by Cathy Ace
‘First of all, Althea phoned me earlier on to tell me she found a body on the Chellingworth Estate this morning. It seems that the Dyfed-Powys police have been at it all day there, and she phoned me again, just now, to say they finally had a name for the poor boy. Now hang on, I’ve written it down so I get it right. I spelled it out for Carol on the message I just left for her. He was Ajit—’
Christine jumped in with: ‘Ajit Patwary, right?’
‘How on earth do you know that?’ exclaimed Mavis. ‘I put down the telephone to Althea not five minutes ago. Has Carol spoken to you already?’ The poor woman sounded very confused.
‘No, that’s not it, Mavis. I was at a pub in the East End of London today, where I saw a photograph of a young man whose name I discovered to be Ajit Patwary. He was the star of the team and, apparently, a good friend of Jacko James’s son, Mickey. Carol did her thing and discovered he was a dental technician at the Mile End hospital, but I know he hasn’t been at work for a couple of weeks. I already had my suspicions that he was the person Althea had seen in her dining room, but this, of course, confirms it.’
The women agreed that there was a certain, sad satisfaction to be gained from knowing that the identity of the poor dead man, Ajit, had now been discerned, and they both felt an amount of investigative pride when they realized that Christine was able to place the dead man at the Hoop and Stick pub, and as an owner of a black and blue bobble hat.
‘I’m sure Carol will have got your message by now, Mavis, and I suspect she’ll get hold of the Dyfed-Powys police to pass on the information she’s gathered about the connections between Ajit and the James family and therefore the Chellingworth Estate.’ Christine took a moment to sigh with relief as she finally got onto Great Tower Street and realized she’d make her ‘date’ time after all. ‘Well, that’s that, then. The reason Henry called us in is all sorted, so now I can concentrate on locating Annie.’
‘Aye, that you must, and I don’t disagree that should be your priority. But there’s still the matter of the fake false teeth that we need to consider,’ said Mavis with what sounded, on the speakerphone, to be a straight face.
‘Yes, we do, but I don’t see the connection at all – not between the dead body and the dentures, nor Annie and the dentures, or the dead footballer.’ She honked at a cyclist.
‘Aye, but there again, I think I can help you with that a wee bit. You’re thinking of the dead boy as a footballer, but I’m thinking of him as a dental technician. I found out a lot about false teeth today, as it happens,’ added Mavis.
Christine was very surprised, but didn’t interrupt her friend’s flow. Having explained all about the way the dental technician at her mother’s nursing home worked, Mavis added, ‘So, like I said, we have a dead dental technician at the Chellingworth Estate. I admit I don’t know everything about it, but it seems to me that there is a chance that the fake dentures at Chellingworth Hall might have been made with a 3D printer, then painted up to look authentic. I’m sure Carol can find out all about it. I have no idea how the technicalities of this printing thing work, but she’ll be all over it in a wee while, I’m sure of that. But I havenae been able to get through to her. But don’t you worry about it, you try to find Annie, and I’ll keep phoning and sending texts and emails to Carol until I can get ahold of her. She must be busy.’
Christine smiled. It was clear that Mavis’s accent had thickened in the short time she’d been back in Scotland. She mimicked her colleague with great accuracy when she replied, ‘I cannae say. The poor wee thing’s been busy with so many bits and bobs all day.’
‘Och, listen to yoo,’ replied Mavis happily. ‘Mocking your elders will always get y’intae trouble,’ she said, ‘no matter how good you are with your fancy accents. It’s no fair to go making fun o’ me like tha’.’ She played along and Christine was heartened to know that her friend was not so overcome with grief that she didn’t have a smile left in her.
