Death of a Painter

by Matthew Ross

  By the time I’d got back, the pizza was cooked and the wine poured. We sat on the floor eating like normal people – normal people if they lived in a war zone that is. As I shifted my weight from side to side I twinged, the painkillers Perry had given me were wearing off. My neck had swollen and it hurt to turn my head too far. I let out an involuntary groan, she moved closer, put an arm around me and laid her head on my shoulder. She smelt delicious.

  ‘Listen Mark, I like you, I really do, but all this, it’s too much. If we can take this anywhere, and believe me I really hope we can, I want you to be honest with me. Totally honest.’

  And so, I was. Within reason.

  Past experience has taught me women want you to be honest with them, right up until the moment you are. But there’s something about her that’s different, I wanted to be totally honest yet an ingrained caution made me hold back. I told her I’d borrowed cash to pay off Blunt, but I didn’t tell her I’d borrowed it from a chemically coshed widow who didn’t even know she had it to lend me. And I told her there was a friend offering to lend me more money as a stopgap to clear my debts, but prudence told me not to mention that the friend was the area’s villain who now has me well and truly bent bare-arsed over a barrel playing Poirot.

  What she’d heard seemed enough to keep her happy and she snuggled up to me. We watched a celebrity-based elimination show. I didn’t recognise any of the celebrities and didn’t understand the point of the challenges, but it didn’t require much concentration and I found it quite relaxing to be able to switch my thoughts off.

  34

  The sound of thumping on the door woke me up, followed by Disco’s charming alarm call: ‘Get up, you lazy bastard!’ shouted at the top of his voice through the letter box.

  ‘Uncle Bern dropped me off, you’ll have to take me home.’ Disco never bothered reapplying for his driving licence after losing it about fifteen years ago and when faced with the choice of drive or imbibe, the licensed victuallers of the Medway Towns rejoiced.

  Disco had got everything needed on the way over and was quickly well underway. Even though it pisses me right off when people do it to me, I stood beside him and chatted while he worked. Disco didn’t seem to mind though, as he had all the weekend gossip he was burning to get out.

  ‘So…Pervy Ken’s working down the organic farm shop, the owner comes back unexpected and finds all the butternut squashes—’ he stopped mid-sentence. Disco had been struck dumb by the sight of Perry descending my stairs in just an MP Electrical t-shirt.

  ‘Morning lads. Tea, coffee?’ she offered with a cheeky grin before disappearing to the kitchen. Disco looked at me with new eyes.

  ‘Marky Marky, who’s that then?’

  ‘Perry, she lives next door.’ I was startled by the defensiveness in my tone, but then I knew where exactly this was headed.

  ‘Go on then, give us the details, share,’ said Disco downing tools, ready to take notes for his daily address to the industry at large.

  ‘No. There’s nothing to say.’ I hoped that would shut down the interrogation. And honestly, there wasn’t anything to say. A gentleman never divulges about his overnight visitors. Believe me, I was as surprised as anyone when I woke up and found her asleep on my pillow, but in this case, it was totally innocent. After the excitement of yesterday, and a bellyful of pizza, wine and painkillers, I fell asleep in front of the telly. Perry helped me upstairs to bed, but the dutiful nurse was concerned about leaving me alone with a head injury and decided to stay the night once I was safely all tucked up and far away in the Land of Nod.

  Disco, knowing I wasn’t going to discuss this any further with him, saw Perry’s re-emergence as an alternative route to this golden nugget of gossip, and switched on the chat. I’ve always been amazed by people like Disco that can strike up a conversation with absolutely anyone. It’s a skill I’ve often wished I had, but I’m old enough now to realise that I lack that sort of openness and approachability. It instantly made me think of Tommy, and an enormous wave of regret and guilt hit me in the back like a juggernaut; too many missed opportunities wasted by the superficial.

