Dylan was no longer sure what to believe, but McIntyre’s story was intriguing. “Go on.”
“My shoulder was killing me—almost literally. It was dislocated so I couldn’t move properly in the water. I swam around as best I could looking for Jeremy but there was no sign of him. I guessed he was dead. I swam for what seemed like hours until I reached the shore. I could see lights from the village so I aimed for those. I crawled ashore and crept back to my cottage. I don’t know what I expected to find but there was no sign of anyone. My paintings were still there—I’d hidden them well—so I grabbed those, and took some cash from the cottage. I walked and I hitched lifts. When I reached Rouen, I checked in to the hospital under a false name and got my shoulder fixed. Then I went into hiding. I was determined to find out who wanted me—and Jeremy—dead.”
His story told, McIntyre leaned back in his seat and took a large swallow of whisky.
It was some story, one Dylan didn’t know whether to believe or not. He was still reeling from the shock of realising McIntyre was alive and he was likely to believe anything right now.
“So assuming you’re telling the truth—” never assume, an inner voice mocked Dylan, “—why did you go into hiding? Surely, if you’d told the police what had happened, they would have stood more chance of finding the killer?”
“You think so? Then you have more faith than I have.” McIntyre emptied his glass. “Another?”
“It’s my round, I believe.” Dylan stood up and went to the bar for refills. The pub was still crowded. Most of the customers looked young and healthy enough to put in a full day’s work. Perhaps Dylan was being too harsh. Given the state of the country, getting work wasn’t easy. A dozen or so young men gathered round a TV screen to watch the racing from Chepstow. Their benefit cheques were probably resting on the backs of those nags.
He could see McIntyre thanks to a large mirror above the bar. Dylan kept watching him. He didn’t want to have to chase him twice in one day. McIntyre, however, looked suddenly weary and drained.
Dylan wasn’t necessarily falling for his story. He’d think about it long and hard and he’d remember his ABC. Accept nothing. Believe nothing. Check everything. If he’d paid more attention to that, the possibility of McIntyre being alive might have crossed his mind.
He returned to their table, set their drinks down and sat opposite McIntyre.
“Thanks.” McIntyre chinked his glass against Dylan’s. “Cheers. May the wind be on your back.”
Dylan wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. All he could do was try to process the fact that McIntyre was alive. He didn’t know what that meant, but he did know that it changed everything. “After you grabbed your paintings and left your home, what did you do? Where have you been all this time?”
“I’ve been in Paris mostly. I sold my watch for food, and earned enough money painting pictures for the tourists to get by.” He smiled at that. “There are some valuable caricatures in Paris, all unsigned of course. I’ve been mingling among the lowest of the low, trying to find out what the word is on the street. My work tripled in value the moment I hit the water, and I want to know who stands to benefit most from that.”
“How far have you got?”
“I’ve drawn a blank. Suspects, but no proof. My chief suspect lived in London,” McIntyre went on, “so I came over here. I was watching TV when I saw the news that Prue had been killed. I came north, to Dawson’s Clough and, when I saw you were involved, I knew that the police had lied about a burglar. I guessed that her death was connected to me in some way.”
Which was a damn sight more than Dylan had known. “Who’s your chief suspect?”
“Martin Collins.”
“What? You think he murdered his own father?”
“I think he’s capable of it. However, on the night in question—”
“He can prove that he was many miles away. Yes. He showed me a photo taken that night.” Dylan had thought it odd that Collins had shown him that photo. “But why would he?”
“Money. Why else?”
“How would he gain though?”
“In several ways. If he knew I was painting again, and got his hands on my work, he’d make a killing. If he merely suspected I was painting, and thought he’d have a good look round my home for sketches, he’d make a killing. The gallery had a couple of paintings of mine, and with the high prices caused by my death, he’d make a killing. People would be selling my paintings so he’d probably make a killing there too. Whichever way you care to look at it—”
“He’d make a killing. Yes, I get the point.”
“Jeremy was a true gentleman. He loved art, loved helping up-and-coming artists, and was highly respected in his field. His son, however, is one of those who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
“Who’s your number two suspect?” he asked.
McIntyre shrugged. “I did wonder about my wife. I’m worth a lot more to her dead than alive.”
“She claims she’s never stopped loving you.”
“She told me the same thing when I brought up the subject of divorce,” McIntyre said.
“She claims divorce was never mentioned.” She’d claimed a lot of things though and Dylan hadn’t been convinced at the time. “Did you ever mention Prue to her?”
“Yes. I said I wanted a divorce so that I could be with Prue.”
Deep down, Dylan had known she’d been lying when she’d denied all knowledge of Prue. She wouldn’t be the first jealous wife to kill her husband and his lover. Davina McIntyre had just been promoted to the top of Dylan’s extremely short list of suspects.
