Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “There’s a shed.” Frank pointed. “And there’s a cottage. That must be it.”

  “Must be. Yes, because here’s the track.” Dylan turned off the road and winced as his Morgan bounced off deep ruts. “Who the hell would want to live here?”

  “Someone who wanted to get away from the world.”

  The track to the cottage didn’t look as if it had been used since Adam was a lad. It meandered halfway to the beach and then stopped. If McIntyre had owned a car, he would have had a hundred yards to carry his groceries from track to cottage.

  “And squatters perhaps,” Frank added.

  They abandoned the Morgan and crossed the pebbly foreshore to the tiny cottage. It was so small that the ground floor would have fitted comfortably in Davina McIntyre’s games room.

  “Do you think this is it?” Dylan asked.

  Frank nodded to a wooden sign by the door. “There can’t be too many cottages called Overlander near the village, can there?”

  Dylan peered through a window into a small sitting room. A couple of books lay on a table, patiently waiting for their owner to return. An empty yellow jug sat in the window. An old wooden clock showed the correct time. It was as if the cottage’s owner had simply stepped out to stroll along the shore.

  “It’s the perfect home for a painter,” Frank said.

  “What makes you say that? In any case, he wasn’t. A painter I mean. He’d quit.”

  Frank was looking through another window. “Look at this room. The windows, the light—an ideal studio.”

  “But he wasn’t painting,” Dylan said again.

  “Once a painter, always a painter.”

  This room was larger but empty except for a sofa, a couple of wooden cupboards and a square table. Apart from that and the sitting room, there was a tiny kitchen that looked out to sea. Dylan guessed there would be a bathroom and either one or two bedrooms upstairs.

  Fifty yards away was the shed or, more likely, boathouse. Without speaking, they walked over to inspect it. It only had two small windows and a look through those showed them nothing of interest. Apart from a few tools, half a dozen plastic containers and several metres of coiled rope, it was empty.

  They stood and gazed out to sea, where gulls circled and tried to deafen them.

  “I’d like a place like this,” Frank said.

  “It would be a long walk to the pub.”

  “A mile and a half? Two miles? That would be a pleasant stroll on a summer’s evening.”

  They walked back to the cottage and peered through the windows again. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen so someone had to be keeping an eye on it until the French authorities allowed McIntyre’s estate to be wound up.

  The sound of a car’s engine had Dylan looking up. “We’ve got company, Frank.”

  A battered beige Citroén parked next to the Morgan and the passenger, a round woman carrying a basket, strode toward them to deliver a torrent of abuse in French.

  “I expect that translates as ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’” Frank murmured.

  The woman, fresh-faced and pushing sixty, might be harmless enough but her companion currently crossing the ground in long, angry strides was built along the lines of an armoured tank.

  “Do you speak English?” Dylan asked him.

  “Well enough to tell you you’re trespassing.”

  He was English. Up close, he was huge. Beneath a grubby black coat with dozens of zipped pockets, he wore a checked red shirt that strained to cover his massive chest. Thankfully, of the two, the woman looked more eager for a fight.

  “Yes, sorry about that,” Dylan said. “We’re from England and—well, it’s a long story but we’re looking for someone who might have known Jack McIntyre.”

  “Then you’re in luck. You’ve found two of us.” Even his voice was big, deep and strong.

  “And you are?” Frank asked.

  “We’re the caretakers. And you’re still trespassing.”

  “Then let me make introductions,” Dylan said. “This is DCI Frank Willoughby—”

  Dylan had no intention of mentioning that Frank was retired and had only come along for the pub crawl, but Frank went one better. He reached into his pocket and pulled out ID that was inspected.

  “I’m Dylan Scott. And you’re—?”

  “I’m Elliott Tolman. This is my wife, Coletta. Like I said, we’re caretakers. Coletta used to keep house for Jack and I did a few odd jobs. Now, we both keep an eye on the place.”

  Dylan put out his hand and it was reluctantly shaken.

