by Lena Jones
‘OK …’ I say, scanning her clothing, her stance and her expression. I don’t believe you can work out much about a person from a photograph – especially a posed one, when they’re on their guard – but a person’s choice of dress says a little about how they want to be seen. And how a person desires to be viewed offers certain hints regarding the way they feel about themselves. Elizabeth MacDonald, I decide, is clearly secure enough in her knowledge and experience of the art world not to feel the need to resort to designer clothing or outrageous dress, in order to make her mark.
He draws another sheet from the file: a square photograph.
‘And this is Sheila Smith, the senior curator.’ The picture shows a woman with wavy blonde hair and bright-red lipstick. He places a one-page document below the image. ‘And this is the report on her disappearance.’
I look up sharply. This is the first time he’s lost his jovial tone and seems genuinely grave. ‘Disappearance?’
‘That’s right. She was reported missing yesterday morning, by Dr MacDonald – although it seems that no one’s seen her since Friday night, when she failed to board a flight.’
I take a moment to process this. ‘How long have you been working on this case then?’
‘I’d only just started when I met you at the Van Gogh yesterday. I’d come straight from a meeting with Dr MacDonald. In fact, I had thought I’d be teamed up with Sofia. Between ourselves, I was quite relieved when she had to fill in for someone who’s off sick. She’s a bit … uptight, if you know what I mean?’
I laugh. ‘So, where was Sheila meant to be going?’
He draws out a notebook from his rear trouser pocket and consults his notes. ‘Colombia,’ he replies, ‘to view a painting that’s just come on the market. The National Gallery’s interested in buying it. It was the art dealer over there, in Bogotá, who called Dr MacDonald on Monday morning, to say Sheila had never arrived.’
‘Has anyone checked if she boarded the plane?’
He nods. ‘Dr MacDonald made enquiries with the airport. It was a late-night flight – eleven o’clock – but Sheila never checked in.’
‘What about her family?’
‘They haven’t heard from her.’
‘Why didn’t someone just call the police?’ I ask. ‘It sounds like a straightforward missing person’s case.’
‘Ah. The police aren’t convinced there’s “foul play” involved. They say Ms Smith is perfectly within her rights to take off without notifying anyone. They did have a quick check of her flat, and there was no sign of a struggle. Also, her passport’s missing, so she could have gone anywhere – by ferry, if not by plane. They said they’re happy to hand it over to a private investigator for now, which is why Dr MacDonald contacted us. There’s an agreement that we must tell the police if we turn up anything serious. And they said they’ll have to intervene if we haven’t found her by Friday evening.’
‘We need to get a move on then,’ I say. ‘What else is in that folder?’
‘Not much – it’s waiting to be filled. Oh – I’m meant to give you this.’ He hands me a fake ID badge, with my name beneath my photo and a company name.
‘Who are Prodigal Investigations?’ I ask.
‘That’s our undercover employer, while we’re working this case. It avoids awkward questions about the Guild. The story goes that we’ve been recruited by a PI agency that specialises in hiring promising young people. It’s just to show to anyone who asks too many questions.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say and stash the badge in the outside pocket of my backpack.
He skims through his notes. ‘What I found out from my tête-à-tête with Dr MacDonald was that she’s approaching retirement, and that she’s from an old Scottish clan who own lots of land. They even have an island! It’s called the Isle of Fairhaven. She’s planning on going to live there when she retires from the gallery.’ He puts on a pretty convincing old lady’s voice – complete with Scottish accent – and says, ‘I’m going to pass the autumn of my years on the Isle of Fairhaven.’
I laugh. ‘Is that what she sounds like?’
‘It is, and that’s what she said, verbatim, when I interviewed her yesterday.’ He slips back into Scots mode. ‘She’s such a dear, wee little thing.’ If I’m honest, part of me is a bit uncomfortable about his mockery of Dr MacDonald (I’ve been on the receiving end of too much teasing myself) but I can’t help laughing again – he’s too funny.
