Death of a Painter

by Matthew Ross

  ‘Who’s Steve?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been listening to her messages, have you?’ Nick was beginning to sound annoyed. ‘We don’t know. Yet. We’ve got people looking into her phone records, hopefully we can trace the number Steve, whoever Steve may be, called from and then we can trace him.’

  ‘Unless it’s a pay as you go burner.’

  ‘Thanks. Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  ‘So, who do you reckon he is? Boyfriend?’

  Nick looked as though he was about to laugh, ‘Stalker, more like, he sounds delusional.’

  ‘So, the mysterious Steve’s your favourite for it, is he?’

  ‘I think it’s time you for you to go Mark,’ said Nick. I didn’t think he had any more to share with me and I didn’t want to fall out, so I agreed and left him to lock up, giving a friendly wave as I drove away.

  I waited fifteen minutes before heading back to Sally’s flat. No sign of Nick anywhere. I left myself in, walked over to the answerphone, and pressed ‘delete all’. It flashed a red digital zero as I locked up and left.

  I knew who Steve was, the police didn’t, and neither did the competition. I was ahead of the pack.

  38

  Next morning, wanting to get the jobs at Hamlet’s club out the way, I headed across to Thorpe Timber and Building Supplies. In my pocket was a thick envelope decanted from the Peppa Pig tote bag. There was something satisfying about knowing I carried enough cash in my pocket to clear my account’s overdue balance, and something amusingly smutty about offering the Magnificent Maria the chance to take my wad.

  ‘Well get you Mr Big Stuff, how’s life among the rich and famous?’ she said after twice counting through all the notes and testing them with her special pen.

  ‘Great, but I’m keeping true to my roots, I’m still Marky from the Block, that’s why I’m slumming it here with you.’

  ‘Funny. What else do you want?’ she said, I’d known her long enough to know she was only pretending to be annoyed and I managed to cadge a cup of coffee – proper coffee, not the automated pish from the machine on the counter. Eventually I walked back to the van laden with brochures, sundry bits and pieces, and the slight feeling of arousal from the innuendo-laden chatter between us. I was trying to get better discounts but I think she was having more fun embarrassing me. I was honestly unsure whether she was mocking me or coming on to me.

  Lost in my daydream of playtimes with Magnificent Maria I didn’t notice him until I was fishing around for the van keys. The silver Mondeo. In the opposite corner of the car park. It was so close I got a good look at the driver: closely shaved hair, round forehead, no chin, a head shaped like a light bulb.

  This was my chance. I dropped everything and dashed towards him but he’d seen me and was off, bollocks, he was gone before I’d made it halfway across the car park.

  As I gathered my brochures off the ground, tossing them into the passenger footwell, I wondered whether to mention it to Hamlet, find out whether he knew more than he’d previously let on. I decided not until I’ve made some enquiries of my own.

  I pulled a credit card out of my wallet and went back into Thorpe’s. Holding it in front of me I marched up to the counter. Maria by now was serving a big beast in an orange hi-viz jacket, logos of a motorway contractor across the back. I didn’t care and leant across him.

  ‘Maria, quick one, some guy outside, head like the reflection in a spoon, drives a silver Mondeo, dropped his card. Know who he is so I can get it back to him?’

  ‘Hmmm’ said Maria looking thoughtful, Motorway Hi-Viz turned and stared as though he was considering where to hit me first. ‘No, we’ve not had anyone like that in here today, can’t help, sorry, don’t know him.’

  ‘Doesn’t it say?’ said Motorway Hi-Viz ‘On the credit card? It’ll tell you what his name is.’

  He was right. I hadn’t thought of that. Maria looked at me with pity and despair. I needed to think of a smart and witty response to get out of this. ‘Mind your own fucking business,’ was the best I could manage.

  I left pretty sharpish and was back in the van before he could get hold of me.

  No sign of Hamlet when I got to the club, I was told he was away all day on business, and I knew better than to ask any more. No sign of Brazil and Dunlop either, no doubt they’d gone too as his entourage. Without any distraction, the jobs I had didn’t take too long, only a couple of switch-outs, and by mid-afternoon I was packing up when I realised where I had parked – right in front of Brazil’s Mercedes, the nice one, the loved and cherished one. I peered through the windows but couldn’t see much due to the black privacy tint he’d added.

