by Alice Castle
With a sigh, Beth slipped on her jacket and hitched her bag over her shoulder. She knew when she was beaten.
Chapter Thirteen
Harry York winced as he listened to the slightly garbled messages on his phone. Both were from Beth and were in the high-pitched tone which she used when she was excited, and which immediately had him on red alert.
Not for the first time, he wondered how on earth they’d become involved. Yes, she’d intrigued him from the first time he’d met those glinting grey eyes, looking up at him with such apparent guilelessness from behind a laptop screen in the office of Wyatt’s School. And the fact that she was small enough to put in his pocket had, somehow, tugged at his heart-strings from the off. Then, when he’d met her little son – a dark-haired, grey-eyed miniature version of his mum, but all boy with his enthusiasms for football, on and off the computer – Harry had known he was in trouble.
He’d had girlfriends before, and he knew, without undue vanity, that his height, breadth, and even the fact that he was doing pretty well in his career, made him something of an object of interest, both inside his police station and on the streets he still loved to patrol. But though he was well aware that a tiny, inquisitive, irritating little person with an ill-judged addiction to trouble was not the obvious choice of mate, somehow he’d lost that battle long ago.
He didn’t know what the future held for them. Some days, like when he got this sort of message in the middle of working hours, he was pretty sure it was nothing at all. Then a minute later, she’d peep up at him from under that fringe and he’d feel an almighty twang somewhere in the vicinity of his heart and think it was time he marched her up the nearest aisle.
Mostly, he was veering between the two extremes – but glad they were together.
Except at times like this.
Only Beth could find yet another dead body in the Dulwich area. He shook his head as he remembered her trying to say this one somehow didn’t count, as it was on Peckham Rye instead. But whatever the postcode, it was still south east London. And the poor man had inevitably turned out to be a Dulwich resident; even she couldn’t argue the toss about that. This was getting past a joke. And now, as if the situation wasn’t bad enough already, it looked as though she’d stumbled on a whole heap of cash as well.
He hunched his shoulders in his navy coat, wishing the whole business would just go away. But, of course, it wouldn’t. He’d have to leave Beth for later, though. For the moment, he needed to go by the book with this investigation – a book Beth wouldn’t even know if he threw it at her, he thought crossly.
He turned to the DC by his side. He hoped Narinda Khan – sharp-eyed, young, and ambitious – was shaping up to be the partner he’d sorely lacked since coming to work at the Met. That had been one of the reasons he’d sometimes allowed Beth such ill-judged leeway. But give that girl an inch and she’d drive a P4 bus right through the heart of Dulwich Village, he now knew that only too well.
‘Go ahead then, open it,’ he said to Khan, wondering what was keeping her. She fumbled with the door keys which they’d picked up from a neighbour. People in these townhouses were the types to holiday frequently, so it had taken some time to track them down.
Dulwich was a ridiculously wealthy place at the best of times, thought York. And the people in these glamorous glass boxes seemed to have even more enviable lifestyles than most. Mark Smeaton’s keyholders had been an elderly couple, but they’d turned out to be away. So, York had been faced with the choice of getting a Local Support Team to open the place up, or simply waiting. As the LST usually accomplished the job without a lot of finesse, by splintering the door jams and using the ‘big red key’ – or pneumatic ram – to crash through the lock, he’d decided to wait. But as usual, the responsibility for the decision rested on his broad shoulders alone. He only hoped he’d made the right choice.
As the door finally swung open, they were confronted with a canvas, right in front of them. It was the iconic Slope picture of President Trump in Mickey Mouse ears nibbling at a piece of cheese, marked with a map of the world. The poodle signature was a tiny splodge in the right-hand corner.
‘Is that…?’ asked Narinda Khan faintly.
‘Yep,’ York was terse. They walked into the townhouse, which had the still, empty quality that York had often felt in the homes of the recently deceased. He didn’t know whether it was over-sensitivity on his part, and he tried to shrug it off, but he definitely noticed an atmosphere, as though the place was waiting for someone. In vain.
