The Silver Serpent

by Lena Jones

  ‘Hey!’ I say to him.

  As he fumbles with his phone, turning off his music app, I take the opportunity to study him. My eyes flick over him, searching for clues to his personality and interests.

  ‘Hi!’ he says with a smile. ‘What can I help you with?’

  I decide to trust my hunch. ‘What do you play?’ I ask.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I noticed your fingernails. You play the guitar?’

  He smiles. ‘Wow, you’re observant! Yeah – I’m a third-year guitar student at ACM – the Academy of Contemporary Music in Clapham.’

  I study him. ‘Rock?’ I ask.

  ‘We have to cover everything, but, yeah, I’m more into the rock side than classical or folk. Do you play?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I love listening, though.’

  He gestures to the art on the walls. ‘What’s your favourite?’

  ‘The Sunflowers.’

  He nods. ‘They’re cool.’ He points to the wall opposite his chair, where two paintings of Van Gogh himself hang side by side. ‘I like the self-portraits. They’re kind of creepy, but fascinating, you know?’

  ‘He was so talented …’ I pause for a moment, then say, ‘Have you heard the senior curator’s gone missing?’

  He frowns. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I’m looking into her disappearance.’

  ‘You are? How old are you?’

  I produce the fake ID badge and he takes it and reads it. ‘“Prodigal Investigations”. Is that like a PI firm or something?’

  ‘That’s right. They specialise in recruiting young people,’ I explain, ‘… but we still report to grown-ups,’ I add quickly. ‘So, do you know Sheila Smith?’

  He hands back the badge. ‘Everyone knows her. She’s a really nice woman. Very glamorous – she always looks great …’ He pauses. ‘So, what’s happening? Are the police involved?’

  ‘They wanted to leave it a few more days – they say there isn’t any reason yet to suspect foul play, but they’re happy to let us look into it in the meantime, as the family are concerned.’

  He looks worried. ‘So, do you think she’s all right?’

  I shrug. ‘I hope so. There’s certainly nothing to suggest she was attacked.’ I get my pen ready for note-taking.

  ‘So, Robbo,’ I say, reading his name badge, ‘when was the last time you saw her?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘Friday, at the end of the day. She came round to say goodbye and check I hadn’t gone mad from boredom, sitting here all afternoon.’

  ‘So she was already in her coat?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘She was wearing this long coat, with a man’s hat. She carried it off, mind – very Marlene Dietrich.’

  So that was Sheila in the CCTV footage!

  ‘Did she seem all right?’

  He starts to nod, then appears to remember something. ‘Well, she was a bit on edge, you know?’

  ‘In what way, “on edge”?’

  ‘It’s just that normally she gives you her full attention, but on Friday she kept checking her phone and she seemed distracted. It’s probably nothing …’

  ‘It was worth mentioning, though – thank you. Was there anything else?’

  ‘No. After a few minutes, she just said, “See you on Monday, Robbo”.’

  ‘Well, thanks for your help.’ I tear a page out of my notebook and scribble down my mobile number. ‘If you think of anything else, please give me a call.’

  He takes the slip of paper. ‘Will do. I still can’t believe it … Sheila, missing …’

  I remember Darren and the receptionist’s comments on how young Arthur and I were, and want to reassure him. ‘I promise I’m going to report back to my supervisors,’ I tell him, ‘and they’re going to do everything they can to find her.’

  It’s only been ten minutes, but Arthur’s already waiting when I reach the reception desk.

  ‘Let’s find a quiet spot to talk before we go and see Dr MacDonald,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can find a space upstairs in the medieval section, where it isn’t too busy.’

  We walk up the stairs and enter a room where there are lots of religious paintings in dark colours with splashes of gold.

  ‘So, what did you find out?’ I ask him.

  ‘Not much. You?’

  ‘Robbo last saw her at the end of the day on Friday, when she did her usual round of goodbyes. She seemed distracted – she kept checking her phone. He also confirmed she was dressed in the clothes we saw on the monitor.’

  ‘So that was her then, on her way out?’

  ‘Yes. It’s good to have that confirmed,’ I say.

