Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

  ‘No, not really,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Simon snagged the best prize – the Warner – there’s a lot of prestige in that. Winners often get shortlisted for the bigger prizes.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He is very good.’ She stabbed at a gherkin three times with a cocktail stick before she managed to spear it, then gave me a nudge, dragging me close to whisper in my ear. ‘Mark nearly didn’t come tonight.’ I glanced over at him without making it obvious. ‘He was hoping to land first prize in the Presner Award. We all thought it was in the bag, but he only got second. Got some crap publicity just before the shortlisting and we reckon that’s what did the damage.’

  ‘What about you? Were you pleased to get highly commended?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sore point, actually. My installation was tampered with just before the judges came in. Someone had shifted a chair and moved the stretcher. I don’t know who did it, but they ruined the whole bloody thing. Bastards.’ After a tense pause, she laughed. ‘I bet you thought all us artists were a sensitive touchy-feely bunch.’ She leered close to my face so that I got a full blast of garlic breath. ‘The truth is, when push comes to shove everyone’s in it for themselves – we’re all two-faced and bitchy.’ She scrunched up her napkin on her plate. ‘I need a pee.’ She got up and tottered towards the spiral stairs.

  I looked up at the others around the table. Rachel hadn’t said much at all. Kurtis, on the other hand, had barely stopped for breath.

  ‘Do you tutor many artists at the project?’ I asked him as he finished a mouthful of spicy chicken.

  ‘I’ve got lots of my own work on the go, so I only have three or four students, right now.’ Monica returned to her seat and he waved a stick of celery at her. ‘This madam, for one,’ he said. ‘She’s a bloody handful, but very gifted.’

  Monica put two fingers up at him and they both laughed.

  ‘He’s brrrilliant,’ she said, chewing a jalapeno pepper, decidedly worse for wear in terms of alcohol. ‘The best tutor we’ve got.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, that’s got to be Simon the Great. Seriously, Simon Schiffer is excellent. A credit to the place.’

  I wanted to cut through the banter with a specific question, but I didn’t know how, without it sounding contrived. I decided to come right out with it and having given Miranda a warning stare I addressed the whole table and asked if anyone had heard of the artist, Aiden Blake.

  Monica shook her head, Rachel shrugged, Miranda stayed silent.

  ‘Seen his name somewhere,’ said Kurtis, chewing a sprig of rocket. ‘Up-and-coming chap, by the sounds of it. Textiles, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Someone mentioned him… as a local student… I just wondered if–’

  ‘Yeah. At Chelsea, isn’t he?’ said Mark. ‘Works in shades of white, I think. He won the Topping Prize hands down last year. That would have made him a good few grand better off.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Our prizes are small fry compared to his. Good luck to him. It’ll still be a tough world once he gets out of college.’

  I threw Miranda a grateful glance for not blowing my cover and the conversation drifted in another direction.

  Kurtis handed me the jug of cream. ‘Is “Transformations” representative of your work?’ I ventured, as I tucked into the strawberry pavlova. It was surprisingly light and fluffy. As someone who had unfortunately been on the receiving end of Miranda’s cooking in years gone by, I questioned whether she’d done all this on her own.

  ‘It’s the only fountain I’ve tackled, so far,’ he said. ‘I’m working on a piece with alien-looking seedpods for Kew right now and I also make commemorative monuments. I’ve just done a bust of Abraham Lincoln for a museum in Bath and got a miniature version of Stonehenge for a park in Milton Keynes lined up for next year.’

  ‘And he’s got a commission from Canary Wharf,’ burst in Monica.

  Kurtis sniffed, rolling over the edge of his napkin. ‘Not quite. It was on the cards – they paid five percent – then changed their minds.’

  ‘Oh, what a blow,’ I said. ‘Still, it all sounds remarkable to me.’

  ‘Not really. Not when you consider what Monica’s working on, eh?’ He winked at her. ‘Go on, tell her,’ he coaxed.

  ‘No, it’s a secret. You know it is,’ reprimanded Monica.

  ‘In case you didn’t realise,’ he said in a low voice, ‘Monica is something of an extrovert. She’s the queen of performance art.’

