Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  Brendan was answering the phone. He put it down and made agitated gestures. I poked my head out of the office and was told that the ACC was on his way upstairs. ‘And Mr Wood wants you,’ they added as I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

  ‘Tell him I’m out,’ I said.

  ‘Where do we say you are?’

  ‘Um, interviewing a suspect.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, anywhere. Make something up. Use that vivid imagination of yours.’

  I dived down the back stairs and was in my car heading out of town before the lift deposited the ACC on the top floor for his case review meeting.

  I saw him in the street before I reached his house, strolling along with two Morrison’s carrier bags dangling from his hands. I parked nearby and sat on the doorstep, waiting for him. The sun was shining again and his little overgrown garden was alive with bees and hover flies. It was a shame to spoil his day, but it’s what I do.

  He juggled with the bags as he let himself into the garden, carefully reset the gate latch and turned to face me. As he saw me sitting there a look of confusion, or perhaps fear, spread across his face.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Mackintosh,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘I wonder if I could have a word?’

  He put on his old man act, fumbling for his keys, pretending he didn’t remember me, but I suggested that we could talk at the police station, if he’d prefer it, and eventually found myself in his familiar front room. He didn’t ask me if I’d like a drink.

  ‘Tell me about conceptual art,’ I said, sitting down without being invited to.

  He thought about it, then switched into lecturer mode. ‘Conceptual art,’ he began, ‘is a style of art that challenges the viewer, or participant, to look beyond the physical appearance of the work to the idea that created it. The movement began in the 1920s in a very small way, but blossomed into an accepted art form in the Sixties. It faded but was revived in the Eighties thanks to schools like Leeds.’

  I interrupted him. ‘I was thinking more about its investment possibilities,’ I said. ‘Was it a good investment?’

  Sunlight coming through the bay window was lighting the side of his face and I could see the edge of the scarring on his neck. He jumped up and pulled a curtain across a few inches to make some shadow.

  ‘As an investment,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Well,’ he began, ‘these things are subject to the whims of fashion, as you know. Tastes change. What is popular today, regarded as the height of good taste, may be considered hackneyed and over-exposed after a while. In the art world we often destroy that which we hold most precious.’

  I said: ‘I don’t think the conceptual art movement collapsed through over-exposure, do you?’

  He gave a brief smile. ‘You know what they say, Inspector: your investments can go down as well as up.’

  ‘And past performance is no guarantee of future performance.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did you explain that point to Magdalena Fischer?’

  His demeanour changed. He shrank into himself and began tapping the arm of his chair with a talon-like hand. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

  I spelt it out for him. ‘When you invested Magdalena’s money. Did you explain that it was a gamble, that the value could go down as well as up?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do. I think you invested Magdalena’s money in so-called works of art that were inflated in price far beyond their worth. We have ways of checking these things, you know. There are records. The banks, the Inland Revenue, auction houses. If you’ve anything to hide you’d better come out with it, because believe me, we’ll find out in the next day or two.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he protested.

  ‘So tell me what it was like.’

  He gathered his senses for another lecture. ‘They were exciting times,’ he began, ‘and we were at the forefront of things. The art world was beating a path to our door. If anything, we were victims of our own success, because everybody started jumping on the bandwagon. We had some great talent at the college, at the leading edge of the movement, but you’re only as good as the critics allow you to be, and it’s a London-centric world, the art world.’

  ‘And some of them thought it was a case of the emperor having no clothes on,’ I suggested.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘How much did you invest for her?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘She’d’ve had about £300,000.’

  ‘It was nowhere near that much.’

  ‘How many pieces did you buy for her?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Who set the prices?’

  He was on firmer ground with that one. ‘They were bought at auction. It was all very proper. Thorneycrofts, I believe.’

  ‘Auctions are easily rigged,’ I said, and he sank in again, up to his knees. I opened my notebook at a blank page. ‘Let’s say you bought three works,’ I continued. ‘That’s 100K each.’

  ‘It was nothing like that,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Let me finish. You gave, say £5,000 to the artist. He hasn’t eaten for a week and is glad of anything you throw his way. You have somebody bidding against you to take the price up to £100,000, which gives the auction house commission of 10K, leaving £85,000 to you. Three times. A nice little earner, as they say. Next day it’s in the papers that Kevin Verruca’s collage of stale loaves and hubcaps has gone for a record amount and all the collectors and talentless wanabees clap their hands.’

  ‘It wasn’t that much,’ he said.

  ‘I think it was. I think you cleaned her out. What happened to them?’

  ‘The pieces? They went on show at the Lichfield gallery in London, then came back to Leeds for an exhibition at the Schofield gallery. After that they went into storage. The reviews weren’t good; tastes had changed.’

  ‘So where are they now?’

  ‘I don’t know. They were in a lock-up, but the damp got in. Then the lease ran out.’

  ‘So they were scrapped?’

  ‘Yes, very probably, but by then I’d lost touch with Magda.’

  He shook his head as if to clear his brain, tapped his fingers, stroked the scar on his neck. ‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did I ought to have a solicitor present?’

