Molly moved across to the painting, knowing Colin would be interested to hear what hung on the walls of a St Kilda Road mansion. It was the complete antithesis of Colin’s style of art. Swirls of red, blue and yellow seemed to wrap around each other, sometimes converging into comet-tails of orange or violet before re-emerging to curve off in another direction.
‘It’s called Rhythmic Composition in Red Orange Major, one of Roy de Maistre’s early colour music pieces. Apparently they’re not so popular these days, but I like it.’
‘It’s quite dramatic, isn’t it? But at the same time sort of mesmerising. The colours almost seem to dip and change as you look at it.’ Molly turned from the painting to find Donald ensconced in the deep chair, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed ankles revealing a glimpse of argyle sock. She moved over to the couch and carefully lowered herself toward its cushioned expanse, only to find it was still a good couple of inches lower than it looked, causing her to thump down awkwardly.
‘Traps for the unwary traveller.’ Donald laughed, then sat back and steepled his fingers over his chest. ‘You have the floor, Miss Dean.’
Molly rearranged herself on the couch, sitting up straight and bending both legs to one side. She hoped she wouldn’t be out on her ear when he heard the reason for her visit.
‘I’m a writer and I’m doing a piece on Melbourne identities.’ She paused, expecting to be cut off there, but Donald was just staring at her, his fingertips gently tapping together. ‘I see your name again and again in the society pages, and what I know of your story is quite inspirational.’ All she knew was that he was a working-class boy who’d somehow done very, very well, but a bit of flattery never hurt. ‘So I was hoping you’d consent to an interview, please. You’re really quite an enigma, but I’m sure the rest of Melbourne would love to know more about you.’
Donald continued to regard her over the tops of his fingers.
‘Of course, you could say as much or as little as you like.’ Molly realised his silence was unnerving her and she was starting to babble. She snapped her mouth shut then widened her eyes and gently bit her lower lip. It was a technique she’d used with some success in the past.
The silence lengthened as they continued to regard one another across the sea of Feltex. Finally Donald brought his hands down onto the arms of the chair.
‘I don’t really give interviews.’
‘I’d noticed that you hadn’t in the past.’ Molly bit her lip again. ‘But I thought perhaps people have stopped asking, and now you might have changed your mind. It is almost a rite of passage for anyone who’s remotely important in Melbourne society to share their thoughts and tastes with the wider population.’
‘And how many other identities are you planning on writing about?’ Donald emphasised the word identities.
‘Well, you’d be the first, but I believe the profile on you will set the tone and everyone will be dying to follow suit.’
Donald suddenly sprang to his feet in a way that suggested plenty of practice with Modernist furniture and began prowling the room. ‘If I agree to this – and right now that’s a very big if – what would you want to know? About my business? My poor but happy childhood?’ He exhaled sharply and shook his head. ‘Or about my charming home?’ Donald spread his arms wide and turned a slow circle, taking in the entire room.
‘All of that really, but you wouldn’t necessarily have to go into great detail. Readers also like to learn a few trivial things; the sort of things that make them feel as though they know you, although it doesn’t really tell them anything. How you love the Melbourne Cup, for instance, or that growing up you wanted to be a fireman.’ Molly was twisting around on the couch, trying to follow Donald’s movement about the room.
Suddenly he stopped pacing and vaulted the open end of the couch, sitting down beside her so their knees were almost touching. Molly gasped with surprise.
‘My dear Miss Dean – may I call you Mary? My dear Mary, it’s an interesting proposition but one I’m not sure I can accept.’ Donald shot his cuff to reveal a gold wristwatch with a distinctive hexagonal case and made a show of checking the time. ‘I’m afraid I have another appointment. Perhaps if you leave me your contact details I’ll let you know my decision. I’m just not sure Melbourne is ready to hear all about Donald Raeburn and where he buys his shoes.’ He stood and helped Molly to her feet, then paused, her hand still in his. ‘Even if I don’t do your interview, I think I should tell you that I’ve never met a more delightful journalist.’ He pivoted smoothly and without knowing how it happened, Molly found her arm was now linked with his and they were heading for the door. Realising how deftly she was being handled, it took all her fortitude not to pull away. Instead, she looked up at him and smiled.
‘Thank you for taking the time to speak with me after I arrived unannounced on your doorstep. You’ve been more than kind.’ She waited a beat. ‘I do hope you’ll seriously consider a more formal interview.’ Molly handed him a piece of paper with her name and Colin’s address and phone number, which he quickly tucked into his pocket.
‘I shall consider it, Mary, and rest assured you’re the only writer on my list.’ They were across the vestibule and he disengaged her arm while opening the door with his other hand. ‘Now, I have your details and I really must dash. It’s been a pleasure, Mary.’
Molly found herself back on the porch staring at the glossy door without quite knowing how she’d got there. She took a deep breath before turning back toward the gate and the bustle of St Kilda Road beyond. Donald Raeburn had been curiously unsettling; she hadn’t been able to figure him out and usually she could read men like they were penny dreadfuls. As she let herself out the gate and started off toward the tram stop, Molly was convinced she’d never hear from Donald Raeburn again, but equally certain she would see the story through. And she knew just how to get started.
