The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  Goodhew pushed the bank statements back across the desk towards his superior. ‘One thing jumps out, sir,’ he said, and tapped at a few notes he’d written in summary across the front page. ‘Gerry Osborne received some arts funding and some critical recognition but, until the publicity surrounding Becca’s death, he had never earned a penny. He sold some small pieces, it’s true, but never enough to cover his costs. As a result, the accounts steadily dwindled.’

  Marks read the summary but then flicked through to the detail and cross-checked several minor points. He stopped when he was satisfied. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘If you check the months after Becca’s death hit the headlines, after the press had jumped all over it with that whole tortured artist angle, it was only then that the sales and exhibitions start to come in.’

  ‘Unless he’s just under-reported income for the benefit of his accounts?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The amount he charged for individual pieces rose sharply, while before then he wouldn’t have made a living even if he’d sold all of them.’

  ‘I remember. We looked into the family finances during Becca Osborne’s murder inquiry, and there had been family money inherited from Gerry’s parents.’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘But it had shrunk considerably, till a year later, it was down to virtually nothing. He employed his son Dan as the sales started to come in. But by the time he bought back the house from Mary, he was left struggling again.’

  ‘Sheen always pointed out that Gerry Osborne smashing that work of his, Singular Fascination, could be just a publicity stunt. I’ve never agreed, mind you, but maybe it did give his profile a boost just at the right moment.’ Marks picked up his phone and tapped a four-digit extension number. ‘Tom? Would you pop down with anything you have on Gerry Osborne’s sculptures – I mean exhibitions, sales and the like. Pull out everything you can, but we’re especially interested in anything that relates to actual sales of his work.’

  He put the phone down. ‘What do you think of his sculptures?’

  ‘I don’t know what any of it is, or what anyone would do with it.’ Goodhew shrugged. ‘That probably means it’s good in someone else’s eyes.’

  ‘Apparently it is. And no one could have foreseen the effect of Becca’s death on his sales. I doubt it’s any more sinister than a sad case of any publicity being good publicity, and Dan Osborne being there with the foresight to seize hold of the moment. You could give the audit department a call, see what they think.’

  ‘What audit department?’ He already knew what audit department, so his actual question should have been Why have I been wasting my time going through financial statements, when you have a trained auditor already doing so?

  ‘Fresh eyes and brains that know the people behind the figure work,’ Marks said, reading Goodhew’s thoughts with ease. ‘If I’d asked you to do anything apart from looking at financial information, then you’d have been more than happy to go poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.’

  A sharp rap on the office door interrupted them. It was Sheen in the unfamiliar surroundings of any office other than his own. ‘Here you go,’ he began. ‘Copies, so you can keep them. I put this note on top. They used the same gallery every time, so I thought you might want to have their details handy.’

  Marks glanced at the Post-it note, before passing it over to Goodhew.

  Goodhew nodded. ‘I’ll follow it up,’ he said and headed for the door, relieved to be setting his mind on something fresh.

  FORTY-SIX

  There were five art galleries in King’s Parade, with The Sidgwick Gallery standing in the heart of them. The heat was now bouncing off the pavements and, by the time Goodhew had walked there from Parkside, he could feel the fabric of his shirt sticking to his back. His annoyance had cooled. He wasn’t an auditor or an accountant, but that wasn’t the mindset Marks had expected either he or Kincaide to use. By the time he pushed open the gallery door, he’d promised himself that he would apologize.

  One of Gerry Osborne’s works occupied the most prominent position. It was unmistakably his, but less violently angled than any of the other pieces Goodhew had seen. Instead this one curled upwards and drew the focus of his gaze towards the ceiling.

  He headed towards the counter and waited for an assistant to waft into the room. In his experience, wafting staff were a sure sign that he was out of his cultural depth. But the man who eventually came through didn’t float in silently, or seem at all offended by Goodhew’s wilted appearance. He was small-statured, in his forties, ponytailed hair and wearing one earring.

  Goodhew introduced himself, enquiring, ‘Do you work here?’

