Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  Friendly sort of place.

  I’d driven up the lane until it widened out into a patch of weed-grown gravel in front of large iron gates with elaborate stone posts and a gatehouse inside on the right. They would have formed a grand entrance in their day, but the stonework was chipped and overgrown with moss, the gates were rusty, and the gatehouse looked semi-derelict, with most of the visible windows boarded up.

  There was, however, a shiny new chain holding the gate shut, with an impressively large padlock securing it.

  Beyond the gate, a drive ran off up a hill and disappeared behind some trees. Roofs and short turrets loomed above them, presumably the Hall itself. There was no one around, and no obvious means of attracting any attention.

  I got out and tried the gate. It was as well secured as it had appeared. I shouted, hoping someone might be in the gatehouse. No result. I found a stone and banged on the gates. It didn’t make as much noise as I’d hoped, so I got in the car and started blowing the horn.

  And I kept on doing it. I was going to keep it up until either someone took some notice or the horn broke.

  After fifteen or twenty minutes of this, I finally got a result. Two figures were coming down the driveway towards me. I gave the horn a rest, got out, and waited for them.

  They weren’t alone, I noticed. They had dogs with them. Quite large dogs, it appeared. Not a breed I recognized, but the way they were straining at their leashes wasn’t encouraging.

  Both men were dressed in countryside chic – green waxed jackets, dark trousers and wellies, flat caps. The older one, heavily built and ruddy faced, had a shotgun hanging over his left arm and a dog pulling on the other one. His companion was shorter, younger, and thinner, but with a distinct family resemblance. No gun, but two dogs. It looked like the squire and his son out for a day’s shooting rather than school staff coming to answer the gate.

  And they didn’t look welcoming, either. The “squire” looked angry, his son looked mean, and the dogs looked vicious. I stepped back a bit from the gate.

  “Hello!” I called as they came closer. “I’m Sandra Reynolds, from The Echo.” Not strictly true, as I’d been fired the week before, but they didn’t know that. “I’d just like to ask –”

  The older man interrupted me. Not with any response to what I was saying. He just talked over me.

  “If you’re not on your way in thirty seconds, I’ll open the gate and set the dogs on you.”

  I was slow to react. I’d never come across such concentrated hostility before. The man’s face and tone and whole manner said that he hated the sight of me – even though we’d never met before. The voice was familiar – it was probably the same person I’d spoken to on the phone – but I couldn’t grasp the sheer venom he was directing at me.

  I think I must have gaped at him, before starting to protest. “But – I only want…”

  As soon as I started talking he handed his dog’s lead to the younger man, and stepped towards the gate, pulling out a bunch of keys as he did so.

  The dogs had been largely silent up to now, though they were looking at me with a fixed intensity that didn’t promise friendly relations. As the keys came out they began to snarl, and pull forward so strongly that the younger man had trouble holding them back.

  From the look on his face, though, he didn’t intend to do so for long. For a moment, I caught his eye, and the eagerness I saw there chilled me. It was even worse than the older man’s anger. He didn’t want me to go. He wanted to set the dogs on me.

  There was a click as the key turned in the padlock, a rattle as the chain was unwrapped, and an increase in volume from the dogs. I turned and ran to the car, leaped in, and slammed the door. I’d left the keys in the ignition, which was fortunate, because my hands were shaking so hard I could hardly even turn them – I would have struggled to get them in. Fortunately, the engine started first time. I pulled the Mini round in the sharpest, fastest turn I could manage, and headed down the lane at full speed.

  A glance in the mirror showed me that the gate was open, and the dogs were charging through. I tried to push the accelerator into the floor, and shot past the stone pillars at the end of the lane, barely managing the turn into the road beyond. If there’d been any traffic along there, it would have been fatal.

  I finally managed to get control of myself enough to pull into a lay-by, and I sat there for a long time, shivering and crying. I told myself that they’d been bluffing, that they wouldn’t actually have let the dogs do me any harm. And really, I should go back and confront them.

