The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  And it was true, it wasn't any of her business and certainly was of no relevance to the job in hand. Which was to find out as much as they could about Miss Lotti Brückner. Their little project. Morgan might be reluctant to use the 'i' word, but she wasn't. She had a plan and tomorrow she hoped to meet Miss Brückner for the first time. Yes, tomorrow the investigation would be up and running.

  Chapter 4

  Liz Donahue scrolled down her phone book, looking for the number. She was pretty certain she had kept it, but whether it was under 'Chronicle', 'McGinley', 'Gary' or any combination of the three, she couldn't quite remember. Like any good journalist, she had hundreds of names in her book, pretty much everyone she had ever met in the four years she'd been working on her local paper. An invaluable resource until you actually needed to find something. But after some more frantic scrolling, there it was. 'McGinley, Gary, The Chronicle.' All three tags just for good measure.

  Unfortunately, there was no mobile number but she did have an email address and that would do fine for now. This one had been the second suicide connected to the Whitehaven mine debacle. The first, bursting with local interest, had been reported by her Westmoreland Gazette in the outraged tones it deserved. William Tompkins, father of four and a pillar of the community, his spirit crushed after losing more than a hundred and fifty grand of his family's money in the Greenway crash, had drunk himself blind on cheap vodka before swallowing four packs of paracetamol. Four days later he had died an agonising death as his liver gave up the ghost. A tragedy, unarguably, and one that her paper was more than happy to lay at the door of Hugo Morgan.

  But this one was different, quite different. Which is why Liz had spent nearly twelve hours camped outside the idyllic family home on the fringes of Wastwater. Mrs Belinda Milner had been the CEO of the company, a City darling who commentators said had only landed the job because of its desire to be seen to balance the gender gap in the leadership of publicly-listed companies. With a string of non-executive directorships too, she had been able to dedicate just three days a week to her Greenway duties, which was deemed by many to be totally inadequate. The demise of the company was not going to be the highlight of her CV, that was for sure, but unlike many of her ex-employees she wasn't to be made destitute given the million-plus per annum package she had been on, and in any case this wasn't the first failure she had presided over. No, Belinda Milner was inured to criticism, and this latest career setback would not have caused her to lose a minute's sleep. Let alone go off and kill herself.

  But she had killed herself, changing into the sleek black designer-label swimsuit in the early hours of a cold November morning before her husband or daughter had wakened, then slipping down to the lakeside and plunging into the icy waters. Swimming out to the centre, she had let the lapping waves envelop her, filling her lungs until she could breathe no more. She left no note behind to explain, leaving her family holding a tawdry secret they were desperate to keep to themselves.

  Except that Liz Donahue had already found out the truth. This was going to be a big one, perhaps the biggest story of her life. It had been bitterly cold all day, and there had been no movement in or out of the house all the time she had been there, apart from a van, which had arrived around 3pm. Two men wearing white overalls had got out and started work, without bothering to announce their presence to the occupants of the house. She had detected the sweet smell of acetate thinner as the pair expertly removed the graffiti, the task taking no more than twenty minutes from start to finish.

  The slogan had been painted in foot-high letters along the side of Milner's upmarket SUV. Justice for Greenway. The incident had occurred too late to make that week's print edition, but she herself had covered it in the online version. There was plenty of locals seeking justice after the Greenway melt-down, but few perceptive enough to see where the real blame lay. Whoever had done this knew the truth.

  At around six in the evening and just as she was about to abandon her vigil, came the breakthrough. Milner's daughter, fifteen or sixteen years old and just a week after her mother's funeral, had decided to go for a walk. Liz caught her up just as she left the driveway.

  'Was your mum having an affair April?' It wasn't her proudest moment but you couldn't let your scruples get in the way of a good story. This one deserved national exposure, but McGinley wasn't going to get it unless he agreed to give her joint credit. She didn't see how he could possibly refuse.

