‘So they could have been sold in the last week?’
‘I can check if you tell me the subject or the artist you’re looking for,’ Victoria offered. Though what good it would do, she couldn’t imagine.
‘I can’t remember exactly, though I’d recognize the names if I heard them. Could you look up those that were sold and who bought them?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Victoria said smoothly, ‘we don’t pass on customer details. But if it’s local work you’re interested in you should come to one of our exhibitions, where you’d have much more choice. We hold two a year and they’re advertised in the local press. In the meantime, if you’d like to leave your name and address and the name of any artist you particularly like, we’d be happy to contact you when we have some of their work.’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, it doesn’t matter; it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing as I was passing.’ And she turned and walked quickly out of the shop.
‘Well!’ Nigel said, emerging from behind the counter. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Prices higher than expected?’ Victoria suggested.
He shook his head. ‘It went further than that; she seemed more interested in who’d bought paintings than in the paintings themselves.’
‘Wanting to keep up with the Joneses, perhaps. Well, win some, lose some. I doubt if we’ll see her again.’ And she turned to greet a new customer.
Blaircomrie
Beth had just returned from work when the doorbell rang and she was surprised to find the two detectives on the step.
‘Good evening, Mrs Monroe,’ DS Grant said genially. ‘Sorry to bother you, but may we have a word?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She moved aside to let them in. ‘Have you found out who killed him?’
He didn’t reply immediately so, since Mr Barnes wouldn’t be back for another hour, she showed them into the front room. ‘Sit down,’ she invited, and as they gingerly did so, she seated herself on one of the dining chairs.
Grant leant forward, his hands between his knees. ‘To answer your question, ma’am, no, we haven’t found the perpetrator, but unfortunately we’ve been experiencing some problems.’
‘Oh?’
‘To recap, you identified the deceased as Johnnie Stewart?’
Beth looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Had you any proof that was his name? A driving licence, for instance?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Why?’
‘You see, ma’am, our difficulty is that we’ve been unable to trace him.’
Beth looked at him blankly. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘We started by searching missing persons records but drew a blank. Then as the search progressed it emerged that there’s no John Stewart fitting his particulars on the electoral roll or any of the civil registers, so no birth or marriage certificate on file. He doesn’t appear in medical or employment records, nor those relating to national insurance, rent, mortgage or tax. Nor does he appear to have had either a driving licence or a bank account.’ He sat back, looking at her expectantly. ‘Which is where we’re hoping you can help us: firstly, did he own a car?’
She frowned, trying to process the information with which she’d been bombarded. ‘Not as far as I know,’ she said after a moment. ‘I don’t offer garaging and the only one that’s ever been parked at the gate belongs to Mr Barnes.’
Odd how that had never struck her when they were out together; but then they’d never ventured far afield and it had seemed natural to walk. Grant was leaning forward again, his eyes intent on her face.
‘So now we come to the crux of the matter: tell me, Mrs Monroe, how did he pay for his lodgings?’
She met his eyes almost defiantly. ‘In cash,’ she said.
Grant stared at her disbelievingly. ‘He paid weekly?’
‘No, monthly in advance.’
‘That must have been a considerable amount; didn’t you think it strange?’
‘Not really. I simply banked it as I would a cheque.’ She paused, moistening her lips. ‘Are you saying he was some kind of criminal?’
‘Not necessarily; the national police, fingerprint and DNA databases were also searched without success and he’s not served a prison sentence. Quite frankly, Mrs Monroe, we’ve drawn a total blank. To all intents and purposes, Johnnie Stewart simply didn’t exist.’
Beth stared at him, suddenly frightened. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said again.
‘Nor do we, ma’am.’
‘But – I mean, that’s ridiculous. Of course he existed!’
‘Tell us again everything you know about him.’
Her eyes filled with sudden tears and she slammed down her hand. ‘Nothing!’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It seems I know absolutely nothing about him!’
‘Did he never speak of his family, or where he used to live?’
She tried to force her mind back. ‘When he first arrived he told me he was born in Dorset—’
‘So he wasn’t Scottish?’ Grant interrupted.
‘No; his mother was Australian and he grew up there.’
Grant cast his eyes at the ceiling. ‘So he had an Aussie accent?’
‘No, just … English.’
‘Regional?’
She shook her head and continued, ‘He returned to the UK to go to university—’
‘Which one?’ he broke in eagerly. Then, seeing her face, ‘Don’t tell me – he didn’t say.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t know where he worked? He must at least have mentioned what line he was in?’
Again she shook her head, fumbling for a handkerchief.
Grant thought for a minute. ‘You said before that he worked on Saturdays, which would rule out most office work. Could it have been manual, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know, I tell you! Please don’t keep asking me!’
The two policemen exchanged a resigned look and rose to their feet.
‘We should also warn you,’ Grant said, moving towards the door, ‘that from tomorrow an artist’s impression – what is known as an e-fit – will be shown on TV and in the press asking for information. Damn it, someone must know who he was!’