He trod carefully, almost tiptoeing, until he realised how ridiculous that was, and followed the hallway round with DC Khan on his heels. The dark passageway opened out into a drawing room with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a magnificent view out onto the road into Dulwich Village. The day outside was cold and wintry, the trees bare, but the wide grass verges were as green as ever, and all the light available on a grim early January day was pouring in. It illuminated the overstuffed, oversized velvet sofa and chairs, the shiny glass table between them, and the immense canvas of a defecating dog which confronted them, looming over the sofa and commanding as much attention as the view. In the air was the distinct whiff of cleaning fluids. York looked around quickly. There was no dust anywhere; the place was spotless.
‘Damn, Khan, it looks like someone’s been in here. Cleaned up.’
‘Unless he was a tidy sort of person?’ the DC ventured.
‘Hmm,’ said York. ‘There’s not a speck of dust, though, is there? Unless he popped back from the dead today or yesterday to have a quick whisk round, then no, I’d say someone else has been here.’
Khan seemed chastened. York wondered briefly if he’d been a bit harsh, but she had to learn to spot the obvious. And in truth, this spotless flat didn’t fit with his vision of artists. Weren’t they supposed to be above such mundane concerns as polishing their tables? Especially stratospherically successful artists like this Smeaton/Slope fellow.
York looked around, dissatisfied. As well as the canvas and the seating, there was a blocky floor-to-ceiling bookshelf next to the window. It stood out, due to the surprising lack of finesse in its design, but York could never resist books however they were displayed. He strode over, hands behind his back, and studied the shelves. As he’d have expected, most of them were great thick art tomes, any one of which would probably have caused the rickety Ikea shelves in his own, much-neglected Camberwell pad to collapse instantly. Maybe he needed something sturdy and no-nonsense like this.
There were catalogues from recent exhibitions at the Tate, the Royal Academy, the National Portrait Gallery, and the Saatchi Gallery; there were art history volumes; there were even back catalogues from Slope’s own successful shows. Nothing there Harry wouldn’t have expected. He strode out to see what else the flat had to offer.
In the master bedroom, a raspberry pink velvet throw was drawn up neatly on the king-size bed. Two bedside lights with enormous white shades dominated the tables on either side, while the matt blue-black walls had a dull but faintly erotic sheen. Flat white wardrobe doors glided back smoothly at a touch to reveal a surprisingly well-worn and frankly uninspiring collection of clothes: chinos, shirts, shoes, all stuff that York himself could have worn, if it had been in his sizes.
Smeaton seemed a bit smaller than him, but not by any means a snappy or remotely attention-seeking dresser. Was this odd? Or was it part of the disguise that had allowed him to exist in plain sight in Dulwich all this time – one of the most energetic critics of the political scene, with a trenchant, yet amusing, take on all the issues of the day? And what, anyway, was York expecting an artist to wear? Even David Hockney, who had a penchant for canary yellow jumpers and luridly striped socks, still basically wore jeans every day. For a man, there wasn’t that far you could go, sartorially, to stand out – unless you wanted to go the full Greyson Perry. And Smeaton, it seemed, was not that way inclined.
Smeaton had been a complicated man, that much was clear, thought York.
An iconoclast in many ways, yet content to merge in with the crowd in others. And the owner, he mustn’t let himself forget, of that quintessentially well-heeled breed of dog, the Labrador. Harry hoped this case wasn’t going to prove as multi-faceted as the man at its centre. But he didn’t mind admitting he had a bad feeling about it. And with a twinge of dread that a big rufty-tufty policeman shouldn’t really own up to, he realised he really ought to stop putting it off and call Beth back. Maybe whatever she had to tell him would help rather than hinder. There had to be a first time for everything.
Chapter Fourteen
Baz Benson sat in his office, deflated. It was a feeling that didn’t come naturally to him, and in many ways it was surprising. As he had probably the best back catalogue of Slopes in the country – aside from that bastard Kuragin – he should actually be feeling cock-a-hoop right now. The death of an artist, though it necessarily meant a sudden full-stop to their output, also meant an inexorable rise in the prices their existing works commanded.
