrange a meeting, or whether she was trying to fob her off. There was no choice but to wait.

  Jason Marley’s blank eyes stared out from the board.

  “Speak to me, Jason. What happened to you? You were walking along the river, a car hit you, knocking you into the river. Who was driving the car?”

  Alice ran a possible sequence through her mind, trying to picture the scene. She looked back at Jason and he looked at her. Witnesses … Had there been any witnesses to Jason’s journey, or his appointment with death?

  The Coffee Pot was her next stop – she would look for an answer there.

  Alice asked Livvie if they could talk privately and the two women slipped through a swing door behind the counter, into Livvie’s office.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I’ve been thinking about witnesses to Jason Marley’s death. You catered for one of his meetings at The Shipwreck that evening. As it’s just down the road, he must have walked passed your café to get to Silver Street, where he was knocked down. The driver could have been waiting for him outside the pub, then followed him to a quiet spot and run him down. In which case, you might have caught both Jason and the car on your CCTV.”

  “The police thought that too and they’ve already asked me for the footage. Fortunately,” said Livvie, “I took a copy first.”

  Livvie fished out a CD from a drawer and slotted it into a laptop on her desk. Alice sat on the only chair, Livvie perched on its arm.

  “I went back at ten thirty to collect my plates and Jason had already left; so, let’s go back in time and see if we can spot him.”

  Livvie rewound the footage and stopped at a couple walking arm in arm. Not Jason. Nor was the man with the dog, at ten twenty-two. After them, a group of young chattering women, followed by an equal number of young men with open shirts and wild gestures.

  At ten sixteen, a solitary man marched along the footpath. Just four seconds and he was out of shot. Livvie played the footage again, freezing it on the man, centre-frame and at his most visible. Even so, he was side-on to the camera and the image was indistinct – Alice could not make out a clear profile.

  “That’s him,” said Livvie. “I recognise that tattoo on his left arm. See there, the eagle? No mistake.”

  Livvie let the disc play on and at ten seventeen, a large, dark car came into shot.

  “Could that car be following him?” said Alice, pointing at the screen.

  “It could be, or it could just be someone driving slowly.”

  “We can work out how fast it’s going.” Alice rapped the desktop. “If we time how long it takes the car to travel across the CCTV’s span, we can compare it with how long it takes Jason to walk it.”

  They replayed the footage twice and made a calculation.

  “The car was travelling at ten miles an hour and Jason was walking at four,” said Alice. “So the car was definitely crawling. We can’t be sure it was following Jason, though.”

  “Let’s assume it was. What sort of car is that?”

  The women searched the internet for pictures of large saloon cars, running through a variety of models before they hit one that matched the car in the footage.

  “I know it’s black and white footage but what about the colour? Could it be dark blue? You’d think it would be denser if it was black.”

  “From the models we’ve been looking at online, I think we can make a reasonable guess. I’d say it’s a midnight blue 5 Series BMW.”

  Alice froze. There was only one person she knew with a car like that, and his was in the garage being repaired. Walker Hampton.

  Chapter 37

  Alice stumbled out of The Coffee Pot and onto the busy street – the same street Jason Marley had walked that fateful evening.

  A BMW. There were loads of them around the town, in fact there was a 5 Series parked in the road she took to Gregory’s House and her meeting with Duncan Jones.

  Alice waited for Duncan to finish his phone call. He had still not given his approval for Nicholas Waites’ figurines to be shown in the exhibition and Tommy Norton needed to organise plinths.

  Duncan started speaking first, before the phone was in its cradle.

  “Can you explain why Councillor Taylor wants to talk to me about you and Beach and why you’ve been bothering Councillor de Havilland?” Duncan’s thin lips and matching voice spat out the words. “Gregory’s House comes under Councillor Taylor’s remit, and she has not taken kindly to you asking another councillor to be involved with the centenary exhibition. She’ll be here in ten minutes, Alice, and I need a good answer.”

  Alice pinched the edge of her seat. “She’s coming here?”

  Duncan nodded.

  “Do you want me to be here when she comes?”

  “Absolutely not. I want a full explanation now, then I’ll meet her by myself.”

  Alice gave Duncan a filtered account of her attempts to track down Beach. It sounded barely believable even to her own ears, but Duncan nodded in agreement.

  She seemed to be getting better at this.

  “Just over half the exhibition paintings are here in the gallery and several more will be delivered by the end of this week. That includes the MP’s painting from the House of Commons collection, which turned out to be easier to move than I thought.”

