by Oliver Tidy
She said, ‘Shall we go back to the house?’
‘This is fine,’ said Jo. ‘Your husband’s briefcase hasn’t turned up, I suppose, has it?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘We’ve found something out this morning. It looks like your husband had recently started up an art gallery in London. Did you know anything about that?’
One thing you could say for Jo, she liked to get directly to the meat of the matter.
Mrs Swaine reacted like she’d been slapped. ‘What? An art gallery? You must be mistaken. Nigel wouldn’t have known anything about running a gallery. He’d have said something. I’d have known. He couldn’t have kept something like that a secret from me.’ But it increasingly looked like he had and the elephant trampling about the greenhouse trumpeted ‘why?’
Jo said, ‘It’s up near St Pancras railway station. It’s called Tate’s Modern. I showed the picture of your husband around up there. He was recognised as the proprietor.’
Mrs Swaine swung her appalled gaze between us looking for something we couldn’t give her. I looked around for a seat in case her legs went and as I did I was struck by the idea that she seemed more disturbed by the notion of her husband keeping a harmless secret from her than either of the suicides.
‘There’s something else,’ said Jo, with all the finesse of a boxer with his opponent on the ropes. ‘I told you before that your husband was let go by Hudsons. Actually, he was dismissed over suspicions of financial irregularities he was involved in. The Financial Services Authority is/was investigating his part in things. He couldn’t have got another job in the finance industry with those sorts of clouds hanging over him.’
Rebecca Swaine gave an impression of someone inwardly exploring a damage limitation exercise against the clock. It was in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after a long pause. ‘This is such a shock. Could it explain why he took his own life? I mean if he’d lost his job with no hope of getting another in the industry.’
‘If he hadn’t opened a gallery, I’d say it could. But he’d opened a gallery. He hadn’t given up. He was trying something else.’
‘And the demand: it could have been about the trouble with Hudsons?’
‘It’s possible. But none of that suggests why your brother was also moved to take his own life.’
Mrs Swaine’s involuntary bodily reaction to that reminder seemed genuine and painful.
Jo said, ‘You said your brother painted. It’s not a connection we can ignore, Mrs Swaine. If you want me to continue my investigations, I think it’s time I had a look in your brother’s studio.’ Mrs Swaine jolted a little, like she’d touched something hot.
Within a few minutes we were trudging back across the moist, spongy lawn in single file, like complete strangers.
Sigmund Swaine’s studio was light and spacious. It occupied a good deal of the available attic space of Goldenhurst. Unlike the usual depiction of the working space of the committed painter, it was not a terrible mess. Canvases of varying sizes and in various stages of completion hung from walls and the heavy beams that spanned the space and supported the roof. Others leaned up neatly against each other in purpose-made racks, like the kind you could wade through in HMV looking for a cool poster. I didn’t see a lot that was finished.
There were three easels, all with half finished paintings on them. Palettes, brushes, pencils, paint and other equipment and resources necessary to the practise of producing a work of art were tidily organised. It had a touch of the obsessive-compulsive about it – a place for everything and everything in its place.
Mrs Swaine looked around the area like she hadn’t been in there for a long time. Perhaps for her own reasons she hadn’t. While Jo poked about in all the obvious and not so obvious places I admired Sigmund’s efforts with brush, colour and canvas.
I thought he was good. I thought he was very good. I’d like to have seen a finished one. He had a distinctive style. I didn’t know enough about art to say whether it was his style or whether he was imitating someone else’s. There was something there that put me in mind of someone else. An influence. All artists have their influences.
I mooched about enjoying the novelty and privilege of being in a working studio, stimulating my senses with the uniqueness of the place. And it occurred to me that it wasn’t a working studio any longer. It was the creative centre of a dead man. And with his death the artistic spirit of the place had been extinguished. That was a pretty sad thought to contemplate. A waste.
I stole a look at Mrs Swaine to fathom something of what she was thinking. Would she have to organise the clearing out of everything? Have strangers traipsing through her home destroying the memory of her brother? Eradicating his life? I suspected she’d pull the door shut on it instead and leave it as some sort of, if not shrine, physical memory of his existence. Maybe I was just being a bit sentimental and she couldn’t wait to get stuck in with the bin bags.
For something to say, I said, ‘I can’t see anything that’s finished?’
She looked like I’d startled her out of something. And then she looked around, like she’d forgotten where she was.
‘Of course he finished things,’ she said. ‘They must be here somewhere.’ She began poking through the collection. It started as a controlled, careful searching and then it became something more urgent, like someone suddenly desperate to salvage things from a home with a bushfire on the wind. She went from place to place flicking through the canvases.
Before it became something frantic and disturbing to witness, I said, ‘Perhaps they are in your husband’s gallery. You said yourself Sigmund was good enough to exhibit. Maybe they’d gone into business together.’ I think I thought I was making a positive comment. Something comforting for Mrs Swaine to cling on to. But I hadn’t thought it through.