  Monica stuck out her tongue at him.

  ‘See?’ he said, reaching for the bottle to top up our glasses. Monica seemed to have several glasses beside her at once, with wine, champagne as well as lager on the go. She refused to say more about her project so that was the last I heard of it.

  The music gradually mellowed into sombre ballads and inevitably, after more drinks, the topic of conversation turned to Kora.

  ‘Kurtis might make a memorial statue for her if we can get together enough money,’ said Miranda from across the table.

  Kurtis held up his hands. ‘Early days yet.’

  Monica pulled my elbow towards her, eager to whisper once more.

  ‘Kurtis has been hit pretty badly by Kora’s death,’ she said, her lips brushing my ear so only I could hear. ‘His sister died only a few months ago and I think it’s knocked him for six. She was an artist at CCAP, as well. Very gifted.’ She hesitated. ‘Drug addict… recovering, you know, like we all are. That’s how Kurtis got involved in the place.’ She straightened up with a sad nod.

  ‘I didn’t know Kora had a boyfriend,’ said Rachel, tactlessly. ‘The police said she was supposed to meet someone that night, a florist or something, but it all went badly wrong.’ She sniffed into a handkerchief.

  ‘She wasn’t seeing anyone,’ insisted Miranda. ‘Kora would never do that.’

  Mark chipped in. ‘Maybe she turned the guy down and he lost his rag.’

  ‘No, this was planned,’ said Miranda, pursing her lips. ‘Not an impulse reaction in the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I think he must have done it,’ said Rachel.

  ‘I spoke to Lou this morning and something doesn’t add up,’ said Mark. He’d had a lot to drink and had nearly fallen down the spiral staircase on his return from the bathroom. ‘Apparently, Kora was supposed to be meeting this flower guy that night, only Lou phoned him and told him Kora had already gone home… except he didn’t make the call.’ He swung his glass in the air, then took a long swig.

  Miranda got up to light an array of candles. I caught her eye, silently urging her to keep my involvement in the case under wraps.

  ‘There must have been someone else in the building,’ said Monica. ‘Someone who said he was Lou, who knew Kora was meeting this flower guy, who got hold of Kora’s phone and made the call to get rid of him. Then this same person must have told Kora she was supposed to go somewhere else… along the towpath. Miranda’s right, it was all carefully set up.’

  ‘Maybe they said her kid was ill…’ muttered Mark.

  ‘No,’ said Kurtis. ‘Lou said she wasn’t going home. She headed in the opposite direction.’

  ‘It certainly looks like whoever planned the whole thing knew Kora,’ said Miranda. ‘And knew her pretty well.’

  She stared at me, as if to press home the point that the police should be pursuing that line of enquiry.

  ‘Do you reckon it’s a serial killer?’ asked Mark. ‘Another woman was found yesterday, wasn’t she, near the same spot?’

  ‘Different M.O.,’ said Monica pretentiously. ‘I caught the news before I came out. Police said it was a Polish woman, lived in Islington. Strangled. She wasn’t on a bike.’

  ‘Well, we must all be very careful,’ said Kurtis gravely. ‘If there is a lunatic in the area, we need to make sure any women we know aren’t wandering about alone and certainly aren’t anywhere near the towpath.’

  ‘And who’s to say he’s just after women?’ said Monica. ‘Everyone needs to be on the lookout.’

>   Rachel and Monica left together before midnight and Kurtis called a taxi for Mark, who was about to curl up for the night uninvited on the sofa. I picked up a tea towel and started drying dishes in the kitchen.

  ‘No, you mustn’t,’ Miranda said. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘I know you can. I just want to make it easier for you.’

  It occurred to me then that there had indeed been a hidden pretext behind my invitation that evening. Miranda had wanted to prove a point. She had wanted to show me how capable she was, how good a hostess she could be, how normal and efficient she was, even after the huge upset.

  ‘You did a brilliant job,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with vibrant triumph in her voice. She lowered her voice. ‘I saw you chatting to Kurtis.’

  I was aware he was still in the adjacent room, finishing his coffee.

  ‘His fountain at CCAP is gorgeous,’ I whispered.

