Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

  Beyond that, I had nothing. My brain had come to a standstill.

  I awoke to find my phone vibrating under my fingers. I must have been clutching it all night.

  It was DI Fenway. ‘I thought I’d better check up on you both.’ I might have been touched by his concern had I not heard the disdain in his voice. ‘How is Aiden after yesterday? Do you have any delayed symptoms?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said breezily. I wandered towards Aiden’s cabin and heard drawers closing, then his en suite shower running. ‘Aiden seems to be up and about.’

  I walked into the saloon. Terry had gone. He’d returned the cushions to the seat and left the pillows on top. I sat down beside the place where he’d slept.

  ‘For your information, Simon Schiffer has been arrested and charged,’ he said.

  ‘Wow!’ I was on my feet before I realised he wasn’t sharing my euphoria. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We’ve had him under surveillance for a while and carried out a raid at CCAP last night. It looks like he’s been using the kiln illegally to fire porcelain dentures on the cheap.’ ‘The tooth…’

  ‘Not only that, in order to keep CCAP financially afloat, he’s been involved in selling cheap dental supplies overseas.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  The tooth, the kiln – that’s what it was about?

  ‘He’s on bail.’

  ‘You’ve let him out?’

  His response was flat-packed. ‘We’ve got nothing connecting him to either of the murders. This looks completely separate.’

  ‘He knew Kora. He knew Pippa – she interviewed him. He knew the other missing woman, too – Honoré, from the gallery.’

  ‘His alibis stack up – he was in Chichester the night Katarina was killed. He’d just finished giving a lecture in Fulham when Kora was attacked.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘So, Simon’s not even a suspect?’

  ‘Not at the moment. It’s a different charge altogether.’

  ‘Making false teeth? Is that it?’

  ‘It’s a serious offence.’ He muffled a yawn. ‘Want some better news?’ He sounded more upbeat. ‘Looks like the net is closing in around Henry Dodd. After scrutiny, one of his alibis isn’t quite so sound as it should be and, apparently, he’s been leasing his mortuary out, overnight.’

  His words turned my stomach. ‘What? Letting other people use his mortuary? Why? Who?’

  ‘That’s what we need to know. He says it’s a little earner on the side – he gets cash up front and doesn’t know any names, but I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘What on earth is someone using his mortuary for after dark? Why would you regularly need a mortuary, other than to store dead bodies?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ he said with exasperation. ‘Apart from Pippa’s earring, the place came up clean.’ He seemed to have nothing more. ‘Any progress your end? Aiden spilling the beans yet?’

  ‘He did leave some kind of message for me during the night, but I don’t understand it,’ I admitted. ‘He’s set up a replica of Kora’s crime scene with a glove and teeth in a pattern over the top.’

  I squeezed my fists tight during the pause that followed, silently beseeching a light to flick on in at least one of our heads.

  ‘Means nothing to me,’ he said wearily. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  I heard him suck air through his teeth. ‘Listen – glad you’re okay. Got to go.’

  I stood over the sand tray scrutinising it again. A glove… with small teeth running over it. Had the killer been wearing gloves with a distinctive design on them? I cursed myself for being so dim. I suddenly thought of Miranda – she and Simon were a secret item. How would she be coping after his impromptu arrest?

  I called her mobile, but it was switched off. She might have decided she wanted nothing to do with me, but I still needed to know she was okay. I tried CCAP. Rachel answered, sounding upset.

  ‘Something awful has happened,’ she spluttered. ‘The police have–’

  ‘Is Miranda there?’ I butted in.

  ‘It’s Simon… the police have–’

  ‘Arrested him. I know. Is Miranda at CCAP?’ I persisted. ‘It’s Dr Willerby, her sister.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Actually, I’m trying to reach her. She’s not answering her phone. I texted everyone for an emergency meeting this morning and she hasn’t shown up. It’s not like her.’

  ‘Can you ring me back if she arrives?’ I urged.