‘Her own island,’ I murmur. I picture the tiny plot of land in the Serpentine, to which I’ve rowed from time to time, and wonder how big the MacDonald clan’s isle might be.
‘So where do you think we should start?’ he asks me.
I’m flattered that Arthur thinks enough of me to ask my opinion, when he’s clearly the more experienced agent. I do a mental run-through of important early procedures, from a book I’ve read five times: Complete Crime Scene Investigation Handbook. It tells you that one of the first things is to think of the obvious, and so I say, ‘Have you been to Sheila’s home yet, to search for clues?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I haven’t really started yet.’
I draw Sheila’s photo close for a good look. She’s probably in her early fifties, dressed in a trouser suit, with one hand in her trouser pocket. With her glossy, blonde, shoulder-length hair, she has a vintage-film-star quality, like Greta Garbo or Rita Hayworth.
‘When was Sheila last seen?’ I ask him. ‘I mean, I know it was Friday night, but what time and where?’
‘At work. She got her coat at five thirty and said goodbye to all the staff. Apparently, she prides herself on knowing the names of all her colleagues, on both the art history and art maintenance sides.’
I like the sound of Sheila.
‘And did anyone witness her leaving through the main entrance?’
He consults his notebook. ‘No. The person on reception was busy with a tour group, so nobody actually saw her go.’
‘So she might have been kidnapped directly from the gallery.’
‘Or she might even still be there,’ he suggests. ‘Either hiding, for some reason, or tied up by an assailant.’
This sounds unlikely to me. ‘Surely someone would have come across her by now, if she was being kept hostage in the building.’
‘A good investigator doesn’t rule anything out,’ he says.
‘True. So we need to check the security cameras to make sure she did leave, and see what time it was.’
‘Good idea.’
I Change Channel and summon up a view of the National Gallery, with its roof removed, as if I’m floating above it. If I was Sheila Smith and I wanted to hide here, where would I go? And if I was her assailant, where would I put her, alive or dead?
It takes me a moment to realise Arthur is speaking to me. ‘Hello? Earth calling Agatha …’
‘Sorry!’
‘Where did you go?’ he asks.
I blush. ‘I just switched off this room inside my head and shone a light inside the gallery building.’
Most of the time, people look at me politely or with mild concern when I explain my Change-Channel mechanism. Not Arthur, though. ‘Oh – I do that!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I call it Auto-Focusing!’
‘Changing Channel!’ I say. I catch his eye and we laugh.
‘I guess the Guild attracts a certain brand of weirdo,’ he says.
‘I prefer “maverick”,’ I say. ‘You know – someone who’s happy to do things their own way.’
He grins. ‘OK. Maverick it is. Let the investigation begin!’
Arthur and I agree to start our search at the gallery. He calls ahead, to get clearance from Dr MacDonald for us to view the CCTV footage and speak to some of the attendants who were around on Friday.
‘So, does everyone who works there know she’s gone missing?’ I call to him as we cycle through the tunnel network towards Trafalgar Square. The wind’s strong in this section, causing my bike to make a strange whistling sound, as if i
t’s alive.
‘They should do. Dr MacDonald made a staff announcement. Tread a bit gently, though, in case anyone missed it.’
Above ground, I return my hired bike to one of the public racks close to Trafalgar Square, while Arthur chains his to a lamppost. Then we walk across Trafalgar Square, past Nelson’s Column and the four giant black lions on their pedestals, and stride up the steps to the gallery and through the revolving doors.
At the reception desk, a man in a National Gallery T-shirt is fielding enquiries and directing visitors to the various rooms and exhibits.
‘Hi,’ says Arthur, when it’s our turn. ‘We should be on your list to visit your security office.’
The receptionist only appears a little surprised to be confronted by a pair of school-age investigators. Dr MacDonald must have forewarned him. He consults a clipboard. ‘May I have your names?’ he asks politely. We hand over our fake ID badges.