  Disco on the other hand is the kind of bloke who can walk in to a pub without a penny in his pocket and walk out of it six pints refreshed and his taxi fare home. I’d seen him thaw the surliest of pub landlords, delivery drivers and even that frosty receptionist at Queen Mary’s... Of course, Queen Mary’s. I left the two of them nattering away and headed to the privacy of upstairs where I made the call.

  When I came back down again, I saw Disco and Perry on my front lawn. My window was still a gaping hole, clearly not much work had taken place, but slaloming between their legs was Mr Skinner, purring with contentment as he rubbed himself against their shins. Perry picked him up, holding him close to her chest and nuzzled her face against his fur.

  ‘He’s a friendly one alright,’ said Disco reaching in to tickle the top of his head. Mr Skinner reacted with delight by closing his eyes and flattening his ears; he looked happy and I too was happy that Mr Skinner at last had found peace. I reached out to stroke him. Mr Skinner hissed and raked a spiky claw across the back of my hand, and then settled back down to his Zen-like state between the other two. Et tu Mr Skinner I thought, but I knew it wasn’t his fault, like I say, some people have that easy approachability. Not me.

  35

  ‘Good morning Mr Poynter,’ said the voicemail message. ‘This is the Town and Country Club. We have a broken hand dryer in the ladies’ toilet. Could you drop by today to take a look and give us an estimate please?’

  So, there it was, my official summons from Hamlet in case anyone was listening in. Disco had finally finished the window, and Perry had got him putting together some flat pack furniture in her house. Looking out the window, trying to work out what to do next, I saw them arrive.

  Senia, young Nwakobu and a couple of uniforms were heading in the direction of my house. Nwakobu had a new haircut, it made him look like that French midfielder Arsenal had wasted millions on a few years back.

  The bell rang – once, twice - I knew I needed to welcome my guests.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Senia, how lovely to see you again. What can I do you for?’ I said, throwing the door open to him.

  ‘Mark Poynter, I have a warrant to search these premises,’ said Senia, dispensing with any kind of pleasantry. I stepped aside and let Senia and his team in. They snapped on thin latex gloves whilst he assigned them different areas to search.

  ‘I would offer you a cup of tea Mr Senia but then I doubt you’ll be here that long; after all it’s not a big place, is it? What is it you’re looking for by the way?’

  He didn’t answer, but instead gave me a look of utter disdain, obviously not one for small talk. I decided not to ask him if he was following the cricket. He looked across to the first uniform who was busy looking in my cupboards but only finding old DVDs and CDs.

  ‘We’re still looking very closely at you Mr Poynter. You owed Tommy Davies money you don’t have, that’s motive. And we know that it’s definitely your hammer that killed him, that’s opportunity.’

  ‘But you told me yourself there was no fingerprints at all on the hammer. Are you seriously suggesting I would batter my friend with my own hammer, and have the presence of mind to wipe it clean afterwards but be daft enough to leave it lying around?’

  ‘I’ve seen people make stupider mistakes in the heat of the moment.’ But Senia didn’t sound very convinced by his response.

  ‘Sounds more like someone’s trying to set me up.’

  Senia smiled the smug sort of smile of someone enjoying the smell of his own farts a bit too much. ‘And who would want to do that then?’

  ‘How about the person that killed him? It doesn’t have to be aimed at me directly. All I mean is, say, the killer creeps up on him, sees our tools lying around, picks up something handy and heavy and “bosh”, stoves his head in. Then all they need to do is wipe their prints off the handle and leave it lying around cove
red in Tommy’s, well, covered in Tommy and hope that, hypothetically speaking, a lazy dim copper would see it and immediately assume I did it. Just hypothetically, no offence.’

  Senia wasn’t impressed, but I knew he had no evidence, otherwise he would have arrested me a long time ago. I was confident there was nothing here to incriminate me.

  ‘Sir, I think I’ve found something.’

  Oh bugger!

  In my mind, I walked through my house room by room, cupboard by cupboard; I couldn’t think of anything. The only stuff that would have been difficult to explain was hiding next door under Perry’s stairs.