  But then I remembered the dogs charging down the lane behind me. And I remembered the expressions on the faces of the two men. Hatred and anger on one, a sick eagerness on the other.

  After all, there was a warning sign. Not their fault if some young reporter ignored it and got herself torn apart. Very tragic, of course, and the dogs would have to be put down. And perhaps there would have to be an investigation. But they looked as if they were ready to take that risk – and it would have been far too late to help me.

  I could have gone to the police and reported it. But DCI Greer had already made it clear that I should not be getting myself involved. I wasn’t likely to get a sympathetic hearing. In fact, I might even have been charged with trespassing!

  I’d thought about it for a long time. Then I’d driven home.

  Looking back, I realized that that had been the beginning of the end for me. That was when I’d realized that I was beaten. I’d kept on trying for a while, but inside I’d given up.

  I’d never gone back to Coren Hall, or anywhere near it.

  Coren Hall – the farmhouse. And Sir Arthur. All somehow linked. And the library. The unknown artist, so terribly murdered, and the hanging body. Both unknown. And the paintings. The missing paintings, the painting I had. The flowers in the farmhouse. The painting Sir Arthur had – a picture in a room. A painting of a painting… Memory Lane…

  All the different elements were whirling around in my brain. Too much information, too many facts, too many coincidences, David Macrae would have said…

  There was a tap on the side window and I jerked upright, suddenly realizing that I’d fallen asleep. It was dark, and the cleaning crew boss was tapping on my window impatiently.

  “OK. Just a minute.” I tried to roll down the window, but electric windows don’t work without power and my keys were still somewhere in a pocket. I opened the door a crack instead.

  “We’re all finished. Just need you to come and sign off on it.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course. What’s the time?”

  “Er – about half past seven.”

  “What? You said six!” I pushed the door fully open, making him move back, and got out. I was cold and stiff and my bruised arm was really painful now.

  “I said six or seven.” He frowned at me as if it was my fault. “Can’t be precise about these things, and this was a tricky one. But it’s all done now.” He held out a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

  I wasn’t feeling very accommodating. A long day, bad memories and a sore arm didn’t help my mood. “I’ll take a look first.”

  “No need for that,” he protested. But I was on my way to the door.

  The lights were still on in the library. I walked round, checking everywhere for signs of powder or superglue residue, but they’d done their job well. A faint whiff of chemicals hung round the place, but I supposed that that would disperse eventually.

  I managed to squeeze some graciousness out, and smiled as I signed his clipboard. “Looks good. Thank you.”

  He grunted something that I chose to assume was “You’re welcome”, ripped off a copy of the job sheet, and thrust it at me before scuttling out.

  My mobile rang. Graham calling. “Are you still at the library? Only it’s gone eight o’clock – I thought you’d be home by now.”

  Gone eight? I glanced at the clock behind the reception desk, but it had been one of the things smashed by the intruder. “Sorry. I
didn’t realize how late it was. The cleaning crew have only just finished.” If I’d realized just how generous the boss had been when estimating his crew’s work rate, I would have been a lot less gracious towards him.

  “OK, then. Do you still want to eat out?” It was a good thing that Graham was a lot more gracious – and patient! – than I was.

  I considered it. I did, but… “To be honest, I mostly want a long, hot bath just now. Sorry, but I don’t think I’ve got a night out in me.”

  “That’s OK. How about I order a takeaway instead, then start the bath running?”

  “You are the perfect husband.”

  “This is true. Chinese or Indian? Or pizza?”

  I’d already had pizza. “Chinese, I think. Nothing too elaborate. Lemon chicken, boiled rice, and… oh, I don’t know. Surprise me.”

  He laughed. I always loved his laughter, soft and warm and rich. “I’ll do my best. You get yourself home!”

  He hung up. I went to the door, then paused, and looked around again.