  He nods and consults his notes. ‘Emma saw her in the ladies’ toilets at five twenty pm. They smiled and exchanged pleasantries – nothing more. I also had a quick chat with the other two attendants—’

  ‘Wow, you’re quick!’

  ‘Well – nothing to report, basically, so there was no reason to keep them talking.’

  ‘So, no leads …’

  He shakes his head. ‘We’d better report to Dr Mac. Let’s hope she’s not expecting any results yet.’

  ‘I’d also like to inspect Sheila’s office, if she has one.’

  He nods. ‘She does. We can get the key from Dr MacDonald.’

  We head back down to the main foyer area and from there pass through another staff-only door and take the stairs two flights to the second floor. Arthur’s been here before, so he leads the way. As we walk, I tentatively say, ‘Arthur – have you noticed anything not quite right about the Sunflowers painting since it moved position?’

  He shakes his head and looks puzzled. ‘No. What sort of thing?’

  ‘Just the colouring … I’m probably imagining it. Forget it.’ I decide not to mention the invisible A at this point – it might distract us, and Sheila’s safety must be our priority.

  The stairs end at a landing that’s decorated with sketches. I’m pretty sure they’re originals by Henry Moore, who made sculptures for public spaces all over London, including one in Battersea Park and another carved into the wall of St James’s Park Underground station.

  Arthur leads me down a plush, carpeted corridor – lined with more exquisite, original artwork (is that an actual sketch by Picasso?) – and knocks on a door at the end. A brass plate that reads

  ELIZABETH MACDONALD,

  DIRECTOR

  announces it as the office of the person we’re looking for. ‘Enter,’ instructs a soft Scottish voice.

  Dr MacDonald is standing behind a huge mahogany desk, which is spread with prints of famous paintings. She’s busy moving the pictures around and murmuring to herself, but she looks up at us as we approach the desk.

  ‘Mr Fitzwilliam, hello,’ she says.

  ‘Dr MacDonald,’ he says politely, ‘this is Agatha Oddlow.’

  ‘Hello, Ms Oddlow,’ she says, and shakes my hand, looking me up and down. I know what’s coming next. ‘You’re very young to be involved in an investigation, aren’t you?’

  I’m grateful when Arthur intervenes. ‘Agatha has already proved herself, Dr MacDonald. She was responsible for the capture of the Bank of England robbers.’

  Elizabeth MacDonald tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, as though impressed. ‘Well, thank you both for coming out.’ She gestures to the surface of her desk. ‘In Sheila’s absence, I’m having to work out the hanging order for the next show. It’s a long time since I had to plan an exhibition myself.’

  ‘Is that a Hockney?’ I ask, pointing to a print featuring a bright-blue swimming pool.

  ‘That’s right. It’s for an exhibition featuring the major pop art exponents.’ She sighs and takes a seat behind her desk, gesturing for us to sit as well. ‘So,’ she asks, ‘do you have any leads?’

  ‘Not yet,’ admits Arthur. ‘We checked out the CCTV footage, as you know. But it looks as though Sheila left as normal, at around five thirty. We’ve interviewed four of the attendants, but they didn�
��t notice anything unusual about Ms Smith’s behaviour.’

  ‘Have you been to her flat?’ she asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Arthur and I are planning on heading over there when we leave the gallery.’ I remove my notebook and pen from my backpack and prepare to take notes. ‘Do you know if she was heading straight home that day?’ I ask.

  The director folds her hands on her desk and nods. ‘As far as I know. She does attend a yoga class twice a week – but I’m fairly sure that’s on Wednesdays and Sundays.’

  ‘Does she cook for herself?’

  ‘Aye, she’s a fine cook. In fact, I seem to remember she was planning a paella that night – she’d bought fresh shellfish at the market. She doesn’t trust airline food, so she was determined to eat well before she travelled.’ I exchange a glance with Arthur – we’ll need to check if these ingredients made it to Sheila’s fridge. If not, it will confirm our suspicion that she went missing before she reached her flat.

