The Gallery

by Fredrica Alleyn

  ‘You’ll have to use your initiative there,’ he responded curtly.

  ‘There was a Sir Peter Thornton mentioned,’ said Cressida, and she heard Detective Chief Inspector Williams draw in his breath sharply. ‘His daughter’s coming to work at the gallery for a few weeks. She’s just finished school, and reading between the lines I think her stepmother wants her out of the house. Does his name ring any bells?’

  ‘It certainly does. Sir Peter is one of our wealthiest industrialists, retired now of course – he must be mid-sixties – but he’s a patron of the arts and has a vast private collection of his own. You must get friendly with his daughter, WPC Farleigh, because through her you might get access to their home and find out just how well he knows Guy Cronje.’

  ‘From what Marcia told me, he knows him pretty well,’ said Cressida.

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. ‘He’s a good friend of mine,’ said Williams at last. ‘I don’t want him ending up in trouble because of this conman, so keep your wits about you and watch every move that’s made where he’s concerned, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Cressida politely, but when she put the phone down she was less than pleased. She’d intended to keep her wits about her in any case – just because Sir Peter was a friend of the detective chief inspector, it didn’t mean he was any more important than other people who might be being tricked by Guy Cronje and Marcia Neville.

  ‘It’s the old boys’ network,’ Tom told her when she rang him. ‘Same school, same university, maybe even the same doddering nanny when they were tiny! You have to learn to live with it, Cress. It’s what makes the world go round, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, why isn’t there an old girls’ network?’ demanded Cressida.

  ‘I expect there will be before too long,’ responded Tom. ‘Take care now. I’ll come round and see you tomorrow night. We can get a take-away in and talk things through.’

  Cressida agreed, although she wasn’t sure how long she and Tom were meant to carry on seeing each other now that she’d started her undercover work.

  The following morning was bright and unusually warm for early May. Cressida looked through her new wardrobe and picked out a sunshine yellow and white striped skirt with a matching scoop-necked sleeveless top and short-sleeved collarless jacket. The colours suited her and by the time she’d applied her make-up she felt very pleased with her appearance.

  It was only as she was driving to the gallery that she realised how quickly she was changing. A few weeks ago she would have crawled out of bed, pulled on her uniform, made sure she looked neat and tidy and then never considered her appearance for the rest of the day. But given a new wardrobe and a change of working environment, she was already thinking differently, even to the extent of worrying that she was wearing the wrong shade of lipstick. Although she told herself that this was because everyone had emphasised the importance of looks for the assignment, she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. She was enjoying herself, and this realisation was rather disturbing.

  ‘You’re still a policewoman, Cressida,’ she murmured as she turned into the parking area. ‘This is a glamorous piece of undercover work, nothing more. When the party’s over the gown goes back to the shop!’

  This time Marcia had already opened up when Cressida arrived, and very soon after that the first of the day’s customers began browsing through the gallery. Marcia had impressed upon Cressida that she must always watch the browsers carefully. ‘They mustn’t feel they’re being watched,’ she’d explained, ‘but if you’re not on your toes we can easily lose a small painting, or even a large one. Don’t ask me how they do it, but they do.’

  Luckily, watching people unobtrusively was something Cressida had had plenty of practice at doing, and she found that she could take phone calls and liaise with Marcia without missing anything that was going on in the gallery itself.

  By 11.30 it was quieter, and when a tall, elderly man, smartly dressed and beautifully spoken, arrived for an appointment with Marcia, Cressida showed him into the other woman’s office and then decided to have a second look at the paintings of Rick Marks.

  In the centre of the back wall, lit by a spotlight, there was one that drew Cressida almost against her will. The woman was standing with her arms up level with her shoulders, her wrists cuffed, and long thin chains extended upward into the air like marionette strings. Her hands were hanging down limply from the wrists, and her upper torso was angled slightly forward although the expression on her face was still visible. In the bottom right-hand corner of the picture stood a man, his naked back displaying tension in every line of the straining muscles and the whole scene made Cressida feel very strange.

