by A J Waines
‘I heard it earlier, on the news. Not one of ours, thank God,’ he said, with only mild relief in his voice.
I stalled for a moment, completely stuck. I felt like a heavy-duty tractor blundering my way through a field of daisies, but I couldn’t give up now. ‘Can I see the interview you had in The Bulletin? Have you got a copy?’
‘Oh, really?’ He slid off his stool.
I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen through my ludicrous questions by now. ‘Marlene might have finished her call,’ he said, leading the way back to his office. The room was empty.
‘March, I think it was,’ I said, trying to save time.
He went to shelves in the corner and lifted down a box file. ‘Yes, here we are.’ He pulled out a laminated sheet, carefully preserved for posterity, and handed it to me.
I skimmed it quickly. ‘That’s really positive. Miranda is certainly in safe hands.’ Then as an apparent afterthought I said, ‘Oh, yes, it was Pippa French, I thought she was the journalist.’ I turned to watch his face. ‘Do you remember her?’
A direct question he couldn’t sidestep.
‘Vaguely.’ He shrugged and looked down. ‘March was a busy month, what with the new entrance hall being finished. And as I say, I do a lot of interviews; students, press, parents.’ He ushered me towards the door, looking like someone with better things to do. ‘They all blur into one after a while.’ He glanced at his watch and waited for me to take the hint.
I came away kicking myself. Just what exactly had I hoped to achieve by this charade? I walked to the corner of the grass and turned to look back, noticing the kiln flue smoking in a long white snake against the cloudless blue sky. That struck me as odd, given that Simon had told the man with the vase that it wouldn’t be running again until Monday. Perhaps I’d misunderstood.
Reluctantly, I returned to the boat. My footsteps petered out as I stepped onto the carpet in the saloon, giving me a stark reminder of how empty it felt. I’d never been alone all night on a boat before. Aiden had reasonable security, but it would only take a few whacks with a sharp axe and an intruder could be inside in less than thirty seconds.
That was how paranoid I’d become after Aiden’s arrest and the second murder. The idea of going back to my flat was sorely tempting, but I didn’t know when Aiden would be sent home. I didn’t want him thinking I’d deserted him.
I slid the bolt to my cabin closed, but as soon as I got into bed and put out the light, my brain began fizzing away. I sat against my pillows listening, but trying not to. I put my reading light on, then the radio, but decided it was a false comfort; if any sounds were going to alert me to danger, I needed to hear them. I waited, holding my breath. There was a distant police siren, a train rumbling over the arches and then nothing.
I started playing a game I often suggest to patients with insomnia. I call it a ‘game’ to make it sound fun, but it has short-lived amusement value. It involves running through the alphabet naming plants, countries, cities, actors – anything, to focus the mind on a simple, unemotional task. Working my way through vegetables I got as far as J and ground to a halt. My ears twitched. Then I heard a clatter. It was outside the boat, but close by. Someone was on the private pontoon.
I switched off the reading light and slid the curtain aside a fraction. Nothing but black-on-black. I craned my neck to try to see the front of the boat, but it was impossible at this angle. I waited to see if any of the shadows changed shape, but there was no movement, no sound.
I knew what I had to do. Check the boat. I pressed my hand over my chest in an attempt to make my heart slow down. It didn’t do the trick, but I braved the gloom outside my cabin, anyway. Darting from room to room in my bare feet, I pulled all the curtains closed, including Aiden’s cabin.
I shoved a chest of drawers in front of the external door at the bow end and barricaded the stern with a bookcase. I could hear every tiny sound; the creak of the woodwork as the boat rocked slightly, the rubbery thud as it grazed the pontoon, the patter of my feet. Perhaps the noise I’d heard had been a box flapping around in the wind or a rope coming loose. I couldn’t be certain, so I switched on most of the lights and carried the full drawer of cooking knives with me back to my room, together with a hefty rolling pin. As a final precaution, I rammed a chair under the door handle before crawling back into bed.
Chapter 31
I was breaking out of a turbulent dream about Aiden when morning came. It left me wrung out and on edge.