She treated me to a very strange look for that. And I realised why. If they had been collaborating behind her back it would be a painful betrayal. Her brother and her husband. Her closest kin. The only ‘real’ people in her life. And they would not only have not included her, they’d have pointedly and secretively excluded her.
Jo came out from where she’d been poking about looking none the wiser. I don’t think she’d heard the conversation we’d been having.
‘Nothing here to interest me professionally,’ she said.
‘I’d like to see the gallery,’ said Mrs Swaine.
Jo and I exchanged a quick look.
‘We don’t have a key for it,’ said Jo. ‘You could only look in the window.’
‘Maybe the letting agents have a key,’ I said, which earned me a shut up look from Jo.
‘Can you ask? Please. Even if they haven’t, I’d like to see it. Will you drive me, please? I don’t think I could face the train, and I can’t drive in London.’ She was looking at me. ‘Of course, I can pay for your trouble.’
Under the circumstances I would have felt incredibly mean to have refused. So I nodded my head and said I’d do it, even though I really didn’t want to. I hoped that she’d quickly forget about the idea.
‘Tomorrow?’ said Mrs Swaine.
Tomorrow was Sunday – a potentially busy day for us in the coffee shop. They might need me. Sometimes they needed Jo and me. But there was something in Mrs Swaine’s imploring stare that made me say yes. I avoided looking in Jo’s direction.
Rebecca Swaine thanked me and then saw us out.
When we were back on the Marsh proper, I said, ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Aren’t you cross with me? Aren’t you going to tell me off?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. It’s a free country, just about. If you want to waste half a day driving her up to London in all that traffic just to look through a window good luck to you.’
‘Won’t you be coming?’ I was aware that a pleading tone had affected my voice.
‘No.’ She sounded pleased with herself. Like someone who’d just
laid two queens in a game of Pontoon.
After a long thought, I tried to sound like someone with an ace and a king: ‘Good. The ladies might get busy in the shop, as it’s Sunday. And as I won’t be there, I’ll tell them that if they need help you’ll be around.’
***
34
As we ate dinner off our laps in front of the television that evening, Jo said, ‘Maybe I should come up with you tomorrow.’
‘You can’t. I’ve already told the ladies you’ll be around.’
‘Tell them I’ve changed my mind. Can’t Linda’s boy come in and help if they need it? He’s done it before.’
‘Did you see the mess he made of everything last time? And he’s such a sullen so and so. I’m trying to build a clientele, not drive them away.’ I huffed out noodle and wine fumes. ‘Why have you changed your mind, anyway?’
‘There might be something to learn. On the off chance you can get access to the shop there’s a good chance there’ll be something there to help make sense of things. I should really come.’
‘Fine. I’ll ring Linda. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to spending several hours cooped up with Rebecca Swaine feeling all she must be feeling at the moment.’
‘What is she feeling, do you think?’
I didn’t know if Jo was being sarcastic. I said, ‘Grief, loss, hurt, anger, frustration, betrayal. Actually, the more I think about it the more potent the cocktail sounds.’
‘She seems to hide her feelings pretty well if you ask me. Two deaths and not one tear that I’ve seen. Why would her husband and her brother have conspired together and kept her out of it? It’s only an art gallery.’
‘Maybe it’s not.’
‘Go on.’
‘Maybe they were involved in something illegal. Nigel Tate broke the law.’
‘Allegedly. Innocent ‘til proved otherwise, and all that. What sort of illegal?’
‘What about something to do with art?’
‘Fraud? Art fraud?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible. I’m just making use of all we know to make an educated guess.’
‘If that’s an educated guess, I’d have to guess you didn’t finish primary school.’
I put my tray to one side, sucked my fingers, wiped them on the old T-shirt I was wearing and picked up my tablet computer. In seconds I had found what I was looking for on the Internet.
Jo was bored with the reality TV show and said, ‘What you looking at?’
I turned the screen so that she could see.
‘What’s that?’
‘A famous painting. By a famous painter.’
‘Come on, spit it out. I know you want to show off, so let’s have it.’ She stifled a yawn.
Because she was right, it didn’t hurt so much. ‘This is a painting by a man called Paul Nash. He is best known for being a war artist in the Second World War. His stuff is worth a lot of money. It says here that this one fetched fifty thousand dollars. Nash has a very distinctive style. Today, in Sigmund’s studio, I saw something that reminded me of that style.’
Jo seemed more interested. She popped a bit of chicken in her mouth, chewed twice and said something that sounded like, ‘What are you getting at?’
‘You said art fraud. What if they were at it? Forging Paul Nashes. Or anyone collectable come to that. You ever heard of Tom Keating?’
‘Any relation to Ronan Keating?’
‘I very much doubt it, but come to think of it they did both turn out to be a couple of frauds.’
‘I used to be in love with him.’
‘Ronan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind me saying that’s really sad?’
‘No. I think so too now. Who’s this Paul Keating?’
‘Only one of the modern world’s most prolific art forgers.’
‘What’s he got to do with Nigel Tate and Sigmund Swaine?’
