Death of a Painter

by Matthew Ross

  Mr Skinner looked up from his ablutions to see what all the noise was about, saw the pretty lady billing and cooing and came bounding over to rub himself against her legs.

  ‘No way. Surely not, Mr Skinner? Have you been messing with me?’ I said, and reached forwards to stroke him. He recoiled behind Perry making himself small behind her legs.

  ‘You don’t like men do you darling?’ said Perry to Mr Skinner. ‘Were they bad to you? You don’t need to be afraid of this one Mr Skinner, he’s ok.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve adopted a cat then. Enjoy your new owner Mr Skinner.’

  ‘Why’s he called Mr Skinner?’

  ‘He had to be called something, every cat needs a name. No-one’s ever come looking for him, or stuck a sign on a lamp post with his photo under a big red LOST, so I chose it.’

  ‘But why Mr Skinner?’

  ‘Because he looks like an old client I used to have.’

  ‘Yeah? What was his name?’

  ‘Mr ... oh, funny!’ she was mocking me but I was enjoying the teasing.

  ‘Right, things to do, I need to go. See you at seven. Are you coming with me Mr Skinner?’

  25

  I retrieved the folder from under the bed after Perry left. I had no alternative other than help Hamlet and I needed to get ahead of the pack, I couldn’t afford not to. I looked at the contents again. A lot of it sounded pretty straightforward, titles such as Photos, Statements, SoCo Reports and the like, all pretty familiar from countless TV shows.

  However, I was intrigued by a tab marked ‘Third Party Legal Correspondence’ and flicked to find a single document, the letterhead for Anderson Capel & Shale solicitors. The letter identified them as Hamlet’s lawyers. I made a mental note to remember that name if Senia tried pulling me in again, if they’re good enough for Hamlet then they must be good. From what I could gather it objected to Senia’s plans to search Hamlet’s club, using heavy legalese, the police must not discriminate nor victimise, but basically said any search would be opportunistic because Hamlet had been a person of long-time interest to the police. It set out that the only area appropriate to search was Sally’s office and that nothing could be taken away that might have an adverse affect on Hamlet’s business, including her computer. Credit where it’s due; these lawyers were impressive.

  I honestly didn’t know what I was looking at, or what I was looking for. I’d deliberately avoided the section called ‘Photos’ as I didn’t want to see Sally like that again, but all the documents, all the words, all the jargon, gave me a headache.

  The phone began to ring. Saved by the bell, I put away the folder and hoped the distraction would clear my head.

  I glanced at the caller display and inwardly sighed, it was Tommy’s widow Jen. No doubt she wanted some sort of update. Guilt sent a shudder through me. On top of everything she had been forced to deal with she shouldn’t need to chase me, I should have been in touch sooner. I’d been too focussed on my own problems. I resolved to do better, and I pressed to accept the call.

  ‘Hello. Mark?’ she sounded vague, wrapped up in a warm and fuzzy anti-depressant blanket.

  ‘Hello Jen. How are you darling? Are you ok?’

  ‘I’m getting through it, Mark, my mum’s here and Karen’s been great too.’

  ‘That’s good. So, what can I do for you Jen?’

  ‘I’m just calling to see how things are going with Tommy’s stuff.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

  I thought it best not to mention that I’d given away all of her inheritance to save my own skin, unnecessarily as it turned out. Or that I’d been thrown out by Kate Fuller when trying to get paid his money, or that he still had three weeks money owed from me on the Wilkes job that I can’t pay, or that I’d been accused of his murder, or that he’d been on the payroll of Medway’s leading villain and I’d been dragged down into it in his wake, none of that seemed worth mentioning so I stuck with, ‘It’s all in hand, don’t worry.’

  ‘You are coming to the funeral on Tuesday aren’t you Mark?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  Silence. A bit more silence. I assumed she’d finished and I was about to gently end the call when she added, ‘A man’s been to the house Mark, I don’t know him, I’ve never seen him before, Tommy never mentioned him, but he’s been twice now and he was getting quite aggressive by the end of it. Luckily Karen was here.’