  Chapter 5

  Maggie hated the bloody photograph and she hated the bloody profile. In fact she hated everything about the whole damn thing. Especially something the website called 'Your Elevator Pitch.' A youthful and fun-loving thirty-something, into walks in the countryside, great food and great books. That described what she would like to be, not what she actually was, but as her friend Asvina had pointed out as they were putting the whole stupid thing together one evening after one too many chardonnays, everyone used great dollops of poetic licence on these dating sites. Besides which, Burnt-out, bad-tempered forty-something former barrister who recently tried to do herself in, didn't quite have the same ring to it.

  Anyway, thank God it was still sitting there in the 'Draft' folder, the 'Post' button mercifully un-clicked. Right now, she wasn't ready for the wild-west world of online dating, and she doubted if she ever would be. But despite that, she had no doubt that almost unnoticed, something had changed inside her. After the most horrendous two years that anyone could ever have lived through, she was now feeling cautiously positive about the future. Positive enough to think about now meeting someone to share it with. But baby steps, that was the watch-word. She had plenty of time. No need to force the pace.

  Her contemplations were interrupted by a sudden jolt as the tube-train driver sharply applied the brakes. She glanced up at the indicator board. High Street Kensington. This was her stop. She had calculated it was no more than a five-minute walk to the gallery, but that didn't really matter, since today she was the customer and so she could turn up late if she felt like it. Choosing what to wear had been a surprising challenge, since she really only owned a few smart suits for work, all navy, and then a hotchpotch of casual wear from the high street chains. That definitely wasn't going to create the kind of impression she needed to make. And then she remembered Harriet Ibbotson and the problem was solved. The dress cost nearly seven hundred pounds and the matching tailored jacket much the same, but there was no point in false modesty. She looked amazing in it, even if she said so herself. Which left just the problem of shoes. Four hundred pounds was a ridiculous sum of money to pay, but as she remembered her dad saying rather too often, why spoil the ship for a halfpenny's worth of tar? It wasn't as if she couldn't afford it, not after finally offloading her old family home, but it just didn't seem right in a world riddled with inequality.

  But then again, this being a Thursday, she and Jimmy would be as usual meeting his brother Frank in the King's Head after work, and looking amazing would be no obstacle to what she had in mind. For Maggie had finally decided she liked Frank. He didn't have the babe-magnet looks of his brother, thank God - being with someone like that would surely turn you into an insecure wreck -but he was handsome in his own way and above all he was nice. And kind and open and honest, everything her late and unlamented husband Phillip never had been.

  However, all that would have to wait until later, because she had now reached the front door of The Polperro Gallery. Kensington Church Street was lined wall-to-wall with the places and she wondered how they all could survive with such competition. But looking at the price-tag on a couple of items in their window, perhaps it wasn't so difficult to understand. The gallery felt pleasantly cool, discretely air-conditioned with a limed-oak floor and walls painted in a subtle off-white silk. Classy, that was the immediate impression, doubtless exactly what the owners intended. Looking around, her eye was drawn by the picture immediately to her left, an arresting landscape of stark greys and khakis which as she got closer revealed itself as a scene from the trench
es of World War I. An engraved plaque attached to the bottom edge of the frame read Ypres September 1917.

  'It's wonderful, isn't it?' The voice was deep and mellifluous, the tone warm and welcoming. 'An undiscovered Paul Nash. We were so lucky to find it, don't you think?'

  'I don't know him I'm afraid,' Maggie said. 'I don't really know any artists, to tell the truth. Lowry maybe, but that's about it.'

  He held out a hand. 'It's Mrs Slattery, isn't it? I was expecting you. Welcome to the Polperro Gallery. I'm Robert Trelawney. We spoke briefly on the phone.'

  'Magdalene, please.'

  Mrs Magdalene Slattery. That was the name she had decided on. Her own first name, obviously, it would be too difficult to keep up the pretence if she suddenly became an Emma or a Susan. And then the surname of one of her favourite teachers, old Brian Slattery, Chemistry and Biology. A good old solid Yorkshire name for a good old solid Yorkshire girl. And if probed, the story was she had reverted back to her maiden name, but kept the Mrs. Perfectly plausible, after the way her fictional husband was supposed to have died.