“But in the eyes of the law, you’re only officially missing,” he said. “Without a body—and killing someone on a boat always means it’s likely that the body won’t turn up—she can’t get her hands on your cash, can she?”
“Perhaps she didn’t realise that.” McIntyre drummed a tuneless tattoo on the table.
Or perhaps money wasn’t the issue. Perhaps Davina McIntyre had decided that if she couldn’t have her husband, no one else would.
“What exactly happened to Prue?” McIntyre asked. “According to the media, she disturbed a burglar. You don’t think so though, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I could be wrong, but it seems to me that whoever killed her was looking for something specific and the only thing she had of value, as far as we know, was that miniature. But of course, that was hanging on her bedroom wall for all to see. Anyone after that would have pocketed it. The miniature was a gift from you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give her more gifts? Did she own any other paintings? Do you know of anything else she owned that was of value?”
“I painted the miniature when I knew she was intent on leaving. It was just a reminder for her that she should phone or write to me.” McIntyre shook his head. “She had nothing else. No paintings. Nothing of value. She wasn’t a possessions sort of girl.”
“So it seems. She wasn’t a talkative sort of girl either. No one I’ve spoken to knew she had that miniature. Her sister got a chap who deals in secondhand furniture to take Prue’s stuff away and it was him who recognised it as one of yours. If he hadn’t, it would have gone to the nearest charity shop.”
McIntyre leaned back in his chair. “So what the hell is going on?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea.” Wasn’t that the truth. “Do you want another drink?”
“Why not? My round, I think.” He gave Dylan a smile. “Don’t concern yourself too much with my finances. I have one good friend—one wealthy good friend—who will keep me from starvation.”
So someone other than Dylan knew the artist was alive. How many others knew?
Dylan watched McIntyre at the bar. He stood tall and erect and, beneath the straggly hair and beard, was a good-looking man. He was slim and looked to be fit. Whether he was a killer or a liar was impossible to say.
If McIntyre’s tale was true—Dylan ran his finge
rs through his hair. True or false, he didn’t have a bloody clue what to do next.
McIntyre returned with their drinks, put them on the table and sat down.
“Thanks.” Dylan took a swallow of beer. He shouldn’t be drinking at this time of day—especially as he would be driving to God knew where after this. Three beers wouldn’t kill him though. He’d have a couple of coffees before he drove out of Manchester. “So what are you doing now?”
“I was at the gallery today to see if I saw anyone interesting about. And no, I didn’t. I’ve also been in Dawson’s Clough watching you and trying to find out how Prue is connected to all this. I’ve learned nothing from the lowlife in Paris so I’m working on those in London. If there are any suspicious movements of paintings, they’ll know. First, however, I have to win their trust and that’s taking some doing.”
Dylan supposed that made sense.
“What about you?” McIntyre asked. “What are you doing now?”
“Me? Well, I’ve been working on the assumption that you met your end in a boating accident so I’ve been concentrating on Dawson’s Clough. Prue was friendly with a local wine bar owner, or so he claims, and I have my doubts about him. Also, her landlord is a dodgy character. But now that you’re alive—now I know that someone tried to kill you—”
“I’ve put a spanner in the works, haven’t I?”
He damn well had. “Yes.”
“What about Clare? Have you spoken to her? Did Prue say anything to her?”
“Wait a minute. Who’s Clare?”
“Clare Finch—Prue’s best friend.”
“I’ve never even heard of her. She wasn’t at Prue’s funeral, was she?”
“I don’t know. I never met her, although I know Prue used to speak to her most weeks. She lives in Ipswich or some such place. If in trouble, I think Prue would have turned to her.”
“You don’t have an address or phone number for her, do you?”
“Sorry.”
Dylan would have to go through the phone book and hope there weren’t too many Finches in Ipswich.
“Are you going to tell the world I’m alive?” McIntyre asked.
“Who else knows? Your wealthy friend and who else?”
“No one. I told Simon because we’ve been friends forever and I know I can trust him. I also knew he had a flat in London going begging. When someone wants you dead, there are very few people you feel you can trust, but Simon’s one. So, are you going to tell the world?”
“What would happen to the price of your paintings if people knew you were alive?”
McIntyre laughed at that. “If you have one to sell, Dylan, I’d do it now. Prices will plummet as soon as news of my resurrection breaks.”
That fact alone meant that McIntyre was worth more dead than alive to a lot of people. It didn’t explain Prue’s murder though.
Dylan didn’t know what to do about McIntyre. Nothing, he supposed. What could he do? McIntyre might be a killer, but there was damn all Dylan could do about it.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to tell the world. Give me your phone number. I take it you do possess a phone?”
“I do.” McIntyre grabbed a beer mat, took a pen from his pocket and wrote down his phone number. “There you go. If you can’t get hold of me, leave a message.”
Dylan took the beer mat and gazed at the flowery numbers. “How much is this worth?”
“Not a lot. Although, as you say, a fool and his money are soon parted.”