  ‘Who is he? Did you get his name?’

  ‘Charlie… something.’

  ‘Quentin?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him, kept saying he was a friend of Tommy’s. Tommy promised him something; he wouldn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know what he was talking about and when I said he should speak to you, that’s when he kicked off saying all sorts of things about you, you can’t be trusted, you want it – whatever it is – for yourself. It was horrible, Mark.’

  ‘I know him,’ I said. ‘Leave him to me, he won’t bother you again. I promise.’

  ‘Think,’ I said to myself. ‘Come on think.’ I had no idea what Charlie Quentin wanted from Tommy. I hadn’t found his name on any of Tommy’s paperwork. What were you going to give him, Tommy.?

  I listened to Charlie’s voicemail message again ‘... did Tommy leave anything with you for me? Anything at all? Let me know. Oh, and purchase orders, all of them, don’t forget, I’ll pay you for them, all of them.’

  No, I couldn’t see it. My phone began buzzing like an angry wasp. I left it and it rang through to voicemail.

  ‘Mark, it’s Michael Morlake,’ said the voice belonging to the surveyor from the Rochester job, ‘I’m at the job, what’s going on? Everything’s hot pink, looks like a tart’s knickers, you’d better get down here fast.’

  Hot pink? Uncle Bern!

  26

  I tracked down Uncle Bern loafing at his mate’s car lot. ‘Genuine low mileage used vehicles’ fluttered the fluorescent green letters. ‘Death traps are us’, more likely I thought, carefully sidestepping a fragile-looking Vauxhall that was ready to split along the join.

  I dragged Bern into the van, ignoring his complaints that he was watching the cricket on the telly and told him three times to stop fiddling with the radio as we sped across to Rochester. He ignored me, and by the time we got there, he’d found himself coverage of the Test Match.

  There was no mistaking the property we were looking for. Every surface made me squint. It glowed like the neon sign in a kebab shop window. It looked as though someone couldn’t decide whether to open a sweet shop or a sex shop so decided on both. This once proud, elegant building stood there big and robust, glossy and pink: like an enormous butt plug. I couldn’t speak, I literally couldn’t speak, I was struck dumb.

  ‘Yeah, it looks shit doesn’t it,’ said Uncle Bern, chirpily throwing it out as conversation before turning his full attention to the radio commentary. I could only nod, I still hadn’t found my voice. ‘I thought it looked crap when they were doing it, but they seemed to know what they were doing.’

  ‘You… you saw them doing this and you didn’t stop it?’ I said finally when the power of speech returned.

  ‘Why would I stop them? It’s what was wanted, you were very clear, paint it pink.’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘You did. Paint it pink, and no pigeon shit, that’s what you said. Why? Someone got a problem with it?’

  ‘You could say that, yes, someone’s most definitely got a problem with it,’ I replied, slowly opening the door.

  Morlake was instantly recognisable, his hair shaved down to the bone – much like his prices. I’d met his kind many times before: never want to talk to you when things are going okay, go out of their way to avoid you when you need to talk to them about the extras, but when things go wrong they’re harder to get off the phone than a lovestruck teenager. Whatever had happened here, one thing was certain, it was going to cost me. And now he’d seen me, it was time to face him. I knew I should h
ave listened to Disco, he’d been right all along about Bern, bloody useless. Hindsight, eh?

  I wished the pavement’s thick yorkstone slabs could swallow me whole. Morlake approached. He probably had a dozen paces before he reached me, I needed to think fast if I was to talk my way out of this. I prayed for divine intervention.

  ‘Poynter! I can see you!’ a voice screamed, dripping with menace and anger. I looked around, saw no-one. ‘Poynter, I want you.’ It seemed to be coming from the sky, was this my moment, was I being summoned to meet my maker? If so, it must have been the angriest ever product recall.

  ‘Wait right there, I’m coming down now,’ the voice commanded.

  I turned my eyes heavenward and saw him – Cookie – hanging off the top lift of the scaffold, his face red with rage – ‘I want you Poynter. Don’t move.’