  I made myself sit down and closed my eyes. Everything was one big muddle. Simon Schiffer had been on the police radar for some time. No wonder Fenway didn’t want me poking my nose in about the tooth I’d found. They knew about that. Simon had committed a crime by using the kiln to produce dentures on the cheap, but there was nothing to link him to either of the deaths. We were back to square one.

  Or rather, the landscape had radically shifted. I had to get a grip on what this new information meant in terms of the whole picture, a picture in which my own sister may be playing some unexpected part.

  I took slow deep breaths to calm myself down, but my head was buzzing. Bright lights flickered in the black space behind my eyelids.

  I had the feeling the answer to everything was right under my nose.

  Chapter 44

  Aiden emerged from his cabin earlier than usual, looking refreshed with better colour in his cheeks. I pretended not to watch him. I still felt awkward after the kiss. He didn’t appear perturbed in the least, but for once I was glad he wasn’t speaking – I only wanted to forget it had ever happened.

  I stood over the scene he’d made last night in the sand tray. I had so many questions.

  ‘The glove… the teeth,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand. Can you show me more?’

  He frowned, pressing his knuckles against his mouth as he stared at the tableau. I had to be careful. I didn’t want to push him. At times, he looked deceptively calm and assured, but I had to remember how broken he was inside.

  I had an idea. I left him for a second and went to the back of the boat where I’d seen a number of jackets hanging up. I checked the pockets until I came across what I was looking for.

  ‘Did you see someone by the boat wearing gloves that night?’ I asked him, placing the pair of gloves next to the tray. ‘The person who came to unclip the wire?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Did the gloves have a pattern on them? The teeth?’ My words fizzled out. I didn’t even know the right questions to ask him. I opened out my hands in a gesture of helplessness, inviting him to do something with the gloves to make me understand, but he stared at them as if they were dangerous and began to tremble.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. I led him away from the table, left him sitting on a stool in the sun, outside the front door.

  I sat by a window, feeling impotent, waiting for the police to make up their minds about Henry Dodd. Waiting for them to find that vital bit of evidence that would point the finger to whoever the towpath killer was.

  As the gentle breeze wafted over my shoulders I went back to the beginning. Using my phone, I skimmed through all the art-related features I could find that were written by Pippa French. Could there be a clue within them we’d all missed? I reread the one with Simon Schiffer at CCAP; but there was nothing unusual about it. No one knew then where most of his funding was coming from.

  I read another with the painter Shire McGann. He’d been taken on as a client at the Craig-Doyle Gallery in Chelsea and, as a result, his career had hit the big time. That created a link between Pippa and Honoré Craig-Doyle, so I looked him up, but he was living in Bonn. I glanced through several more features with writers and playwrights, but could find nothing that stood out.

  I’d been concentrating on her interviews for The Bulletin, but after a few more searches, a new set of features came up written on a freelance basis, for magazines such as Tatler and Vogue. They were mainly about screen celebrities, but there was one
that caught my eye. It referred to an artist whose stick-thin sculpted figures had been criticised by the journalist for being a ‘pale shadow’ of Giacometti’s:

  “We’re not seeing anything new here,” says art critic, Norman Brandt. “I’m not the only connoisseur to describe his work as unimaginative. Perhaps he should stick to his neo-classical garden pieces.”

  Ouch. The artist in question was Kurtis Mills. When compared with most of Pippa’s other interviews, it was harsh. But surely, all artists got bad reviews from time to time. It didn’t mean much in itself.

  I skimmed through the rest of Pippa’s interviews and noticed one name cropping up more than most; Honoré Craig-Doyle. She had taken on a number of up-and-coming artists in the past year and Pippa appeared to think highly of her gallery. They certainly knew each other.

  It was time to pay her place a visit.

  Before I left, I asked Aiden if I could take some samples of his work with me.

  ‘I’ll bring everything back in one piece, I promise,’ I said. ‘I need to jog a few people’s memories.’