Beth saw them out in silence, closed the front door and collapsed against it as a storm of trembling seized her. After a minute she drew a deep breath, brushed her hand across her eyes and went to phone Moira.
‘What do you make of him paying his rent in cash, Sarge?’ Coombes asked as they walked down the path.
‘Same reason as she had to verify his signature before he’d actually signed, Jamie. Didn’t want her to know his real name.’
Foxclere
Owen Jackson, a one-time business associate of Edward’s, slid on to the stool beside him in the golf club bar, and, having ordered a drink, surprised him by asking, ‘Am I right in assuming that was Gregory Lawrence’s widow you introduced me to at the concert?’
Edward raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s never mentioned his name, but it’s possible.’
‘He was blown to smithereens in Egypt last year.’
‘Ah. That was something she did mention.’ He glanced at Owen curiously. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Not well, but I came across him now and again – the last time, actually, in Cairo shortly before his death.’
‘What was he like?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Good company, amusing, always on the qui vive and usually had a good-looking woman with him. Couldn’t help liking him, but that’s not to say I’d have trusted him too far.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Just a gut feeling. He was something of a jack of all trades – in a different job every time we ran into each other, none of them top of the range. I had the impression he was operating well below his potential. Not that he was ever short of the odd buck, mind you. Family money, I suppose.’ Owen drained his glass. ‘I’d never met his wife, though. Attractive woman.’
‘She’s teach
ing me the piano,’ Edward said, and Owen laughed.
‘Sure!’
Before he could reaffirm the position they were joined by a couple of friends and the conversation dropped, but thinking it over later, Edward resolved to reinstate it when he got the chance. He was interested in finding out more about Gregory Lawrence.
Blaircomrie
Beth gazed at the drawing of Johnnie until the pixels separated into dots and danced in front of her eyes. Somehow, seeing it in black and white provided the final confirmation of his death, eliminating even the faintest possibility of his walking through the door, laughing at all the fuss.
He’d done a good job, the police artist. Only the eyes weren’t quite right, no doubt because, she remembered with a shudder, they’d have been closed when he did the sketch. The clock in the hall chimed the half-hour and she recollected herself with a start. If she wasn’t careful she’d be late for work.
Leaving the paper on the kitchen table, she hurried out of the house.
London
Paul Devonshire sat on the tube, numb with shock and oblivious to the noise around him, the strap-hangers who swayed into him, the rattling, shaking motion of the train. Someone, somewhere, was guilty of the most enormous cock-up, because he was ready to swear that the drawing in the paper in front of him was of Greg Lawrence. God dammit, he’d known the man almost from boyhood.
But how the hell could it be? Greg had been killed in Egypt almost a year ago. Had there been a misunderstanding of some kind? Had he got hold of the wrong end of the stick? But no, Viv had referred to his death, said it was Laura who’d told her – he couldn’t have imagined it. With an effort, he dragged his eyes from the sketch to reread the paragraph beneath it, only the odd word penetrating his understanding. Known locally as Johnnie Stewart. Where the hell was ‘locally’? He forced himself to concentrate. Somewhere in Scotland, apparently.
Obviously it couldn’t be Greg, but they say everyone has a doppelgänger … He stood up as the train drew into his station, and it was minutes later as he was jammed on the escalator, a conveyer belt packed with commuters, that another thunderclap struck him. The Jake Farthing column! Had Johnnie Whatshisname been responsible for that too, or was that stretching coincidence just too far?
Foxclere
‘Georgia?’
‘Richard! This is a surprise! It’s usually Victoria who phones! How are you?’
‘It’s not a social call. Have you seen this morning’s paper?’
‘No, I’m just back from the school run. Why? Has World War Three broken out?’
‘The equivalent. Have you got it to hand?’
‘Yes, it’s here on the table.’
‘Then turn to page two.’
‘You are being mysterious!’ He imagined her tucking the phone under her chin and picking up the paper. ‘Why don’t you just tell me—’ She broke off with a little gasp, and he waited, knowing she’d found the requisite page. ‘My God, Rich, he looks just like Dad!’ She ran her eyes rapidly down the print. ‘”Johnnie Stewart”. What does it mean, “known locally as” – that it’s not his real name?’
‘I don’t know what the hell it means. Where’s Mother?’
‘Downstairs, I presume. Her first pupil must be almost due. But she won’t have seen this; she saves the paper till lunchtime.’
‘Thank God for that. Can you get to her before one of her friends rings to remark on the resemblance?’
‘And say what?’
‘Use your initiative.’
‘But it obviously can’t be Dad.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the school car park but I must go in; it’s almost time for assembly. It’s just that it’ll be a shock for her, that’s all, and it’s best if you’re with her when she sees it.’
‘Very well,’ Georgia said, her mouth dry.
Jill, answering the tap on the inner door, looked at her daughter in surprise.
‘Can I come in for a minute, Mum?’
‘Oh darling, this isn’t a good time; Edward’s due any minute. In fact, I thought—’
‘Please. It’s important.’
Jill sighed. ‘Very well, but it’ll have to be quick.’
