Death Comes to Call: An absolutely unputdownable English cozy mystery novel (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 3)

by Clare Chase

  She paused for a second, looking at an oil painting of an old mill. Luke Cope had shown it by moonlight. The surrounding landscape made her think it was out in the fens. Silhouetted reeds appeared behind the imposing bulk of the building. You could almost feel the wind that had probably rustled through them on the night he’d depicted. Suddenly she realised Max was standing next to her.

  ‘They’re eerie, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I’d want one on my wall.’

  Maybe that was Luke Cope’s problem. To be commercially successful in a small way – selling lots of mid-priced paintings to members of the public – perhaps you had to make your creations easy to live with. Maybe Luke Cope’s work was more akin to the stuff fashion designers put on the catwalk: Joe Public wouldn’t be likely to adopt it as it was, but it could influence a whole generation if it was spotted by the right people. And at that point the really big buyers would invest their megabucks in it.

  At that moment Megan’s voice brought Tara out of her thoughts. ‘This is weird…’

  The DS was standing in the opposite corner of the room from her and Max. Tara watched. The woman’s eyes were fixed on a large canvas, wrapped round a deep frame, standing in a stack on the floor, just as the ones she’d been viewing were. As they looked on, Megan knocked the painting against the wall, then peered again at its reverse side.

  ‘What?’ Blake was next to her now, with Tara and Max close behind.

  Megan was frowning. ‘There’s something jammed into the back of this canvas.’ She glanced around her, spotted a palette knife on a window sill and picked it up. In a moment, she was using it to drive between the back of the frame and the board they could all see had been wedged into it.

  The knife was a bit flexible for the job, but after some work, as Tara watched, the extra panel came free. And so did another slim board, behind it. Two paintings, both deliberately hidden – even the CSIs had missed them.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Megan took a step back, allowing the works to fall against the wall.

  Blake adjusted them, so that they could all see the compositions.

  Tara moved in to photograph the pictures. One showed a young woman hanging from a noose. The room she was in was unfamiliar – a window behind her showing nothing but a dull cloudy sky. She wasn’t yet dead in the picture, but her hands were at her throat, fingers desperately trying to get under the rope, a look of unbridled panic on her choking face.

  The other was of a man in late middle-age: his body splayed out at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Tara recognised the scene this time; it showed the house they were now standing in.

  Twenty

  ‘We’ll need to talk to Matthew Cope again,’ Blake said, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Find out if he knows who the hell those people in the paintings are. And if the subjects are really dead or not.’

  The car’s heating was on, but the icy shock that had taken hold of Tara when she’d seen the pictures hadn’t loosened its grip. The second of the paintings was at the forefront of her mind. ‘Matthew Cope said his father died falling down stairs,’ she said.

  Blake’s eyes met hers for just a second. ‘God.’

  For a moment there was silence and she guessed they were both wondering how old Matthew and Luke had been when that had happened – and if Luke had been in the vicinity. If he’d been a child and he’d witnessed the fall or just seen the body afterwards, Tara could imagine he might want to paint it out of his system. Occasionally, if she saw something horrific on the news, she’d carry on watching, even if the coverage got repetitive, just to try to come to terms with the information.

  ‘Luke can’t be tied to both the deaths, surely?’ Blake said. ‘The bloke at the bottom of the stairs is one thing, but the hanging? If there was the thinnest connection between him and an unsolved murder I think we’d be aware of it. Even if his name never made it as far as the official records it would have been mentioned at the station.’

  They’d left Max and Megan still trawling through the contents of Luke’s house, meticulously searching for clues to where the man might have gone. Tara knew Max would do a good job – his calm determination ensured it. Megan was thorough too, she had to admit, but Tara still wished she could be in two places at once. Finding the key to Luke Cope’s location was a tempting prize.

