Murder in Paint

by Rodney Strong

  ‘You should try living with two kids,’ Oliver replied.

  She laughed. ‘No, thanks.’

  They stopped at Oliver’s car.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t get.’

  ‘Only the one?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Why don’t you cut and run? What’s so important about this painting that has you still here?’

  She gazed up the street, seeming to consider her reply. ‘The first rule of the business I’m in is to never make it personal.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘This is personal.’

  ‘Alright, I may be new to this side of life, but as my kids say, well, duh. I get that much – the question is why?’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘Better you don’t know.’

  ‘I just got assaulted by a guy who pretended to have kidnapped my daughter. Whatever you tell me can’t be worse.’

  ‘Not better for you – better for me,’ she said with a sly grin.

  Sometimes I want to knock the smile off her face.

  As a rule I don’t see the need for violence, but if you were alive I’d let you.

  Sensing a brick wall when he saw one, Oliver changed tack. ‘So where to now?’

  They both leaned on the car, and the sun broke through the clouds to bathe them in heat. Down the street Charlotte scurried from her house, saw them and abruptly changed direction, rushing off the other way.

  ‘We need to figure out who he meant to send the text to,’ Amanda mused.

  ‘We know that already. He sent it to Jean Pagey.’

  Amanda studied him. ‘How do you know?’

  His insides did a dance for joy that he’d picked up on something the professional had missed. ‘The text read JackPot. Capital J and P. Jean Pagey. Stands to reason,’ he added loftily.

  Don’t brag, Oliver, just take the win.

  Amanda nodded. ‘Makes sense, he’d already told her it was the big score, but then he found out the true value of the painting or what he thought the true value was, so he texted his partner in crime. If they sold this one Peter would have enough money to leave Charlotte.’

  ‘That narrows the suspect list down don’t you think? It was the only thing taken from his shop. Surely that means the killer knew the painting’s true value as well. How many people would know that?’

  Amanda looked at him thoughtfully. ‘It’s not common knowledge. But any art expert certainly would.’

  ‘An expert like Walter Carrington? A man we now know was selling items from the shop, so he’s shown himself to be less than honest?’

  ‘It might be worth you having that drink with Walter, ask him some more questions.’

  Oliver shifted uncomfortably.

  Ask her why she’s taken my name.

  Why would she tell me now when she hasn’t before?

  Keep asking her until she tells you.

  Later.

  ‘Maybe we should both go,’ he said.

  Amanda nudged him with her shoulder. ‘Nervous? First dates can be like that.’

  ‘Shut up,’ he muttered.

  ‘Before that, though, I want a word with Eugene Darcy. I can’t have him wandering around screwing things up. Come on, we’ll take my car.’

  Her car was different from the day before, a blue mid-sized sedan.

  ‘Where do you get all these cars from?’ he quizzed her.

  She laughed. ‘Tell me the one thing all the cars have in common and I’ll tell you where I got them from.’

  He and Violet both thought about it as Amanda drove them through the city. ‘I can’t think of anything they had in common, other than they all had engines and wheels,’ he finally admitted.

  ‘Keep thinking,’ she encouraged him as they pulled up outside the Darcy house. ‘You’ll figure it out.’

  Eugene tried to close the door as soon as he answered their knock. Amanda shoved it open with her hip, knocking the man to the floor.

  ‘You have to leave,’ he stammered at the advancing woman.

  Oliver closed the door, then pushed past the glowering Amanda and helped Eugene to his feet. ‘We will, but our friend here has somethings to say first.’

  He guided the terrified man into the living room and none too gently pushed him into a chair.

  ‘What were you thinking Eugene,’ Amanda asked. ‘I told you I’d get the painting back, yet you offer money to Peter Yarrow’s widow, and then set two of your friends on us. And I’m going to be honest here Eugene, there’s barely a braincell between the three of you.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Eugene pleaded. ‘Dad is…’

  The door opened behind them and someone walked in.

  ‘Yes Eugene? Dad is…?’ said Matthew Darcy.

  TWENTY NINE

  It was the first time Oliver had seen a politician in the flesh, apart from local city councillors who weren’t quite on the same level. Of course he’d watched Matthew Darcy many times on the television, and smiling up at him from a newspaper. The man always seemed to be smiling, even when he was being attacked by a reporter or a member of the opposition. It was as if he knew something they didn’t. Given he was the deputy prime minister, and widely tipped for the top job, that was highly likely.

  In his early fifties, the man was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, light blue shirt, and plain tie. He looked like he’d just come from a press conference – not a hair out of place, teeth gleaming white. He strode forward, hand thrust out, and Oliver found himself automatically matching the action. The handshake that followed was short, firm, and double-handed, and Oliver had no doubt that the man had received expert advice on the right length and grip.

  ‘Matthew Darcy, Mr Atkinson. May I call you Oliver?’

  Before Oliver could respond the man had turned his attention to Amanda. ‘And you must be Violet Tumbleton.’

  No – I am!

  Amanda switched on her full wattage smile. ‘Yes. A pleasure Mr Darcy.’