  ‘He tutors at CCAP for free, you know. Bet he didn’t tell you that. He’s one of the true professionals there and he does it for nothing.’

  Kurtis brought his empty mug into the kitchen and I left to find my jacket. Now that the main light had been switched on, I saw a scrapbook, just like Aiden’s, open on a coffee table in a corner. One of the others must have been flicking through it. Hearing the two of them chatting in the kitchen, I took a quick peek to see how it compared with Aiden’s. This one was less artistic and more like Aiden’s shoebox; full of press releases, newspaper clippings and photos. There was a printout of recent shots taken of the CCAP annual dinner and one of the new fountain.

  I recognised Simon Schiffer standing beside a woman who was cutting a ribbon. There were pictures of Miranda’s recent private exhibition and a copy of a flyer. Then another press photograph of Simon at a British Academy Award’s ceremony. I carefully peeled away the clipping and held it nearer the light. The woman to one side of him. I recognised her. There was no question – it was Honoré Craig-Doyle, one of the missing women, who owned a gallery in Chelsea. I remembered her distinctive Latin appearance from the missing person’s shot Jeremy had given me.

  I stood reeling on the spot, affected by the alcohol, but more so by what this might mean.

  Simon Schiffer knew Kora, Pippa – and now Honoré.

  I dithered, not sure whether to take the clipping or not. The music had stopped by now and as I sidled back towards the kitchen to say goodbye, I overheard Miranda say my name.

  ‘No, Sam hasn’t got a clue,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘I think it’ll be a real shock, actually…’

  What would be ‘a real shock’?

  They spotted me before I could pick up any more. The urge to ask what they were referring to was almost irresistible, but I knew Miranda too well. She’d only accuse me of eavesdropping, be defensive and bluff her way through it, leaving the evening in tatters.

  ‘I’m off now,’ I said cheerily. ‘Thanks for a wonderful time.’ Miranda reached out and gave me a wrap-around embrace, splashing soap suds from her rubber gloves onto my jacket. I held her tight, relishing that rare moment. I was glad I hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Going to the Tube?’ asked Kurtis.

  I nodded and he joined me.

  We didn’t chat about anything significant on the way, but there were no embarrassing silences. He seemed self-effacing; slightly world-weary, with a wise core.

  ‘Miranda’s great, isn’t she?’ he said, just before we parted at the ticket machines.

  I smiled. ‘She’s brilliant – but she’s hard work too.’ I lifted my shoulders. ‘Complicated.’

  ‘Look after each other,’ he said, his eyes earnest on mine. ‘Sisters are precious.’ He kicked at a cigarette butt on the tiled floor. ‘I lost mine.’

  I pretended not to know. ‘Oh, how awful – I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it another time perhaps,’ he said, patting my arm with a sad smile and turned in the direction of the signs pointing north.

  It was only when I was on the train that I realised I had the press cutting from Miranda’s scrapbook in my pocket.

  Chapter 33

  I was keen to get going the following morning. Rachel, the administrator, told me Simon Schiffer wouldn’t be at the art project until after lunch. As my plan depended on his absence, that suited me fine. On the way over, I received a call from Jeremy.

  ‘Where’s Aiden?’ I growled.

  ‘St Anne’s Hospital. Since he was released yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon? No one told me!’

  I felt clammy and cold, all in one.

  ‘He wasn’t taking visitors,’ he said smugly. ‘In any case, we agreed we’d inform you when he was being returned to the boat.’

  This man’s attitude was increasingly getting up my nose.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘He should be out after lunch. The detective chief superintendent wanted him sectioned, but Dr Herts said he couldn’t sanction it. Apparently, he thinks Mr Blake is not a danger to himself or the world at large; he’s suffering exhaustion and severe anxiety.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said, clutching my forehead. ‘What have you done to him?’

  Silence.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s spoken to anyone?’ I asked dryly.

  ‘No, as it happens.’

  ‘I told you he wouldn’t be able to help you.’

  ‘He’s not off the hook yet. He could have left the boat to kill Katarina. There is still the witness who said they saw someone matching his description on the towpath just before her body was found.’

