CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The court-appointed psychiatrist, Blair Hammond, answered Le Claire’s call straightaway. “Yes, I recall the Chapman case, and I remember you. I thought it was closed.”
“It is. The case got thrown out. I have a specific question for you. Chapman telephoned my house and spoke to my wife before she passed him to me. He told my wife he was an old friend from the Met.”
“Ah, that’s not good. Bringing it to your door and into your home. You know I can’t tell you anything about a private conversation I had with him, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s clear. But all I need is a steer, for you to let me know if I’m on the wrong track. Is it possible that Chapman has a grudge against me?
A long pause was followed by a heavy sigh. “I can say this, at least. Chapman repeatedly referred to you, and not in complimentary terms.”
“Would that be unusual? Is he fixated on me?”
“Frankly—and off the record? He detests you. Let’s say he’s guilty—that way it all makes sense. You stopped his fun. He didn’t see it through. That girl had weeks left to be tortured by him before he killed her. He failed, and I think he blames you. The guy creeped me out, and I’ve heard it all before.”
“Is he dangerous to me, to my family?”
“I can’t answer that. But he must be in control. You took that control away from him. It may be enough for him that he sows a seed of fear by infiltrating your personal life. The simple fact that you’re thinking about him, worrying and trying to protect your family means he has exercised control over your actions and emotions.”
“But he doesn’t know what I’m doing.”
“I can’t comment on what he is up to, only that I am not surprised he reached out to you.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Be careful.”
The words stayed with him as he hung up. He would not let Chapman foul his life, but a treacherous whisper sneaked through his mind; he couldn’t control Chapman’s actions, but it seemed Chapman was controlling his.
◆◆◆
Le Claire’s personal phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered. “Gareth, what’s up?”
“Have you spoken to the psychiatrist yet?” he said abruptly.
“Yes, why?”
“Did you say anything about keeping tabs on Chapman? Or anything that would land us in crap?”
“No, why? What is this about?”
“I had a call from my boss this morning. The psychiatrist, straight-up chap that he is, logged in the internal system that you requested to speak with him on Chapman. This was approved but set off a damn alert to the original investigating force, in this case, the Met. This was picked up by my boss’s office this morning. He asked if I knew about this. I denied any knowledge. Bloody technology. Big Brother is everywhere.”
“I didn’t say anything to tie you or Penny into this.”
“Thanks, that’s a relief. Look, Jack, you probably don’t want to hear this, but I have to speak.”
This wasn’t going to be good. “Go ahead.”
“You have to let this go. Get rid of any paperwork you have on him, especially anything you took with you when you left here. You’re the one stalking him.”
“What? The man’s a rapist and a murderer. He’s a sadistic bastard for what he did.”
“But the law says he isn’t.”
The air chilled. “What do you mean?”
“The law says you beat a confession out of him, and that’s why they let him go. We only catch them, it’s up to the legal system to find them guilty and put them away. He isn’t anything to do with us anymore, not unless he commits another crime.”
“Someone else has to die before Chapman becomes a problem again?”
“You know that’s how it is. Take it easy and let it go. It’ll go bad for you if this obsession comes out.”
He had to finish this before he said something he might regret. “Thanks, Gareth. I get what you’re saying. Catch you later.”
He was on his own.
◆◆◆
Angela Laine bent close to the canvas in front of her. Le Claire watched from the open doorway as she applied thick streaks of paint with a palette knife. Within moments, the seemingly abstract splashes of colour took on form and shape as a woman’s face was slowly revealed. He almost didn’t want to break her concentration, but he had a job to do. “Miss Laine, I’m sorry to bother you.”
She jumped at his voice, then, with a broad smile, placed a fluttering hand across her chest “Oh, I’m sorry. You gave me such a fright.”
“Apologies, but we need to have a word with you.”
She discarded the palette knife, rose and rubbed her hands on a paint-stained cloth. “What can I help you with?”
“We’re trying to make sense of the fake artwork that was in the Englebrook collection. An original Picasso is missing.”
“I thought the suggestion was that Kurt had sold a fake and kept the original.”
“We’ve had the paintings analysed, and they are both fakes, which means the original is missing. We’re looking for a forger, and you’re an artist and gallery owner with money problems. We’re interested in having a look around your studio. We’d like to see the materials you use.”
She stared, then laughed, a throaty, sexy sound. “Oh goodness, you think I’m a forger. You are way off the mark. Feel free to have a look.” She waved a hand around the room. “Help yourself.” There was a bubble of mockery underlying her tone.
Dewar moved to the cluttered shelves that covered one entire wall, where pots and tubes of paints jostled for space with tubs of paintbrushes. She was looking for something that resembled the Ripolin paint tin.
Le Claire said, “I know you’ve had money problems with the gallery. You admitted that yourself. Did the loan from Kurt resolve the issue?
“For the time being. There’s little money in art unless you’re at the top level, either buying or selling. I make a commission on the paintings I sell here, but they’re often only selling for £200 or so, and I get fifteen per cent, so I won’t be retiring anytime soon at this rate. The exhibitions are expensive to organise, and we often have open competitions where we fly in judges from London. The costs add up.”