  ‘Probably. Do you want one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did you last see Magdalena?’

  That shook him, but he recovered quickly. ‘I told you before. It was probably about ten years ago.’

  ‘On the night she died, August 6–7, she was seen barely fifty yards away, heading this way. Are you saying she didn’t call to see you?’

  ‘Well, no, she didn’t call here.’

  ‘How many times did she telephone you in the last twelve months?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And how many did you ring her?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So you deny telephoning her at Beverley and leaving a message on her answerphone, telling her you wanted to see her because you had something for her? I have the tape, if you’d like to hear it. We’re currently checking with the phone company to verify the times of your calls.’

  ‘I…I…’ he stuttered. ‘I…don’t know. She rang me, yes she did. She was a nuisance. It wasn’t about money. She was unhappy, wanted to see me again, get her away from that jailbird she married.’

  ‘So what did you have for her?’

  He looked confused. ‘I did have some money for her, but it was my own. I wanted to help her, wanted her to stop pestering me.’

  ‘So did you give it to her?’

  ‘No. She never arrived.’

  I stared at him for a good minute, then said: ‘I don’t believe you.’

  He said: ‘I think I’d like to see a solicitor, now.’

  ‘That might not be wise,’ I told him.

  ‘Why not?’


  ‘I’m looking for the person who murdered Magdalena,’ I explained. ‘Do you remember her daughter, Angela?’

  ‘No, well, yes. Vaguely.’

  ‘She remembers you quite vividly. Says you raped her. Is your name Julian?’

  It nearly choked him, but he admitted it was.

  ‘She gave a good description of you.’ I scratched my neck to illustrate my point. ‘Like I said, I’m investigating a murder. Angela assumes you’re dead, isn’t looking for you. She’s moved on, but I could easily talk her into pressing charges. Sometimes, murder is almost excusable, there can be mitigating circumstances, but raping a child…’

  I let it hang there and watched the cogs going round as he did the maths. ‘It…wasn’t rape,’ he said.

  ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘It was with her consent. She was fourteen years old, and a proper little hussy. Her nickname at school was Winmau.’

  ‘Winmau?’ I echoed.

  ‘They manufacture dartboards. It was a rather crude comparison.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘She had a shower, came downstairs with just a towel round her, looking for something or other, she said. Her hairbrush, something like that. She didn’t complain or tell her mother. It wasn’t rape.’

  ‘She was eleven or twelve,’ I said, ‘not fourteen, and destroying a child’s character is not a good way to influence a jury. You’re going to jail, Mackintosh, either for rape or for murder – the choice is yours. I’m told child abusers have a tough time in prison. Let’s talk about Magdalena. She did call here, didn’t she?’

  He didn’t answer, just looked down at the floor.

  ‘We’ll be swarming over this place and your car like ants over a jam pot. If she’s ever shed a drop of blood in here, or been in your car boot, believe me, we’ll have you. Are you following me?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So how much were you prepared to give her?’

  ‘A couple of thousand pounds.’

  ‘That’s not much.’

  ‘That’s what she said, but it’s all I had. I didn’t owe her a thing. I wanted her to have it for…for…’

  ‘For old times’ sake?’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was a big woman. Bigger than me. She grabbed me by the shirt and started shaking me. And threatening. She said her boyfriend once poured petrol over a girl and threatened to set her alight. He’d do the same to me if I didn’t find some more money. I panicked. When I was young…’ His hand came up and rubbed the scars on his neck. ‘We were playing with petrol in a den we’d made. I was in hospital for three months. When she said he’d do that it all came back to me. The pain, the scars and the other school kids laughing at me. I threw her off and grabbed that statue on the mantelpiece. The fertility god. I hit her with it and she fell down. She was dead.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘I dragged her out of the back door and put her in the car boot. I just drove. Didn’t know where I was going. When I realised I was near Shibden Park I took her in there and dumped her.’

  It was good enough for me. We had him cold, and as soon as it was all down on paper we’d ask him to explain how Magda’s body had over fifty separate wounds on it. He’d gone berserk with her, beaten her to a pulp. The blow with the fertility god may have been the fatal one, but he’d worked her over, well and truly.

  ‘I’m taking you to the local nick,’ I said. ‘Is there anything here you need to do before we go?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Get your coat, then.’

  ‘Um, can I go to the toilet first?’

  ‘No, but we’ll only be five minutes. Where are your door keys?’

  I handcuffed him and sat him in the front seat of the car. Standing outside it I rang Gilbert. ‘It’s Charlie,’ I said. ‘I understand you’ve been after me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘And she believed you?’ Dave said, incredulous, when I was back at Heckley and had placated Mr Wood. They’d all been wondering how I’d managed to inveigle my way into Heckley’s hedonist set and win the attention of a young woman like Teri, the inference being that she was too good-looking for me.

  ‘Of course she did. I’m a very plausible person.’

  ‘That you were called…what was it…Torl Storey?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She must be as dumb as a boat horse.’

  ‘Actually, she’s quite bright.’

  ‘So whose was the Jaguar?’ Brendan asked.