  They were nearing Jonny Trent’s gallery now. Tara watched the uneven hedge of trees and shrubs skim past on one side. To her right, beyond Blake’s hands on the steering wheel, she could see flat fields. It was only mid-morning but everything looked almost colourless under the dark clouds, through the sheets of torrential rain.

  Blake had arranged for them to see Monique, Freya’s assistant, in her break.

  ‘Though from what she said on the phone she doesn’t get a breather as a rule,’ Blake said, his eyes on the road. ‘She had to put me on hold for a moment when I asked for a time, and it was a good two minutes before I got her back again. I’m not sure Trent would make an ideal boss.’

  ‘Granted. And I guess it must go further than general mean-spiritedness if Freya wanted to “escape” work troubles. Though I suppose she might have been running for multiple reasons.’

  Blake nodded. He swung into a wide drive lined with overgrown yew trees – dark and forbidding-looking. It didn’t help that they reminded Tara of almost every graveyard she’d ever visited.

  ‘Whatever the truth is,’ Blake said, making her snap back to the here and now, ‘I don’t trust our Jonny. The whole time I spoke to him yesterday I had the impression he was putting on an act. He’s hiding something, that’s for sure. When we get in there, I want you to tackle Monique whilst I talk to him again.’

  Tara hadn’t realised that was the plan. She liked the idea of having a free hand with Freya’s assistant – and the woman would probably open up more that way too – but she couldn’t help wondering if she was being sidelined. ‘What line will you take with Trent?’

  He smiled for a moment. ‘No line. I’m just going to make small talk. And if he’s got a customer with him, I’ll hover in the background and observe. I imagine he’ll spend the entire time trying to work out what I’m after. Hopefully it’ll unsettle him enough to make a mistake.’ He drew up in front of the imposing building at the end of the drive. ‘But my main aim is simply to keep him occupied whilst you talk to Monique. I’m hoping she’ll deliver something really useful. She and Freya must have talked a lot to coordinate their work. I hope to God they chatted about more than just sales and tax.’ He glanced at Tara. ‘I’m guessing Monique won’t unbutton if she thinks Jonny Trent is listening at the keyhole – and if I didn’t act as minder, I’m quite sure he would be.’

  Five minutes later, Tara was installed in the gallery’s administration office with the door firmly closed. There had been no customers on site when they’d arrived, and she’d had the chance to cast her eyes over the paintings in the front room of the building as she’d walked through. She didn’t have to be told which of the works was by Luke Cope; she recognised his style. His large framed canvas was diagonally opposite the room’s doorway and showed a bleak fenland scene with lowering clouds and black peat soil. The artist had looked down on endless, barren winter fields, the only distinguishing features being a water-filled drainage ditch and, in the distance, a church with a distinctive spire. It looked faintly familiar – probably from her childhood days. The family house her mother had inherited was out in the Fens.

  She’d been introduced to Jonny Trent in the building’s hallway and watched as he’d cast his eyes anxiously in her and Monique Courville’s direction. He’d looked very reluctant as Blake herded him off into that large, front gallery room.

  Monique was an elegant woman with sleek, chestnut-brown hair that reached below her shoulders. She wore knee-length chocolate-coloured boots and a navy suit with a crisp white shirt underneath, unbuttoned at the neck revealing a simple gold necklace.

  ‘Thanks for talking to me, Monique,’ Tara said. ‘We’re trying to speak to
everyone who knew Freya, to get an idea of what life was like for her in the run-up to her death.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I saw the detective you arrived with here yesterday. He spoke to Jonny, but I had no idea who he was.’

  Tara nodded. ‘DI Blake wasn’t able to say much at that stage. He had to wait until Freya’s next of kin had been informed.’

  Something crossed Monique’s expression. ‘Of course,’ she said after a moment. ‘I was upset that Jonny hadn’t told me what had happened whilst I was at work, but that will have been why.’