  He made no signs of objection, so I went ahead and trawled the boat for portable examples of Aiden’s best work and, together with a selection of his photographs, put them in the carry-case he left out for me. Before I left the boat I made a quick call to Didier. He confirmed he’d be around all day and would watch Aiden.

  On my way to the station I tried Miranda’s phone, but it was switched off again. I cut the connection. As I hopped on the Docklands’ train, I called CCAP once more. No one had heard from Miranda and, quite out of character, she hadn’t turned up for her therapy at 11am.

  I felt a quiver of worry run through my body as I slipped the phone back in my bag.

  The Craig-Doyle Gallery was a classy affair; immaculate high walls, with larger than life silver dome lampshades dangling from the ceiling. The parquet floor was polished to a shine that reflected the sunlight, but which also gave it the patina of black ice. After two steps I was forced to grab hold of a chair – a plastic one curved into an ‘S’ shape. All so very state-of-the-art, but desperately impractical. I managed to slip and slide to the reception desk and was greeted by a woman who looked like she’d walked straight off the set of a James Bond production. Sleek hair scooped up into a French twist, a plunging neckline and retro winged-spectacles propped on the end of her nose.

  ‘I know I should have made an appointment,’ I said, ‘but I wondered if I could have a few moments of your time.’

  ‘Mr Kilroy is busy at the moment. What’s it about?’ The response matched the look; pouty with a touch of frost.

  ‘I have some work here you might be interested in. My client wants to remain anonymous for the time being, but he’s won various national awards and shows tremendous potential.’ I unzipped the case and placed a couple of Aiden’s sketches in front of her.

  ‘He’s your client?’ she queried.

  ‘I’m his publicist. You’re the first gallery I’ve approached because of your… reputation.’

  ‘We normally expect an introduction in writing,’ she said, snootily. ‘We only offer an interview if we’re interested.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Only, Honoré told me to come in, before she–’

  ‘You know Honoré?’

  ‘Personal friend,’ I said. ‘We met at Fitzwilliam College. Chess club.’ I’d read enough of Pippa’s features to know a few facts about Honoré by now. The Bond girl melted a fraction. I held out my hand. ‘Emma Watson,’ I said. I’d come prepared this time; providing a name I knew would bombard her with hits should she try to Google me.

  ‘Mrs Perez might be able to see you,’ she conceded. ‘Just hold on.’ She disappeared through a frosted glass door. Moments later another woman appeared.

  ‘Come through, Mrs Watson,’ she said. She shook my hand and led me to a spartan office. On the smoked glass door was a sticky rectangle of glue, as if a sign had been recently removed. There was a wooden filing cabinet in the corner and a laptop set up on the desk. That’s all. Either she’d just moved in or business was slow.

  I leant the case against the desk and began showing her Aiden’s work. Mrs Perez hummed and hawed in a non-committal fashion, stroking her over-made-up cheek with glossy red talons. As she did, I allowed my eyes to wander, settling on a large cardboard box on the floor to my left. Inside were personal belongings; a mug, desk-diary, picture frames and a make-up bag. Sticking out at the top was a sign that matched the sticky shape on the door. I was able to make out the first few letters: Hono…

  The agency had decided she wasn’t coming back.

  ‘The theme of “white”…’ she said in a vague manner. ‘Isn’t there a new kid on the block already doing this somewhere?’ Her up-to-the-minute knowledge took me by surprise. I’d need to tread carefully. ‘Honoré’s been to view his work,’ she said. ‘At one of the London colleges, I believe.’

  A bubble of panic caught in my throat and I took the opportunity to turn it into a debilitating cough, the kind my pipe-smoking grandfather would have been proud of. I needed to play for time.

  She waited in vain for me to compose myself.

  ‘Glass of water…’ I croaked, hacking uncontrollably.