  Tolman clearly wasn’t impressed by being in the presence of a DCI. He seemed slightly happier with the situation than his wife but still looked as if he wanted to break every bone in their bodies. Twice.

  Those grey clouds had turned an angry black, and a few plump raindrops landed on them.

  “We spoke to Davina, Mr. McIntyre’s widow, and she gave us this address,” Dylan said. Davina had given him the address of this cottage, but only because he’d made a mental note when looking at the photos and newspaper clipping she’d shown him.

  Tolman spoke to his wife in French. She looked at Dylan and Frank, then began stomping across the pebbles to the cottage. They all followed. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket and opened the door to the cottage. They trooped inside.

  With four of them in the minuscule kitchen, it was difficult to breathe. Somehow, someone had crammed a cooker, a small fridge-freezer and a washing machine into the room. The walls were covered not with paintings as one might have expected but with framed black-and-white photographs of beach scenes.

  “The case we’re working on—” Dylan began. “Amongst a woman’s possessions, we found one of Mr. McIntyre’s paintings. A miniature. We’re trying to find out if the woman in question knew him.”

  “You talk to Mrs. Davina?” Coletta asked.

  “Yes,” Dylan said.

  “That’s why we’re here.” Frank gave her his most reassuring smile.

  Dylan took the dog-eared photo of Prue from his pocket and held it out. “We need to know if this woman knew Jack McIntyre.”

  Tolman took it from him and seemed to flinch. Without saying a word, he handed it to his wife.

  “Prue!” Coletta squinted at Dylan. “Why you want to know about Prue?”

  “You know her?” Frank asked.

  “Of course.” Coletta looked to her husband and clearly regretted admitting as much. He simply shrugged.

  “She was a friend of Mr. McIntyre’s?” Dylan asked.

  Coletta looked at Tolman again and received another shrug. “Of course,” she said.

  “Why do you want to know?” Tolman asked.

  Dylan thought about suggesting they move to another room, one where they could swing a cat if they chose to, but he wasn’t going to push his luck. Tolman still looked anything but friendly.

  “I’m afraid Prue is dead,” Dylan said.

  Coletta’s English wasn’t good, but she understood that. A hand flew to her mouth as if she needed to stop herself crying out.

  “Dead?” Her voice was a shocked whisper. “But how? She was so young. Always so healthy.”

  Her English was a lot better than Dylan had realised. And certainly a lot better than his French.

  “There’s a possibility that she disturbed a burglar in her home,” Dylan said. “She was killed, I’m afraid.”

  Coletta dug in the pocket of her trousers for a handkerchief. She dabbed at suddenly damp eyes and then blew her nose. “Wicked.”

  “When was this?” Tolman still looked suspicious.

  “She was buried just over a week ago,” Dylan said. “I’m an old friend of Prue’s—and of Maddie, her sister. Although everything points to Prue disturbing a burglar, we feel we need to look into it. You see, she phoned her sister the night it happened and she sounded worried. Frightened even. She was planning to visit her sister the next day but, of course, she never turned up.”

  “Wicked,”
Coletta said again.

  “You need to sit down. You’ve had a shock.” Frank took Coletta by the arm and led her out of the kitchen. Dylan and Tolman followed them to the sitting room where, finally, they had space to breathe.

  “We found one of Mr. McIntyre’s paintings when we were sorting out her possessions,” Dylan explained.

  “She didn’t speak of him?” Coletta asked.

  “No.” Not to her parents or her sister. Not to anyone else that Dylan knew of. Except Danny Thompson perhaps. During a drunken session at his wine bar, she’d given Thompson the impression that there had been a man she couldn’t have. Married or gay. Presumably McIntyre only came under the former heading.

  “Did she come here?” Frank asked.

  Coletta spouted a long speech in French for Tolman. The only parts Dylan managed to catch were both dead and nothing matters now.

  “Yes,” she said. “She was here for about two months.”

  “Living here?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes.”