  ‘I borrowed it from the asset recovery boys. They’d confiscated it from a drugs dealer a fortnight before. I used their offices, too, but only the boss knew about that. He stayed over to let me in with Teri one evening, pretended to be the caretaker.’

  ‘A DCI working as a caretaker! He’d be out of his depth, there.’

  ‘So what’s happening with the others?’ I asked. ‘Are they singing?’

  ‘Like a choir of angels,’ Dave said.

  ‘With four-part harmonies,’ Brendan added.

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Anyone fancy a curry? I’m famished.’

  Once we had them charged we could take samples and set the forensic boys and girls loose. Richard’s prints were on the glass and coffee mug that Miss Birchall supplied and traces of Teri’s DNA were found in the cars of both Colin Swainby and poor old Ted Goss. I’d destroyed the CD that Zed Boogey found by drawing a ball pen across it, after carefully checking it for prints and finding it clean. It didn’t matter: the tape from Boogey’s CCTV showed Teri going into his house and leaving about four hours later, with some blank tape in between. It was a guess that she’d disabled the alarm whilst in there and they’d spent some time uploading the images, but when I accused them of going in they’d taken the bait.

  Gillian Birchall was banned from driving for three months, with a £200 fine. The normal ban is twelve months, so she was lucky. We’re hoping for decent jail sentences for the Famous Four, as Dave calls them, but they can afford good briefs and we’re not holding our breath. A search of their houses revealed two CDs of paedophilic images at the Wentbridges’ Flour Mill, labelled as if they were holiday snaps, and some more on his hard disk, but Tristan Foyle was too canny to keep anything like that. Unfortunately for him, Wentbridge has fingered him for downloading it originally and masterminding the whole game. They’ll almost certainly have to sign the sex offenders’ register, and the Gazette has their photos on file, which is about as much as we could hurt them. Traces of cocaine were found at both houses, but only enough to be regarded as for personal use.

  The Foyles split up shortly after they were released on bail. She’s moved in with a nightclub owner who owns the major share in the boat they have at Cannes. It’s called Amelia Rose, after one of his daughters. Tristan has been converting some of his investments to cash, and we’ve learnt that he’s been making overtures to old friends in South Africa, but we have him covered. If he tries to flee the country his feet won’t touch the ground.

  The Wentbridges are still together, at least as far as the outside world can see. His riverside apartments have been described in the press as their love-nest, and this has generated some much-needed interest in the unsold units. As my mother would have said: ‘It’s an ill wind…’

  JKL Mackintosh made a full confession to killing Magdalena, making it sound as if she’d attacked him and he’d acted in self defence while in a state of panic. I’ve a funny feeling that the nasty old sod is going to get away with a suspended sentence and a severe telling off. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother. We even informed Teri that he was still alive so she could consider rape charges against him but she rejected the idea. She was probably advised that her own character might not stand up to severe scrutiny.

  As always, the paperwork nearly swamped us. We daren’t throw anything away because it might be needed at the trials, but haven’t room to store everythi
ng. We’d solved two cases, but right now, right here and now, two more cases are trundling around the carousel of life, with my name, Charlie Priest, written on them.

  I unpinned the drawing of Magdalena from the incident room wall and laid it on the table. This was the original, unexpurgated version, drawn all those years ago. I wondered about putting a dress on her but decided not to. What the heck, I thought, we’re all grown-ups, and he might appreciate a picture of her in all her raging glory. It wasn’t signed, and I hesitated. After a few seconds I scrawled Torl across the corner. He’d been a good friend, we’d had some fun, so it was fitting to commemorate him.

  I rolled up the drawing and slid it into a cardboard tube that I’d already addressed to Len Atkins. I kissed it and dropped it into the out basket.

  ‘S’long, girl,’ I said. ‘I hope we’ve done you justice.’

  There were two message notes on my desk when I went back upstairs. The first one said: ‘Ring Miss Rhodes, Bentley prison,’ and the second: ‘A Gillian Birchall wants you to give her a call. She says you have her number.’

  Flipping typical, I thought. You spend half a lifetime looking for a good woman and then two come along together. I turned the two messages face down, shuffled them and laid them side by side on my desk. I placed an index finger on the left-hand one and started to recite: ‘Eenie…meenie… minie…mo…’

  ‘…the wheelings and dealings of the art world made the price-fixing of the big-business cartels seem like the trading kids did for bubblegum cards…even minor artists could be manoeuvred into positions of status and wealth by powerful dealers and critics.’

  Ed McBain, Heat

  If you enjoyed Grief Encounters, read on to find out about the other books in the Charlie Priest series …

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  The Picasso Scam

  Detective Inspector Charlie Priest believes in doing things by the book. It’s just that, in the heat of the chase, he sometimes turns over two pages at once. His unorthodox ways have held him at inspector level for a record-breaking length of time; however DI Priest does get results. When Charlie suspects a now-respected businessman, with a background of extortion and GBH, of involvement in international art fraud, he’s taking on an enemy with friends in high places. But Charlie can be persistent to the point of recklessness – and, once he’s realised that there’s a link to the lethal doctored heroin that’s striking down the local kids, no threat will stop him …