‘Ah, yes – I’ve got you here. The security manager says you’re to go straight to the security office. It’s here,’ he opens a folded gallery map and draws a black ring round a room set in a distant part of the building. She’s let the security guard on duty know you’re to be helped with whatever you need.’ He hands us security passes. ‘These will get you through the doors.’
‘Thank you,’ we say politely.
Before we head off, I ask him, ‘Were you here on Friday, at around five thirty?’
He nods. ‘Why do you ask?’
I lower my voice. ‘You’ve heard about Sheila Smith?’
‘Yes – it’s very worrying. As I told Dr MacDonald, I was on the desk, but I didn’t see Sheila. She normally says goodbye, but on Friday afternoon I was tied up with a party of tourists. They were rather lively,’ he says ruefully.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Arthur. ‘It sounds like you had your hands full.’
‘We’re going to do everything we can to find her,’ I assure him.
He shoots me a doubtful look. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you do seem quite young …’
‘Oh,’ I say quickly, ‘don’t worry – we’ll report back to our manager.’
We move off, leaving him to deal with the queue that’s formed behind us.
We turn left, then right, before heading down a long corridor and through some staff doors that require us to scan our passes, and I realise that Arthur isn’t consulting the map – and he isn’t following me.
‘Do you know the way?’ I ask.
He looks slightly embarrassed. ‘Er … yeah. I have this ability …’
‘To remember routes you’ve only seen once?’
He stops short and turns to look at me. ‘You too?’ he asks.
‘Yep.’
‘So that means we both have the Auto-Focus/Change Channel thing and the map-memory trick … What else do you reckon we have in common?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. But I’m looking forward to finding out.
I can’t remember ever meeting someone so similar to me before. I’ve tended to be resented – rather than celebrated – for my unusual brain. Even around Brianna and Liam, I sometimes avoid stating exactly how I know things, and just let them call it a ‘hunch’. Photographic memory and mental filing cabinets only make sense to people whose minds work in a similar way – and there aren’t many of us around.
The security office has floor-to-ceiling black double doors with a keypad set into one of them. We press the entry buzzer and look up at the closed-circuit cameras trained on our spot.
Then lights flicker across the panel of the keypad, the door opens, and we’re confronted by a large man – almost a giant – in a dark-blue uniform. He must be close to seven foot, with spiky black hair that makes him appear even taller.
‘And you are …?’ he demands.
‘Agatha Oddlow and Arthur Fitzwilliam,’ I say quickly, just in case my colleague tries any pranks that get us barred from entering.
We show our passes, and the security guard holds the door ajar while we enter.
‘I’m Darren,’ he says, after we’re safely inside the room. He stares at us until I grow a little uncomfortable. At last, he says, ‘How old are you two?’
‘I’m not sure that’s relevant,’ says Arthur. ‘We’re both here on Dr MacDonald’s authority.’ (I have to admit to feeling quite important when he says that. I stand up straighter and hold my head a little higher.) Arthur holds up his security pass, but Darren just shrugs and peels his gaze from us. He walks over to a desk, where he leans down to input information into a computer. He’s not exactly friendly.
I glance around the room. There are no windows, and it’s fairly dark. One whole wall is dedicated to a set of small screens linked to cameras inside the different rooms.
‘Which day’s footage did you need to see?’ Darren asks.
‘The reception area, on Friday, from around five twenty-five pm please,’ I say.
‘That’s late,’ he says. ‘We close at six and final admission is fifteen minutes before that. There wouldn’t have been many people coming in so near to closing time.’
‘We’d still like to see it, though,’ I say.
Darren shrugs again, and types the requested date and time into the PC.
‘Done.’ He points to the screen that’s bottom-right in the stack, and Arthur and I walk over to it.
