by John Harvey
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘So, to be clear, at no time between then and Sunday evening did you return to London?’
‘Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you ever listen?’
‘I’m listening, Mr Elder, believe me. And what I’m hearing is a man whose temper is on a very short string, a very short string indeed.’
‘Well, good for you, sunshine. And now you can hear this into the bargain. Before I answer another one of your questions you’re going to have to place me under arrest and caution me, because without that you’re not going to get one more goddam thing.’
‘Frank …’
Cordon moved to intercept him, but Elder swept past and out through the door, slamming it closed behind him.
Sunshine, Phillips was thinking. I’ll keep that in store.
20
Hadley sat alongside the detective superintendent at a hastily arranged press conference, saying very little herself, content to let McKeon voice the usual platitudes, dole out assurances, the residue of a Belfast accent lending his words the taint of gritty sensibility.
Both the BBC and Channel 4 News had their crime correspondents doing OBs from outside the entrance to the police station on Holmes Road, oiks from one or other of the local primary schools delighting in dashing across in the background, fingers raised.
The swell of journalists of all stripes meant the queues outside Franco Manca were longer than usual.
Obituaries in the broadsheet press testified to Winter’s place amongst those artists who had made a sometimes unfashionable stand against abstraction on the one hand and conceptual art on the other. Richard Cork appeared on Newsnight, cementing Winter’s place amongst a pantheon of British representational painters which ran from Stanley Spencer and Frank Auerbach to Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud.
Feminist critics railed on social media and in the pages of the Guardian about the misogyny at the heart of Winter’s work and the tyranny of the male gaze. Rachel printed out the choicest of these and presented them to Hadley along with her granola at breakfast.
‘You think one of these could be responsible?’ Hadley asked. ‘The feminist mafia?’
‘I wouldn’t discount it. I was at this conference once, I remember. “Psychotherapy and the Visual Arts”, something along those lines. This woman came along as guest lecturer, professor in art history from Leeds or somewhere, red hair and red boots up to here. Scared the shit out of me, I don’t mind telling you.’
The image stuck with Hadley right up to the start of the team meeting, red boots and red hair, wondering if being seen through a female gaze made it any more acceptable.
The interactive whiteboard was busy but as yet uncluttered. A head-and-shoulders shot of Winter; photographs of the body, in situ, close-ups of the injuries sustained. A detailed map showed the position of the studio, the surrounding streets and buildings. Off to one side a photograph of Frank Elder, blurry and somewhat out of date, and below that, a photo of his daughter, Katherine, both snatched from the Internet.
The report from the Coroner’s Office was inconclusive; the post-mortem had been set for that day and then put into abeyance due to personnel issues; still no definite pronouncement as to time of death, somewhere between midnight and 2 a.m. on the Sunday morning seeming the most likely.
A search of Winter’s flat had found an iMac computer and two phones, one landline, one mobile. After the necessary authorisations had been obtained, the Telephone Intelligence Unit had begun logging Winter’s calls, starting with the forty-eight hours before his death, examining his emails.
SOCO, perhaps not surprisingly, had garnered a host of prints from Winter’s studio, half a dozen of those recurring a number of times – Winter’s own, of course, the others in the process of being identified. More specifically, Terry Mitchell said, there were three sets of prints on the manacles and chain, two of those only partial, the one most clearly identifiable belonging to Winter himself.
‘Howie,’ Hadley said, moving things along, ‘where are we with regards to CCTV?’
Howard Dean moved forward to the map.
‘Four cameras, boss, for our purposes none of them ideal. Two traffic cameras on the main road, here and here, pointing in different directions. Then there’s one camera at the front of this new building – flats and offices – which covers the main entrance and a section of pavement leading to this path, alley, call it what you will, that leads down to the studio. What it doesn’t show is the pavement on the other side, so anyone approaching from that direction – east instead of west – wouldn’t get picked up at all.’
‘And this path leading to the studio, that’s the only way in?’
‘Unless you climb over three metres of chain fence with a barbed-wire topping, separating the studio from this builder’s yard, yes.’
‘You said four cameras,’ Hadley said. ‘That’s only three.’
‘The fourth,’ said Dean, indicating on the map, ‘is here, on this stanchion between these two sections of fence. The intention being, I imagine, to discourage anyone from cutting their way through the fence and making off with the equipment kept in the yard overnight.
‘It looks to be pointing along the path to the studio, and when it’s in neutral position, shall we say, that’s what it does. But it’s motion-sensitive so all it needs is for a fox to start foraging through these bins at the back of the flats, or for there to be some kind of movement in the yard itself, and it changes direction. Which means it’s not focused on the path at all times. Anyone knowing it’s there and not wanting to be seen approaching could watch and wait and choose their moment. Added to which, the quality of the image is such that any barrister worth his or her salt would have a good chance, where identification’s concerned, of rubbishing it out of court. Like I say, boss, less than ideal.’
Nightmare, Hadley thought, that’s what it was.
‘How far have you got,’ she asked, ‘viewing all this?’