  She guessed Trelawney to be perhaps a couple of years older than her, slim and of medium height, dressed in an expensive-looking light grey suit with crisp white open-necked shirt. His shoes were a highly-polished deep brown leather and like the suit, obviously expensive. Tasteful and classy, just like his gallery. Now she was really glad she had taken the trouble to tidy herself up a bit.

  'So when you called, you told me you were interested mainly in twentieth century art? But I wondered, how did you find us?'

  She smiled. 'Find you? I've walked past your gallery on many occasions when I've been down this way. Actually, I'm ashamed to say I've just picked a few of you guys more or less at random. In your case, it's just that I liked the name. We used to go on holiday to Cornwall when I was a child.' It sounded perfectly convincing, and after all, why would all of these galleries bother with shop fronts if not to attract window shoppers?

  He grinned. 'Well, I was brought up down there, for my sins. Trelawney is Cornish, I'm sure you've worked out. '

  'Polperro's a lovely place and a lovely name for a gallery too,' she said. 'And to answer your question yes, I think I'm interested in modern art, but I'm really quite new to all of this. It's just that my financial advisors have been nagging me to diversify my asset portfolio or some such gobbledygook. You've got far too much tied up in cash, that's what they're always saying. First off they suggested I look at wine, but really, what can you do with a seventy-year old claret?'

  Trelawney laughed. 'Yes, I agree, and it might not even taste nice if one day you decide to drink it. That's the great thing about art, you get the pleasure of being able to look at it every day. Although I'm bound to caution you that there are risks associated with buying a piece or a painting purely for investment purposes. That's why I always advise my clients to buy only artworks they really love.'

  Maggie furrowed her brow. 'Is that normal in this business? That sort of advice I mean?'

  'More normal than you might think actually,' he said. 'There's still a few unscrupulous dealers around but eventually their bad reputation catches up with them. Most of us are pretty straight. Honest.'

  She laughed. 'I believe you. But this one,' pointing to the Nash, 'would you advise me to buy it?'

  'Do you like it?'

  She gave a sigh. 'Well it's certainly striking, but do I like it? I'm not sure that I do.'

  He smiled. 'There's your answer then. But in any case, this probably isn't a picture for a novice collector. I hope you don't mind me calling you that?'

  'Not at all. If you assume I know nothing about anything you'll be pretty much right. But when you say this isn't a picture for a novice, what do you mean?'

  'Provenance and history. You see, Paul Nash was a very important artist, some would say one of the most important British artists of the early twentieth century. As such, his work has been extensively studied and catalogued. So when a work like this suddenly appears more than seventy years after his death, then there are obviously question marks over its authenticity. That's why we describe it in the catalogue as attributed to Paul Nash.'

  'So that's a sort-of buyer beware?'

  He nodded. 'Exactly. I'm very confident that it is genuine, and a number of experts have concurred with me, but there is always a risk that it could be challenged in the future.'

  'After someone has bought it on the assumption it's a genuine Nash?'

  'That's it. But a knowledgeable collector will do their due diligence before making up their own mind on that, and of course any doubts will be reflected in the price.'

  She gave him an uncertain look. 'I'm not sure if it's the done thing Robert, but am I allowed to ask the obvious question?'

  He smiled. 'How much, do you mean? Of course, that's the most important question of all. I can't say for certain, but the record price for a work of his is over two hundred thousand pounds, so I wouldn't be surprised if this goes for a similar sum or even more. We will have it on display here for the next month or so and I would expect we will have no trouble in agreeing a private sale. But if not, then it'll go to auction later in the year.'

  'And so would you say that is the sort of sum I should be expecting to spend on an item? Because I've really no idea at all.' And then she realised that she was enjoying her conversation with this lovely man so much that she had almost forgotten why she was here in the first place. 'I mean, is this something you personally can help me with, or are there other people in your firm who deal with this?'

