“What news did she have?”
“She talked mostly about the people who had flats in her building. I remember we had every resident’s life story but I don’t remember her talking about anything else. I’d guess we were in bed by eleven at the latest.”
“Talk me through the following day,” Dylan said.
“Okay, Saturday. We had breakfast at a nearby café—the weather was good, I remember that. We sat outside this little café eating croissants and drinking coffee. That wasn’t too bad. Then we had a stroll round the shops in the vicinity.”
“Did she see anyone? Talk to anyone?”
“No.”
“Then what?” Dylan asked.
“We wasted the day as people do. In the evening, she said she was throwing a party for us. About a dozen of her friends turned up. All scruffy types and all carrying bottles of cheap plonk. Tim and I tried to be sociable but it was bloody difficult. As soon as the first guests left, I went to bed. I’d had the headache from hell all day. Tim sat up and got drunk with her.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I don’t know, Dylan.” She sighed her irritation with the questions. “According to him, she said nothing that made any sense. You know the sort of rubbish people come out with when they’re drunk. I gather it was that sort of evening.” Her gaze was steely. “Whether they slept together, I have no idea. He says no, and I never asked her. I wouldn’t be surprised though.”
“And after that?”
“Is any of this important?”
“Yes.”
“She was hungover the next morning, but we went to that café again for coffee and croissants. A couple of hours later, we set off for the airport. And that was that. Why is it important?”
“I believe she told someone about her affair with McIntyre. I also think she told that person he was painting again. Now who would she tell? Her sister? The sister who tends to look down on her? The sister who thought she’d never make anything of herself? Don’t you think she’d boast about being with a wealthy, successful man? I do.”
“She didn’t say a word about him.”
He didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Prue must have told her she was living with Jack McIntyre. Maybe Prue told Chandler. Either way, Maddie must have known about it.
“Why didn’t you like Prue?” he asked. “And exactly how much did you dislike her?”
Maddie stared at him long and hard. “I loathed her.”
He was surprised at such venom but didn’t let it show. “I thought so. Why? What did she ever do to you?”
“What did she ever do to me?” She threw back her head and laughed. “She only ruined my life. I was happy until she came along. At five years of age, my life was over. You can hardly pack your bags and leave home at that age, can you? I was tempted, believe me. Everything revolved around her and she lapped it up.”
“If you felt left out when Prue was born, surely that was your parents’ fault? It wasn’t hers, was it?”
Maddie shrugged and looked weary of the whole discussion.
“So why,” he said, “if you hated Prue, did you ask me to look into her death?”
She smiled, a smile that was like the sun breaking through heavy cloud. “I needed an excuse to see you, Dylan.”
A shudder ran down his spine. “How did you find me, Maddie?”
“I told you—”
“You lied. You said you saw my name in the local paper when you stayed up here following Prue’s death. I checked with the paper’s editor. My name hasn’t appeared in the paper this year.”
She slipped her arm through his. “I told a white lie. When Prue sent me a change of address card, I looked up Dawson’s Clough on the internet and saw your name then.”
“That was November. Why didn’t you contact me then?”
“I didn’t have a good enough excuse.” She squeezed his arm. “It’s wonderful to be together now, though, isn’t it?”
He wasn’t going to answer that. “Did you kill Prue?”
There was none of the shock or outrage he’d expected. “No.”
“Where were you on the day she died?” he asked.
“At home. Alone. No alibi, I’m afraid, detective.”
“You weren’t with Eddie Bryson?”
That did surprise her. “Eddie? Why would I be with him?”
“I think he was in Manchester on the day she died.”
“So? He and Tim are often in Manchester.”
“I think he was at the same art gallery as Prue. Is he an art buff?”
“Not that I know of. Look, Dylan, I know you’re getting nowhere with this, but it doesn’t matter, truly. Let’s have dinner. Let’s enjoy the evening.”
She was right about one thing. He was getting nowhere. But he would. He’d find Prue’s killer if it took him to the end of his days.
“Dinner,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go to the dining room. And later—” She leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Later, we can refresh our memories...”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dylan thought his own rented office was smart, but Tim Chandler’s made it look like a cheap lock-up. The swanky address ensured that only the well-heeled would walk past and, hopefully, gaze in the window to see details of exclusive homes for sale beneath that hot foreign sun. If you were interested in buying a villa, all you had to do was chat to their friendly staff and arrange a free trip to Portugal or the Algarve. Dylan quite fancied the idea. He wouldn’t want to live abroad but he wouldn’t mind a sightseeing trip funded by Chandler.
What he wanted right now, however, was a good night’s sleep. It had been late last night when he’d finally crawled into bed, having extricated himself from Maddie. He’d thought he was rebuking her advances on moral grounds, but his lack of interest had nothing to do with being a faithful married man. He hadn’t spared Bev’s feelings a thought. No, he’d stayed out of her bed because there was something about her he didn’t trust. Twenty-year-old memories had tempted him, but the grown-up Maddie didn’t.
He’d had little sleep though and, at first light, had driven to London and to Chandler’s office.