  “That’s welcome news at least.” Duncan’s face relaxed a little. “I’ve seen the artworks downstairs – there are some good pieces.”

  “I’m still keen on having Nicholas
Waites’ figurines. They’re so beautiful and I’m sure they’ll be a crowd pleaser. Is there any leeway on getting a plinth for them?”

  “I don’t have a budget for it and even if I did, I don’t want any more complications. This exhibition has been a nightmare already.” He stared out the window and looked as if he would gladly follow his gaze and jump out of it. “What’s the status on the catalogue?”

  “I have around half the material, but I need to find some more photos. I was thinking of putting in some drawings and other illustrations as well, for variety. What do you think?”

  “Sounds fine in principle, though I want to see them before you set the pages. The printing deadline is only four weeks away, so I need to see more progress by the end of this week. And under no circumstances is the deadline to be missed. That catalogue goes on sale on opening night without fail. Is that clear?”

  Alice left the gallery the moment the meeting was over, and as she walked towards home she wondered how Duncan was faring with his Taylor encounter.

  She turned onto Sam’s Lane, slowing as she reached The Coffee Pot. People yabbered in the sunshine and wafts of freshly ground coffee and buttery pastries scented the air. An empty barge was not inviting. Instead, Alice made herself comfortable on the leather sofa.

  She watched her friend calm a volatile customer, with just the right words and a smile. Alice surveyed the tables, spotting a couple of her neighbours tucking into Livvie’s special toasted paninis. Behind them were two others she recognised – Helen Yardley and Julian de Havilland. Together. The pair were sitting at a small table at the far end of the courtyard, their heads close, in animated conversation.

  Alice could think of half a dozen bars and cafés around the town hall. So if they had come down to the river, they must be trying to avoid being seen.

  “That’s him sorted,” said Livvie. “He comes in every week for a moan. What are you staring at?”

  “That couple at the end table, how long have they been here?”

  “Julian and Helen? They got here about twenty minutes ago.”

  “You know them?”

  “Sure. They’ve been coming here for years, way before I bought the place. Their father had a boat, which he kept along the bank, just passed Daisy. They all used to drop in for breakfast before they went fishing. Julian and Helen carried on coming, even after their father passed away. Said it reminded them of him.”

  “They’re brother and sister?” Alice twisted around and stared at them. “Well, that puts a whole different spin on things. Helen must know all about Carrie Developments too. No wonder she wasn’t keen for me to meet Julian.”

  “Is this part of your investigation into the Dunn Road development?”

  Alice repeated her conversation with Felicity Gault.

  “And what’s more, Edward Hacker of Hacker, Stanley & Dole is sole director of Carrie Developments – I assume for a shadow director.”

  “Shadow director?”

  “Someone who has an agreement with a named director who will do his or her bidding.”

  “And what does it all mean?” Livvie swished a dishcloth over her shoulder and perched on the sofa’s arm.

  “Somebody around here owns Carrie Developments and has just landed a fifty million pound contract to build a shopping centre, is what it means. And Julian de Havilland made sure that they, and nobody else, got it.”

  “Jeez, Alice. That’s serious stuff. What are you going to do?” Livvie rested a hand on Alice’s knee. “You’re not thinking of marching up to Julian de Havilland and demanding an explanation, are you?”

  That was exactly what she was thinking of doing …

  “I’ve asked for a meeting with Julian, though I might have a word with Helen in the meantime.”

  “She’s a nice lady. I can’t believe she’s involved in anything underhand. Her brother, on the other hand …”

  Julian got up from the table and headed into the café. Alice picked up a magazine and held it in front of her face. When she heard the door of the gents swing shut, she dashed over to Helen.

  “Helen, can I have a quick word?”

  Helen paled a little, and peered through the café window.

  “I can’t talk to you. Not here. I’ll contact you about your meeting with Julian.”

  “Thanks, but I’d like to talk to you as well.”

  “I can’t, Alice. I’ll be in touch.” Helen wrapped her fingers around her cup. “Please leave, Julian will be back in a minute.” Helen’s eyes darted from Alice to the window.

  “Okay, but will you email me tomorrow please?”

  “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. Now, go.”

  Chapter 38

  “Hold on a minute, I’ll just put my trousers on,” Martin Bradman shouted from the other side of his front door.