  Nwakobu emerged looking very pleased with his find, so desperate to be Senia’s pet. He brandished Tommy’s file chest.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Senia, peering inside, flicking through the hangers.

  ‘Nothing, just paperwork.’

  ‘Not your paperwork though is it,’ said Nwakobu, eager for a pat on the head. ‘It belonged to the deceased Sir, all his bank records, cheque book, paying in book, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Interesting. So, what were you doing with this? Trying to get your hands on his bank account perhaps?’ said Senia. ‘I see you’ve already purloined his vehicle.’

  ‘His wife gave it to me,’ I said, ‘after he was killed. And the van.’

  ‘And she will corroborate that will she?’

  I replied that she would, and if he wanted further witnesses he could also ask her sister and mother who were both there at the time, and: ‘While you’re at it you can ask her mum for the receipt for the van.’

  Senia gave a look to Nwakobu that told me they’d be checking immediately as soon as they left.

  ‘When did she give this to you exactly?’ asked Senia, to which I truthfully told him the day after Tommy died. A darkness went across Senia’s eyes, he looked straight and direct at me. ‘You took something from the victim’s home without our knowledge or prior consent. I could charge you for withholding vital evidence.’

  ‘If it’s that vital you should have taken it yourself then shouldn’t you. Your people had been there all day the day it happened, why didn’t they take it?’

  From the bulge around his jaw and the widening of his eyes I could tell he didn’t have an answer. Instead he gave a flick of a finger and the nearest uniform took the chest and carried it out of the house.

  ‘By the way, Mr Senia, whilst you’re here…’ I felt brave enough to push my advantage. ‘What about Anthony Chapman? Have you found out who killed him yet? I’d like to know I’m not still in the frame for his tragic death please.’

  ‘Mr Chapman? The Coroner found that he died from natural causes. Didn’t we tell you, I do apologise,’ he said in a tone that told me he knew that I knew he didn’t mean it.

  ‘So, what you are saying is that you’re satisfied I have no connection to his death?’ Senia grunted a non-committal response. I pressed on, ‘And Sally DeFreitas, can you please confirm I’m not your man there either.’

  ‘Don’t get too smug Poynter, you’re still very much “my man” for Tommy Davies and will be until I decide differently.’

  The second uniform came from upstairs empty-handed shaking his head, he hadn’t found anything. Hopefully this farcical show of strength was over and they’d be going.

  ‘Sir,’ called a voice from outside. The first uniform had returned and was standing beside the front door. ‘Would you like to look at this?’

  Senia strode over, swiftly followed by me as I was as keen to see what he’d found as Senia. The uniform had the lid off my recycling bin, and was pointing at the broken glass within.

  ‘That’s an awful lot in there, you’ve done more than drop your postprandial glass of port,’ said Senia. Postprandial, now there’s a word I hadn’t heard before, I liked the popping sound it made as he said it. I looked it up, it means after a formal dinner. I suspect Senia goes to a lot of formal dinners, passing port to the left and swapping postprandial funny handshakes with the Grand Poobah.

  ‘The window got broken, look you can see the putty and beads are new, I’ve not had the chance to repaint it yet.’ I directed their attention to the window, holding both hands out like a glamour girl on a gameshow. The uniform peered at it and nodded confirmation back to Senia. ‘A bird flew into it,’ I added.

  ‘Must’ve been a big bird.’

  ‘A pigeon. It was lying around here somewhere; a cat must’ve taken it. Anyway, what’s my window got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. But it all seems to be happening to you this week doesn’t it: friends killed, clients dying, windows breaking and of course there was that nasty fall from your bike. You seem to be on a run of incredibly bad luck of late, don’t you?’

  ‘They say it comes in threes don’t they? If so, I’m probably in credit by now.’ As I said it, I wished it was true. ‘I’ll buy myself a lottery ticket next time I’m out because if anyone is due a spot of good luck it’s me.’

  Senia was getting restless. He’d found Tommy’s chest, there was nothing in it except boring paperwork, but at least he could mark it up as a small victory. Other than that, I could see the frustration mount each time he wiped his hand across his mouth. He’d be leaving soon and hopefully it would be one step, even a tiny baby step, closer to getting me off his most wanted list.