‘Seriously, Mavis, I know we’re joining the dots. In fact, I think it’s time I stopped being an enquiry agent and became a police informant.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Look, Mavis, I don’t want you to worry, because there’s nothing you can be, or should be, doing about any of this. So, rather than tell you all about it, I think it’s best if I get off the phone with you and get hold of Alexander as fast as I can. I think I need to change our meeting place to the gallery he told me about when I was lunching with him and Henry at Chellingworth Hall on Monday. It’s the gallery where he met Clemmie. He mentioned that he saw portraits of artists there, created by a guy who used a 3D printer. And I’m going to propose that you do, indeed, continue with your best efforts to connect with Carol, and make sure she passes all this information directly to the detective in Dyfed-Powys who’s leading the murder enquiry. I really believe that all the information we’ve gathered could give them some very good leads, and it’s our professional responsibility to pass on that information.’
‘Aye,’ said Mavis, ‘I’ll do that. Now go on with you and find out what you can about the printing stuff and if it’s all connected to our poor wee Annie.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Having made some hurried, revised arrangements with Alexander, Christine finally arrived at the address of the art gallery in Hoxton Square he had given her on the telephone. She managed to find a place to park her vehicle, then ran to the stark building, which was hosting an evening exhibit. Alexander was at the door to greet her – how did he always manage to get everywhere first? – and escorted her into the large, open space which was thronged with people, all trying to out-enthuse each other about the works on display.
‘The chap at the door told me who to look out for,’ said Alexander loudly. The chatter from the attendees was bouncing off the high ceiling and making it difficult to hear. Christine nodded and clung to his arm as they navigated their way between knots of people congregated around great big mounds of what seemed, to Christine at least, to be grubby, misshapen, plastic rubbish.
Tapping a short, bald man, who was dressed entirely in black, on the shoulder, Alexander bent to his ear. The man nodded, then motioned that the pair should follow him. They exited the building through a glass door that led to a small balcony. Christine was relieved to get away from the noise, the bright lights and the smell. She suspected that the aroma of the pieces was supposed to be a part of their artistic integrity but, to her mind, it was just the reek of a dustbin.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Bright?’ asked the man politely.
‘I understand it was you who created the 3D sculptures of the face of an artist who had an exhibit here last weekend, is that correct?’
The man nodded. ‘Indeed it is. I am retained by the gallery to create such pieces for each artist who exhibits here, though this week’s creative genius declined my offer. His loss. What of it? Did you want to make a purchase of one of those pieces? Or maybe you’d like to commission a portrait?’ His light tenor was pleasant enough, but Christine felt it held a hint of mockery.
Alexander shook his head. ‘Sorry, no sale. My tastes run to more traditional works. But I think you might be able to help us out. I noticed that, while several of the masks were made of plain-colored material, one had been painted to look very lifelike. Who did that work for you? Or did you do it yourself?’
The man smiled and extended his hand. ‘Luke Hall, portraitist, at your service. I find few people want what I used to offer, which was a traditional, fine arts approach to portraiture, so I branched out. Making those masks with the 3D printers requires technical skills, not artistry. It’s the finishing that makes them special and I cannot resist the temptation to do my thing with at least one piece. I trust you liked it?’
Alexander nodded. ‘It was excellent work. Have you ever done anything else like it? I mean, you know, make another printed piece look as though it’s real?’
Christine noticed that the artist’s expression became more guarded. ‘I have done a few other
things, yes. Why do you ask?’
Alexander sighed. ‘It’s a long story. Tell me, would some of those items have been a collection of dentures? Waterloo Teeth, to be exact.’
The artist beamed. ‘They were disgusting – but such fun to do. I did those, oh, it must have been back in June, I think. Have you seen them on display somewhere? I hope the owner liked them.’
Christine was confused. ‘You made the models months ago?’ she asked urgently.
‘Ah, no,’ replied the artist, looking indulgent. ‘I didn’t make those models. They were brought to me as pre-printed items, already finished models, by the owner of the originals. A Mr Saxby, I believe. I don’t know who had created them, but they certainly had a great deal of skill when it came to the finer finishing, and carving, of the teeth themselves. Very intricate work. All I did was the paint job. The chap had photos so I could color match.’
‘June,’ mused Alexander.