‘That must be the party of tourists who distracted the receptionist,’ says Arthur, indicating a horde of middle-aged people reclaiming their bags and coats from a man and woman, who are presumably their tour guides.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask, pointing at a figure in a man’s fedora hat and a long coat, walking past the tourists.
‘I can’t see their face,’ says Arthur. ‘Can you?’
We squint at the screen, but the person doesn’t turn towards the camera. They stride out of shot, heading for the exit.
‘Do you think it might be Sheila?’ I ask.
Arthur turns to Darren, who’s busy scrutinising the bank of CCTV footage. ‘Darren, how do we rewind this? Can we do it on the screen itself?’
The security guard comes over and shows us the correct buttons to rewind and pause, and Arthur takes the video back to the point at which the unidentified character appears. ‘Is this Sheila Smith?’ he asks Darren.
Darren joins us by the screen again, and studies the images for a moment. ‘It could be,’ he says at last, ‘but I wouldn’t like to say for sure. Why?’
‘I’m sure you’ve heard that she’s gone missing,’ I say. ‘We’re trying to track her down.’
‘You are?’ He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
Arthur rolls his eyes. ‘I know we’re young, but we’re highly experienced investigators.’
‘It’s definitely a staff member,’ I continue, ignoring the Darren’s rudeness. ‘See there.’ I point to a centimetre of ribbon, showing at the back of the person’s neck, just above their coat collar. ‘Do you see a glimpse of one of the gallery’s security lanyards?’
‘Good eye!’ says Arthur approvingly, and I blush. (Since when did I start blushing all the time? It’s mortifying.)
‘Well, if they’re a member of staff, I’d say it’s definitely Sheila,’ says Darren. ‘Nobody else dresses quite like that! I haven’t seen a fedora since those old films with Cary Grant.’
‘She does have her own style,’ I say, admiring the hat and the long coat. ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘She’s certainly an interesting woman,’ says Darren. ‘I hope she’s all right. The gallery won’t be the same if anything happens to her. Dr MacDonald may be the director, but Sheila Smith’s the one everyone goes to. She’s like the warm heart of the place, you know?’ He breaks eye contact and starts staring at one of the screens, as if he’s embarrassed by his own sentimental outburst.
I catch Arthur’s eye and he says, ‘Well, we’ve got everything we need for now – thank you.’
‘Please let us know if you think of anything or hear something that might be
relevant,’ I say. ‘And … thanks for your help.’
Outside the room, Arthur catches my eye. ‘Well, that was intense,’ he says.
‘It really was.’
‘Do you think he’s involved?’ he asks.
I pause for a moment. ‘I don’t know. He did seem very protective of Sheila, so probably not.’
‘I agree. I think he’s genuinely upset that she’s gone missing.’
We head back through the staff-only corridors, until we’re out again into the public area of the gallery.
‘Time to find out if any of the attendants know where Sheila is,’ says Arthur. ‘Where shall we start?’
‘How about the Van Gogh exhibition?’
‘Good choice.’
As we walk past the entrance desk, the receptionist calls us over.
‘Dr MacDonald has asked if you could go up to see her, when you’re finished with your interviews.’
‘Will do,’ says Arthur. ‘Thanks.’
At the entrance to the exhibition, Arthur turns to me. ‘How about you take this one, and I interview someone else?’
‘Good plan. Meet you by the reception desk in twenty minutes,’ I suggest, ‘and we’ll go up to see Dr MacDonald?’
‘Great.’ He heads off along an art-lined corridor, and I walk once again into Van Gogh’s extraordinary world. The artist had a condition known as ‘synaesthesia’. This means his senses overlapped – he saw shapes when he heard sounds, for instance. Those great swirls in the sky in The Starry Night? They were the result of his synaesthesia.
There’s no time to look at or reflect on the paintings today, though. We have a case to solve, and a missing woman to find.
The attendant is sitting on a wooden chair beside the archway that leads to the next room. He’s staring into space and nodding his head. It takes me a moment to realise he’s listening to music.