I poured myself a mug of Earl Grey tea, put a crumpet under the grill and managed to get through to Karen Foxton.
‘How is he?’ I snapped. I wished I’d made more fuss when he was carted away. I should have made them see that, in the state he was in, he was a potential suicide risk.
‘Er… distressed and emotional.’
My rage bubbled over. ‘I can’t believe you all let this happen! It’s utterly appalling. Totally out of order.’ Nothing came back. ‘I don’t suppose he’s said a word?’ I added.
There was a shred of hesitation; a reluctance to admit the shambles they were responsible for. ‘No.’
The brief told-you-so silence felt justified. ‘This could set him back months.’
‘With due respect, Dr Willerby, we have to go through all the correct procedures.’
‘So, what happens now?’
‘Dr Herts is going to speak to him again today.’
‘I’m sure that will be very useful,’ I said dryly. ‘You’ll have to let him go after twenty-four hours.’ I was about to end the call when Jeremy came on the line. I didn’t particularly want to talk to him. I knew I’d get angry and say something I’d regret.
‘Thought you might like to know about the second victim,’ he said.
‘I thought I was off the case?’
‘I’ve been talking to the borough commander about that. It’s turned into a slightly awkward political issue, in that the powers that be weren’t properly consulted about removing you.’
‘Elsa Claussen made the decision on her own?’
‘This is all confidential, you understand, but it could work in your favour.’
‘How?’
‘We’re not exactly sure yet, but it would be helpful if… you didn’t disappear too soon. Where are you now?’
‘On the boat.’
‘Right…’ There was a thread of humour in his voice.
‘When is Aiden being released?’
‘I can’t say. He’s going to be questioned, today. I thought DI Foxton just told you that.’
‘You do know it’s pointless keeping him, don’t you? I hope you’ve got him a good lawyer.’
He ignored me. I heard him exhale heavily. ‘DCI Wilde thought it could be useful if we shared certain bits of information with you… to see if anything Aiden has produced in your therapy could have a bearing.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘One of the last people to see Katarina Bartek was Henry Dodd, owner of Dodd & Son Funeral Directors in Islington. Do either of those names mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘The body of Katarina’s husband was held there and she went over to try to see him the day she was killed. Henry says he has no links to any artists or CCAP and Aiden didn’t react when he was shown his photograph. Katarina has no obvious links with art, hasn’t been to the Camden project as far as we know, so far. No regulars there recognised her photo and her name isn’t in the visitors’ book.’
‘Where was Murray Kent the night Katarina was killed?’
‘We’re checking his alibi now.’
‘We don’t know for certain, but it looks like Katarina was driven to the towpath and dumped. The post-mortem is this afternoon, so we’ll know more then.’
‘Why so close to the spot Kora was killed, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Killer knows the area? He got away with it the first time?’ he said wearily.
The conversation dried up after that.
I squeez
ed my eyes shut with a jolt of uneasiness. The deaths had to be connected.
I found myself mindlessly pacing up and down after that. I kept checking my phone, every hour, thinking the police should be contacting me. Keeping Aiden this long was diabolical. My phone rang at lunchtime, but it wasn’t the call I’d been hoping for. Instead, it was Miranda inviting me over for a ‘gathering’ that evening. An offer like that didn’t come too often from my sister; usually it was just the two of us, she rarely included me in her circle of friends. It crossed my mind that there was likely to be a catch. Nevertheless, my mind was made up when she said she was also expecting several members of CCAP to attend.
I arrived early to give her a hand, but Miranda looked irritated, rather than grateful.
‘I said seven o’clock,’ she muttered, throwing a duster over her shoulder.
The place was transformed; from warehouse to cosy dining room. Miranda had put strings of sparkly lights up everywhere and was in the process of stacking away all her painting gear under sheets.
I hung my jacket in the hall and helped her drag framed pictures behind the spiral staircase.
‘Don’t touch those ones,’ she snapped, as I reached for more canvases.
‘I’ll be careful,’ I said.