A Slope sale, always an event, would now become a massive free-for-all, with bidders vying to get their hands on a piece of the dwindling pool of artworks. But, for once, Benson wasn’t just counting his richly-graffitied chickens. He’d actually liked Slope, or Smeaton. No need, any more, to pretend to anyone that the somewhat down-at-heel middle-class man he’d often shared a Soho lunch with wasn’t the rebellious, hip king of the aerosols.
Poor old Mark. Benson felt a twinge of guilt – another unexpected development – at the memory that it had been he who’d persuaded his protégé to take refuge in a false name. It hadn’t ever really been about the illegality of the art. It was all about that edgy image. It had been years, decades, since Smeaton had gone out armed and dangerous with a can and done what many councils considered to be wanton damage to public property. Nowadays, his works, appearing suddenly on this building or that, were rigorously co-ordinated beforehand, with Benson himself squaring things with the authorities, orchestrating press coverage, allowing them to sell off the art at auction. They’d used the whole costly business, involving endless backhanders and schmoozing with rapacious councillors, as a massive loss-leader for the real revenue makers – the Slope calendars, mugs, and stationery sets that sold all over the world to youngsters who thought they were sharing Slope’s rebellion. But actually, they were just helping to enrich a man who’d already been born with, if not a silver spoon in his mouth, then at least a very good chunk of Villeroy and Bosch stainless steel cutlery. More often than not, Smeaton couldn’t even be bothered to pretend any more. When had he last stood outside in the cold, can in hand? Hah, for the life of him, Benson couldn’t recall. Nowadays Mark’d just produced his work straight onto a nice, clean canvas.
It was hard for people to understand, but just as Chanel now made so much more from its £23-a-pop lipsticks than it did from the haute couture jackets with their chain-weighted hems and even heavier price tags, so Slope’s branded biros kept the money flooding into Benson’s offshore accounts much more effectively than either the wall art or even the canvases. Slope’s themes remained constant, though. The evils of consumerism, attacks on the capitalist system, and the odd witty side-swipe at the way technology was taking over the world. Of course, it was all massively ironic when you saw the man who created it – who was every bit as pale, male, and stale as the world he critiqued.
Benson sighed. He’d always liked Mark. It was hard not to. He was a decent guy, and of course, very accomplished. But there were very few who realised that his talent was basically as a copyist, not as an original artist. And the fewer that were in the know, the better.
Unfortunately, Mark had suddenly decided he wanted to be an honest man. Why, after all these years, Benson couldn’t have said. And he certainly didn’t know what the attraction of honesty was. He’d definitely never heard its siren song. That wasn’t to say he lived on the wrong side of the law. But popping over the pathway to visit the dark side occasionally, well, that was fine. For him. And for Mark, too, for many years. But recently, the guy’s conscience had seemed to be troubling him more and more.
Mark liked a drink, that had been one of his problems. And after a certain stage, he got maudlin and would be dragged back to relive certain passages of his youth. Passages which didn’t reflect well on him.
Benson supposed it was an age thing, though Mark hadn’t been old, by any normal reckoning. Maybe he’d had some sort of inkling that he didn’t have long to live? Was that even possible? Whatever the reason, his urge to come clean had recently become a problem. And Benson had had more than enough of those to deal with.
The sound of a bell ringing in the gallery beyond broke into his gloomy thoughts. As he’d envisaged, it was yet another customer, eager to snap up a bit of history. Well. The money was at least a compensation. He rubbed his hands together, and at once was back in his comfort zone, stepping briskly out to relieve a celebrity scalp-hunter of a nice fat cheque.
Chapter Fifteen
Beth was at her kitchen table, grimly clutching a cup of peppermint tea in the hopes that it would work its usual magic and soothe her jangled nerves. She hadn’t drawn the curtains over the French doors, and in the vague mass of tangled shrubs that was the back garden, she could intermittently see the flash of twin pricks of reflected light. Magpie was keeping an eye on her and waiting until Colin had retreated to the sitting room for the night.