  Cookie started his descent. Guessing it would take him about sixty seconds to reach the ground, I ran like Billy Whizz with the shits, as quick as I could, shouting: ‘I’ll call you later, Michael!’ to the bewildered surveyor from the window of the speeding van. I was out of there and gone before Cookie touched down.

  My heart was pounding like a fucked train, I could feel it banging out its rhythm in my head, my breathing was rapid and shallow.

  ‘New Zealand’s just dropped another wicket,’ said the oblivious Bern as I drove for safe cover.

  Hiding upstairs in my bedroom, thoughts of Cookie and extreme violence swirled through my head. To try to divert my restless imagination I picked up Brennan’s file again. There was a briefing note giving a summary of events leading up to Sally’s death. I noticed the author was my pal Nick Witham and it seemed pretty straightforward.

  Sally was working at the club as normal; around two in the afternoon she told her employer she had been contacted by her childminder telling her that her daughter had been in a fall and she needed to come home immediately. Seeing as Hamlet was her ‘employer’ it was clear he had co-operated with the investigators, obviously the rules of strict silence are flexible when it comes to family. He told her to drop everything and go immediately, which she did, and CCTV images from the club’s entry show her leaving at 14:12 clutching a small handbag.

  Her body was found at approximately 17:30 by the childminder arriving at her house to drop off her daughter. When she couldn’t get a response, she looked through the living room window, discovered Sally, and called 999. The conclusion was that the killer pretended to be the childminder to lure her home. It was a grim read to be honest.

  The file confirmed her handbag had been found close beside her, and it listed the contents: a purse containing £22:61 in cash, four debit and credit cards, postage stamps, driving licence, receipts and a couple of photographs; the modestly described ‘sanitary products’; chewing gum; mobile phone; house keys; car keys; keys to the club; hair brush; and, spectacles.

  On the pages that followed were photographs of the individual items. I quickly flicked through them with little interest: two ten-pound notes and loose change, tampons, hair brush, Samsung phone with cracked screen and packets of Juicy Fruit. I couldn’t see the point of taking photographs, and assumed it was a back-covering exercise in case the nearest and dearest ever accused the police of grave robbing.

  I stopped on the last page of the document when I reached more text. It was a postscript note confirming that Sally’s bank account had been checked and all associated cards were present, and that Hamlet had confirmed that all keys to the club were present and correct, so I guess they were considering whether the attack had been either opportunistic or related to Hamlet, and were satisfied it wasn’t.

  There wasn’t a great deal else in the folder. Even to my untrained eyes it was clear the search had been very narrow, which I guess was good for Hamlet – his lawyers had earned their high fees, but it didn’t help me at all.

  27

  I’d got us a table in a bistro I used to be fond of. I’d not been there for a couple of years after falling out of the dating habit.

  ‘Do you know much of the area?’

  ‘No, not really, I haven’t gone much further than work and back,’ said Perry. ‘But I’ve heard Rochester’s meant to be nice.’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely, very historic, with the castle and the cathedral. It’s always good to visit. I’ll take you if you like,’ I offered, reminding myself to give Uncle Bern’s giant pink sex toy a wide berth.

  ‘Sure, that’d be great,’ she smiled. I was determined to relax and have a good time, put everything to one side for one night, enjoy myself for once. If those cheekbones and those eyes couldn’t distract me from all the crap I’d been dealing with lately then I didn’t deserve to be let out of the house any more.

  ‘So, where’s your family?’ Perry raised a glass of red wine to her lips, peering over the top at me with a kitten’s playfulness.

  ‘I don’t have any, just me now.’

  ‘Really? That’s sad.’

  I’ve discovered people normally respond like that when I tell them. There’s nowhere for me to go from there. If I say it’s okay it feels flippant and disrespectful and I hate myself for it. If I tell the truth I pull everyone into my own personal black hole and I hate myself for it. So, I’ve found a shrug works best. I shrugged my response.

  ‘Were you young?’

  ‘We lost Mum when I was twelve. That was tough. And I lost Dad almost two years ago, that was tougher.’