  I went back inside for my last remaining items and then a final visual sweep through to make sure nothing’d been left behind when I spotted it: Brazil’s denim jacket. He’d folded it in half and laid on the counter behind the bar. Knowing there was nobody around, I approached it, slowly, and I patted it down, feeling a lump through the fabric. I reached into the pocket, success, he’d left his keys.

  I took them, but caution told me not to take them outside the club, just in case. I half opened the main door, pointed the fob at the Mercedes, blipped the locks open then quickly returned the keys to the jacket back on the counter. I figured if he came back, Brazil could be persuaded he’d forgotten to lock it when he parked, it’d certainly be easier to explain than finding the keys on me.

  Inside, the Mercedes smelt of polish and cleaning products, it was spotless, not a crumb anywhere. The wood veneered console shone, a magnet for fingerprints and smudges, so I knew I needed to be careful where I touched.

  With just my little finger I flipped open the glovebox, but found nothing of interest. The boot only contained a stinky gym bag and lightweight boxing gloves. I began to think this was a waste of time and was ready to lock it back up again when as a last resort I flipped down the driver’s sun visor. Something was slipped into the pocket, a photograph, I pulled it out and held it up. It showed Sally and Brazil. They were in the club looking relaxed, even though it was a photo, I could see they were both a bit drunk. Sally had her arm draped over his shoulder but was looking away from him, he was looking in the same direction as her. Something wasn’t right about the photo, the proportions were wrong, the way it was composed, something was off. Maybe it was the way the two of them filled the picture so completely that her left side wasn’t even in the picture, from her left shoulder down, cut off by the edge of the photo. It simply didn’t look right.

  The aspects of good photography aside, it only reinforced my suspicion – Brazil was Steve, and Steve had a severe crush on Sally. It wouldn’t be the first time a stalker has killed the one they desire.

  I slipped the photo back where I found it and gently closed the Mercedes, making sure it was as spotless as when I opened it, then I was gone.

  39

  Two funerals, two days apart. I didn’t expect to have a week like that until a cold snap in my dotage. First Tommy’s, then Sally’s, same place, different styles… both bloody miserable.

  Tommy’s was a bleak damp day, heavy top coats and breath misting in the air: a young, over-enthusiastic vicar who knew nothing about him and tried too hard to pretend otherwise. Sally’s had a bright, low spring sun, shirt sleeves and sunglasses: and a compassionate vicar who was a friend of the family.

  The crematorium was full for Tommy, people having to stand at the back. Jen didn’t speak, leaving it to Tommy’s family to deliver the eulogies. Sally’s barely filled three rows but her dad trembled with emotion as he recalled summer holidays past when Sally enchanted his family back home in Trinidad, and school friends gave lively and energetic speeches about her. When the Vicar spoke, she spoke fondly with the warmth that only comes from familiarity, Sally and her family were valued members of her parish. I don’t think Tommy ever set foot inside a church unless it needed two coats of emulsion. Tommy wasn’t a religious man, and so his Vicar resorted to generic, standard issue material, �
�In my Father’s house are many rooms …’ I’ve heard that before, maybe it’s the go-to text for building trade burials: ‘How about this – houses, rooms – that’ll do.’

  I knew most of the people at Tommy’s, I didn’t at Sally’s. To tell you the truth I wondered why I was there, it felt like I was intruding on something profoundly personal, yes we were somehow, distantly, related and yes, she was a nice kid who had shown me a kindness recently, but really, would I have been there if it wasn’t to keep Uncle Bern company? Or more significantly, if I hadn’t been under Hamlet’s thumb?

  Brazil and Dunlop arrived late and unexpectedly causing heads to turn as the big ornate doors slammed shut. The Vicar beckoned them to come and join the family and friends at the front but they ignored her and sat scowling in the back row, their expressions letting everyone know they were there under sufferance, on instructions from the absent Hamlet I assumed.