  Bloody hell – by the end of the day the man could have let on. It had been all over the news by then. Judging by the way Blake had described the gallery owner’s reaction she found it hard to believe he hadn’t been checking for updates. It was interesting that Monique was ready to make excuses for her boss’s inconsiderate behaviour. Perhaps she didn’t like confrontation. That was something to bear in mind when listening to her evidence. Tara needed to make sure the woman relaxed. Easy questions first…

  ‘So what’s the set-up here?’ she asked, noting the two work stations in the room in which they sat. ‘I gather Mr Trent asked you to do extra hours to cover for Freya when she didn’t turn up as expected last week?’

  Monique Courville nodded. ‘I’m normally only here in the mornings. I’ve been working full-time since Freya… since we…’ Her eyes were glistening and she let the sentence hang.

  ‘It must have been awkward to have to drop everything to help Mr Trent out,’ Tara said. ‘It was a lot to expect.’

  But Monique shook her head, then raised her hands to cover her eyes for a moment. ‘To be truthful, I was very glad of the extra money, what with the price of rent here in Cambridge, and repayments on my car.’ She looked up again. ‘I feel terrible admitting that, now I know the real reason she didn’t come in to work.’

  So Monique needed her income then. It wasn’t some part-time job to bring in a bit of extra pocket money. She’d be all the more reluctant to rock the boat.

  ‘It was a totally natural reaction,’ Tara said. ‘You mustn’t feel guilty. Did Mr Trent tell you why he thought Freya was absent?’

  Monique nodded, and gave a story that backed up her boss’s version of events – that Trent had called Freya’s home number when she didn’t show up, and had been given the story of emergency leave due to stress by Professor Cross.

  ‘You didn’t try to call her at all, during the week?’ Tara asked.

  Monique looked even more miserable as she shook her head. ‘I was concerned, as you can imagine – but I only have Freya’s work mobile number. It didn’t seem appropriate to bother her if she’d taken sick leave.’

  ‘I understand. I’d have thought the same.’

  Monique gave her a grateful look.

  ‘So how was the work divided up here?’ Tara hoped by getting her to talk about general topics, she might find an anomaly that she could focus on. And then when their conversation was flowing, she’d ask more about Freya’s relations with Luke Cope and Jonny Trent himself.

  ‘Freya was the linchpin,’ Monique said. ‘She was here full-time, and she and I were in charge of the two main galleries at the front of the building which house our most valuable works. We sell the paintings on commission, and then restock with more from the artists that sell well.’

  Once again, Tara thought of how Luke didn’t fit into that category. But she’d get onto him later…

  ‘You say the two main galleries? There are more then?’

  Monique nodded. ‘Well – one more. The back gallery. It’s housed in an extension at the rear of the building, and it’s Jonny’s pet project.’ She smiled. ‘He leaves us in total charge of the main rooms, but he’s still very hands-on – an enthusiast. He has lower value works out at the back – ones he’s taken a chance on, based on gut instinct. He picks up the pieces at small sales, via dealers or occasionally from the artists direct, and buys them outright. Then he aims to sell them at a profit. He’s always delighted when his instinct pays off and occasionally he does really well.’

  Tara could see him getting a powerful rush from that; it was a form of informed gambling, after all. ‘I can imagine.’

  She nodded. ‘He’s always on an up if it happens. He sometimes invites us into his office for a glass of celebratory sherry afterwards.’

  High rewards. ‘And what about all the financial management, and legal stuff?’

  ‘Oh, Freya and I deal with that. We cover our side of the business digitally of course. Everything’s inputted on the desktops here.’ She indicated the two computers in the room. ‘But Jonny’s approach is’ – she lowered her voice – ‘out of the ark, to be honest.’

  Tara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He uses an old-fashioned ledger to record the details of his sales.’ She gave an indulgent smile. ‘Freya and I did try to convince him to use a computer, but he wasn’t having any of it. And, in fact, I think his customers find it charming.’ She sighed. ‘He’s always saying how everything was better in the old days. Given what happened to Freya, maybe he’s right. You’d think it would be safe to walk around Newnham in the evenings. But nowadays, with drug dealers and the like…’

  Tara didn’t bother telling the woman that they suspected good old-fashioned lust or jealousy might be behind her colleague’s murder. ‘I gather the gallery stocks Luke Cope’s work.’