  Dr MacDonald sighs. ‘I’m concerned I may already have left it too long.’ Her voice breaks and she looks down, trying to hide her distress. ‘I keep asking myself, what if something terrible’s happened to her?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ says Arthur.

  I wish I shared his confidence. We haven’t found any trail to follow – so far, at least – so how can he be so certain?

  ‘If she’s alive,’ I say, ‘we’ll find her.’

  ‘And if she’s not?’ asks Dr MacDonald in a tiny voice.

  ‘Then we’ll find out what happened to her,’ I reply. ‘Can we take a look around her office, while we’re here?’

  ‘Certainly.’ The director rummages in a drawer and brings out a keyring with a leather tag and a single key. I take it from her and promise to return it shortly.

  Sheila’s office is at the end of the passageway. The key doesn’t turn as easily as I’d expected. I draw it out and examine the keyhole. It’s a little damaged.

  ‘Look,’ I say to Arthur, who steps up to see more closely.

  ‘Someone’s forced an entry?’

  ‘I think so. The lock looks pretty beaten up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t know, of course, whether that’s a recent thing, though.’

  ‘No, but it’s worth bearing in mind,’ I say. The more I find out, the more uneasy I am about Sheila’s welfare.

  With a bit of force, I manage to turn the key in the lock and gain entry. However, Sheila’s office is just as I’d expected it to be: neat and organised, with nothing obviously out of place. There’s a colourful rug on the floor, a white desk in front of the window, and white bookshelves along the right-hand wall. On the left, a long row of dull-grey filing cabinets is enlivened by a set of small prints in clip frames on the wall above.

  Arthur strides over to the desk and begins sifting through the drawers. Meanwhile, I stand still and scan the room, searching for anything I can see that’s out of the ordinary. Anything, anything …

  I walk over to the pictures on the wall. There are eight in all. Six are pop art reproductions – comic-style pictures, in bright colours without shading or subtlety. The other two don’t seem to fit. One is Sunflowers. The other shows a lake reflecting the hills beside it. It’s in vibrant colours – blues, greens and pinks. I’m fairly sure it’s by Georgia O’Keeffe. Neither of these two fits with the jokey, cartoony style of the pop art from the 1950s and 60s. I wonder if Sheila might have been using this wall to give herself a feel for the next show. If so, it looks like she lost focus partway through.

  ‘What do you make of these?’ I ask Arthur. He comes over.

  ‘Slightly unusual group, but I guess an art curator would have eclectic tastes.’

  ‘Hmm, I guess …’

  He goes back to searching the desk and filing cabinets, and I fish out my mobile phone, turn it on, and take a photo of each individual print and one of the grouping as a whole.

  ‘Got everything?’ he asks, as he shuts the final filing cabinet drawer with a neat click.

  ‘Yep, I think so.’

  ‘Not much to go on, is there?’ he says. ‘Come on, let’s get these keys back to Dr MacDonald and head out of here.’

  The director is on the phone when we knock on her door, but she calls for us to enter and gestures for us to leave the key on her desk, which we do. As we turn to leave, she covers the receiver and says, ‘Do let me know if you find anything, won’t you? I’m worried sick about Sheila.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ I assure her, but I can’t help worrying that any news we turn up might not be good …

  ‘I know we need to discuss our next move, but I have got to eat something. How about lunch?’ suggests Arthur as we head back downstairs to the entrance hall.

  ‘Sounds good: I’m starving.’ I check my watch. ‘It’s one o’clock – where did the last three hours go?’

  Outside, the day is drab and grey, but the cold wind has dropped at least.

  Over toasted sandwiches at the Café in the Crypt beneath St Martin-in-the-Fields church, we take out our journals and compare notes. It’s a pretty fruitless exercise. but you never know when something will spark an idea.

  I bite into my cheese-and-tomato sandwich. It’s steaming, and the hot cheese sticks to my tongue and starts to burn. I take a swig of water.

  ‘So we’ve talked to some of the attendants,’ I say, ‘and, apart from Robbo saying Sheila was a bit on edge, none of them noticed anything unusual.’

