Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Life, the universe and every other damn thing.”

  Maddie had asked a dozen times, but she’d never got to the bottom of what happened that night.

  They’d finally paid Prue a visit in France, mainly because Maddie couldn’t conjure up yet more excuses to avoid it, and stayed with her for two nights. On the second night, they’d had a bit of a party. Several of Prue’s friends had come along bearing bottles of wine and plates of food. It had been Prue’s—and Tim’s—idea of fun. Maddie had hated every second. When the guests started leaving, she’d claimed a headache and gone to bed. Tim had promised to follow her just as soon as he’d finished his drink and helped Prue tidy the kitchen. Prue had laughed and said there was no need for him to help.

  The next thing Maddie knew, she’d woken up to find Tim’s side of the bed empty. She was convinced he hadn’t slept in that bed all night.

  Tim claimed he’d slept in their bed beside her for a couple of hours, but Maddie hadn’t believed him. Prue had been suffering with the hangover from hell and she’d claimed to have been embarrassed about sitting up for hours “boring Tim stupid.”

  “What did I talk about, Tim? Was it all doom, gloom and failed relationships?” Prue had asked him.

  “No.” He’d smiled at her. “You talked of nothing you wouldn’t mention when sober. Don’t worry about it, Prue.”

  “I am so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. There’s no need.” Tim had given her a brotherly kiss and a hug, and they’d left Prue to her embarrassment and caught the plane home to England.

  And Maddie had wondered about that night ever since...

  “Did you have an affair with Prue?” she asked. “Did it start that night in France? Is that why your button was in her home?”

  “No, no and no. Get real, Maddie.” He drained his glass and stood up. “I don’t have time for this. I’m not being unfaithful. I have never been unfaithful. If I was going to be unfaithful, my own sister-in-law would be out of bounds. Right, end of conversation. I’m going to bed.”

  He did that a lot. To avoid any sort of conflict, he’d walk away. He’d go to bed or invent some excuse that took him away from the house.

  Maddie didn’t believe him. She’d never believed him. Or Prue. Or her parents. The only person she trusted was herself. It was easier that way.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was good to sit down in the Dog and Fox with Frank. Dylan felt at ease with his old boss. You knew where you stood with Frank, and you knew you could take every word he said as gospel.

  “So then,” Frank said. “Update me. And tell me about McIntyre.”

  They’d spoken briefly on the phone and had soon decided that this conversation warranted a few pints of beer.

  Dylan, slowly and carefully, told Frank about his trip to the art gallery yesterday, how he’d spotted the bearded chap who’d been hanging around at Prue’s funeral, and how he realised that bearded chap was none other than Jack McIntyre.

  “So he’s claiming attempted murder?” Frank asked, licking beer froth from his top lip. “And you believe him?”

  “Without evidence to back it up—and there’s none of that in this case—I don’t believe anything.”

  “Very wise.” Frank nodded his approval.

  “He did, however, give me Clare Finch’s name. She was Prue’s best friend and she’s been in Australia, working on a farm as part of some research thing, for the past few months. She only arrived back in the country yesterday. Her parents had told her about Prue and she’s coming up here on Friday. She wants to see Prue’s grave for some reason. Still, that suits me. It will be better to meet her face-to-face than have this discussion over the phone. And I sure as hell didn’t fancy driving to Ipswich. It’s a pig of a place to get to.”

  Not that Dylan was expecting to get anything from the conversation. In this instance, Prue hadn’t turned to her best friend to share her woes because Clare had been on the other side of the world. Instead, she’d turned to Maddie.

  “I asked Maddie about Clare Finch,” he said, “but she’d never heard of her.”

  “That’s no surprise, is it? Those sisters were strangers to each other.” Before Dylan could comment on that, Frank went on, “Perhaps the two aren’t linked. Maybe the person who wanted McIntyre killed—if indeed there is such a person—isn’t the same person who wanted Prue Murphy in her box.”

  “You believe that?”

  Frank thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not really, no. There must be a link.”

  Dylan thought so but— “Prue only lived with McIntyre for a couple of months. They don’t have the same circle of friends or the same lifestyle.”

  “Did his wife find out about it?” Frank asked. “Is she the jealous type?”

  “She claims she’s never heard of Prue and that divorce was never mentioned. McIntyre claims he asked for a divorce so that he could be with Prue. And there’s the money side of it all. Even McIntyre pointed out that he was worth more dead than alive to her. I think I need another chat with Davina McIntyre.”

  “And the agent’s son,” Frank said. “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s another on my list. In fact, McIntyre named him as chief suspect. According to him, Martin Collins loves money and would stop at nothing—including murdering his own father—to get it. But before that, I need to see the CCTV images from the art gallery. How long’s it likely to take, Frank? I did ask at the gallery but you know what they’re like.”

  “Law-abiding?” Frank suggested, and Dylan grinned at him.

  “Yes. This sodding Data Protection Act puts the fear of God into people. Anyway, if you can swing it quickly, I’d be obliged. I want to see if anyone was hanging around when Prue was there. She rang Maddie that evening and she was frightened. It’s just possible that something happened at the gallery. Or on the train.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Frank said.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Dylan stood up. “My round, I think.”