  Her chest felt constricted and her breathing grew more rapid the longer she studied the picture. Moving closer she looked at the title. It was called ‘The Puppet’. Cressida gazed into the woman’s eyes, trying to work out what the expression in them conveyed, but she found it impossible to tell. They were dark and enigmatic and from certain angles it almost looked as though she was mocking the man in the corner, despite her chains.

  Cressida tried to imagine what it would feel like to be in that position – to stand, totally naked and defenceless, in front of a man who desired you so desperately. To be restrained in chains so that no matter what you wanted, it was the man who called the tune and touched your body how and when he wanted.

  Her stomach fluttered and she realised that her mouth was dry. She wanted to look away, to go back into the brightness of the gallery and look at some of the landscape paintings designed to soothe rather than disturb, but she couldn’t. Instead she stayed where she was in silent contemplation of the picture.

  She studied it for so long that she became the woman. She could feel the chains around her wrists and the discomfort of the muscles in her arms as she waited for the man to make his move.

  ‘Who’s really the puppet do you think?’ murmured a male voice in her ear, and with a cry of shock she spun round to see a man standing at her shoulder.

  ‘I thought he’d spoken,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Who?’ asked the man softly.

  Cressida had never felt so foolish. ‘The man in the picture,’ she muttered.

  ‘Ah, yes. I can understand that. She’s clearly waiting for him to move or speak, but look at her eyes. She’s a woman in control. He thinks she’s the puppet, but she knows better. He’s as much her slave as if he was wearing the chains. It’s his desire that enslaves him.’

  Feeling suddenly hot, Cressida turned and hurried out into the main gallery. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the doorbell ring. I would have come out sooner. Can I help you at all?’

  The man looked thoughtfully at her. ‘Not at this moment, but possibly later. I’m Guy Cronje, the owner of Room With a View. You, I imagine, are Cressida Farleigh?’

  Cressida, who was still trying to get her breathing under control, nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She held out her hand. ‘Again, I’m sorry I wasn’t at the desk.’

  ‘That’s not important. I came in the back way so the bell didn’t ring. You know, you’re exactly as I pictured you. Marcia described you very well.’

  Cressida smiled politely. Guy Cronje wasn’t at all what she’d expected. He fitted Sue’s general description: tall, slim and pale with dark hair cut quite short at the front and sides but brushing his collar at the back. However, nothing she’d been told had prepared her for the air of repressed tension that he exuded. His dark eyes seemed to burn right through her, they were so intense, and as he moved and talked he used his hands and arms to emphasise every point.

  He was wearing a light brown suit with a white shirt and fawn tie but he continually fiddled with his jacket, and now and again he’d touch the knot of his tie in a series of nervous gestures that seemed necessary to soak up some of the energy that was consuming him. He was charismatic, intriguing and the least relaxing person she’d ever met.

  ‘Well?’ he asked with a half-smile. />
  Cressida frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You were examining me very carefully. I wondered what the verdict was.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s a terrible habit of mine. I like painting portraits in my spare time, and I was trying to work out how I’d paint you,’ she lied, hoping he never asked to see any of her work because the only thing she could draw was breath.

  ‘I’ll sit for you some time,’ he promised, and then he turned quickly on his heel and walked swiftly down the gallery and into Marcia’s office.

  Cressida returned to the reception desk, and had just started thinking about ‘The Puppet’ again when a woman walked in with an enquiry about another of the gallery’s artists, so she tried to push the unsettling image out of her mind.

  About half an hour later, Guy emerged from Marcia’s office, paced up and down the gallery, put two new paintings up and then walked out of the building without even glancing in Cressida’s direction.

  When Polly arrived after lunch, Cressida mentioned the meeting to her. ‘He seems quite volatile,’ she said casually. ‘Not that he was in a bad mood or anything, but he’s got a lot of nervous habits and does everything at twice the normal speed. I imagine he’s capable of being difficult if things don’t go right.’