He walked into the vast reception area where his feet sank into a cream deep-pile carpet. Sofas and easy chairs were provided for the comfort of would-be buyers as they perused the array of glossy colour brochures on show. On one wall, a screen showed mouthwatering properties in the sun.
He approached a curved reception desk behind which sat a young, slim and extremely attractive young girl with perfect hair, fingernails and teeth. Everything about her was perfect.
“Hi, I’m Dylan Scott. I have an appointment with Tim and Eddie.”
She smiled a perfect smile and long slender fingers picked up a phone. She announced his presence to someone. “They won’t keep you a moment,” she said. “Would you care for a coffee while you wait?”
“No, thanks.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Scott.”
He didn’t. He walked round the reception area, looking at huge villas that boasted swimming pools bigger than Dylan’s home. Some had tennis courts. All were near a golf course. The timeshare properties were given a smaller space. They obviously weren’t as lucrative. Gleaming boats in sun-kissed marinas had a section of wall to themselves. In a couple of photos, Bryson was standing on board an expensive boat smiling for the camera.
The receptionist’s clone appeared.
“Mr. Scott? I’m Holly. Mr. Chandler is free now. If you’d like to follow me—”
Dylan followed her up a flight of steep stairs. Neither spoke.
“This way,” she said.
Their feet sank into the thick carpet as they walked to the door at the end of the corridor. She tapped on the door before pushing it open. “Mr. Scott to see you, Tim.”
Chandler rushed forward, hand outstretched. “Dylan, good to see you. Come in, come in.”
Dylan shook his hand and walked into a vast office that was empty apart from a huge glass-
and-chrome desk, high-backed chair and two or three armchairs set around a glass-and-chrome coffee table. Several large photographs of homes for millionaires adorned cream walls.
“I did say I wanted to see Eddie too,” Dylan said.
“And so you shall. He’s with our accountant at the moment, but he’ll join us in a few minutes. He knows you’re here. Can I get you a drink?”
“Thanks, but no.”
On Chandler’s desk was a silver framed photo of Maddie. She was smiling into the camera and it struck Dylan that her smile seemed genuine. It was the smile he remembered from twenty years ago. He hadn’t seen anything of it recently.
“Take a seat, take a seat.”
Jesus. Chandler was like a bloody parrot. Was he nervous? Dylan could think of no other reason for repeating every damn thing he said.
“Thanks.” Dylan sat in an armchair by the coffee table.
“So how’s it going, Dylan?” Chandler sat opposite him. “Have you made any progress? I’d love to be able to tell Maddie you were close to finding Prue’s killer.”
“Does she care?”
“Dylan!”
“Come off it, Tim. We both know that, for whatever reason, Maddie disliked Prue intensely. Loathed, I believe, was the term she used when telling me about it.”
Chandler tugged at the knot of his tie. “They weren’t close, but Maddie—well, she’s difficult to fathom at times. She’s really upset about Prue’s death, more than she’ll let on, and that’s probably because they weren’t close. I’m sure she has a lot of regrets. She’s a tough little thing though. She won’t let us know how much she’s hurting.”
“What happened to Prue and Maddie? Why were they so distant?”
“Nothing specific as far as I know,” Chandler said. “I’ve always imagined the age gap was too great. Five years is quite a lot.”
Again, Dylan thought of Freya and Luke and wondered if they’d ever be so distant. He didn’t think so. “How many times has Maddie been treated for depression?”
Chandler got to his feet and paced the room to stand in front of the window and gaze out at the City. His back was to Dylan but, after a few moments, he turned round. He stayed where he was, his hip resting on the windowsill. “Half a dozen, but what does the state of Maddie’s health have to do with Prue’s murder?”
“Possibly nothing. When was the last time?”
“September. Why do you ask?”
“Before or after you visited Prue in Paris?”
“After.” Chandler returned to his seat. “I’ll ask again. What does the state of Maddie’s health have to do with Prue’s murder?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Are you any further forward?” Chandler’s tone was mildly scoffing. “Are you sure you’re not just giving Maddie false hope—and spending my money?”
“No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure that, even if I learn what happened to Prue that night, I’ll ever be able to prove it.”
“Sorry.” Chandler patted Dylan’s knee. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know you’re doing the best you can.”
Patronising shit.
“So Maddie returned to London after seeing her sister and sank into a depression,” Dylan said.
“The two weren’t connected, but for a timescale it’s accurate, yes.”
“Why weren’t the two connected?”
“They weren’t. Maddie was fine when we returned. Why shouldn’t she be? She’d been working hard beforehand, which is one reason we thought we’d enjoy a weekend break. It was probably her workload that contributed to her depression.”
“Did she go to a clinic? A hospital?”
“She spent six weeks at the Arnthorpe Clinic.” Chandler was terse, and Dylan wasn’t surprised. The Arnthorpe was used by the elite. Chandler’s bank balance would still be recovering. She’d probably shared the sauna with royalty.
“She’s fine now,” Chandler went on. “She’s on medication to keep her moods stable. It’s just as well because she’s had a lot to endure lately, what with Prue’s death and the necessary work that goes with that.”