  Prue Murphy, who’d rented the cheapest property she could find and who bought her clothes from charity shops and supermarkets, had lived with the renowned—and wealthy—artist Jack McIntyre? And no one had known about it?

  Surely she would have told her sister. Dylan wasn’t convinced that Maddie and Prue had been the best of friends, but surely Prue would have mentioned McIntyre. She may have been reluctant to tell her parents in case they disapproved of their daughter having a relationship with a married man, especially one old enough to be her father, but she must have told someone.

  “They were—?”

  “Lovers.” Coletta dabbed at her eyes again. “They were happy here. So happy.”

  “You’re police?” Tolman asked, distrust in every syllable.

  “Lancashire CID,” Frank said, and he flashed his ID again.

  Tolman seemed to accept this. “Sit down.”

  Coletta was already sitting in an armchair. There were two other chairs and Tolman indicated that Dylan and Frank should take those. He was happy to tower over them.

  “Most people round here didn’t have a clue who Jack was,” Tolman said, “because he didn’t want journalists finding him. He’d given up painting—he’d lost the inclination. He was tired of living in the public eye.”

  “I see.” Dylan waited for more but Mr. and Mrs. Tolman were clearly shocked by the news and didn’t know what to say.

  “When did you last see Prue?” he asked them.

  “The day—” Coletta took a deep breath. “The day of the accident.”

  “The day McIntyre died?”

  “Yes.”

  Jesus. Dylan hoped McIntyre hadn’t taken out his boat and said, “Goodbye, cruel world.”

  “Jack had been so happy,” Coletta said. “Prue was good for him. She taught him to love life and she got him painting again, but she—”

  “Wait a minute,” Dylan said. “You say she got him painting again?”

  “Yes.”

  “But no one was supposed to know,” Tolman said. “Until he was ready to face the world—or the press at least—he was keeping quiet about it. Not that it matters now, I suppose.”

  “Who knew he was painting?” Frank asked.

  “Prue, obviously, because she was modelling for him. Other than that, just us two,” Coletta said. “I had to know because I cleaned for him and he worked all hours of the day and night. As far as I know, no one else knew.”

  Dylan had come to France on a whim. He’d harboured some vague hope that someone might recognise Prue and confirm that she’d been friendly enough with McIntyre for him to give her a miniature. The last thing he’d expected to hear was that Prue and the artist had been having an affair.

  Dylan had been thinking life was over at forty yet McIntyre, at sixty-two, had been living a dream life with a thirty-four-year-old. Where the hell was Dylan going wrong?

  “If they were so happy, why did Prue leave?” he asked.

  “She didn’t like being involved with a married man,” Coletta said. “Who would? Also—” She gave Tolman a quick glance before continuing. “Also, Jack had something of a reputation as a ladies’ man. Prue couldn’t believe that he was serious about her. So she told him she was leaving. He tried to change her mind, but she was having none of it and, in the end, he booked her flight back to England. He wasn’t too worried. He was confident she’d be back, you see.”

  Heavy rain lashed the windows and she paused to watch it for a moment.

  “Jack wanted to drive her to the airport but she said she didn’t like goodbyes. Also, Jack had Mr. Collins due to visit him the day she left. He was a friend of Jack’s but he was also the man who looked after his paintings. Sold them, put them in exhibitions, that sort of thing. So she set off with just her clothes to walk to the village and that’s when I saw her.” Coletta chewed on her lip. “I was coming to clean and prepare food for Jack and his visitor, you see, and Prue was setting off for the village. She was upset but she was too proud to let anyone see. I could tell though. We hugged, we said goodbye, and I watched her walk up to the lane.” She nodded in the direction of the track where Dylan had parked. “She met someone, a man. I think he must have been lost because she was pointing in the direction of the village and it looked like she was giving him directions. In the end, she walked with him. I assume they were both walking back to the village. He said something to make her laugh and I was pleased to hear that.” She sighed. “That was the last time I ever saw her.”

  Dylan had a dozen questions but he was too surprised to ask any. Frank had no such problems.