  ‘Yes.’ He shook Goodhew’s hand. ‘I’m Carter, officially the artist in residence.’

  ‘Painter?’

  ‘That’s right. The idea is that visitors can see the art while still in progress. It stimulates interest in the artist’s work. Apparently.’

  ‘Not in your case?’

  ‘Turns out I can’t stand them all looking over my shoulder, so I work out the back there until someone comes into the gallery. But even so, as an artist, it’s the least isolated working experience I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Is the manager available?’

  ‘That’s me, apart from Saturdays. I know the shop intimately, so try me.’

  Goodhew pointed to the sculpture. ‘What do you know about that piece?’

  ‘The latest – and Gerry’s best one, I think. It’s less fractured, more harmonious and so saleable.’

  ‘Who would be a customer for something like this?’

  ‘It depends. We do have occasions where a visitor will fall for a piece and purchase it spontaneously. Or perhaps return several times first . . . although those are often the ones that don’t go through with it at the last minute. We have a customer base scattered all over the world, often those who have visited us once in person and then continue to view the work via our website and online catalogues. We don’t usually get to see where our items are finally displayed.’

  ‘And Gerry Osborne has such a following, I take it?’

  ‘Absolutely. And I know he’s also received commissions for several high-concept commercial projects. Experienced collectors will understand how that strengthens an artist’s portfolio, and ultimately makes their investment more secure.’

  Goodhew fought to stop his eyes glazing over. He glanced at the other exhibits. ‘Is this the only one he has with you at the moment?’

  ‘Probably until his next show.’

  ‘Will you normally contact his customers to invite them to attend an event like that?’

  ‘We contact all names on our mailing list for every such event. And these days we provide a virtual tour of every exhibition for those living further afield. Sales of Gerry’s work rarely come via that route, though. In fact, I don’t even know the names of the main collectors of his art.’

  Goodhew frowned. ‘You mean they’re anonymous? Surely you must know who takes delivery?’

  Carter shook his head. ‘The bulk of Gerry Osborne’s sales come from his own contacts. The actual sale is made through this gallery, but his son Dan deals with the dispatch.’ Carter must have spotted the look of query on Goodhew’s face, and he continued. ‘That’s not so unusual. Some artists prefer to sell through a third party, while collectors may feel that purchase through a reputable studio adds kudos.’

  Goodhew frowned. ‘So they choose to insert an extra link into the sales chain? Isn’t that just what everyone else in business is trying to avoid?’

  ‘Artists, eh?’ A small smile touched the man’s lips. Carter then touched Goodhew’s arm, directing him back towards the sales desk. ‘This is just my personal opinion, but I sometimes think he buys the pieces himself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look at this.’ He guided Goodhew to the doorway leading into the back room, where there were as many as twenty paintings hanging on the walls. ‘These are mine and the best of them will appear in my next sh
ow. Also the best of them will hopefully sell. I can’t afford to carry on if they don’t, and I can’t ever have them back if they do. The pieces in which I feel greatest pride are, sadly, the ones I may never get to see again. Damien Hirst repurchased much of his output.’

  ‘Gerry Osborne’s hardly in that league?’

  ‘No, no, that’s very true.’ Carter suddenly seemed crestfallen, as though he’d instantly lost faith in his theory. ‘The only money Gerry has comes from his sales, therefore he wouldn’t be able to afford to – any more than I would.’

  ‘So what made you suggest it?’

  Carter gazed across at his current canvas, a view of the spiral stairs at Great St Mary’s. Solid steps, crisp brickwork, and all of it bathed in sunshine. ‘Probably because I dream of buying my own work back all the time,’ he replied.

  ‘So you assume the same thing about other artists, too?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Carter’s expression brightened a little. ‘Maybe it isn’t quite so far-fetched, then.’

  ‘Then why suspect it of Osborne?’

  Carter didn’t seem to give any real thought to that question. Instead he just shrugged, and replied, ‘I really have no idea.’

  Goodhew doubted that Carter and Gerry Osborne approached art with the same mindset in any way at all. Goodhew’s impression of Gerry was a man who loathed most things most of the time, and would therefore be happy to see his pieces go.