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure it was June because we had two exhibits each installed for a fortnight here that month, so I had a bit of extra time.’ Luke Hall looked both convinced and convincing.
‘And nothing else?’ asked Alexander.
The artist gave the matter some thought. ‘As I said, I do special commissions, and I did have a young man, whose name I cannot recall – rather a rough sort, I thought – come in one day with a bit of a challenge. He had what I thought was a piece of carved ivory, but it turned out to be a 3D printed piece. It was a copy of an old letter opener, heavily worked and beautifully engraved. I’m sure the original would be wonderful. He wanted it to be painted up to look like the real thing, because the real one was beginning to crack. I said I could and I did a little something on it right there and then, so he’d get the idea. But that was it. He didn’t come back, though he did telephone me again just a couple of weeks ago to find out if I had space in my schedule for a bit of work. But he hasn’t booked me, or brought anything in. It can be like that, sometimes. People have what they think is a bright idea, then it goes away and nothing comes of it for me.’
‘Can you explain how 3D printing works?’ asked Christine.
The artist looked annoyed. ‘I really should be inside, trying to sell what I do, you know, not out here nattering to you two.’
‘I’d like to commission a portrait of this young lady,’ said Alexander. ‘The cost is immaterial, but I’d like you to explain the process, from start, to finish, if you please.’
The artist laughingly repeated his earlier actions. ‘Luke Hall, portraitist, at your service,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’re a very determined man, Mr Bright, who is about to spend a couple of thousand pounds on a unique piece of art which will capture your companion’s beauty forever. Congratulations.’ He bowed at the waist and winked. ‘A gentleman’s agreement. Now, to explain the process. Well, it’s terribly simple, and that’s the beauty of the 3D printing thing, really. What you need is to create a 3D image of the object you want to print using a software program that utilizes computer aided design. Now I’m not an expert in that side of things, but there are geeks-for-hire who are. Basically, what you do is take photographic scans of the object. If it were to be your face, you would be sitting, quite still, as a scanner was used to capture every detail of your face. You would need to be well lit. Sometimes the lights can become a little hot for the sitter, so I am afraid it can become a little uncomfortable, but it helps the scanner to get every detail, you see. The digital record is then fed into a printer, which quite literally moves back and forth, spraying very fine layers of your chosen material onto a surface, gradually building the 3D representation of whatever you scanned. I’m sure you noticed that a couple of the masks I had on display were of the whole head of the artist, like a traditionally carved bust, whereas some were more abstract, stretched and manipulated representations of just the face. The computer allows you to play with the digital record if you wish, then print what you want. In your case’ – he regarded Christine with some care – ‘I would suggest a classic pose. A three-hundred-and-sixty-degree bust, from the neck up. It should be lovely. You have excellent bones.’ He beamed.
‘You said that there is a choice of materials?’ urged Alexander.
‘Oh, indeed,’ enthused the artist, ‘and it’s getting better all the time. The way this technology is taking off is quite something. Most of this 3D printing comes to us from industrial applications, origin-ally. They’ve been using it for years to create cheap prototypes, models of components, and the like, so the material was never meant to be used for much more than display purposes. Plastic-looking stuff. But, because all you’re really doing is spraying out material in a pre-determined pattern, you can now spray ceramics, or even metals. It seems as though consumer interest has been piqued, and there is now a push for people to 3D print foodstuffs, purely as a lark, of course – they print out something that looks like an ice-cream cone but it’s made up of a spray of mushed-up bacon, or things like that. It sounds utterly disgusting to me, but people will eat almost anything these days, it seems. The breakthrough will come when they can print with multiple materials all at once. Then they’ll be able to print circuit boards. That’s if they aren’t doing it already. What would I know? I’m just an artist.’ Again he flashed a full grin at Christine, who was finding the small, bald, bespectacled man to be quite alarming, if informative.
‘To be clear,’ said Christine, leaning in, ‘all you need to do is scan an object with a special camera, then print it out with a special printer. Is that correct?’