She stood aside and Georgia went past her into the rear hall while her mother waited impatiently, her hand still on the door knob as though ready to open it again and usher her outside.
Georgia said gently, ‘Come and sit down for a minute.’
‘Georgia, I—’
Georgia took her arm and led her firmly into the sitting room. ‘I have something to show you. It’s nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid you’ll find it upsetting.’ And she pushed her gently into an armchair.
Jill’s impatience gave way to alarm. ‘Whatever is it? What’s happened?’
Silently her daughter handed her the newspaper, folded to display the sketch of the dead man. Jill stared at it in total silence, the colour draining from her face.
‘Obviously it isn’t Dad,’ Georgia said quickly, ‘but it certainly looks like him. Did he have a brother? I don’t remember him speaking of one, but—’
The clarion of the doorbell interrupted her and they both jumped. Before Jill could get to her feet Georgia hurried out to the main hall and opened the front door. The man on the step, preparing to enter, paused on seeing her. Georgia said rapidly, ‘I’m so sorry but my mother has just had a shock. Would you mind postponing—’
‘It’s all right, Edward, please come in,’ Jill said from behind her. ‘This is Edward French, Georgia. My daughter, Edward.’
They nodded uneasily at each other, then Georgia turned to her mother. ‘Mum, you really should—’
‘I’m perfectly all right, darling, as you see. We’ll speak later.’
And Georgia, dismissed, had no option but to return upstairs. Edward watched her go.
‘Look, Jill, if you’re not—’
‘Come through, Edward. I’ve a new piece for you to try.’
Since she was obviously not prepared to discuss what had happened, he followed her down the hall. It was the first time they’d met since the concert and he’d been wondering if the evening spent together would affect the atmosphere between them. It seemed not; whether it was the shock her daughter had referred to or just a natural return to their pupil–teacher relationship, it was clear that it was to be very much business as usual. Edward was uncertain whether he was disappointed or relieved.
SEVEN
Foxclere
Jill was thankful that Edward’s difficulties in playing the new piece took all her concentration, blotting out the memory of the folded newspaper in the sitting room. She’d written to thank him for the concert and felt no need to mention it again, for which, unsure of her self-control, she was also grateful. A strictly formal atmosphere was as much as she could handle.
When, at the end of the lesson, she had seen him out, she returned to the sitting room and, with shaking fingers, retrieved the paper. The face that looked back at her, while being, as Georgia had said, uncannily like Greg, was after all only a drawing; any resemblance must therefore be purely fortuitous. Her eyes moved to the paragraph below it.
Blaircomrie police are anxious for any information about the man shown in the above e-fit, whose body was found near the Stag and Thistle public house in the early hours of Friday 6 June. In particular, they would like to hear from anyone who might have seen him the previous evening, Thursday 5 June. Known locally as Johnnie Stewart, he is described as being in his fifties, of stocky build and with dark, greying hair. Police stress that any information will be treated in the strictest confidence. They can be contacted …
She dropped the paper back on chair and walked to the window, her arms hugging her chest as she gazed unseeingly at the sunlit garden. Hopefully someone would recognize a missing husband or father and come forward to claim him, putting an end to possibly months of worry. The fact that he’d been killed over two weeks ago and was still u
nidentified pointed to a longer absence than popping out for cigarettes and never coming home. And, curiously, he seemed to have been in the area long enough to become known, even if presumably not by his real name.
She turned away, glancing at her watch. She had half an hour until her next lesson; time for a cup of coffee. Georgia would be at Plants R Us until lunchtime, collecting Millie from play school on her way home. Until then she must marshal her whirling thoughts as best she could.
‘Who could he possibly be, to look so like Dad?’ Jill’s voice was shaking.
‘It’s just one of those weird flukes, Mum,’ Georgia said reassuringly. ‘In the flesh the resemblance wouldn’t be nearly as strong. I’m sorry I showed it to you now, but Richard wanted to be sure you had someone with you when you saw it.’
‘That was thoughtful of him.’
Georgia handed her a glass of sherry but Jill hesitated. ‘I don’t usually drink at lunchtime,’ she demurred.
‘Medicinal purposes,’ Georgia said firmly.
‘Dutch courage, more like.’
Georgia raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it needed?’
‘I’m going out this evening – a fortieth anniversary party – and no doubt everyone will have seen the paper.’
‘Did they know Dad? After all, he wasn’t around that much.’
‘Some of them certainly did.’
‘Well, play it by ear. Don’t bring it up, but if they mention it, just agree it looks quite like him. Now, you are staying for lunch, aren’t you?’
And Jill, grateful for her daughter’s common sense, accepted her invitation.
With Greg so often working away from home, Jill had become used to being the odd one out at dinner parties even while he was alive, and had long since overcome any feelings of awkwardness. She had a wide circle of friends and was comfortable in her singleness, whether as wife or widow.
This evening, however, was different, and despite Georgia’s advice she felt apprehensive. The sketch in the paper had unsettled her, bringing her husband very much to mind, and as she prepared for the party she felt unaccountably close to tears.
A Tangled Thread Page 8