  The sliding doors to the Laney Grey Wing were still open. I’d become used to them closing on their own, but they weren’t doing it. Yvonne must have put in the code to keep them locked open, which would have made sense with the cleaning crew going in and out all the time.

  I went over to the keypad to rectify that, and noticed something that made me even more annoyed with the cleaners. On the far door there was still evidence of the CSIs’ work: a little black arrow was still stuck there, pointing down.

  “Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy!” I muttered, and went to pull it off. I wondered why it was there anyway. What had the CSIs been marking in that position?

  It was about four feet up from the floor. Just below it, as indicated by the arrow, there was a small V-shaped indentation in the wood.

  It was, I thought, the sort of mark you might get from the head of a flat screwdriver if, for example, someone had forced a screwdriver in between the closed doors and tried to lever them apart.

  I remembered June saying something about marks on the doors. She’d been expecting to see marks on both sides, but could only see them on one.

  I turned to look at the other door. The marks she had seen were still there. Slightly rounded indentations in the edge of the wood frame. Marks that you might get from the shaft of a screwdriver if you were forcing it that way… in which case the head would leave a mark on the other side of the door…

  The two marks were at the same height.

  June had only been able to see one set of tool marks because the door had been closed and the others had been hidden. But of course the CSIs had found them and marked them.

  I peeled the sticker off, or half of it. The rest had to be scraped off with my thumb.

  It wasn’t a very big mark. Which was fortunate from the point of view of the damage done, but surely that implied a small screwdriver?

  The doors were massively over-secure. When closed, they automatically locked together at four points, plus putting steel pins into the floor and ceiling. No way they could have been forced open by a little screwdriver.

  Of course, if you didn’t know that, you might expect that a bit of leverage would be sufficient. Who bolts up a library door like Fort Knox, eh?

  I shook my head. I didn’t understand what had happened here, and I was too tired to work it out. Probably Macrae had it figured out already, but if so it wasn’t something he’d shared with me.

  I finished locking up and went home. Sleeping in the car hadn’t refreshed me; I was still dozy and found myself rubbernecking at the traffic lights. I wound the window down, trying to revive myself with fresh air, but got a heavy dose of diesel fumes from the big artic in front of me.

  Home was a slice of heaven. Warm lights in the gloom, Graham opening the door as I approached, Brodie wagging his tail and sniffing for a fuss.

  “The bath is ready, milady,” Graham announced. “And the evening meal will be served in the banqueting hall at your convenience.”

  “Thank you, you’re a ministering angel.”

  “Want help undressing?”

  “Don’t push your luck, mister.”

  An hour or so later, I was clean, warm, full of lemon chicken and rice, snuggled up against my cuddly hubby. It seemed a pity to

  break the mood, but I needed to talk to him.

  “Graham… I have to tell you something.”

  “OK, but if we’re sharing news, then me first! Sam’s been in touch again.”

  I sat upright. “Is he OK?”

  “Yes, he’s fine – just wanted to let us know he was moving on from Thailand.”

  “Where to? Did he say?”

  “Not really… he sorted of hinted that he was leaving Asia, but more than that…” A shrug. “Somewhere different, I suppose. Somewhere new.”

  “There isn’t anywhere new. He’s been everywhere!”

  “It’s a big world, Sandy. And our lad wants to see it all.”

  There was a long pause while we thought of our globetrotting son.

  “It’s my fault,” I said.

  I hadn’t meant to say it. It wasn’t what I’d planned to say at all. But I said it.

  Graham looked puzzled. “What is?”

  “Sam. It’s my fault that he dropped out and… went away and… he never comes home…”

  Tears were flowing now.

  And Graham… Graham held me close. “No it’s not, Sandy. It’s just who Sam is.”

  “But – I drove him away… always wanting him to be safe, to know where he was; always wanting to make sure he was protected… Don’t you remember that big row we had? When he was off to university and I was marking his stuff, all his clothes and everything – name and address and UV pen marks and… like he was on his first day at infants’ – and he was so furious with me and stomped out and didn’t speak to me again – just went off to uni. Then he hadn’t been there six months and he dropped out and took off… It was me, Graham! I did that!”