  At the end of Sally’s, we filed out of the crematorium to the Garden of Remembrance. Brazil and Dunlop were already there, smoking and smirking against the doorway. The family manoeuvred past their uninvited guests with suspicion and distaste, and Bern scurried ahead to catch up with Sally’s mum and give Auntie Val’s apologies for not being there. As he began explaining something about the problems with Spanish air traffic control, I took it as my opportunity to peel off to a quiet corner away from the core group, feeling something of an impostor amongst them. I could see Brazil and Dunlop already heading towards the exit, clearly having decided they’d done enough, made an appearance and could go back and report to Hamlet.

  I meandered around the small terraced holding area, looked at the flowers and read the small square cards attached and I’m sure it was the low sun in my eyes that caused me to blink a few times to shake away the prickling sensation as I read the tribute ‘to my mummy, the angel’. I looked around to find Sally’s dad ahead of me, in conversation with none other than Senia. Hoping not to look too obvious, I leaned forward paying greater attention to the flowers and eavesdropped, but could only hear the load of old granny Senia was spouting, about how he’s working tirelessly to bring her killer to justice. I wondered if Nick Witham eating biscuits and young Nwaboku arresting top class cricketers are what he had in mind as he reassured her dad that his ‘top men are on the case’.

  Bern beckoned me over with a jerk of the head. Obligingly I approached him.

  ‘Here he is, this is him,’ he said to Sally’s mum.

  ‘What? This is little Mark?’ she said with a happy squawk to her voice, pointing a crooked finger approximately in my direction. ‘You was only this big last time I saw you’, she squawked, waving her hand down below her knees. ‘Do you remember?’

  I didn’t, I could have only been 18 months but what’s the point in contradicting a woman on the day of her only child’s funeral. ‘Of course I do,’ I said.

  She laughed, ‘No you don’t, you was only a toddler, but you’re a charmer, I can see that, like your dad. I was ever so sorry to hear he’d, you know, gone. You don’t half look like him, you know?’

  I thanked her, as that’s what you’re supposed to do, and noticed a few ladies had gathered behind her, presumably waiting to give their condolences.

  ‘So, now you’re end of the line, the head of the family...’ she began, no doubt thinking she was about to impart some great wisdom, the usual crap people come up with at funerals. ‘Oh no, wait, silly me, I was forgetting, there’s––’ Before she could finish, Bern gripped her arm and turned her towards the waiting ladies. Her thoughts were sufficiently distracted as she greeted them with another happy squawk.

  I gestured to Bern I was leaving, and turned to go. Head down, brushing dust from the sleeve of my best and only suit I walked straight into someone. I immediately apologised, looked up apologising again and, was staring straight into the face of someone I hadn’t expected to see.

  ‘Karen,’ I said in my surprise, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Arsehole.’

  ‘Fine. You’re probably right. Look, Karen, I’m sorry, it was an accident, I’ve had a difficult day. I’m not in the mood for this. It’s ok, I’m leaving, forget I was here, I’ll get out of your way’.

  ‘That’s the problem with you Mark, you’re always in the way, always in the bloody way. What are you even doing here?’

  ‘What’s that mean? In the way?’

  ‘You. You’re always there, messing things up. And then when she needs you, you’re nowhere to be seen. You told her you’d sort it!’

  People by now were turning towards us, wondering what the raised voices were all about, I was rapidly being pointed out as the strange distant relation with the bruised face.

  ‘Karen, I’m going.’ I had no intention of hanging around any longer, by now I was as welcome as a dog poo sandwich in your packed lunch, and so I walked away. Karen, like her mother, was never one to back down and kept it going, following me out to the car park. ‘Go on, run away, think you’re the big man but can’t take the truth’.

  ‘Karen, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, I really don’t, but I’m off.’ I was almost at the van, reaching for my keys, but still she kept following me, shouting at me, hounding me, but then a yelp.