“So what are you planning to do now?” Dylan asked.
“I’m heading back to London tonight although I’m no longer sure the answer’s there. Hell, Dylan, I don’t know where the answer is.”
“Me neither.”
“But it’s out there somewhere,” McIntyre said. “Someone knows who killed Prue. And somewhere is the man who tried to send me to my watery grave.”
He was right. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything new.” Dylan took another beer mat and wrote down his own phone number. “Will you do the same?”
“I will. You might have a chat with my lovely wife,” McIntyre said. “And perhaps with Martin Collins.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And now I have a train to catch.” McIntyre drained his glass and got to his feet. “Keep in touch, Dylan.”
“I will.”
As McIntyre walked out of the pub, Dylan wondered if he’d ever see him again. He also wondered if he’d just had a drink with Prue Murphy’s killer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I need a word,” Maddie said. “If you can spare the time.”
Tim gave her a look, one that said he wished he was a million miles from this house, from her, from everything. “I can spare the time.”
His phone rang. He looked at the display, then looked at her. “I need to take this.”
“Naturally.”
She could tell it was Eddie and she soon realised that Tim was furious with him. He didn’t say as much, not in so many words, but his answers were clipped, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone, and his jaw set in a hard line. He didn’t say a lot, he was too busy listening.
“That’s your problem, Eddie. You caused the problem, you solve it. It has nothing to do with me. Nothing whatsoever.” He ended the call with a vicious prod at the button.
It was funny but just as she’d started to warm to Eddie, Tim was being distinctly cool to his business partner and friend.
“Right, Maddie. What can I do for you?”
They hadn’t cleared away the dinner plates yet. An empty bottle of wine still sat on the table. Ignoring it, Tim went to the rack and chose another bottle. He removed the cork and filled his glass to the brim before holding the bottle out to Maddie. She’d already had a couple of glasses too many but she nodded, and he filled her glass.
“It’s about this.” She held a small brass button in her hand.
Tim frowned at it. “Am I supposed to guess the significance of that?”
“Yes.” She turned it over in her hand. “This is the button you lost, remember? You came back from Portugal and said you’d lost a button from your blazer. I spent weeks trying to find a replacement.”
“Ah. Got it. So you’ve found it?”
“So it would appear.” She put the button on the table.
“That’s good then.” He sat opposite her and took a slug of wine.
“Indeed. And where do you think I found it? You’d assume I’d been to Portugal perhaps. Or on the same plane that carried you to that particular country. But no. I found this button when I was sorting through Prue’s things.”
“And?”
She wanted to throw her wine in his face, glass and all. There were times when she hated him. Really hated him with a passion that made her blood pound. Everyone thought he was the perfect husband. Charming, handsome, intelligent, witty—she hated him.
“And I’d like to know how my sister got hold of a button from my husband’s jacket,” she said. “I’d like to know when you saw Prue. I’d like to know exactly what was going on between the two of you.”
“For God’s sake.” Tim rubbed his eyes as if he were too tired to keep them open. He sighed. “Do you ever wonder why you can’t enjoy a normal relationship with anyone, Maddie? Do you ever stop to ask yourself why you end up seeing one shrink after another?”
“No. I’m too busy wondering what my husband was doing with my sister.”
The curtains had been drawn to shut out the darkness for hours. The room felt claustrophobic. Maddie no longer liked this house. She’d like to live abroad, somewhere that was treated to sunshine and blue skies almost every day. She’d like a house with a pool.
“Nothing has been going on,” Tim said. “If I lost the button at Prue’s, I will have lost it at Christmas when we called in with her present. Remember?”
His calm voice of reason dissolved some of her anger. She remembered the day, of course, but not whether Tim had been wearing that blazer. She’d wa
nted to visit Prue out of nosiness. They always went through the routine of exchanging presents so it had been the perfect excuse. They’d driven up to Dawson’s Clough, spent an hour with Prue, stayed the night in a hotel near Clitheroe and driven home the next day. She would have expected Tim to have worn a sweater, not a blazer. She tried to picture him in that awful house of Prue’s, but she couldn’t. She could hear his voice, full of charm and seasonal jollity, but she couldn’t see his clothes.
Damn it. If they’d been part of a normal family, she or Prue would have taken photos of themselves standing in front of the Christmas tree. They weren’t part of a normal family, though, so there were no photos.
“What about that night in France?” she asked.
“Which night?”
He was playing for time. “You know which night I’m talking about. The night you spent with my sister last September.”
“Oh, that night. I’ve told you about that a dozen times but, hey, let’s go through it all again, shall we? You went to bed. Your sister carried on drinking and I had another couple to keep her company. Prue was very drunk. We sat up talking—at least, she talked and I listened—and then, when she passed out, I put her to bed. She was fully clothed and too drunk to know anything about it.”
“What did you talk about?”
Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 16