  “No, no. Listen, Sandy…”

  But I was beyond listening. I was too tired and too hurting to listen, and the past had come back too often to hide from it any more.

  “I blamed him and I blamed you and I blamed God – and Sam won’t talk to me and I don’t talk about him to you and I can’t talk to God about anything because I know it was really my fault and I’ve always known it and I… I just couldn’t bear to think of something happening to him and no one knowing who he was.”

  I couldn’t see properly. Graham was right next to me, but his face was blurred. I rubbed desperately at my eyes.

  “I still can’t,” I added in a whisper.

  “Oh, Sandy… You’ve been carrying this all these years? I thought you understood. I thought I told you. Why didn’t you hear me?”

  “Hear what?”

  He grabbed my hands and held them. “It wasn’t because of you that Sam dropped out and went travelling. He just decided that he needed to do it. University doesn’t suit everyone. Sam just couldn’t cope with academic life. He felt trapped, stifled. He had to get out and just go.”

  “But we had such an argument.”

  “Yes, and that didn’t help. But he would have gone anyway. To be honest, I think I – we – made a mistake encouraging him to go to uni in the first place. He was under pressure from us and from his teachers, because he’s bright enough, for sure – but it was never in his heart. He was always going to be a wanderer.”

  I looked at him. “If that’s so, why doesn’t he ever talk to me?”

  Graham shrugged. “I don’t know for sure – but what I think is, he feels guilty too. He knows how much it hurts you, what he’s doing, how fearful you are. And that’s hard to live with. Easier to keep you at a distance, perhaps?”

  “I would never have held that against him.”

  “No more than he would have held that argument against you. But guilt does that. Keeps people apart. Both of you blaming

  yourselves.”

  “I wish I�
�d known.”

  “I have tried to talk about it. But – until this business brought it all out – you just wouldn’t talk about it.”

  Which reminded me of something else. “Ah, yes. About that – there’s some other things I need to talk about.”

  “Oh yes?” he said, with a wariness born from past experience.

  “Well…”

  We were interrupted. Brodie, who had been dozing in his basket nearby, suddenly leaped up, barking furiously, and ran out into the hall.

  “What the heck’s got into that dog?” Graham got up and followed him, and as he reached the hall door there was a whooshing noise, and fire licked round the top of the door and into his face.

  He fell back with a shout, beating wildly at his hair. Brodie dashed past him, whining.

  My mind froze. I saw what was happening, but couldn’t understand it. Where had that flame come from? A gas explosion? But the boiler was in the kitchen, not the hall. Had Brodie set something off? How could he have done that?

  Yet somehow, even while my mind spun in circles, my body was moving. I had hold of Graham, pulling him back from the hall, while in my other hand I had snatched up Brodie’s water bowl and flung it over Graham’s hair. I dragged him into the kitchen, had the tap running, and was throwing more water over him and the dog before seeing the fire blanket on the wall, pulling it out of the container, and rushing out towards the hallway.

  A blast of intense heat struck me in the face. I raised the fire blanket as a barrier ahead of me, wrapping it round my fingers, and tried to peer at the front door.

  It was all orange flame and black smoke. The entire hallway seemed full of it.

  “Out, Sandy! We’ve got to get out! Now!”

  Graham grabbed me from behind, pulling me away and back through the kitchen, out into the garden, the fresh air feeling raw and sharp on my lungs but the coolness an incredible blessing.

  There were people around, neighbours. Mrs Steel from next door, wrapped in a huge flowery dressing gown, taking charge. “Get them into my house!” she ordered. “Quickly now!”

  And the young couple who had just moved in across from us, her on her mobile, him half supporting Graham, and I remembered Graham’s heart and grabbed at him, but Mrs Steel and another woman were all around me, hustling me away, and Brodie was whining, but somewhere near, thank God – not still inside.