Dean shook his head. ‘There’s hours and hours of the stuff, boss. Without another pair of eyes, one at least, preferably more, be this time next week before we’ve seen everything.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Talk to McKeon, see if we can’t muster up some help.’ She looked across the room. ‘Mark, Winter’s background. Any skeletons in that particular cupboard?’
‘None so far, boss, not that I can see. He was married to a Susannah Fielding from nineteen eighty-nine till they divorced ten years later. She’s an artist, too. A painter. Lives in Letchworth, Letchworth Garden City. Two children, Matthew and Melissa, born in nineteen ninety-two and ninety-four respectively. There seems to have been only one significant relationship since the divorce, one that I’ve been able to track down: another artist, Adriana Borrell. Sculptor, apparently. And that seems to have been a good ten years back if not more.’
‘Do we have an address for her?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay, keep working on it. You never know, it might be useful, maybe not. But good work. Good work, everyone. Chris is down in Cornwall talking to this man, Frank Elder, about the incident at the gallery, and Alice and I are off to Dalston to talk to the daughter. We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Meantime, anything especially significant, groundbreaking, I want to know almost as soon as you know yourselves.’
21
Rachel had teased her more than once about her habit of having her subordinates drive. Status, that’s what it’s all about, you do realise? That and control. At least, as far as I know, you don’t sit in the back, like someone lording it with a chauffeur behind the wheel. In fact, when there were papers to read through, files to check on the laptop, emails to reply to, that was exactly what she did. Not wishing to wind Rachel up further, Hadley kept that to herself.
Today she was sitting up alongside Alice as they made their way around the roundabout on St Paul’s Road, Alice’s driving totally in character: neat, precise, careful. Not one to take unnecessary risks.
Glancing at her
again, Hadley was struck by an image, a flicker of memory, one of those films from the sixties she and Rachel luxuriated in once in a while – or had, before Hadley’s promotion to detective chief inspector cut their leisure time by half. Glistening black-and-white, 35-millimetre prints at the BFI Southbank or the recently refurbished Regent Street cinema, a cocktail in the bar beforehand, supper afterwards. Rachel, a film buff since her university days. Bergman, Bresson, Godard. Kieslowski and Kaurismaki. And Alice, Hadley thought, was almost a dead ringer for Jean Seberg in À Bout de Souffle: the wide eyes, the dark eyebrows and off-blonde elfin-cut hair. Alice wearing black as usual, black jumper, black trousers, black shoes. Glancing now at the GPS, two more turns before drawing up outside the Wilton estate.
The young woman who came to the door was a little over five foot tall and, Hadley thought, of African parentage. Nigerian possibly? Introductions made, warrant cards shown, they were ushered inside.
Katherine Elder was standing by the partly open door out on to the balcony. Even wearing a shapeless top and ill-fitting jeans, no discernible make-up, hair tied back from her face, there was no escaping the fact, Hadley thought, that she was beautiful.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see us,’ Hadley said.
Katherine nodded and gestured for them to sit. ‘Would you like some tea or anything? Coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ Hadley said. ‘Tea would be nice.’
‘There’s jasmine, I think, otherwise it’s just builder’s.’
‘Builder’s would be fine.’
‘I’ll stick the kettle on,’ Abike said, ‘then leave you to it.’
Katherine smiled her thanks.
Hadley offered up a few positive comments about the flat, asked about the area, Dalston not really being a part of London with which she was familiar. Katherine answered in a desultory way, fiddling with the ribbon tying back her hair until it came undone and fell to her shoulders.
‘Anthony Winter,’ Hadley said, once the tea had been poured and Abike had made her goodbyes, ‘it must have been a shock when you heard what had happened?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was.’
‘And you worked for him, as his model, for how long?’
‘Not all that long really. Six months or so, a little more.’
‘Even so, working closely as I suppose you have to, you must have got to know one another well?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’ Tugging at the hair now, the ends, grasping and releasing.
‘Katherine?’
‘I don’t … Yes, we did.’ Tears started to run, soundlessly, down her face.
Alice offered her a tissue.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hadley said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘It’s all right, I … It was just a surprise, you know? You never think …’ She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, crumpled the tissue in her hand. ‘Anthony, he was always … he was just there, you know?’ She gestured with her hands, indicating something solid, a statue, a person.
‘A presence,’ Hadley suggested.
Katherine nodded. Sniffed. Fiddled some more with her hair.
‘So you and Anthony … I just want to be clear,’ Hadley said. ‘You were working for him until very recently, is that correct?’
‘Well, no. No, not really. Not very recently, no. The last time, the last time I posed for him, that would have been over a month ago now.’
‘And you’d stopped because …?’
‘The paintings Anthony was doing, the ones I was modelling for, they were more or less finished. As far as I was concerned, anyway. He’d carry on working on them, of course, till he was satisfied. I think that’s what he always did, the way he worked. There wasn’t anything else for me to do.’
‘And did you see much of him after that? After you stopped working together?’
Katherine shook her head. ‘He was busy getting everything ready for this new show.’