  ‘No brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Pass. Move on.’

  ‘O...kay.’ She looked a little unsure, and I hoped to my core that he hadn’t mucked things up for me again.

  She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the napkin, the smile had slipped from her eyes, ‘Righty ho. So, your dad, was he an electrician too? What did he do?’

  ‘He was a clown’ I said, she laughed, her eyes restored their smile. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘True. Well, I say clown, probably children’s entertainer would be better. He said it was what he always wanted to do.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘Mum was furious, she couldn’t believe it, blowing all his severance on it. I can still remember the day he told her. Uncle Chuckie, Uncle Chuckie, Uncle Fucking Chuckie, and my Mum never swore so I knew it was serious.’

  Perry did that laugh that some women do when they hold a crooked finger below their nose as though they’re trying to mask it. That was wrong, that smile was too good to be hidden.

  ‘He was actually very good, he did magic tricks, played his banjo, sang silly songs, earned a pretty good living out of it.’

  Which was true. He told me, this was before he got ill, he could do three parties on a Saturday, three on a Sunday and take home more than he’d ever earned slogging it out forty hours a week in the dockyard.

  ‘Did you ever get involved? The glamorous magician’s assistant?’

  ‘I’d help out now and again, you know, load the car, help him set up, that kind of thing. He taught me a few tricks.’

  ‘I bet you could show me a few tricks,’ she said, laughing as she did. ‘Hey, stop it, card tricks I meant,’ she’d turned the teasing up to eleven.

  ‘I’m sure Fuzzy Duck’s somewhere at home, you want to meet Fuzzy Duck?’

  She snorted, but it was charming, her finger shot to her nose again, she seemed surprised by her own snort and that set her off into a further fit of laughter.

  ‘Yeah, Fuzzy Duck. He’s a duck, obviously, and you choose a card then put it back in the deck, the deck goes in the contraption, and the boys and girls shout ‘Best of luck Fuzzy Duck…’ I gestured with raised eyebrows that audience participation was required at this point.

  ‘Best of luck Fuzzy Duck,’ my companion said through fits of laughter.

  ‘And snap!’ I shot out my hand towards her, pecking like a beak, causing her to jump back in her seat with a hoot of laughter. ‘Is this your card Miss?’

  ‘Six of hearts, amazing. How did you do that?’ she said in
mock wonder, playing along with the pantomime. She took a deep breath and fluttered her hands under her eyes to calm herself down.

  ‘He was great. He absolutely loved being Uncle Chuckie. He did it right up until the end.’

  She’d gotten her breathing back under control, and she leaned in close towards me. Without realising it I’d taken on a more reflective tone, as she was nodding the nod of sympathy.

  ‘He died on the job, so to speak. He was running a bit late, had trouble finding the house, got there in the end, fully prepared, all in costume ready to go, rang the doorbell and then fell to the ground clutching his chest.’ Perry sat up with a look of concern. ‘The birthday girl’s mother thought it was a gag. But another mother, who happened to be an off-duty nurse, realised he was having a massive heart attack and began giving him CPR. Eventually the ambulance arrived. They used the big pads to try and jump start him, but it was no use – and they electrocuted the two white doves in his jacket. My Dad died under a flurry of white feathers and the smell of barbecued poultry.’

  It took a moment or two for her to understand what I’d done; to my relief she laughed and muttered that I was awful.

  ‘Sorry, that was a joke, that didn’t happen,’ I said. Perhaps I’d got too comfortable, because without thinking I added, ‘But I wish it did, it’d be better than the truth.’

  I’d said too much, I muttered something to leave the table and disappeared to the Gents before she could see my eyes were moistening.

  I returned a few minutes later, hoping the previous happy high could be salvaged. She’d seen me weaving between the tables and her smile guided me back.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Again, I shrugged and nodded. ‘Why do you feel you always have to make a joke about everything?’ Oh man, how do I even begin to answer a question like that? ‘I’m guessing Uncle Chuckie wasn’t his real name, was it?’

  ‘Eric’