  “This man she met? What was he like? Can you describe him?”

  Coletta looked at him as if he were crazy. “He was young—perhaps thirty or forty. Maybe even fifty. He was wearing a black padded jacket and a hat. It was a lovely November day—cold, so he needed that hat, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, I remember. And he had a backpack.”

  “Wasn’t it odd to see a stranger so far from the village?” Frank asked.

  “No. Not at all. In the summer, we get many people coming here. They like to walk. Sometimes they have picnics on the beach.”

  “And this was the same day that Mr. McIntyre drowned?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes.” Coletta sniffed. “After lunch, I put dinner ready for Jack and his friend. It was only a salad. A few cold meats. I told Jack I’d be here for breakfast and he told me not to worry about being early as he and his friend would probably take the boat out and enjoy a couple of glasses of wine. I told you, it was a lovely sunny day,” she said again.

  Tolman seemed calmer and less suspicious now and, still standing, he gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “No one knows what happened. The weather was fine, the sea calm. No one can give me a satisfactory explanation as to why the accident happened.”

  “Too much wine perhaps?” Frank asked.

  “It could be, I suppose.” Tolman clearly wasn’t happy with that idea. “Jack had taken that boat out dozens of times before though and he’d never drunk so much he was incapable of bringing her home.”

  “It was a horrid time,” Coletta said. “I didn’t have an address for Prue so I couldn’t let her know. She would have found out soon enough because the news spread quickly, of course, but that’s not a nice way to hear, is it? It was terrible.”

  “Who raised the alarm?” Dylan asked.

  “Me.” Tolman perched on the edge of the windowsill. “Coletta came here to prepare their breakfast but there was no sign of them. Jack used to moor his boat in the village, there’s a small marina there, so Coletta sent me to check that it was there. It was nowhere to be seen so we called the police.”

  “The boat was moored in the village?” Dylan said. “I assumed it was kept here, in the boathouse.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Tolman rolled his eyes. “We’re not talking about a rowing boat. Jack’s was a powerful cruiser. With the accommodation on offer, they could have stayed on it quite comfortably
, but I knew Jack wouldn’t do that without letting us know. So the police put out a search party and found the boat, very badly damaged, the following day. The same evening they found—what was his name? Jeremy? They found Jeremy’s body. If it hadn’t been for a brief storm we had that day, they reckoned his body would never have been found.”

  “Jack was such a strong swimmer too,” Coletta said.

  There were many strong swimmers in the world but few who could drink a lot of wine and swim several miles to shore in the cold and the darkness.

  “The painting we found,” Dylan said, “was a miniature. Presumably Jack gave it to her? Would you know about that?”

  “Who else would have given it to her?” Coletta looked at Dylan as if he were an idiot.

  “What happened to his other work?” Dylan asked. “You said he was painting Prue. Who has those paintings now?”

  Tolman looked at his wife and shrugged.

  “Jack took them somewhere for safekeeping when he knew his agent was visiting,” Coletta said. “He didn’t say where they were and I didn’t ask. I’ve always assumed that the lawyers winding up his estate have them. Or perhaps they’ve already been handed over to Davina. I couldn’t say where they are.”

  “What were they like?” Dylan asked. “Large? Small? All portraits?”

  “They were large,” Coletta said. “I think there were about half a dozen, all of Prue. They weren’t finished.”

  They talked for another hour but the Tolmans had little to say other than what wonderful people their employer and his lover had been.

  At least the sun was shining when they walked back to the Morgan.

  “There’s a law against that, you know,” Dylan said.

  “Against what?”

  “Impersonating a police officer.”

  Frank snorted with laughter. “Once a police officer, always a police officer. There has to be some perk to retirement and I reckoned Tolman was the type to respect authority. So what do we do now?”

  “We celebrate our good fortune by going on a pub crawl.”

  “Okay, the first pint of the gnat’s piss they call beer in these parts is on you.” Frank rubbed his hands together.