  He carried their glasses to the bar and was waiting to be served when he caught sight of the newspaper on the corner of the bar. There, smiling up at him from the front page, was the young lad who’d been hanging around the church’s entrance on the day of Prue’s funeral.

  “There are some evil buggers about,” the barman said, nodding at the news item. “I’d like to get my hands on them. Hanging’s too bloody good for ‘em, and what will the bastard who did that get? A few years in a bloody holiday camp, that’s what. The bloody country’s gone mad.”

  There was no point getting into a discussion on the merits or otherwise of the penal system or capital punishment. “Can I borrow this?”

  “Help yourself.” The barman refilled their glasses and Dylan carried drinks and newspaper back to the table.

  “What about this?” he said when he was sitting beside Frank.

  Frank looked across. “Oh, yes. A young constable found his body yesterday. The poor bugger was beaten to death and his body was thrown in Bailey’s Lake. Poor bugger,” he said again.

  “It’s the lad I told you about,” Dylan said. “You know, the one who was hanging around outside the church on the day of Prue’s funeral? The one who was having a smoke and who looked as if he’d bunked off school? This is him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Dylan read the news item. Sixteen-year-old Kevin Mills, it claimed, had told his parents he was off to football practice at his school, but there had been no football practice. Instead, he’d met up with friends, unnamed for legal reasons, and they’d gone for a few drinks in town. His football kit had been abandoned in the cemetery. It was assumed that he’d intended to collect it on his way home, but he’d never made it.

  “Are there any suspects?” he asked Frank.

  “None that I know of.”

  “What the fuck’s going on? Someone tries to kill a well-known artist. Next, someone kills well-known artist’s lover
. Then, someone kills a young lad interested enough in Prue’s funeral to hang around and watch the mourners arrive.”

  “There might not be any connection at all. You said yourself that Kevin Mills looked as if he was bunking off school. It was raining on the day of the funeral. Perhaps he’d just stopped to shelter and smoke his cigarette.”

  “Ooh, look, a pink farmyard animal just flew past. Bacon on the wing.” There was a connection, all right. Dylan was damn sure of it. “Kevin Mills’s death is in some way connected to Prue Murphy’s.”

  All Dylan had to do was prove it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Clare Finch was nothing like Dylan had imagined and nothing like she’d sounded on the phone. He’d expected someone like Prue, he supposed. Artistic. Pretty. Clare looked more serious and geeky but that was perhaps due to the large glasses she wore, the lack of makeup and the way she’d tied her dark hair back with an elastic band.

  “It’s good to meet you, Clare. Would you like a coffee or a cup of tea before we go to the church?”

  She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d like that, thanks. Coffee, please.”

  Dylan had suggested they meet at his hotel rather than the church, which had been her first idea. Churches and graves didn’t strike him as the best meeting places. Besides, the hotel was near the station and, therefore, easier for her to get to. He could drive them to the church later.

  She’d had a long train journey and he guessed the big bag she carried would be stuffed with books, notepads, pens, apples and probably sandwiches for the journey. She looked the sensible type, probably a Girl Guide in her youth, who would be prepared for anything.

  He ushered her to a table in the hotel’s warm reception area, one that offered a view of the hills, and she removed her coat and put that, a bouquet of white flowers and her bag on a chair before sitting down.

  “You’ve been in Australia then, Clare?” he said.

  “Yes, for six months. I got back last week.” She tucked that strand of hair behind her ear again and it immediately fell back across her face. “I heard about Prue, of course. Mum told me. I couldn’t believe it.” She shuddered and hugged herself.

  “You were close friends?”

  “Oh, yes. We met at school. My parents moved around a lot because of Dad’s job so I should have been used to changing schools every five minutes. I wasn’t though. I hated it. Maybe our teacher understood that because she sat me next to Prue in class and gave Prue strict instructions to show me around and look after me.” She smiled at the memories. “By the end of that first day, we’d become friends for life.” Her expression clouded. In Prue’s case, life had been short. “Will you tell me what happened?”

  The waitress brought coffees to their table and Clare was profuse with her gratitude and her smiles. Dylan liked her.

  “I can tell you all I know,” he said. Well, most of it. “The police believe Prue disturbed a burglar and either fell or was pushed to her death. However, only hours before she died, she’d phoned Maddie. You know Maddie?”

  “I met her once,” Clare said. “It was years ago though. She and Prue didn’t get along, did they? Prue used to say they lived on different planets.”

  Prue was right.

  “Well, she phoned Maddie that day and she sounded frightened, worried about something. She arranged to travel down to London to talk to Maddie the following day. Except, of course, she was killed before morning.”

  Clare was listening and frowning. “I’m surprised. If she was worried about something, I would have thought Maddie was the last person she’d want to speak to. She used to describe phone calls to Maddie as duty calls. She’d say, ‘She’s my sister so I have to make an effort.’ I’m surprised she didn’t go to someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone.”

  “She probably thought it too late or too early to call you.”

  Clare nodded. “Probably, but even so—why Maddie?”

  Only Prue knew the answer to that particular conundrum. “Did you speak often on the phone while you were in Australia?”