  Alice grimaced and moved back from the doorstep. She pictured Bradman with shirt tails dangling above blanched knees and struggled to suppress a giggle. The door was opened by the tall, wiry man with a thin face and expensively dyed hair who Alice had met at Vivien Taylor’s party. She stepped inside the house and was almost knocked out by the smell of aftershave and Brylcreem.

  A framed theatre poster for a 1975 production of The Taming of the Shrew greeted her in the hallway, the part of Petruchio played by Marty Bradman.

  “That’s you!” Alice squealed and pointed at the poster. “You were in a West End play? That’s amazing.”

  Martin put up both hands as if in surrender. “Yes. I am a thesp.”

  Primed for the cue, he sprang to one side of the poster and regaled Alice with the statistics: how many nights of the run, the celebrities who visited backstage, how many after-show parties.

  “Oh. My. God. That’s so exciting. I’ve never met a thespian before.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard enough about me.” Martin paused, looking like he was waiting for an ‘Oh no, I haven’t’. “You want to see the painting don’t you, so come on through.”

  Alice followed him into the fabulously untidy living room at the back of the house. Magazines, empty crisps packets and crumpled shirts were piled on every surface.

  “Excuse the mess. Tend to live in this room, so I keep everything I need here. Love the views.”

  The house was tucked into a curve in the river which ran around two sides, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the scene. A majestic willow tree tossed wispy branches to the ground, where they crept over the bank and into the water.

  “It’s beautiful.” Alice walked over to the window. “And it’s so quiet here. You haven’t got any near neighbours?”

  “Thank the Lord, no. Walker Hampton is my nearest.”

  “So you know him well?”

  “Known Walker since he was a teenager. Looked out for him after his father died. Sound chap, Bertie Hampton.” He moved into the centre of the room, clutching his flame-coloured cravat. “Now my dear, you have a choice. This lovely painting here, or that watercolour over there. Which one would you prefer?”

  The two paintings were tucked amongst more theatre posters featuring Marty Bradman. Dressed as Captain Hook in one, he leered at Alice, eyebrows twisted, mouth stretched into a snarl. It occurred to Alice that it wasn’t a face one would want to meet in the dark.

  “Ah, you’ve seen my Hook. Fine show that one, at Scarborough it was. Very appreciative audience.” He stood at the side of the poster and struck a copycat pose. “Walker came up to see the show one night. It was his seventeenth birthday, so I took him to a party afterwards. I went with a blonde, lovely girl, and she fixed Walker up with one of her friends. We arrived, had a glass of champagne, then the girl led Walker away and I didn’t see him again for two days!” He laughed a snorting horsey laugh.

  “Here’s me as Dick Whittington.” A three-foot-tall po
ster featured Marty Bradman wearing tight brown trousers and knee-length boots, topped by a white shirt with enormous balloon sleeves.

  “Terrific costume. I had the physique for it, of course. Used to come out the stage door to swarms of fans.” He stroked his chin and looked out of the window. “Ah, those were the days.”

  He picked up a framed photograph from the sideboard and held it out to Alice. “Here’s me at the premier. That’s the mayor at the front of the group. He threw a marvellous party afterwards. Went with a blonde.”

  “What other plays have you done?”

  “I was a Shakespeare regular. Macbeth, Othello … Romeo, of course. Now it’s voiceovers and commercials. Good pay for turning up and reading the lines.”

  If she closed her eyes, Alice could just hear Martin’s rich voice shifting rolls of toilet paper.

  As he put the photo back, Alice noticed another – a suited and top-hatted Martin beside a beautiful woman in a floaty white dress.

  “That’s my wedding day. Got married during Goldilocks.”

  “The lady’s not blonde.”

  Martin contemplated the dark-skinned, dark-haired woman, seemingly noticing her non-blondness for the first time. “You can’t win ’em all!”

  The conversation was slipping into mildly unsavoury, if intriguing territory, and Alice needed some answers.

  “Did you enjoy Vivien Taylor’s party the other day?”

  “The old girl knows how to throw a good bash doesn’t she? Plenty of good champagne. Had a great time.”

  “So did I. Though I thought I saw you and Walker having a bit of an argy-bargy?”

  “Did you? Don’t remember that, though Walker can set off a bit sometimes. We once had an argument about a woman, didn’t speak to each other for weeks. She was blonde …”

  “Who won the argument?”

  “He did, the blighter. Then he went and married her.”