  Polly shrugged. ‘I don’t know him well enough to say. He and Marcia have been together some time now, I think, so she obviously doesn’t find him that difficult. Or if she does she thinks he’s worth it. Saskia was very smitten!’

  ‘He’s not my type,’ said Cressida truthfully, ignoring the fact that despite this she couldn’t get him out of her mind. ‘I prefer reliable men.’

  ‘You could probably rely on him giving you an exciting time!’ laughed Polly. ‘I know what you mean, though. He isn’t my type, but I wouldn’t mind spending a night with him, just to see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Fuss?’ asked Cressida.

  ‘Yes. In the time I’ve been here we’ve had three or four slightly hysterical women on the phone demanding to know where he is and why he doesn’t return their calls any longer. They’re all married women, of course, which means he can discard them and there’s nothing they can do about it.’

  ‘Did you know any of them?’ enquired Cressida, hoping for some names that she could pass on to Detective Chief Inspector Williams.

  ‘No, although there was one voice I thought I recognised.’

  ‘And Marcia doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Who knows what Marcia really thinks,’ responded Polly. ‘She certainly never shows that she minds, but then she never really lets on that she and Guy are an item either. Not here, at the gallery. Of course, they’re often seen out together, but again they can claim that’s business. It isn’t, Saskia told me, but the whole affair is kept pretty secret. it makes sense. Far better for everyone if they don’t mix their business life and their private life.’

  ‘Did Saskia go out with him?’ asked Cressida.

  Polly gave her a strange look. ‘You’re just like your friend, Sue, always asking questions. Yes, I think she did but from what she said they only had a meal and a couple of drinks.’

  ‘I’m always interested in other people’s lives,’ confessed Cressida. ‘So is Sue. That’s probably why we get on well!’

  ‘I prefer to remain in ignorance, it’s usually safer,’ said Polly enigmatically, and then she went off to see about some picture framing, leaving Cressida to go over what she’d said and work out if any of it was important as far as her undercover work was concerned.

  At 5.30 Marcia handed her a set of keys. ‘Could you open up for me tomorrow morning, Cressida? I’m out tonight and it will be late before I get back. I used to open the gallery at midday on Wednesdays, but we’re busier now and you’ve picked things up so quickly I feel quite happy leaving you in charge for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cressida, feeling a surge of triumph. If she was alone in the gallery from ten until noon then she could search Marcia’s office and go through all the filing cabinets, which was something Sue had never done.

  ‘I’m very pleased with how you’re doing,’ Marcia continued. ‘Guy told me you’re interested in Rick’s work. He’s due in tomorrow afternoon, so you’ll have a chance to meet him. Maybe he’ll ask you to pose for him!’ She laughed.

  Cressida shook her head. ‘I’m definitely not nude model material, I’m afraid.’

  Marcia raised her eyebrows. ‘What nonsense. You’ve got a lovely figure, and wonderful legs. Guy noticed them at once.’

  ‘How flattering,’ said Cressida, embarrassed but at the same time relieved because at least it meant that she might manage to get closer to him than Sue had done.

  ‘Yes, well, Guy does notice most attractive women,’ responded Marcia, her smile slipping briefly. ‘The only problem is, once he’s completed the chase he loses interest, which leads to a lot of broken hearts.’ Cressida didn’t reply, and after a moment’s hesitation, Marcia walked back into her office.

  Ten minutes later, Cressida left the gallery, and as she got into her car she noticed a black XJS parked next to her. Guy Cronje was sitting at the wheel but he had his head bent over a book and didn’t seem to see her. However, as she reversed out he watched her go in his driving mirror, and didn’t return to his book until she was out of sight.

  When Marcia finally joined him he glanced at her in a slightly questioning way, as though he’d never seen her before, and she felt a flicker of unease. Guy didn’t realise it, but whenever he looked at her like that it meant that he’d been thinking about someone else and that Marcia’s appearance had given him a surprise. She was used to it now, and could often head off the threat before too much damage was done, but sometimes she failed and then she suffered torments of jealousy until her lover’s insatiable desire for trying fresh conquests was temporarily slaked and he turned all his attention back to her.