The door opened and Eddie Bryson, smiling from ear to ear, strode inside. As the door closed behind him, Dylan wondered if he’d used his stapler to fix that smile in place.
“Hi, Eddie,” Dylan said. “How are you?”
“Fine. What brings you here? Please tell me you’d like an eight-bedroom mansion in the sun.” He laughed loudly.
“I wouldn’t mind one,” Dylan said, “but despite what Tim might think, I’m not earning enough.”
Both men laughed. Dylan didn’t.
“I’d really like to know where you both were on the tenth of February,” he said.
“What?” Chandler looked as if Dylan had just asked him to run naked up the Mall.
“I need a few things clearing up,” Dylan said. “So you were—where?”
“Me?” Chandler was either playing for time or was too surprised to think straight. “Well, I was in Portugal. I’d left the day before and returned on the Saturday evening. Why do you want to know that, for God’s sake?”
“What about you, Eddie?”
“I can’t remember offhand. I can check, of course, but you’ll have to bear with me.”
Of course he could remember. Everyone knew exactly where they were when news of someone’s death broke. He might not have been close to Prue but he was close enough to Chandler for the death of his sister-in-law to register.
“That’s okay,” Dylan said, “I can refresh your memory. You were in Manchester.”
Dylan watched him closely. Those CCTV images had been of such poor quality that he had no idea if Bryson was in Manchester or not but, when you tossed wild guesses in the air, you had to watch very carefully for any reaction.
“Was I?”
“Yes. You visited an art gallery.”
“Well, well. If you say so. I remember being in Manchester around then, obviously, and I can remember escaping the rain and going inside a gallery to get a coffee, but I couldn’t have told you when.”
“So now you know. It’s a coincidence, isn’t it, that you were at the same art gallery at the exact same time as Prue?”
“Oh, my—” Bryson was either a good actor or as pure as the driven white stuff. Dylan would gamble on the former. “You mean I was at the same art gallery that poor Prue went to that day?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my.” He shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. “I never met her so I wouldn’t have recognised her, but even so. God, that’s taking spooky a bit far, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.”
“I remember now,” Chandler said. “You called me from that gallery, Eddie. We’d had problems with the Lacy account and you phoned me to see what we could sort out. I remember you saying you had an hour to kill before meeting Dennis Pemberton, and because it was raining, you were passing it in a gallery’s coffee shop.”
“I remember, yes,” Bryson said. “I still can’t believe I was in the same building as Prue. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“Minuscule. Where was Maddie?” Dylan asked.
“Maddie?” Chandler thought for a moment. “At home. At least, I think so. She was certainly there when Prue phoned her that evening. She may have gone to the shops, I don’t know. She was definitely in London though. Why all the questions, Dylan?”
“Oh, I’m just throwing out random questions to see where it takes me. What sort of car do you drive, Eddie?”
He’d already seen Chandler’s car and there was nothing about it to raise a sixteen-year-old’s attention. It was an expensive model, the latest Mercedes, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary in a way that would have captured Kevin Mills’s interest.
“Now this you don’t have to take my word for. Here.” Bryson was on his feet and gesturing for Dylan to join him at the window. “There’s mine.”
A lone VW Passat in dark green sat outside the building. It was disappointing
ly ordinary.
“What’s all this about cars and galleries?” Chandler sounded tetchy.
“I’m just being thorough.” Dylan gave him a confident smile. “Did you drive up to Manchester for your meeting, Eddie?”
There was the slightest hesitation. “No, I flew. It’s a damn sight easier and it means I can work on the plane. Why?”
“Just curious. What did you do? Get the train into Manchester? Hire a car? What?”
“I hired a car at the airport.” He shook his head in amusement. “I’d love to know where you’re going with this, Dylan.”
So would Dylan.
“Prue and Jack McIntyre,” he said. “What about that? Were either of you surprised to learn that she lived with him for a couple of months?”
“I was,” Chandler said.
“I never knew her,” Bryson said, “so I can’t comment. I’ve seen photos of her though and no, I wasn’t particularly surprised.”
“He was painting again, you know.” Dylan removed imaginary fluff from his jeans as he spoke. “If anyone could get their hands on those paintings, they’d never have to work again.”
“How do you know that?” Bryson asked. “It can only be hearsay, surely. He’s dead so he can’t tell us.”
“Oh, he was definitely painting again. I’ve managed to find the paintings. Six there are. Well, I found six. I suppose there could be more.”
“My God.” Bryson slapped his thigh. “Tell us more, Dylan. Where are they and how the hell did you find them?”
Dylan tapped the side of his nose. “You’re better off not knowing, believe me. You wouldn’t want to end up like Prue, would you?”
“You’re not telling me Prue had them, are you?” Bryson said.
“I’m not telling you anything. Really, it’s safer if you don’t know where they are. They were at my house for twenty-four hours and I didn’t relax for a second until they were out of there.” Dylan rose to his feet. “Well, thanks for your help, gentlemen. Sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.”
He swept out of their office before they had the chance to say more.
Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 23