  The man grunted. ‘Somehow I doubt it. I don’t have long so perhaps we could cut straight to it. I’d like to apologise for Victor. He suggested a course of action relating to your wife, Oliver, and although I didn’t like it I went along. It was the wrong decision and I’m sorry.’ He appeared genuinely contrite.

  Oliver found himself wanting to say it was okay and had to bite his lip to stop the words spilling out.

  Oohh, this guy is good.

  ‘Miss Tumbleton, you took something of mine. Normally I would let the police do their job in recovering it, but I understand you and Oliver are attempting to get it back, and I would prefer this all be done outside the view of the press.’ For a second the politician façade slipped and he gave his son a look of pure anger. Oliver shuddered. Eugene flinched and suddenly found his feet very interesting. ‘How close are you to recovering my property?’

  ‘Closer than we were yesterday,’ Amanda informed him.

  ‘We’d be a lot closer if Victor wasn’t hovering over us like a bird of prey,’ Oliver told him.

  Matthew Darcy nodded. ‘Perhaps, but I’m inclined to leave him hovering as incentive. I don’t like being a victim, especially when the article in question has been in the family for many years. If I were in any other profession this would be handled differently.’ He gave them both a meaningful look, then glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I must be going. Oliver, you’ll find I have a long memory and a longer reach, so it’s best we don’t meet again. Violet, my son is impressionable, and has poor judgement. Can I trust that once this incident is over you will stay as far away from my family as possible?’

  She smiled. ‘Mr Darcy, you have my assurance that once this matter is satisfactorily concluded you will never see Violet Tumbleton ever again.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he considered her words, then gave a slight incline of his head and strode from the room, sucking the energy out with him.

  I don’t trust him at all, but damn if I wouldn’t vote for him.

  Oliver felt like h
e’d been through an emotional whirlwind. In the space of two minutes he’d been apologised to and threatened. But whatever he felt, it was nothing compared to the boy still cowering in his seat. Eugene appeared truly terrified by his father.

  ‘Please, Violet, please get the painting back,’ Eugene begged.

  If he was expecting sympathy it didn’t arrive. Instead she placed her arms either side of him and leaned in close.

  ‘I will get your father’s painting back Eugene, but listen very carefully. If I see your name, hear your voice – get even the faintest hint that you are interfering in anyway – then I’m gone, and your dad can deal with you. Understand?’

  Eugene was so frozen even a simple nod was out of the question, but Amanda seemed satisfied that her message had been received. She stood up, suddenly all friendly. ‘Now, before we leave I believe you were about to offer to show Oliver the collection.’

  ‘I–I was?’

  ‘Yes, you were.’ She held out her hand and helped Eugene up, giving his arm an encouraging pat before releasing him.

  ‘Yes, of course. Oliver, come this way.’ He suddenly seemed eager to please.

  I never knew boys like him.

  There must have been boys like that when you were alive.

  Yes, but they were too busy trying to avoid getting their heads shot off in the war. The ones left behind weren’t exactly the pick of the litter.

  Eugene led them up the stairs. At the end of the second-floor hallway was a locked door. Eugene punched a code into the security panel, retaining enough sense to hide it from the others, and there was an audible click. He pushed the door open and they went in. Eugene flicked a switch and soft light flooded every corner of the medium-sized room. The first thing Oliver noticed was there were no windows. The second thing he noticed were the eight paintings placed around the walls. The third thing he noticed was the empty space where a ninth painting should have hung.

  Stepping further into the room, Oliver spied a thin wooden crate leaning against one wall. The walls were painted a neutral off-white colour, and under each painting was a small plaque. Oliver went to the first painting and read the plaque. It confirmed the painting was a John Strong forgery of another artist, one Oliver had vaguely heard of. The picture itself was of Wellington Harbour, showing the hills rising behind buildings.

  He studied each painting. Some of the artists he’d never heard of, while one or two were very well known. When he got to the blank space it was labelled Sunset over the Island. He glanced at Amanda who kept her expression neutral. He asked Eugene, ‘I take it the crate contains the tenth painting?’

  It was Amanda who nodded.

  ‘Completing the collection, and increasing the overall value… to what?’

  ‘Eugene will you give us a minute?’

  To his credit Eugene hesitated.

  ‘Eugene there’s only one exit and I can hardly smuggle a painting out under my skirt. My patience with you is already at an all-time low, so get out.’

  He scurried out and Amanda closed the door firmly behind him, put her back to it and looked at Oliver.

  ‘Fourteen million.’

  Jesus.

  ‘Fourteen million,’ Oliver repeated, as if the number wasn’t real unless he heard it with his own voice. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘This is a unique collection – ten forgeries but not of actual paintings. The original artists never painted these; John Strong just copied their style and signature and created something entirely new. And they’re good paintings. Very good in fact. So individually they are worth a bit, but collectively they’re worth far more.’

  And to think I let this guy…. She proceeded to give a description that Oliver immediately wanted to expunge from his brain.

  ‘If it’s worth that much, why didn’t you take all of them?’

  She pushed off the door and wandered around the room. ‘Why do you think?’

  He considered. ‘Because it would have been too difficult to sell them as a collection?’