1999
The ring of my mobile cuts through our silence. I really should change that ringtone to something less obnoxious – it seems wholly inappropriate right now. The screen advises me it’s Damien Savage, and I contemplate letting it ring out. I’m not really in the mood for his brand of forced ebullience, but I don’t want him giving any business to the competition, and dollars trump emotion almost every time in my book.
‘Damien! How are you? To what do I owe the pleasure?’ I lay it on so thick, John mimes throwing up. I half turn in my chair to block him from my line of sight.
‘Alex, glad I got hold of you. Sold that Badham yet? Let me know if you can’t find a buyer. Anyway, not the reason I’m calling.’ His voice becomes distant for a moment and I figure he’s moved the phone away while he speaks to someone else at his end. I hear a sharp exclamation and what sounds like a string of expletives before he’s back, all silken tones and amiability. ‘Sorry, it’s like a madhouse here. We’re just about to launch a new Angry Penguins selling exhibition and suddenly my staff have turned into a bunch of butter-fingered imbeciles with an apparent inability to read a simple hanging chart. Should I be surprised? Probably not. But I digress.’
I sigh. John has repositioned himself so I can see him. He’s gesturing with his left hand, making circular motions next to his ear. I’m not sure if he means Damien is loony or if he wants me to wind up the conversation. Then he puffs his chest out and starts strutting around the room, so I figure it’s the former. I turn my chair again before I start giggling. ‘Sounds like a good exhibition. How can I help you, Damien?’ I realise that came out a bit too abruptly. ‘I’m just heading into a meeting with a client.’
‘Shan’t keep you then, my dear.’ Damien would drop anything for a client, except a richer client. ‘Just wanted to let you know that I passed your number on to a chap who came into the gallery asking about Colahan portraits.’
My stomach does that thing it does on roller-coasters. ‘Oh.’ I turn back to John and bug my eyes at
him. ‘Do you have a name for me?’
‘No, but he seemed very keen. Quite disappointed that I didn’t have anything and completely uninterested in every portrait I tried to show him. Insisted it had to be a Colahan. So I told him I knew of someone who had a charming Colahan of a young woman and I’d put him in touch. You can thank me later. For fuck’s sake! Sorry, not you Alex. Look I really have to go before one of these halfwits ends up with their head rammed through a canvas.’
‘Thanks Damien. And thanks for letting me know.’ My voice comes out dry and scratchy.
‘You know I like to do favours when I can.’
I don’t respond to that. Damien’s favours always involve paying it forward – to Damien. There’s probably a ledger or a spreadsheet, because he always collects. ‘Well, thanks again. Must dash and let you get back to it at your end.’
‘Ciao darling. Unbe-fucking-lievable! What is that shit …’ His voice becomes fainter then abruptly disappears when I punch the ‘end’ button.
I toss my phone onto the workbench.
‘What did God’s gift to the art world do?’
‘Gave my details to a guy who came into the gallery asking about Colahan portraits. Presumably the aggro underbidder.’
‘Well crap.’
‘Indeed. A nice, succinct summation of this turn of events.’
‘But it probably has nothing to do with Molly’s murder. There’s no way anyone could know what was behind her portrait. We agreed the backing paper is contemporary with the frame, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And if Molly had given the envelope to Colin and asked him to hide it, surely the first thing he’d have done once she was killed would be pull it out and hand it over to the police.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘So what, Molly peeled back a corner of the paper when the painting was at Colin’s house? After it came back from the framer?’
‘Either that or the framer didn’t put the paper on. Then she’d only have to get the framer’s label off the canvas, paper the back and stick the label on. But Molly had to be the one to put the envelope there; it’s the only explanation. She might have thought Colin was going to give her the painting anyhow.’
‘So if we agree that, one way or another, Molly was the one who stashed the notes, your bloke who’s so desperate to buy a Colahan portrait could not possibly know anything about it.’
‘Unless she told someone.’
‘Why would she? Defeats the purpose.’
‘She might have been desperate.’ I pause. ‘She might have been terrified.’
John stares at me for a moment and I watch as realisation dawns. ‘But then why kill her? Say it was the man from her exposé who was lying in wait, if he knew she had all these notes, wouldn’t he try to get the incriminating evidence first?’
‘Maybe he thought she’d have it on her. Remember all her stuff was scattered across the street. Or maybe she wasn’t meant to die.’
John shakes his head. ‘But whoever Molly’s mystery man was, he’d have to be well into his nineties now, if he’s not dead. Sorry Alex, the phone bidder at Lanes, the guy who went to Savage, he must just be a collector. Granted, a slightly more whacked collector than usual, but a collector nonetheless.’
‘And what about last night?’
John holds up a hand and pats the air in a placatory manner. ‘Clearly that wasn’t an old man. Maybe in this case one and one do make three. Did your thug say anything about Colahan? Or Molly?’