It looked as though their brief rapprochement was over. A whole day home alone together had probably been too much of a good thing. At the moment, Colin was still stationed with his head on her feet, paws underneath as a sort of pillow against the cool tiled floor. It was warm and comforting, and she felt as though he was doing his doggy best to empathise with her. Every now and then, he would sigh gustily, sounding eerily human, and summing up her feelings entirely.
She’d done her best with Harry, she really had. She’d handed over the money as soon as he’d come in, which had mercifully been after Ben’s bedtime, so they hadn’t had to have the whole thing out in front of wagging small-boy ears. Admittedly, the manila envelope had never looked particularly fresh, after having been abandoned in the hollow of the tree. But now it was looking as dog-eared as Colin himself, after it had been lugged around in her bag all day under a thick drift of sweet wrappers, vital communications from Ben’s school, and her own purse – a sadly very empty affair.
Harry wasn’t to know how virtuous she felt, handing over the full wad of notes to him at all. He’d probably never have felt the temptation that she’d struggled against, to peel off a note or two here and there – preferably some of those lovely crisp red ones – and convert them to something useful. He was a policeman. He’d sworn an oath to be truthful and all that. She was a little vague about what it entailed, though she had a feeling it was a bit like the Brownie Promise that she’d once longed to make. She’d been thwarted, as Wendy hadn’t wanted to sew on any badges, let alone get her to the meetings, and had therefore forbidden her from joining the local troupe. But Harry had actually pledged to do all the good stuff. She had not – but yet, she’d just done it anyway. Surely that deserved, if not a belated badge, then some Brownie points at least?
But Harry had remained impassive as she’d slapped the collapsing brown paper package down in front of him, merely raising an eyebrow at the state of thing, before looking hard at her in silence. It was a tactic that never failed to make her feel very uncomfortable.
She’d found herself explaining, again, how she’d found it. And out of the goodness of her heart, she’d given him a rundown of her thinking on the subject, which he had been both extremely ungrateful for and very ungracious about.
That was the last time she helped him out with his enquiries, she huffed to herself, and Colin stirred in sympathy.
Honestly, how many times did she have to apologise? She wondered. It was hardly her fault that they’d come across Smeaton, accidentally acquired Colin, then stumbled – sort of – on the money. It was the kind of
thing that could happen to anyone.
Except that it didn’t, but it did keep happening to her – and Beth was honest enough to admit that to herself. Not that there was really much that she could do about it, unless she took a decision to board up her door and never leave the house again. Both Ben, and her job, and now Colin as well, all made that a total impossibility. Magpie wouldn’t be too bothered, as long as there were regular deliveries of cat food right to the door.
Now Harry was upstairs, very soundly asleep, if his occasional deep snores were anything to go by. And she was down here, wishing she hadn’t decided to seduce him into a better mood. It had definitely worked for him, judging by the blissful smile on his face seconds before he became unconscious. But it had most definitely not done much for her. She’d been left feeling disgruntled and resentful, and all the peppermint tea in the world wasn’t likely to take those feelings away in a hurry.
By rights, she should be exhausted. It had been quite a day. She’d really hoped she’d clear a ton of work, but that had been scuppered when Nina had burst in. She’d then had to break off to take both her friend and Colin out for an airing, hoping against hope that on the way they might come across more dog-walkers whose memories would be jogged by seeing the placid old Lab going through his paces. But it was not to be.
She’d had to turn down Nina’s well-meant offer to badger every single person they met. It might have worked, but Beth felt they’d get further by approaching only the people who seemed to be staring at Colin or looking at his change of dog-handlers in surprise. Unfortunately, a thin drizzle had started to fall before they’d completed their first circuit of the park, so they’d ended up decamping to the deserted café instead, and whiling away a rather merry afternoon until pick-up time by sipping at hot chocolates while Colin sat rather miserably outside in the rain.