‘Some of them are wet, that’s all,’ she added, softening her tone.
There were six places set around the circular table; she must have borrowed dining chairs from somewhere, because I’d never seen more than two in the entire flat. The napkins had been expertly folded to look like lilies and there was a red rose laid across each plate. Silver hearts had been sprinkled over the tablecloth. Miranda had always been one to put on a show when she felt like it. She’d certainly pulled out all the stops this time.
She tossed a silk throw over the ripped arm of the sofa and I turned to clear away newspapers from a side table. On the top was an old family photograph I hadn’t seen in ages. Miranda must have been around twenty and I was eighteen. We’d spent Christmas in the New Forest and had been tramping through the woodland after lunch. Miranda was looking cold and grumpy and I was laughing at a stranger’s dog at the edge of the shot who’d been rolling in the fresh snow. My hair was the longest I ever remember having it and I looked carefree with rosy cheeks – innocent and unflappable. A family blithely unaware that we were about to be given a diagnosis that would change all of our lives. In fact, this might have been the last picture we’d had taken as a family before Miranda was taken into care.
I was relishing the poignant moment, when the photo was whisked out of my hands. ‘Leave that alone,’ she scolded, hiding it from me. ‘Why are you always snooping at my things?’
The doorbell rang before I could defend myself and a woman who introduced herself as Monica Tyler burst in giving both of us an overblown hug. She’d turned up in dusty dungarees and heavy Doc Marten boots, looking like she’d come straight from a building site. Designed to keep her bundle of jet-black ringlets at bay, a bright green scarf was wrapped precariously around her head. It merely created an unnecessary layer that threatened to topple down, so that she was constantly having to fiddle with it.
‘Kurtis said we were having five courses, is that right?’ she said, staring at the table.
‘With strawberry pavlova for dessert, your favourite,’ chuckled Miranda, her mood instantly brightened.
‘Miranda doesn’t do things by halves, does she?’ she said to me in a stage whisper as my sister handed her a bottle of lager from an ice bucket on the floor. I smiled faintly, handing her an empty glass and picking up a full glass of red wine for myself from a cluster on a small table.
Others arrived. I dropped back to let Miranda greet everyone.
Goldfrapp was playing in the background and bowls of olives and peanuts had already got fingers active. Given how recently their friend, Kora, had died I couldn’t decide whether this degree of excess was insensitive or could be excused on the basis of some kind of tribute. No one else, however, seemed to be bothered by any perceived tactlessness.
We all stood around waiting to be shown where to sit and Monica, hovering to my left, lifted her glass.
‘To Kora,’ she said, and the room echoed her words with gusto.
‘Have an olive, darling,’ said Monica, shoving a dish at me. ‘This is Rachel…’
Standing to my right was the CCAP administrator, Rachel Peel. She looked almost the opposite of Monica; tall, prim and reserved, checking furtively over the rim of her glass as if she’d never met anyone here before.
‘And this is Mark Ellerton,’ Monica added, reaching out for his arm as he was about to walk past. ‘He’s a good-for-nothing in most areas, but he’s a bloody good portrait painter.’
Mark gave a mock bow and threw his eyes to the ceiling when he straightened up.
‘Hi, I’m Kurtis Mills,’ said another man emerging from the hall, holding out his hand. Miranda had mentioned his name. ‘I’m a tutor at the project.’
Frothy ginger curls you’d associate with a clown sprouted from beneath a flamboyant tam-o'-shanter tartan cap, warming me to him in an instant. As he wrapped his fingers around my palm, I glanced down and instantly yanked my hand away. Crawling towards his knuckles was a massive spider. I let out a sharp squeal, then did a double take, my brain needing a second to register that it wasn’t real. An ingenious tattoo – as realistic as I’d ever seen.
‘Most women have that reaction when they meet me,’ he said playfully. ‘I still can’t work out why!’
I chuckled, my heart slowing down.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Monica called over. ‘He can’t resist pulling one over on unsuspecting strangers.’ She put her arms flamboyantly around his neck and gave him a loud mwah air-kiss beside each cheek.