  I looked back, she was hobbling, she’d turned her ankle stepping off the kerb and was rubbing it.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I took her elbow and guided her towards the van, ‘Here, come and sit down,’ and eased her into the passenger seat. Reaching behind it I pulled out the first aid kit, and set about strapping her ankle. From the door pocket, I pulled a bottle of water that I handed to her, and as she twisted the cap open I passed her a couple of paracetamol also from the first aid kit which she gulped down.

  Her anger and her fury had faded away, she sat looking out of the window and in a quiet voice said, ‘Thank you’. She returned to observe the comings and goings of the crematorium, ‘Why did you help me?’

  ‘What kind of bloke do you think I am? You really think I’m that callous?’

  She paused. ‘No. No, I guess not.’ Another pause, then, ‘Thanks.’

  In silence, we watched Sally’s family board the waiting funeral cars and slowly trundle out towards the main road before joining the traffic and disappearing. It felt to me like a truce had been declared, making the van the Somme football pitch I guess, so I decided to broach the subject again. ‘Karen, why are you so angry with me, what have I done?’

  Karen took a deep slow breath, and to her credit stayed calm in her response. ‘Because of Jen. I can’t help being protective, she’s my sister.’

  ‘Okay, I can understand that, but sorry, what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Tommy. This man, he sounds like a posh wally but he’s frightening Jen and the kids. He kept phoning her, but after I blocked his number he started turning up on the doorstep. You promised Jen you’d sort it out, but he won’t go away.’

  Now I understood, and I told her to leave it with me, this time Charlie Quentin would keep his distance, I’d make sure of that. I apologised and meant it. Her shoulders dropped as she uncrossed her arms and sat back in the seat.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and seemed to mean it too. ‘It’s the kids I’m worried about, him coming over shouting the house down, it scares them. And how do I explain that to their parents?’ I must have looked quizzical, either that or she was terrified of silences, as she felt the need to add, ‘I’m a registered childminder now. I was already looking after my little one Ella, and Chloe after school so I thought I’d do it properly. That’s five I look after now. But I do it at Jen’s house as it’s got the space. You know their conservatory out the back? Tommy painted it up, nice and bright with lots of Disney characters, looks great.’

  I nodded that polite nod you give when someone’s talking about their passion but you don’t give a shit. Karen gave a sniff, dabbed a tissue to her face, then, ‘What are you doing here Mark?’ I appreciated the calm, rational tone to her voice.

  ‘I did some work for
Sally recently, we were related. Did you know that?’ I asked, then watched her shake her head. ‘Distantly. It’s complicated, you know, my uncle’s wife’s sister’s cat’s best friend’s turn left at the traffic lights, that sort of thing. But she was a nice girl, I liked her. How did you know her?’

  ‘Sophia,’ explained Karen. ‘I’m her daughter Sophia’s child minder, and got to know Sally from there. Our girls are—’

  ‘Hold on.’ Something had chimed a bell inside my head. ‘You’re the child minder? You’re the one that found her?’

  Karen looked at me, her mouth gaped open seeming unable to speak, until, ‘How did you know that?’

  She had a point; how did I know that? Then it came to me, of course, it was in Brennan’s folder, but how could I explain that away? No need to bother it turned out as her fear of awkward silences took over again.

  ‘Yes, I did, and it was horrible, I can still see it when I close my eyes. And they questioned me, the police, they said she came home because the childminder told her to. They went through my phone, I had to prove where I’d been all day, it was horrible. Horrible.’ And then she began to sob.

  Well, this was awkward. Ten minutes ago I’d been her sworn enemy, now I assumed she wanted me to comfort her. I moved my hand in small circles across her shoulder blade, I don’t know if that helped, but I really didn’t want to begin getting intimate. I tried changing the subject, finding happier topics.

  ‘So, both your little girls together. Do they get on?’ was the best attempt I could muster.

  Karen sniffed, nodded, dabbed her eyes and eventually spoke, thank God, I was running out of ideas.

  ‘Yeah, they get along great, could be sisters… twins in fact, turns out they share the same birthday. They became best friends, so naturally we became friends. I guess Sally was my best friend truth be told,’ and another dab of the tissue to her eyes, then as though she knew what I was going to say next, ‘My mum’s looking after the kids today.’