‘And – I simply want to be clear here – you didn’t see him at all during that time, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not really. Just the once …’
‘So you did see him?’
‘Yes, once. He asked me if I’d like to see the paintings before they were packed up ready to go to the gallery.’
‘And when was this?’
‘Last week. The beginning of last week. Monday.’ She tugged at a stray hair. ‘Yes, that’s when it was, Monday.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Because at first, when he asked, I didn’t think I’d go. I didn’t want to.’
‘Why was that?’
Katherine fidgeted in her seat. ‘There’d been a … I don’t know what you’d call it … a misunderstanding.’
‘Between Anthony and yourself?’
‘Yes. And I didn’t think … I didn’t think I was going to be seeing him again, so when he phoned and said did I want to come to the studio, I just didn’t know …’
‘This misunderstanding, it was professional? To do with the work?’
Katherine looked away. ‘No. No, not really.’
‘Personal, then?’
‘Yes, but … but I don’t want to talk about it. Okay? I just don’t.’
‘All right, let’s put that to one side for now.’
‘It doesn’t have anything to do … anything to do with what happened.’
Hadley raised an appeasing hand. ‘Fine. As I say, it’s nothing we need to pursue. For now, at least.’
The sounds of two dogs barking, one high, one low, rose up from below; a woman’s voice then, clear and commanding, and the barking stopped.
Alice shifted position a little, claiming Katherine’s attention. ‘When you saw the paintings, on the Monday I think you said it was, what did you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must have thought something, surely? Now they were finished.’
‘I suppose I was … I was surprised.’
‘What by?’
Katherine thought before answering. ‘They looked so … I don’t know, I don’t know if it makes sense, but they looked so, well, real.’
‘Lifelike, you mean?’
‘No, more than that. They looked raw, somehow. Real but sort of magnified. I can’t really explain.’ She gave another pull at her hair. ‘And they were different. That was the thing. Different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Things had been added, changed. Made more dramatic, I suppose.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
Katherine looked at the floor.
Alice waited, giving her time. ‘Katherine?’
‘I didn’t like it. What he’d done. I mean, I know they’re his paintings, it’s his work, only …’ She looked, again, to be on the brink of tears.
‘Only what?’ Alice persisted quietly. ‘What didn’t you like?’
‘He’d made them more … more ugly. Nasty. Like there’s one where my arms are up above my head, right? When I was posing, most of the time we used some soft cloth, scarves, to keep my arms steady. It was only right at the end, the last couple of days, Anthony said to use the chains and things and then never as tight as in the painting. Look at it now and it’s as if I’m being held prisoner. As if it’s hurting.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘What?’
‘Hurting?’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘So he changed it later?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without telling you?’
‘Yes, of course. I mean, they’re his paintings, I understand that. His work. He can do what he wants. But like I said, it’s hard to explain.’
‘It made you uncomfortable? What he’d done?’
‘Yes. Like that one where it looks as if I’m bleeding … you know, from here … as if maybe I’m on my period …’
She covered her face with her hands. Hadley and Alice exchanged glances and Alice went into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water which she offered to Katherine a
long with another tissue.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Hadley said once Katherine had recovered. ‘I realise this is distressing. We won’t keep you much longer. There are just a couple more things.’
Katherine sniffed, wiped her eyes.
‘The incident at the gallery involving your father, you know about that?’
Katherine nodded. ‘It was all over Twitter, everywhere.’
‘You weren’t there yourself, though?’
‘The private view? No.’
‘And your father, did you know he was going to be there?’
‘God, no. And if I had, I’d have begged him to stay away. I don’t know what he was doing. What he was thinking of.’
‘And were you surprised? At how he’d behaved?’
Katherine hesitated. ‘Not really, no.’
‘He has a temper then?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘Where you’re concerned especially?’
‘Maybe.’ A shrug. ‘Probably.’
‘My father would have been the same,’ Alice said. ‘Just seeing me naked, that would have been enough. But anything more … more graphic … I don’t know what he might have done.’
The sounds of an ambulance, going at full tilt, penetrated the room. Faded away.
‘I just wonder,’ Hadley said, ‘before we go, if you have any idea, any idea at all, who might have wanted to harm Anthony in this way?’
‘No, no, I don’t.’
‘Enemies of any kind? Anyone he might have mentioned.’
‘No. But I thought …’
‘Go on.’
‘I thought whoever did this, it was someone who just, I don’t know, broke in, I suppose. A burglar, perhaps. Not something deliberate, someone he knew.’
‘At the moment, the inquiry’s still quite open. We have to consider any possibility. Which is why I asked my question.’
Katherine pushed her hair away from her face, thought some more before answering. ‘I don’t know of any what you might call enemies, no. I mean, Anthony never went out of his way to make himself liked. Quite the opposite, sometimes, as far as I could tell. But enemies …’ She shook her head. ‘There was a lot of anger over him changing galleries, I know that. From whoever had represented him before. But that isn’t the kind of thing people get killed over, is it?’