  She disappeared. Once her spine-like heels had clacked into the distance, I shot over to the filing cabinet half-expecting it to be locked. I had the list of names with me; artists Pippa had interviewed as well as the ones Miranda had announced at her special dinner party. If any of them had ever applied for representation here, there should be a record of it, somewhere. Had any of them felt badly treated by Honoré? Could that be a motive?

  The top drawer, labelled simply ‘A–H’, glided towards me, half-empty with flaccid files. Most of the details were probably in an online database. I shut it carefully and turned to the computer.

  Fortunately, Mrs Perez was already logged in. I made a few clicks to reach the full list of documents, then frantically scanned through them to find details of submissions. Catalogues… Current clients… I scrolled down to ‘S’. Submission Guidelines… then Submissions. I opened the one for this year and scrolled down.

  There was no file for Mark Ellerton, so I carried on. Manson, Mendez… Mills, Kurtis. I didn’t have time to read it, so I grabbed the memory stick I always carried with me from my bag, slotted it into the USB port and copied the files over. I heard the clack of heels and was about to snatch it out again, when they stopped. Mrs Perez began speaking to someone in the corridor. I still had Simon Schiffer and Monica Tyler left to check, further down the alphabet. I ran through the files at break-neck speed. Simon – no. Monica – yes. I copied that one, too. By now, the heels were almost at the door.

  Willerby. What about Miranda? She would be right at the end.

  There wasn’t time. I ejected the stick and held it in my sweaty palm, hurriedly restoring the screen to the last document she’d been working on.

  Mrs Perez found me leaning on her desk, past the worst of my manufactured coughing fit and into the throat-clearing and laboured breathing phase. I drank greedily from the glass she handed to me and thanked her. For the next ten minutes I played out the charade of submitting my client’s work for representation.

  After a short period, during which time Mrs Perez pretended to think about it, she turned me down.

  ‘This is just too similar to the work of this student we’ve already got our eye on… Aaron or Eamonn something.’ I didn’t correct her.

  I pulled together all the sketches and photos, and got out of there as quickly as I could.

  I walked for a while so that I was no longer in the neighbourhood and found a quiet café. At the back, over a coffee, I took out my tablet to look at the two files I’d copied.

  Monica’s file held all the submission data you would expect; scanned copies of letters, a CV, images of her installations, links to websites. A PDF file contained a scanned contract signed two years ago with the address of their sister gallery in New York at the top, but
it was the document dated three months ago that jumped out at me. To my untrained eye it seemed to outline a breach of contract. Beneath it, was a letter to Monica stating that following legal advice, unfortunately the gallery in New York was terminating her contract. It had Honoré’s signature along the bottom.

  Kurtis Mill’s file was more straightforward. The same submission details, together with the address of his workshop in Kentish Town, a small map, then the name of the foundry he used in Surrey. He was interviewed in April and offered representation, only there was a big black line drawn through the scanned copy of that letter. Another page followed in the same PDF file, dated May, explaining to Kurtis that in light of the Canary Wharf commission having been retracted, the gallery wanted to reconsider their position. A handwritten note across the top stated ‘offer withdrawn’. Kurtis must have had his hopes raised, then horribly dashed.

  I rang Fenway straight away.

  ‘Yeah – we’ve covered this ground, Dr Willerby,’ he said, sounding weary. ‘We’ve examined the client files from the gallery. We’ve already considered that the two missing women might be the product of a bruised narcissist taking revenge, like you suggest, but Kurtis Mills has solid alibis for the deaths of Kora and Katarina.’ I remembered Fenway at some point saying Miranda was one of them.

  ‘What about Monica Tyler? We concluded that both attacks could have been carried out by a woman, right? The witness who described Aiden near Katarina’s body later changed her mind and said it could have been a female figure, didn’t she?’

  As soon as I said it, I knew there was a problem. If the mysterious figure on the towpath matched Aiden’s description – with fair hair and a tall, slight frame – there was no way it could have been Monica.