She glanced at Dewar, who was moving pots of paint to the side so she could see those behind. “Can you be careful, please? Some of those paints are extremely expensive.”
The sharp tone didn’t even stop Dewar in her tracks as she simply carried on.
Le Claire said, “The art classes you run teach people all about the creative process behind the Old Masters. Do you look at the work of other artists? Say, Picasso?”
“Perhaps.”
“Isn’t what you teach leaning towards the fraudulent? It could be a school for forgers.”
The laugh came right from her belly, without any of her usual guile. “Have you seen who attends those classes? And their level of skill? Even Eva, who adores art, wouldn’t get £5 for anything she produces. And I’m not teaching people how to replicate artists; it’s helping them understand the techniques, such as the play of shadow and light, and that means they can appreciate the paintings, even more, when they realise the craft and the sheer blood, sweat and tears that dripped onto every single canvas.”
There was a crash from behind as several pots fell to the floor. Dewar said, “Sorry about that,” as she bent to pick them up.
Angela’s eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened into a bloodless slash. “Is there anything you’re looking for? Perhaps I could point you in the right direction and save my paint from ending up all over the floor.”
Le Claire said, “Ripolin.”
She looked at Le Claire. “What did you say?”
“We’re looking for tins of house paint. Ripolin enamel, to be precise.
Her eyebrows drew together, “Are you serious?” When he didn’t reply straight away, she carried on. “Oh, God, you are. Picasso used house paint; well, the rum
ours have been there for years. And you think I managed to get my hands on some decades-old paint and forged some of my future fathers-in-law’s artwork. That’s crazy.”
“Perhaps. But maybe you wanted more than he was paying you. You could have had an argument. Did you decide to switch the original Picasso for a fake? You could sell the original later. Maybe to a foreign buyer who’d keep quiet and wouldn’t be concerned about provenance? Maybe you met Kurt at the tower and set fire to it to get rid of him?”
“Good story, but unfortunately it’s not true.”
“You maintain you don’t have anything to do with this?” He had little to connect her, but she was a skilled artist, and Kurt had paid her a lot of money.
“Of course, I don’t.” She looked at Dewar. “You can look to your heart’s content. There’s no house paint—Ripolin or any other—in my possession. If you look in the shed, you may find some off-white emulsion leftover from when we painted the main gallery area. What you’re looking at here are costly paints, and I’d be grateful if you could hurry up, confirm I don’t have any Ripolin and let me get back to my painting. It’s drying out and will be ruined if I don’t get back to it.”
After a few moments, Dewar said, “There’s nothing here.”
Le Claire said, “Fine. Thank you for your time.”
“What the hell is going on here?”
A furious Rudy blocked the doorway. “Angela, are you okay? What’s going on?”
“The police think I forged art for your dad and suspect me of killing him. What a load of crap! They should be looking for whoever did this.”
The tone was defiant, but her words ended on a wobble.
Rudy was by her side in a moment, and, drawing her into his arms, he faced Le Claire. “This is ridiculous. Angela isn’t capable of anything that vile. I have no idea what Dad was up to with the collection. I can only surmise that was the money he used to loan to the business for the US expansion. I have no idea who the hell he was working with. But I do know it can’t be anyone we know. He must have found someone in London. That’s who you need to be tracking down. Not harassing Angela.”
“I am sure you appreciate that we have to look at all possibilities. Thank you for your time.”
As they returned to the car, Le Claire said, “Get Hunter onto digging into her. If we do cross her off the list, I want to be sure about it.”
Dewar’s phone rang, and she quickly answered with a hurried hullo. She stilled, staring straight ahead as she focused on the caller. Finally, she spoke, “Thank you, that is most helpful.” She hung up. “That was Hunter. Customs ran a computer check, as requested, and highlighted items imported and declared as paint. One item jumped out and slapped Hunter in the face. The delivery was from France and described as Peinture Ripolin.”
Le Claire’s pulse quickened. “Ripolin paint. Who was it sent to?”
“That’s the best bit. It was delivered to one of the schools, addressed to Daria Syvret, Angela’s aunt.”
Little dots flickered in his mind, growing stronger as they connected, one by one. “Daria’s an artist and connected to Kurt Englebrook. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Rudy pulled Angela into his arms. Her head rested against his chest, and he placed a light kiss against her hair. “You okay?”
She pushed back from him, moved to the easel, pacing in front of it. “It makes me so mad. Why can’t they leave me alone and find out who did these terrible things?”
“I guess they have to ask questions to eliminate people.”
“I know, I know, but it still pisses me off.” She peered at the canvas. “Look, it’s ruined. The paint’s dried, and I need to finish this today. I will have to start from scratch. You can go now!” Her look of dismissal was unmistakable, and her words tense.
“I know you have a lot to do, but the commission will have to wait. You’ve been accused of killing my father and being a forger. How can you calmly get on with your work?”