  ‘What did you think of Cressida?’ she asked lightly, certain that it was their new assistant who’d caught his attention.

  Guy looked puzzled. ‘Cressida?’

  ‘Cressida Farleigh, the new girl at the gallery,’ explained Marcia, wondering who on earth it could be if it wasn’t Cressida.

  ‘She seems very suitable and she’s a great improvement on the last one. As I remarked, she got good legs, and if you’re happy with her work then let’s keep our fingers crossed that she stays.’

  ‘Are we going out tonight?’ asked Marcia. ‘I gave the gallery keys to Cressida because I thought I might need a lie in in the morning. Monday was bad enough, but I had to get there on time then as it was her first day.’

  Guy manoeuvred the car out into the fast-moving traffic. ‘Is that wise? How do you know she’s trustworthy?’

  ‘There’s no money on the premises! Besides, she was probably a Girl Guide or something, she’s so clearly a thoroughly decent girl.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t go poking about in our private papers,’ muttered Guy, swearing as a taxi cut him up.

  ‘Why on earth should she?’

  ‘Why indeed? I have a suspicious nature, that’s my problem. Now, about tonight. I thought that since she sent her solicitor to see you this afternoon, we should perhaps pay a call on Lady Alice Summers. She’s expecting me, but I’m sure that seeing both of us will only double her pleasure.’

  Marcia settled back in the passenger seat and smiled to herself. ‘I’m sure it will,’ she said softly. She then closed her eyes and began to picture the possible delights of the forthcoming evening.

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS A little after eight when Tom arrived at Cressida’s house that evening. She’d already telephoned Detective Chief Inspector Williams and, as she’d expected, he’d been delighted that Guy Cronje had spoken to her and made admiring comments to his partner. He’d also been pleased to learn that in the morning she would have a chance to search the whole gallery, but he reminded her to take care to replace things where she found them. Remembering Guy’s edgy nervousness,
Cressida thought this was probably very good advice.

  ‘Good day?’ asked Tom, throwing his scruffy zip jacket over the back of a chair.

  Cressida picked it up and hung it on a hook in the lobby. ‘Yes, it went well. I met the boss and I’ve been given the keys so that I can open up the gallery tomorrow. Not bad after two days, is it?’

  ‘They can’t have anything there that matters,’ said Tom dismissively. ‘No intelligent criminal would let a stranger loose in the place if there was anything there to hide.’

  ‘Perhaps he isn’t a criminal,’ said Cressida, intensely irritated by this put-down. ‘Maybe he’s what he seems – a successful promoter in the world of art – and your lot in CID are all totally wrong about him. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong? Have I said something I shouldn’t?’ asked Tom, clearly startled by her response.

  ‘I was feeling quite pleased with myself until you spoilt it,’ said Cressida shortly. ‘Even the great Detective Chief Inspector Williams said I’d done well, but apparently Detective Sergeant Tom Penfold knows better.’

  ‘I hope you do find something,’ he assured her. ‘It’s just hard to believe he’d make it that easy for you.’

  ‘Let’s forget work, shall we?’ suggested Cressida. ‘Do you still want to order a takeaway?’

  Tom smiled. ‘Later, perhaps. I thought we might find something else to occupy us for a while.’

  Cressida, who was still aroused by the memory of looking at ‘The Puppet’, felt a rush of excitement. ‘That sounds a good idea,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’

  Once they were in the bedroom Tom started to take his clothes off in his usual methodical way, but this time Cressida wanted to inject some of the urgency that she’d sensed in Guy Cronje into her sex life, and she quickly took off her own clothes and then began to undo the buttons on Tom’s shirt.

  ‘You’re in a rush!’ he exclaimed, taking a step back.

  ‘Let me undress you,’ suggested Cressida, but Tom still helped and when he was finally naked he stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, apparently uncertain how to proceed.