As he flicked back his hair, I spotted another tattoo behind his ear; a cartoon caterpillar emerging from a ‘hole’ and another, a loop shape on the inside of his right wrist, although his sleeve obscured the rest of the motif. Unusual, clever trompe l'oeil skin art.
As he clinked his glass against mine, Kurtis saw my fascination. ‘These are real works of art,’ I said, lifting his hand to inspect it again. Even though I knew the spider was only a drawing, the way the shadows had been added under the bent legs still made me sense it was on the move.
‘Have you seen the new bronze fountain outside CCAP?’ Monica asked me. ‘The statue of Poseidon?’
‘I saw yesterday, as it happens… very impressive.’
She jabbed a thumb in his direction. ‘It’s a Kurtis Mills creation,’ she said, looking pleased with herself.
‘Really?’ I wasn’t sure if she was teasing me.
Miranda came through with the first starters; goats cheese tart with red pepper marmalade. ‘Yeah, it’s true,’ Miranda chimed in. ‘He’s amazing.’
Kurtis smiled, appearing genuinely touched. He looked like he was in his thirties, his mellifluous Scottish accent light and cheery as he chipped in with witty, slightly barbed comments.
Miranda brought the final plates through and in the absence of any instruction otherwise, we each took the nearest seat. She’d taken off her apron and looked glowing in an off-the-shoulder chiffon dress; more glamorous than I’d ever seen her. It made me wonder if either of the men here tonight, Kurtis or Mark, were in her sights.
‘Bloody hell, Miranda,’ squealed Monica, her eyes stretched wide. ‘If you weren’t riding on the other bus, darling, I’d snap you up.’
Miranda laughed and gave us all a flamboyant twirl revealing enough cleavage to squeeze a lemon. The burns she’d suffered on her arms and shoulders from the fire, over a year ago, were barely visible.
She tapped a spoon against the side of her glass, drawing us to a hush. ‘Now, you all know that we’re here tonight to pay tribute to our good and loyal friend, Kora.’ She put up her hand to show she wasn’t finished. ‘But we’re also here for another reason.’
Chapter 32
Everyone was holding up their glasses in anticipation. I see
med to be the only one at the dinner party who didn’t know what this was about.
‘We’re at this little gathering because we’re a bit special,’ announced Miranda. She giggled as the room erupted into a cheer. ‘Simon says we’re going to have proper ceremony at CCAP, but…’
I shuffled in my seat, not knowing what was coming next.
‘…you all know that the prizes have just been announced for this year and I wanted to name names, so we can all celebrate our successes.’
Another cheer.
She slipped a sheet of paper out from under her plate and held it up.
‘Mark Ellerton was runner-up in the Presner Award for best portrait.’ A whoop and ripple of applause followed. ‘Monica got highly commended for her installation, “Mortality”.’ Monica stood up and launched into a drunken happy dance, but almost fell over and had to be caught by Kurtis. She gave me a high five as she slumped back into her seat.
‘Simon… he couldn’t be here tonight, got the Warner Prize for his sculptures,’ she snatched a breath. ‘Kurtis was highly commended in the same category… yay… and that leaves… me – I got the Scott Award for abstract oils and a cheque for 500 quid – hence all the bubbly tonight!’
A roar broke out around me as they all jumped up and down, hugging each other. I joined in with loud cheering, forcing the biggest smile I could muster onto my lips.
Miranda hadn’t told me. When did she know about it?
‘Wow – that’s fabulous!’ I called out.
A round of individual hugs and kisses followed and when I was faced with Miranda, I did my utmost to clear the hurt from my voice.
‘That’s awesome. I’m really proud of you.’ I hugged her close, wondering why we hadn’t been able to share this special moment, just the two of us, first.
As the merriment died down and we tucked into our food, Monica reeled off several lewd stories about staff at CCAP. Mark took over, launching into a barrage of not very funny anecdotes about the art world.
Monica turned to me. ‘Do you know much about the awards?’ she asked, each word sliding into the next.