“Because I need the money, that’s why.”
He reached out, ran a consoling hand down her arm and said, “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.”
Her face darkened as she brushed his hand away. “It’s all right for you. You may plead money troubles, but you’re a little rich boy at heart. You have no idea what ordinary people have to go through.”
He had no idea where this was coming from. “You’re upset, but don’t take it out on me. It’s only a gallery at the end of the day. We can find a solution.”
“Just a gallery! I am someone because of it. People look up to me, admire me, and they will laugh their arses off if the gallery goes under. There are plenty of people waiting for me to fail.”
“I’m going to make a cup of tea. You get on with doing what you can with the canvas.” He had enough to worry about without her kicking off.
◆◆◆
Daria taught in one of the island’s private schools. The helpful school secretary walked them through brightly painted corridors to a new annexe that adjoined the original nineteenth-century building.
Her smile was winning, and her neat ponytail swung from side to side as she bounced along beside them. “This way, please. There aren’t any art classes on at the moment, but Daria will be in the private studio. She does some of her own work there as well. We’re so lucky to have her. What did you say this was about again?”
Le Claire was noncommittal. “We need to have a word regarding an ongoing matter. We have a few questions.”
Her smile faltered a little, no doubt disappointed that her curiosity would remain unsatisfied. They proceeded in silence for a few moments, the only sound the click-clacking of her sharp heels on the tiled floor. She stopped. “Here we are. You can go straight in. If Daria isn’t in the main classroom, she should be off in the side area.”
The brightly lit room had one entire wall of glass sliding doors, the floor area was covered in at least twenty easels, and shelved walls held arrangements of paints, brushes and other materials.
Daria was nowhere in sight. There was a door to the side marked Studio: Private. Dewar knocked. They could hear muttering from inside, and after a few moments, there was the sound of a lock being turned and what sounded like a bolt being pushed, before the door wrenched open.
“What the hell is the matter with you? I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” Daria appeared frozen in the doorway for a few seconds, then her tight-lipped expression gave way to a more amenable one. “Oh, sorry about that. I never get a bloody moment’s peace here. What can I do for you?”
The door wasn’t fully open, but Le Claire could see a glimpse of the room behind her. It was a jumble of half-finished paintings, blank canvases and art materials. “May we come in? We’d like a word.”
“I’ll come out. It’s comfier in the main studio.”
“No. We’ll come to you.”
She paused for a moment, then swept the door wide open. “Of course. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
There was an edge to her voice, and he could understand why. The place looked like a rubbish tip. The wooden floor was a rainbow of paint stains and splashes. The room was almost as large as the main studio, with windows set high. Canvases were stacked against the wall and precariously perched on chairs and a chest of drawers. A small camp bed took over one corner of the room.
Daria followed his gaze and laughed. “When I am fully immersed in a painting, I don’t want to stop and go home to sleep. I often catch forty winks here instead. Now, what can I do for you?”
“It’s been confirmed that original paintings in the Englebrook collection have been replaced with fakes, and there is a concern that fraudulent activity has taken place with an original painting being sold and replaced with another fake.”
“What is the world coming to? That’s outrageous. But how could I possibly help?”
“We’d like a look at your art materials.”
She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t see how that w
ould help you.”
Dewar had been quiet so far, but he knew she’d been surveying the room. “I see you have canvases with grids on them. Is that how you paint?”
He didn’t show any reaction at this, nor did Dewar.
Daria’s snort was dismissive. “Good God, no. That’s for those who need more of a helping hand than I do. It’s a bit like using tracing paper, or painting by numbers.” Her tone left them in no doubt that she was above using such training tools.
Le Claire said, “You certainly have a lot of them.”
“I use them for my students and pass some on to Angela for the classes she runs. It gives a helping hand.”
Dewar said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look around.”
Daria frowned, “Is that necessary? I don’t know how comfortable I am with you rooting through my stuff.”
Le Claire said, “We can easily get a warrant. It’s up to you.”
“Fine. Have a look.” Her voice was tight.
Dewar started at one end of the room, poking and prodding as she moved shawls, boxes, scrapbooks and art paraphernalia to one side. Daria was silent, her eyes tracking Dewar’s progress. A loud ringing broke the silence. Daria glanced at a low table. A mobile phone was vibrating, the caller display illuminated, the name clearly visible. It was from Angela Laine. Daria glanced at Le Claire, then back at the phone. “It’s my niece. I won’t be a moment.”
“Hello, darling. I can’t talk now. That lovely policeman and his colleague are here. I’m at the studio. They’re having a little look around. See you later.” And she hung up.
Something about her tone bothered him. She was back to staring at Dewar, her arms crossed tight against her chest.
“I wonder if my colleague will find any Ripolin paint?”
She started, twin spots of colour staining her cheeks. “I beg your pardon.” Her voice broke a little, and her eyes darted to Dewar. “No, I don’t have any of that. Look, I have a class soon. You’ll have to leave.”
Blood Rights (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 26