  No, Carter’s logic wouldn’t apply easily to Gerry.

  And yet.

  And yet.

  Goodhew went back to the new sculpture, labelled: Rejoice, by Gerry Osborne and Carter followed him into the shop.

  ‘Were you here the night he smashed that other one?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘Singular Fascination? Yes, people were circulating the main room, and I noticed Gerry standing there, looking distracted. He was just staring at it but his eyes looked glazed. The next moment, he attacked it. It was as if he was possessed, trying to haul it through here and away from the guests. He apologized to the Gallery the next day, and said it was no longer for sale.’

  ‘So he kept it?’ Goodhew asked, even though he thought he already knew the answer.

  Carter straightened up and brightened again. ‘No, he thought we still had it, but Dan had picked it up weeks before and stored it somewhere else, so his dad couldn’t get hold of it.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘That’s why.’ He stepped through into the back room again and picked up the phone. He paused, poised to dial a number. ‘This is all legitimate, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘It really is.’ Goodhew nodded. ‘I can put you in touch with my DI if you’d like confirmation?’

  ‘Suspicion is too draining, I try to avoid it.’ Carter shook his head. ‘That way of thinking wouldn’t work in your job, I suppose.’ Carter turned away slightly, his attention now focused on the phone call. Goodhew could just pick out the miniature sound of ringing at the other end, then the compressed sound of a man’s voice. But, beyond the first ‘Hello’, it was impossible to hear what he said.

  ‘Bill? Where’s that storage yard you drop off at?’ Carter listened for a few seconds. ‘No, it’s for art, so I need the same one that Dan and Gerry Osborne use.’ More listening. ‘Yes, I know you’ve told me before. I’ve just forgotten . . . don’t worry, the address is fine . . . Thanks, smashing.’

  Carter scribbled on the top sheet of a jotter block, then passed it to Goodhew. ‘Yellow Box Secure Storage.’

  ‘Phone him back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ask him what’s in it.’

  ‘I’ve just pretended I wanted to rent one.’

  ‘Well, unpretend then . . . or give me the number.’

  Carter pressed redial on the handset, passed it to Goodhew, then grabbed it back and waved Goodhew away. ‘He won’t know you,’ he hissed. ‘Bill, me again. How much fits into it?’

  Carter listened as the other man spoke, then replied. ‘Yes, I need space for a whole collection.’ More listening. ‘Yes, yes, I see.’

  Carter finished the call and looked at Goodhew. ‘Wow, if Bill picked something up here, it went into that store. Gerry and Dan have bought nearly every piece.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  Carter smoothed the hair running into his ponytail and considered the police officer’s question. ‘I wouldn’t actually know. But, out of the two of them, only Gerry loves the art and only Dan deals with the money.’

  ‘Therefore Dan must be the one to know. He would have arranged for the collection and settled the bill with this gallery.’

  ‘But why would he want to keep a lot of pieces he doesn’t even like?’

  Goodhew now felt sceptical; he had previously assumed that Dan worked for Gerry simply because of the enthusiasm that came through whenever he discussed his father’s art. He said, ‘I thought he was a fan.’

  ‘It isn’t love of the art that fuels Dan’s enthusiasm. I see Lucian Freud written all over Gerry.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Dan seeks his father’s approval, but Gerry’s a man too enamoured with his own art to give his children what they need. That talent for sculpture is Gerry’s golden child.’

  Wafting or no wafting, Goodhew was out of his cultural depth now. Carter finished speaking and looked expectantly at Goodhew. It felt as though he anticipated the minimum of enthusiastic agreement, and even possibly a round of applause.

  Goodhew shook Carter’s hand. ‘Thank you so much.’ He left the gallery and hurried back to Parkside, reaching for his radio and mobile the moment he stepped outside.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  There had been calm since Goodhew left. Jane had photographed the business card with the camera on her own mobile phone before she let him borrow it. She hoped Goodhew would bring it back, but he hadn’t promised to. She understood, and figured she’d lost worse.