  ‘Good guess, and yes, that’s part of the reason, but not the main one.’

  He went over to where she was standing in front of the empty space. ‘Then why?’

  Amanda traced around the edge of the plaque with her finger. ‘I’m not doing this for the money – well I partly did it for the money, but mostly I took the painting so Matthew Darcy would never have the full collection.’

  Oliver watched as she continued to trace the plaque, round and round – first one way, then the other.

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  The finger paused, then came away from the wall. ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘Why take it somewhere local then? In fact, why take it anywhere? Why not just destroy the painting?’

  ‘Destroy it! It’s a beautiful piece of work Oliver. I don’t want to destroy it – I just want it to be anywhere but here.’

  ‘Then why not just hide it forever?’

  ‘Come on, we’re wasting time.’ She strode to the door and flung it open, startling the man on the other side, who’d been lurking with a sullen look on his face. ‘Thank you Eugene. Now remember what I said earlier, stay out of my way.’

  They didn’t speak until they got to her car. Then Amanda said, ‘Time for you to set up a date with Walter.’

  As she drove back towards Charlotte’s house to retrieve his car, Oliver reluctantly called and made a time to meet the delighted Walter for coffee. Thoughts of the impending meeting were thrust aside though when they arrived at the car to find someone leaning against it.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my two favourite people.’

  THIRTY

  ‘Detective Wilson! What a pleasure to see you again,’ Amanda said with a smile.

  She’s as bad as the politician.

  The detective matched her smile. ‘Oh I doubt that, Miss Tumbleton.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘It’s a funny thing, I happened to hear a call out for a street brawl – apparently four people, including a woman, were fighting outside a house. Imagine my surprise when I realised it was Peter Yarrow’s house. Of course the fighters had gone by the time I arrived, and Charlotte Yarrow claimed not to know anything about it. I took a wander down the street, and what do you know? I found your car, Mr Atkinson. What are the odds?’

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you detective,’ Amanda said. ‘As you can see, we’ve just returned to the car, so we don’t know anything about a street fight.’ Innocence dripped off every word.

  Detective Wilson seemed disillusioned by her response. He glanced up and down the street to make sure they weren’t being overheard, then stepped in closer.

  ‘I’m inclined to level with you. I don’t think you’re involved in Peter Yarrow’s death. I think you’re just after the painting, since it was you –,’ he nodded to Amanda, ‘– who brought it to him in the first place. As for you, –’ he inclined his head at Oliver, ‘– I still can’t figure out what your involvement is with this, or her.’

  Oliver shifted uncomfortably but didn’t say anything.

  ‘So I’m doing my best to park you two to one side and focus on following the clues. But that’s hard to do when every clue I follow leads me to you.’

  ‘Surely not every clue Detective, ‘Amanda replied. ‘However, I can assure you I have absolutely no interest in catching a killer. I just want my property back.’

  He switched his attention to Oliver. ‘After I left you this morning I had a chat to a lovely woman called Freda. She told me all about your conversation. Have you found out anything about the woman who was frequenting the shop?’

  ‘If you talked to Freda then you know we haven’t. We think she might have been an escort.’

  ‘And you know nothing further?’

  Oliver’s hesitation was tiny. ‘Nothing that would be helpful.’

  Detective Wilson pounced. ‘Anything could be helpful in a murder investigation. Cases have been broken on th
e tiniest scraps of information.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can tell you.’

  The police man nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else.

  ‘Peter Yarrow was struck over the head – twice. Once could be considered an accident, but twice implies the perpetrator wanted to make sure the job was completed. The murder weapon was an item from the shop, so the person is prepared to improvise. I’m not telling you this out of compassion or a sense responsibility for your safety – if you get involved then it’s on you – but watch everyone, don’t trust anyone. As for you…’ He stared at Amanda for a moment. ‘Did you know there was a Violet Tumbleton who died in 1948?’

  ‘Well obviously I’m not her,’ Amanda smiled.

  No, I am.

  ‘Obviously. Yet there hasn’t been another Violet Tumbleton registered as being born in New Zealand since.’

  ‘That’s because I was born in England. My family moved here when I was little.’

  The man nodded and Oliver could almost see him making a mental note to check immigration records. Then the detective said, ‘If you do find out who killed Peter Yarrow, you will, of course, let me know.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Amanda assured him and Oliver nodded his agreement.

  Shoulders slumped, the man walked away.

  ‘We need to wrap things up quickly,’ Amanda told Oliver.

  ‘Apart from the obvious reasons, why?’

  ‘Because this identity wasn’t designed to stand up to police scrutiny.’

  ‘Then again I ask, why not just leave?’

  She sighed in frustration. ‘Let’s not go over that again. You go have your drink with Walter, and I’m going to have another talk with Jean. She’s lying to us about a few things and I need to see which of them are relevant. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Okay. Remember I need to pick my kids up at three.’

  She waved a hand over her shoulder as Oliver climbed into his car and headed off to meet a man who he was worried had something other than coffee on his mind.

  Walter was sitting at a table sipping a drink when Oliver arrived. It was past the lunchtime rush so the place was half empty, and the tired girl behind the counter promised to bring his drink over shortly.