  If he found the question odd, he didn't show it. 'Yes, well I'm more of an all-rounder you might say,' he said in an apologetic tone, 'but by coincidence we've got a new member of the team who is very knowledgeable on twentieth century artists, and not just the usual British suspects if I can call them that. She's in today. I'll just pop upstairs and see if she's free.'

  And that was how it came to be that less than sixty seconds later, Maggie was shaking hands with the woman who was to be the next Mrs Hugo Morgan.

  'I'm Lotti Brückner. Pleased to meet you.'

  Involuntarily, Maggie looked her up from top to bottom and it was startlingly obvious that Morgan had not overstated the beauty of this woman in any way. Tall and slim, around five-ten, with a tiny little waist and a full bosom which was displayed to maximum effect by the tight-fitting white tee-shirt, worn above a pair of tailored light grey trousers. Her dark hair was thick and lustrous, swept to one side so that it rested a few inches below her left shoulder. Smart and beautiful, an intoxicating combination which would send most men crazy with desire, that could not be denied. But what struck Maggie most was her complexion, which was ridiculously soft and peachy, like that of a child. Which drove a thought into her mind, and the more she looked at Lotti, the more certain she was. There's no way this woman is thirty years of age. But that was stupid of course. Women lied about their age all the time, but as she knew only too well, they generally knocked a few years off, not added them on. Why would you do that? No, she was definitely being stupid. Perhaps Lotti was simply blessed with great genes, a product of her ancestors growing up breathing all that pure mountain air. But still the thought wouldn't go away.

  'Pleased to meet you too Lotti,' she said, quite truthfully. 'Robert said you might be able to help me although to be honest, I'm not quite sure what my requirements are.'

  Lotti smiled. 'Well, I'm sure we can discover that with some discussions.' Her voice was soft and clear but distinctly accented.

  'That would be great,' Maggie said, 'and I hope you don't mind me asking, but do I detect a German lilt?'

  She shook her head. 'Nearly. Swiss actually, but I grew up in Zurich so in a German-speaking Canton. It's the biggest one in Switzerland with over a million of us, but still the Germans say we do not speak the language properly. Of course we think the same about them also.'

  'Oh dear,' Maggie said. 'I do hope you're not offended.' Not that she cared too much, really. It was just another
part of the subterfuge, because if, as she said, she had chosen the gallery at random, how could she know that the pretty sales lady was from Switzerland?

  'Not at all,' Lotti said, smiling. 'So maybe I can get you a coffee and then we could sit down and discuss your requirements? And perhaps match them to some of the works that we have for sale here in our gallery.' She turned to her boss. 'Robert, do you wish to sit in on these discussions?'

  He shook his head. 'No, I don't think that's necessary Lotti. I'm not sure how much I could add to the party. But I can certainly make the coffee.' He scuttled off, leaving the two of them alone.

  'Let's go and sit over here,' Lotti said, pointing to a low glass table in the corner. 'Robert told me about your situation. It must have been rather a difficult time for you.'

  It was rather difficult, she thought, but only in trying to remember exactly what it was she had said to him yesterday. Widowed in unusual circumstances and now bringing up my eight-year old son on my own. That was about the gist of it.

  'There's people in far worse situations than me,' she replied. 'At least I've enough money and a lovely home. And my son of course.' All of which was true, thank goodness, making that bit of the story easy to keep up. 'But you heard how my husband died, I suppose?'

  'No, Robert didn't mention that.'

  'He had a lover. Twenty years younger than him and he had a heart-attack whilst he was screwing the little bitch. Served him right of course, and her too. She had to push him off her then phone for an ambulance.' She didn't have to try too hard to fake the bitterness. It wasn't so much different from what she had suffered in real life.

  Lotti shuffled uncomfortably, perhaps feeling that this was a bit too close to home. Good, thought Maggie, because that was the intention. But how far should she push it? No harm in going a bit further, and anyway, she found she was actually enjoying this. Perhaps she should have been an actress instead of a bloody lawyer, she might have been quite good at that.