  As he’d left her house, a wall of summer heat had pushed its way through the front door. Maybe it was only cold and dark within this particular mausoleum. She opened the back door and ventured on to the grass, heading to the sunny patch in the centre. She let the sun warm her right through but went back inside before her jumper left her uncomfortably hot.

  As she showered, she found her thoughts constantly settling on her niece Reba. Or, at least, on the thought of a niece. Jane didn’t know if she was in any way maternal, and she had always found the idea of children completely alien. But, even so, the thought of meeting Reba was calling loudly to her.

  She checked the time and found it was almost 12.30.

  She hesitated, phone in hand; her invitation to meet Reba was set for tomorrow, and she didn’t want to start off badly. But a new feeling of urgency had sprung up and she didn’t want to wait.

  She called their number. It was Dan’s wife Roz who answered.

  ‘Hi, it’s Jane . . . um, Dan’s sister. I was just wondering whether I could drop by. I mean in a minute or two.’

  ‘Dan’s not here. He’s off with his dad. Sorry, your dad, obviously.’ Roz paused awkwardly. ‘Reba’s excited about meeting you.’ In the background, the child overheard heard her name and asked her mum who was on the phone. ‘Dad’s sister Jane.’

  ‘My new aunty Jane?’

  ‘That’s right, my love. Sorry.’

  That Sorry sounded as though it had been aimed into the receiver, so Jane assumed it was for her. ‘It’s OK. I was just wondering whether I could pop round right now. Just to say hello. To break the ice with Reba before we sit down for tea tomorrow?’

  Roz gave a little ‘Oh’ of surprise, then spoke to Reba next. ‘Jane says she can come by and say Hi now.’ Reba’s response was a gleeful Yes. ‘That would be lovely. How soon?’

  ‘Ten minutes?’

  Jane changed into her only remaining clean clothes – black combat trousers and a grey vest – and hurried off to Dan’s house. Another ten minutes after that, she was sitting, mug in hand, watching her little niece cut and shape a plasticine flower. ‘My granddad makes great
big sculptures, but not flowers. Do you know my granddad?’

  Roz was in the room, but not hovering over her child the way Jane had seen some mothers do. Not sure how much she was allowed to say, Jane looked questioningly at Roz, who nodded.

  ‘Your granddad is my daddy.’

  ‘And he’s my daddy’s daddy. Is that why you’re my aunty?’

  Jane smiled. ‘That’s right.’

  The house phone rang just then. Roz checked the display, smiled and picked up the cordless handset from the table. ‘Hi . . . She’s here right now.’

  Roz’s grip on the phone visibly tightened, and Jane pretended to take closer interest in Reba’s bloom. ‘What sort of flower is this, then?’

  ‘A pink sunflower.’

  Roz moved towards the hall. ‘Reba was excited.’ She lowered her voice but the urgent whisper carried more clearly still. ‘Dan, listen, how did I know it would be such a big deal?’

  Reba glanced up at Jane. ‘My dad says you’re trying to steal the house but you won’t get it.’

  ‘Your granddad’s house?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Granddad doesn’t use it.’ She found herself smiling encouragement at Reba. The little girl didn’t smile back; her tone was now too earnest for that. ‘Daddy says one day we’ll own the whole world, and the people we don’t like will get eaten alive.’

  ‘Wow, eaten alive!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jane, I’ll tell Daddy that I like you.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw Roz returning.

  ‘Well, Reba, I like you too. And you have a lovely house here, much better than that old one I’m staying in.’

  Roz put the handset back on its stand. ‘That was Dan.’ Roz looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I guess it’s not a good time?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . something to do with your dad, I guess. If you’re still OK for tea tomorrow, though . . .’

  ‘Sure,’ Jane replied. Roz was clearly making an excuse, though she doubted it was connected with her father, and she wondered why Dan had a problem with her being here at a time when he wasn’t.

  Reba stared up at them both with a frown. ‘Mummy, I was asking Jane about Daddy’s other house. Is it haunted?’