‘No, he just made a grab for the painting, then swore when he saw the subject matter, dropped it and did a runner.’
‘So you just assumed it was about the Molly Dean painting. Why?’
‘Well.’ I have to think about it. ‘I guess because of Rob’s weirdness over the underbidder. As well as the fact everything I read about Molly Dean makes me think there was something strange going on. And you probably didn’t help with all your stupid theories.’ I throw a balled-up rag in his direction but it flops to the floor well short.
‘Even if there was a cover-up, it happened nearly seventy years ago.’
‘Thank you, Captain Obvious.’
‘Look, maybe I got a bit carried away with the whole conspiracy thing, and I agree there was something very wrong about Molly’s murder investigation. But, realistically, it’s far more likely the guy who shoved you was just a common-or-garden mugger-cum-housebreaker who thought you were a soft target.’
I shoot John a dirty look.
‘I only mean that you had your hands full and you were distracted, juggling stuff, getting your house key out. Maybe he thought you had a framed Elvis gold record. Or maybe a laptop – no, too small. Something like that, anyway. Bottom line is, when he saw what the painting was, he didn’t come back and work you over until you revealed the location of the Colahan portrait of Molly Dean, did he?’
I can’t help smiling at the idea. ‘No.’
‘So basically, you’re highly suggestible, slightly paranoid and a bit unlucky. Oh and there’s a nutty collector who probably wants to hand you a fat wad of cash for a painting you’ve only owned for about a week.’
‘When you put it like that …’
‘How about, when this guy calls, you arrange to meet him here? Hogarth and I will hover discreetly in the background in case things go pear-shaped.’
I look from John to my hound who is currently giving himself a back massage by lying upside down in the middle of the room and working all four legs in the air. Discretion is not really something either of them do well. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘Will you sell him the painting if he wants to buy it?’ John has returned to cleaning Molly’s face, so his back is to me, but I can see he’s stopped moving the swab while he waits for my answer.
I drag my good hand across my eyes and down the side of my face. ‘The researcher in me wants to hang on to her and keep going, especially in light of her notes.’
‘But?’
‘But the pragmatist in me says let it go. Particularly if I name a ridiculously high price and he goes for it.’
John puts his swab down and turns to me, folding his arms. If you looked up sceptical in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of the expression on his face. ‘And the fact that he’d pay a ridiculously high price without a quibble wouldn’t make you suspicious all over again?’
‘Oh shut up. You of all people know some collectors pay crazy amounts to get the painting or the conservation job,’ I point at his chest meaningfully, ‘they want. Besides, nothing allays lingering anxiety like large quantities of cash.’
‘You make a fine point there.’ John bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘So we’re agreed? Set up a meeting here, sell the painting, slam the door after the buyer leaves and wash our hands of the whole Molly Dean affair?’ He wipes invisible dust off his hands for emphasis.
‘That’s it. Just as soon as he calls.’
‘Or we could follow him and see where he takes the painting.’ John waggles his eyebrows at me then ducks behind the easel.
I sigh. ‘It’s like working with a precocious five-year-old, you know that?’
Hogarth is thumping his tail on the floor, clearly amused by John’s antics and I can see the situation is about to deteriorate, but before I can rein the two of them in, my phone rings again. This time, the screen shows a number I don’t recognise.
***
‘Alex Clayton speaking.’ I use my best professional tone which John always says makes me sound like I’m really pissed off but trying to hide it.
‘Yes, hello.’ Then nothing but the electronic void of signals bouncing around in the atmosphere.
‘Hello? Are you there? This is Alex Clayton, art specialist.’
John edges closer, trying to hear what’s going on. I shr
ug and pull a ‘dunno’ face at him.
‘Sorry, sorry. I was all set to leave a message so it caught me out when you picked up.’ The voice is surprisingly normal. I place it in the tenor range, Australian accent with a bit of private school softening the vowels. If this is the mystery Colahan buyer, so far he’s the antithesis of scary.
‘I was given your number by Damien Savage …’
I nod to John and give him the thumbs up, then shoo him back to the canvas. If I have a live one on the hook, I want Molly looking her best.
‘He suggested you were the person I should talk to about paintings by Colin Colahan. Specifically, portraits by him.’
‘Yes, I handle a lot of works by Colahan as well as the rest of the Meldrum circle. His portraits don’t come to the Australian market quite as often though. As I’m sure you’re aware, Colahan really made his reputation as a portraitist in England, after he left Australia in 1935.’ It never hurts to let new clients know you’re across the subject, but you have to try to flatter them at the same time. ‘Do you collect portraits generally, or is there a specific person who sat for Colahan that you’re interested in?’
John is obviously listening because he turns from his easel and gives me the Edvard Munch Scream face, hands pressed to cheeks and mouth wide open in an ‘o’ of horror. Collectors who are chasing a painting of something specific – whether person or event – are often the most obsessive. On the plus side, they usually know nothing about art.
The Portrait of Molly Dean Page 16