  ‘Sir, may I have a quick word?’ interrupted Nwakobu, and he and Senia stepped a few paces away from earshot whilst Nwakobu appeared to brief Senia on points from his notebook. Senia turned back at me with a wide shit-eating grin.

  ‘Mr Poynter, I’ve been informed that we had report of an incident this afternoon, one of your neighbours phoned about fighting in the street and the sound of breaking glass. Know anything about that?’

  ‘Nope.’ Perry had said she definitely didn’t call, I wondered who did. I bet the net curtains were twitching like mad, the nosy bastards. ‘Nothing at all, sounds rather unpleasant if you ask me, this area’s really gone downhill recently.’

  Senia fixed his stare on me, and I swear I heard him growl; it was low, but a growl nonetheless.

  ‘What about the garage Sir, would you like that searched?’ said one of the uniforms, snapping Senia back to focus. ‘I believe it’s in that block over there.’

  ‘Yes. Get on with it right away,’ Senia said.

  ‘Hold on, hold on.’ I waved the warrant document he’d given me. ‘This says you can only search the premises which is defined as the house. The garage isn’t part of the house, it’s en bloc over there, it’s a completely different premises. You don’t have the authority.’

  I had no idea whether that was true and as I was saying it aloud, I thought back to when I bought the house. I’m sure according to the Land Registry the house and garage were one item but does that go the same for a police warrant? I had absolutely no idea, but from the glances between Senia and Nwakobu it was clear neither did they.

  ‘I can get a warrant for your garage and come back, or we can save time and look now. Please may we have your permission to inspect your garage?’ The diplomatic tone Senia was managing to hold on to was admirable given the frustration evident in his balled fists.

  ‘I have nothing to hide, but I want it all done properly and on the record. You need a warrant.’

  ‘Fine, we’ll be back, come on.’ Senia marshalled his troops out of my house. I watched from the window as they stood around their cars discussing what to do next, then Senia and Nwakobu left with the first uniform, leaving the second uniform to sentry duty outside the garage.

  They didn’t find anything, I didn’t expect them to, but wasting a few hours of their time made me feel as though I’d got my own back.

  36

  Having got rid of Senia and his mob, I found Disco and dropped him back home. I briefly stopped to say hello to his mum and give her the money I owed him for the window. He didn’t object, knowing it would cover his board and housekeeping before it could drink a hole in his pocket.

  I pulled u
p outside the club to find it locked up. Nobody was about to challenge me when I approached the door. I was wearing my logo branded workwear and I carried my big chunky black and yellow tool box. There was nothing to draw any suspicion about me, I was simply a tradesman going about his business.

  Keeping up the charade for any snoops out there, convinced I’d seen a silver Mondeo pull up on the petrol forecourt about one hundred metres down the road, I told the voice box on the door I was the electrician and at the sound of the buzz I let myself in. If you’ve never seen one naked in the daytime, believe me, a nightclub isn’t a particularly glamorous place when the lights are on and the stains in the carpet grin back at you. As I entered, I was met by a cleaning crew of three women talking to each other in a language I didn’t recognise whilst they mopped and polished. I gave them a polite smile and headed straight to the office.

  Hamlet was sitting behind Sally’s desk, head in hands, looking like he was struggling with paperwork.

  ‘I’ve got to find me a manager, and quick. Want a job?’ he gestured for me to sit down. I pulled out a visitor chair and complied. I looked around the small office, not sure what I was looking for but hoping something jumped out at me that the police may have missed. As I turned my head to survey the small room my bruised and swollen neck bit with pain, Hamlet noticed me wince.

  ‘Jeez, look at your face. What happened this time? Another fight with your bike? Looks like you lost,’ he said, pointing at the bandage around my cut hand. Hamlet pushed all the paperwork to one side, and directed his full attention at me. ‘So, got a name for me yet?’