‘Nothing directly. I just wanted to use him as a famous example of how, even today, people can still pull the wool over the eyes of the art world establishment. He was a bit of a hero of mine.’
‘I think being in love with Ronan is less sad than idolising a common criminal.’
‘Believe me, there was nothing common about Mr Keating. The man was flipping extraordinary.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do and I’m not the only one. You remember when we first visited Goldenhurst, I commented on a painting? Rebecca Swaine said it was an original. It was a Paul Nash.’
Jo continued to chew and think. She was a woman. They can do two things at once. Allegedly. Normally, I can’t abide watching or listening to other people eating. But with Jo it didn’t bother me at all. She wasn’t noisy; she didn’t ruminate like a farm animal. She masticated her food with a subtle, dignified and slow movement that was almost hypnotic, almost sexual. That’s what I thought, anyway.
Jo wiped at her chin and said, ‘What? Have I got food somewhere?’
I shook my head and said, ‘What do you think?’
‘It could fit.’
‘Really? You think so?’
‘I said could.’
***
35
As with many January mornings on Romney Marsh, the early sky had been clear and the low, tepid, torpid, winter sun something to rejoice in and turn one’s face to. I’d slept fitfully and was up and about before the paperchildren. I’d taken a Thermos mug of coffee over to the sea wall with me where I sat and stared at the Channel. I decided I wanted a boat. It wasn’t warm enough to stay out dreaming for longer than it took to polish off the hot drink, but sometimes just having made the effort was worth twice the experience to my day.
As the morning ticked by, large heavy clouds began to gather along the sea’s horizon and the wind was beginning to stir the trees in the yard at the back. I was back home by then, showered, dressed and getting ready for the trip to London.
I asked Jo if she wanted to drive and she declined without explanation. She installed herself up front as shotgun.
We were due to collect Rebecca Swaine late morning. The thought occurred to me as we were heading once again across the Marsh to Goldenhurst that we’d spend at least four hours together on our pointless caper.
‘I reckon this’ll take at least four hours,’ I said.
When Jo didn’t answer, I said, ‘It’s coming to eleven now. Eleven plus four is three.’
Jo found her voice: ‘Where did you say you went to school?’
‘Three o’clock,’ I said. ‘That means we’ll be together through lunchtime. What should we do?’
Jo said, ‘I had a big breakfast.’
‘Well I didn’t. And maybe your client will want something to eat at lunchtime.’
‘David, I’m not her dietician. I’m her investigator. If she wants food, she’ll have to say so and get something. You can always stop at a Golden Arches drive-thru.’ Jo started laughing, presumably at the thought of Mrs Swaine trying to order and then make her way through a burger and fries.
‘Don’t suggest it,’ I said. ‘No one’s eating in my car. Ever. Got it?’
‘Then you’ll have to stop if she’s hungry.’
‘What, and leave you sitting in the car on your own while we have a pub lunch?’
‘No. If you’re buying lunch I’ll have some.’
‘You said...’
‘I said I’d had a big breakfast. I didn’t say I’m not eating lunch if you’re paying.’
Rebecca Swaine had her front door open before I’d had a chance to kill the engine. She wore close-fitting denim jeans and knee-length leather boots. Her jacket was over her arm. She had on an elegant top. She carried a good brand of handbag and an umbrella. There was something determined, stubborn even, in her stride as she approached the car.
‘Hadn’t you better hop out and open the door for her?’ said Jo, as her client came towards us.
I growled at Jo, jumped out and got the rear door on Jo’s side of the car just as Rebecca S
waine got there. Up close Mrs Swaine smelled good – understated, but expensive. She’d made an effort with her make-up and wore some coordinating and probably quite costly jewellery. I caught a flash of a wristwatch set with stones that were probably diamonds. If I’d been picking her up for a date, I wouldn’t have been disappointed, especially as she was no longer wearing her wedding ring.
We exchanged hellos. She offered her thanks for my attention and I shut the door after her. Walking back around to my side I wondered whether Jo had changed her mind about coming along because she didn’t trust my intentions regarding the rather gorgeous grieving widow. Given half the chance, maybe she’d have been right.
As we headed up Giggers Green Road under the arching bare tree limbs, Mrs Swaine said, ‘Thank you for this. Both of you. I really appreciate your care and time on what is almost certainly going to be a fool’s errand. Thank you for indulging me.’
Jo said, ‘You’re my client, Mrs Swaine. No problem. All part of the service.’
I really wanted to say something to Jo for that. Something like, you brazen lying cow. Instead, I let my silence speak for me.
No one spoke again until we were comfortably bowling along the M20. Then Mrs Swaine said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you’ve suggested regarding the notion that my brother and my husband may have started up a picture gallery without my knowledge.’
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror to see how she was taking the notion. She seemed composed as she stared out of her window. In that letterbox of reflective material, Mrs Swaine seemed more than a little vulnerably beautiful. And the car was now properly filled with her perfume. That always contributes.