  ‘It can’t have been him… it just can’t.’ I decided to spill the beans. ‘I found a press clipping from earlier this year that shows Simon Schiffer knew Honoré Craig-Doyle. Did you know about that?’

  ‘We’ve got all bases covered, Dr Willerby. Leave it to us.’

  I couldn’t tell whether his tone was reassuring or patronising.

  ‘Am I allowed to know anything more about this second murder?’

  ‘I can’t tell you much. The post-mortem indicates that Mrs Bartek was strangled elsewhere and dumped after the towpath gates were locked, sometime between around 11pm and 2am on the eleventh. She was dragged through a neatly clipped gap in the wire fence.’

  ‘And Murray Kent?’

  ‘He has an alibi. We’ve checked out Sponge, Kora’s partner, and he looks clean, too.’

  ‘Any good news?’

  ‘I’m not sure whether you’ll be glad about this or not… you’re fully reinstated as consultant psychologist regarding Mr Blake, if you want the job back.’

  ‘With Aiden as a witness and a potential suspect?’

  ‘I know, it’s complicated,’ he conceded. ‘We have to keep all avenues open. Are you up for it?’

  ‘I’ll need to check with work, first, they’ll be expecting me back.’

  ‘All done,’ he said. ‘Your locum is booked.’

  I was aghast. My life didn’t seem to belong to me any more. ‘Until when?’

  ‘Until we make some genuine headway, or you call it a day. Whichever comes first.’

  ‘That’s settled then. I’m not going anywhere,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back on the boat at lunch time, waiting for Aiden.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ he said. He left an overlong silence. ‘We don’t think it’s wise for you to stay with him. Our advice would be to leave the boat and go back to your flat. Visit him, for arranged appointments only and make sure someone knows where you are.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘He’s unstable.’

  ‘So, he’s well enough to be discharged, but not allowed to be around people?’

  ‘Go back home. Dr Herts thinks he’ll be no harm to anyone if he’s left alone on his boat. We’ll check up on him. Just drop in on him once a day to do your… therapy thing.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I don’t want him left on his own. He’s obviously in a very bad way.’

  ‘We can’t vo
uch for your safety round the clock.’

  ‘I have to be with him.’

  ‘I strongly advise you to reconsider, but I can’t force you to leave the boat.’

  ‘Okay then, I’m staying.’ And with that the call was over.

  I quickened my step. I wanted my mission at CCAP over with, so I could make sure everything was ready for Aiden back at the boat.

  My pretext for returning to CCAP was to ‘find’ a pair of reading glasses I’d supposedly left behind when I’d been there to see Simon. I didn’t use reading glasses, but no one needed to know that. The real reason for my visit was to dig around to see what I might be able to find out about his relationships with Kora, Pippa and Honoré.

  When I arrived, Rachel led me into the large airy studio where I’d spoken to Simon. She stood out from everyone else around the place, dressed over-formally in a navy-blue skirt and jacket and a high-necked white frilly blouse. More suitable for a job interview than toing and froing within a hair’s breadth of wet cavasses, spattering potters’ wheels and dusty grey sculptures.

  Inside, eight people in overalls had their heads down, immersed in their own intricate projects. Returning to the spot where Simon and I had chatted, I made a pretence of searching the bench and floor area.

  ‘My specs aren’t here,’ I said. ‘I must have left them somewhere else. No one’s handed them in?’

  ‘Not to me. I’ll ask round. At least stay for a coffee while you’re here,’ she said. She led me along to the kitchen. On the way, we passed a door marked Kiln and an odd acrid aroma followed us along the corridor.

  ‘What’s that funny smell?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Just the kiln. It’s used for firing all the pottery the users produce. It’s switched off now, but it stinks a bit all the time. Like burnt leather boots, I reckon. Simon will get it going this afternoon, I think.’

  I’d remembered the kiln had been roaring away when I’d left late last time. ‘Is it left on overnight?’

  ‘Sometimes. It depends if there are items waiting to be fired. It’s on complicated timers; it has to heat up to the right temperature and then cool down again or you can ruin all the pots. Each firing can take around twelve hours in all. Simon’s in charge, he’s the only one allowed to use it.’