  ‘I was thinking it might be a good idea to visit the shops around her flat next,’ says Arthur. ‘I’m hoping one of the shopkeepers might have spotted her on Friday evening, or over the weekend, and be able to give us a shorter time slot for her disappearance – or even have witnessed something useful.’

  I nod. ‘Good idea. We can tie it in with visiting the apartment. Do you have the keys?’

  ‘No, but I was reliably informed that you were an expert lock-picker.’

  ‘“Expert” might be pushing it, but I’ve got my tools with me,’ I say, patting the backpack at my feet. ‘We’d better get a move on.’

  ‘Is your dad expecting you back at a set time?’

  ‘Just after school – he doesn’t know I’m not actually in school.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried the school might contact him?’

  ‘I’m relying on the fact he never hears his phone when he’s working in the park.’

  ‘How on earth do you manage to conduct investigations without arousing his suspicions?’ Arthur asks.

  ‘I don’t. There wasn’t much to tell him when he went off to work this morning.’ It occurs to me that Dad isn’t going to like me being involved in another case. I decide not to worry about that for now, because we need to focus on finding Sheila.

  ‘What about your parents?’ I ask Arthur.

  ‘They’re not around much,’ he says.

  ‘Out of the country?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he says vaguely. They sound like Liam’s and Brianna’s parents. I can’t imagine what it would be like seeing so little of Dad. Arthur swallows the last of his sandwich and stands up. ‘Ready to get going?’

  I take a final bite of my toastie, down the last of my water and grab my backpack. ‘Ready.’

  Sheila’s flat is in Westbourne Park. We take the Bakerloo line from Piccadilly Circus to Paddington, where we switch to the Circle line. In less than thirty minutes, we’re standing outside her building.

  ‘Let’s start with the shops directly opposite,’ says Arthur. ‘They’re the ones with the best view, so the staff there are more likely to have seen her.’

  Our first stop is an optician’s. They have a screen behind the window display, which would block their view of the street, but we go inside just to check she didn’t call in that day. Although she’s a customer there, they say, they haven’t seen her since her last appointment, three months ago.

  ‘Greengrocer’s or butcher’s next?’ I ask, as we step back outside.

  ‘Shall we
take one each?’ he suggests.

  I opt for the greengrocer’s. There’s a queue, and when I reach the front the shopkeeper is clearly irritated by my enquiries.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘I was wondering if you saw this woman on Friday?’ I show her a picture of Sheila, which I got from Arthur. It’s a copy of the one in the case file.

  She huffs. ‘If you’re not going to buy anything …’

  ‘I’ll have that aubergine,’ I say quickly to appease her. Even as I say it, I’m wondering what I’m going to make with a single aubergine. The fridge was looking pretty bare this morning, and I don’t have enough cash on me to buy peppers and courgettes for ratatouille.

  ‘So, what do you want to know?’ she asks, placing the aubergine into a brown paper bag and taking my coins.

  I hold up the photo again. ‘Do you know this woman?’

  She nods. ‘That’s Ms Smith,’ she says. ‘She gets her fruit and veg delivered every Friday. Normally, she’s in when we call round, but our delivery guy said she didn’t answer her door on Friday evening. He had to bring the box back, and she never came for it.’

  ‘What time does he deliver?’

  But the woman has already moved on to the next customer. She pauses for a moment, as if in thought, her hand buried in a crate of mushrooms. ‘Around six thirty. She’s his last delivery of the day, to give her time to get home. She works at the National Gallery, you know.’ She says this with a hint of pride, as if she’s taken some part herself in Sheila’s successful career.

  ‘Is she well liked?’ I ask.

  ‘Ms Smith?’ She looks surprised. ‘I don’t know her well enough to say. Everybody here gets on with her, though. She’s always got a friendly greeting and a pleasant smile.’ She frowns, as if suddenly registering my nosiness. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, just a family friend. I’d arranged to visit her today, but there’s no reply at her flat.’

  ‘Well, I hope she’s all right,’ says the shopkeeper.

  I can’t think of anything else to ask, so I thank her and leave. Arthur is waiting outside, gazing into space.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d been kidnapped,’ he says. Catching sight of the paper bag in my hand, he asks, ‘Anything nice?’