‘Essentially, yes,’ replied Luke Hall. ‘Though the scanning can take quite some time, the printing usually takes much longer. And the printing machines can be quite large. Yes, the scanners can be small, but the printers, well, they don’t need to be large enough to accommodate the item being printed, because they can float above the material and spray downwards, so some are just a few inches cubed. But I have seen some that are much larger. I don’t get very involved with the scanning, or the printing, just the management of the image before it’s printed, then the finishing of the printed item.’
‘And what does that involve?’ asked Alexander. ‘Does one simply paint the surface and that’s it?’
‘No,’ replied Luke with great animation, his hands and eyes darting with delight, ‘and that’s where the work of the artist comes in. In this case, moi!’ He bowed. Christine smiled politely. ‘I told you that the teeth, the sets of dentures I received, had already been finished by a skilled person. They were already filed and rounded, or a little jagged, where they needed to be. Good work, I must say. Probably done by someone who knew teeth. Well, dentures, in any case. That’s what I do with my portraits. The printers are good, but I still have the chance and the ability to refine the surface, maybe amend the features just a little. I remove imperfections, of course, and then, finally, I color. That is the art of it.’
‘It all sounds fascinating, doesn’t it, dear?’ said Alexander, taking Christine’s arm.
‘Indeed it does,’ replied Christine, determined to not be steered away from a conversation which, for her at least, was not yet finished. ‘I wonder, Luke, do you happen to know Lady Clementine Twyst?’
The artist clapped his hands to his face. ‘Clemmie? Oh, yes, everyone hereabouts knows Clemmie. Do you?’
Christine threw her most coquettish smile toward the man. ‘Oh, yes, indeed I do. I just wondered if she had any connection with the man who you said owned the originals of the dentures. A Mr Saxby, was that it?’ Christine hoped she’d sounded vague enough to allow the question to seem casual.
Luke Hall gave his answer some thought. ‘I don’t believe she does,’ he replied slowly. ‘Clemmie would be one to mention something like that. If you know her at all well you’ll be aware of her love affair with all things alcoholic, and she’s got a very loose tongue when she’s had one, or four, too many. The chap who brought them in wasn’t at all her type. Not the same sort of crowd. Clemmie runs with the art wannabes, not the owners
of collections. Though I realize that’s an ironic statement given that her family owns some significant collections itself, I dare say. I know little about the Twyst family estate but, if the ones I do know are anything to go by, she grew up eating her breakfast beneath portraits I would happily sit and study for months, just because of the way the artist had painted the hair, or the folds in a velvet gown. But I mustn’t grumble. I am fortunate; I have found my niche. And I am good at what I do.’
‘You are indeed. So, when can you do it?’ asked Alexander.
‘Next week some time?’ replied the artist, studying Christine’s face.
‘I’ll take your card and Christine and I will attend the scanning phase together,’ said Alexander calmly.
‘You’re not serious?’ gasped Christine as they left the smiling artist. ‘I thought you were leading him up the garden path so he’d tell us how it all works.’
‘That wouldn’t be being honest, would it?’
Christine scampered to keep up with Alexander as he strode through the crowds toward the exit. Spinning on his heel to look at her, taking Christine by surprise, he shouted above the melee, ‘I want a portrait of you exactly as you are now. I want always to be able to see you as you were when I first met you.’
‘Men!’ said Christine, as Alexander grinned, turned and left.
Outside the gallery, on the wet-again pavement, Alexander stood stock still, looking thoughtful. ‘I don’t think Clemmie’s responsible for this. Like the man said, she drinks and probably more than drinks. She would have mentioned the dentures. Probably boasted about how she’d wangled some sort of heist, seeing it as a game. And she and Saxby are not likely to be mixing in any sort of circles. She’s interested in the strange little creatures who talk about making art, rather than doing it. We just saw them in there. They are caught up with idea of creating art. They are like people who are only interested in kneading and squeezing a tube of oil paint. Some are squeezing just a little, some a bit harder. But all they do is talk about the process, and the feelings it gives them. About what they will create, one day.’