  “No. It was too expensive for one thing. Also, we were waiting until I got home. We’d promised ourselves that we’d have a week’s holiday together—somewhere cheap and cheerful—and catch up on each other’s news.”

  “What about when she lived in France?” Dylan asked. “Did you speak on the phone then?”

  “Quite often, yes, but only because I was working for a large pharmaceutical company that had offices in France.” She blushed. “The company didn’t mind us making personal calls so long as they weren’t too long. Prue didn’t have a computer then so we couldn’t email.”

  “Ah.”

  “We emailed each other a few times when I was in Australia,” she said, “but we didn’t say a lot. We neither of us bothered much with emails. We didn’t really exchange news. Like I said, we thought we’d have a good catching-up session when I came home.”

  “Okay,” Dylan said. “So, as I was saying, she called Maddie sounding worried. Maddie was convinced that Prue’s death was due to something more sinister than a burglar so she employed me.”

  “What do you mean by more sinister?”

  “We don’t really know. Tell me, did she ever talk about Jack McIntyre?”

  Clare shook her head, puzzled. “You mean the Jack McIntyre?”

  “I do.” Dylan really was the only person on the planet not to have heard of the bloke. “Did she ever mention him at all?”

  “No. Never. Why do you ask?”

  “She met him, apparently, when she was living in France.”

  “Really?” Clare looked suddenly excited for her friend. “And she didn’t tell me? I can’t believe that. Wow, I bet she loved that.”

  Dylan smiled. “I expect she did. You’re sure she never mentioned him?”

  “Positive. I would have remembered something like that.”

  Dylan’s spirits sank. Prue had been far too private a person to help him with this puzzle. Her sister hadn’t known about McIntyre, her best friend hadn’t known—but someone had, he was sure of it.

  “So,” he said, “she was still living in France when you went to Australia, yes?”

  “Yes, and she seemed so settled there. Really, she loved it, and I couldn’t believe she was leaving. As for coming up here to live, it seemed such an odd place to choose. She liked it though and she said she’d never met such lovely friendly people.” She smiled suddenly. “She stayed with her mum and dad for a couple of weeks while she got herself sorted, and I imagine she was pleased to live anywhere after that. She loved them both, but they fussed a bit. Parents do, don’t they?”

  “I only have one parent but, yes, she can fuss enough for six.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely sympathetic.

  “Don’t be.” Dylan was happy enough with one parent. Two meant twice the trouble. He’d always been mildly curious about his father but ever since Bev’s ludicrous comment that Boris looked like him, he didn’t want to know. Boris was not his father. The idea was—well, it was ludicrous.

  Their coffees were finished and she looked eager to get moving.

  “Shall we visit the church?” he asked. Using the word church was better than grave.

  She nodded. “Thanks. It’s really kind of you to offer to drive me. I appreciate it. And the company. It’s not a pleasant task but it’s something I feel I have to do. Can you understand that?”

  “Of course.” He suspected it was the only way she’d be able to convince herself that Prue was really dead.

  She put on her coat, grabbed her bag and the flowers, and they walked out of the hotel and into the car park. At least the rain was holding off. The sky was a threatening grey though.

  “Aw, is this your car? Isn’t it sweet?”

  Dylan despaired of women. He always had and he always would. One had once described his car as “pretty” and now Clare called it “sweet.” What
the hell was wrong with them? It wasn’t sweet. It was a mean and powerful 1956 Morgan in Daytona Yellow. It was a much-coveted classic, the ultimate example of British design and engineering.

  “Thanks.” There was no point trying to put her straight.

  She sat beside him with the flowers and her bag clutched tightly on her lap. Her fingers looked as if rigor mortis had set in.

  “There isn’t much to see,” he said as he drove out of the car park. “There’s no headstone yet—” He broke off before mentioning that the ground had to be allowed to settle before one could be erected.

  She nodded and braced herself more tightly for the ordeal ahead.

  As soon as they were walking along that slippery path to the graves, Dylan had a moment’s panic that he wouldn’t be able to find Prue’s grave. There were so many. Then he remembered that tree where the man he now knew to be McIntyre had been standing.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  There was nothing to look at, just a mound of earth, a few dead flowers, two fresh arrangements and a rain-soaked card that read A loving father and grandfather. We’ll always miss you, Fred that must have blown across from another grave. Dylan looked at the two fresh arrangements of flowers. One was from Doreen, Prue’s neighbour, the other, red roses, had a small card attached that was simply signed with a J. Presumably J for Jack.

  Clare’s bottom lip wobbled alarmingly but then she went into action. She gathered up the dead flowers and carried them across the grass to throw them in a bin. The card to Fred went with them. She grabbed a stray piece of cellophane that had been strewn across the neighbouring grave, used it to wiped out a plastic vase and began to arrange her white flowers.

  “She loved white ones.” She stepped back to check that the flowers were shown off to their best possible advantage.

  “They’re very nice.”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” she said. “I only wanted to see where they’d put her. We can go now.”

  Just as Dylan was congratulating them both on getting it over so quickly, he saw her shoulders began to shake. They were halfway between grave and car when she put her hands to her face and howled.