  Monique’s face went a shade paler. ‘Jonny said he’s missing.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Tara admitted. ‘Did Mr Trent ever stock his paintings in the back gallery?’

  The woman frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘It surprised you?’ It surprised Tara, given that most of the lower-value stuff was sold as part of Jonny Trent’s pet project. But maybe Luke Cope hadn’t been prepared to sell his work outright for a sufficiently low price.

  Monique shrugged. ‘I remember Freya being taken aback. She’d brokered the first meeting between Luke and Jonny, knowing Luke was looking for an outlet. I think they’d all met at a drinks event at another gallery in town. The morning Luke turned up for his and Jonny’s one-to-one, Freya was on edge. I remember she thought Jonny would probably turn Luke down altogether. But they must have got on. Their meeting went on for an hour or so, and in the event, Jonny decided Luke’s paintings would fit with the main gallery collections.’

  It was interesting that Freya had been worried about Luke’s success – or otherwise – even back then. Had she already been fond of him? ‘How long ago was this, do you remember?’ she asked.

  ‘Around eighteen months back, I think.’

  ‘I see. And did you meet Luke, that first day he came in?’

  Monique nodded. ‘Just when he was on his way out. He was pleased of course, as you’d expect. And when he and Jonny shook hands before he left, Jonny looked just as delighted too.’

  It sounded as though they’d built up quite a rapport in a short space of time. And although Freya had been in charge of the front galleries, officially, it was clearly Jonny Trent who decided whose work ended up there.

  ‘I understand Freya and Luke were close too,’ Tara said.

  Monique’s eyes met hers, her expression searching. ‘I got that impression as well,’ she said at last, ‘but Freya didn’t confide in me. We got on with each other, but it was a working relationship.’

  Tara nodded. ‘Monique, we know Freya was having trouble here at the gallery.’ Well, Sophie Havers had thought so, anyway. Good enough. ‘You won’t be breaking any confidences if you tell me more about it.’

  There was no denial from Freya’s assistant, but she didn’t reply.

  ‘She’d been planning to have a serious talk with Mr Trent on Monday of last week, too,’ Tara went on. ‘So I assume the trouble was a disagreement between them.’

  But now Monique Courville shook her head. ‘She had been short with him just recently perhaps. But on the whole he kept himself to himself, and let us do the same. If there was a problem then I don’t think it stemmed from
Jonny.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’ The woman’s cheeks coloured and she looked down at the desk in front of her for a moment. ‘I think it was something to do with Luke. The last time he was here – around three weeks ago maybe – I heard them quarrelling.’

  ‘Where were they?’

  ‘In the back gallery.’

  ‘And was Jonny in there with them?’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t think so – but he can’t have been far away.’

  Listening at keyholes?

  ‘Monique, this might be significant.’ Tara leant forward. ‘For Freya’s sake, did you overhear anything that was said?’

  The woman frowned and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I didn’t hear much. I was still sitting here in this room. I think I heard her say “how could you?” or something like that.’

  ‘What was she like in general? Was it usual for her to lose her temper?’

  Monique’s eyes were shocked, as though the very idea was laughable. ‘Not at all. She was a true professional.’ There was a long pause but then suddenly her eyes opened wider and she said: ‘No, wait, I remember what she said to Luke now. “How could you be so stupid?” That was it.’

  Tara didn’t manage to get much else out of Monique Courville – her relationship with Freya Cross had clearly been formal – but the insights into the gallery workings had been interesting. What had Luke Cope done that Freya regarded as so foolhardy?

  After they’d spoken, she asked Monique to show her the back gallery. It was a pleasing room – cosy, with dark red walls. There were several artworks hanging up, lit by the warm glow from individual picture lights, but the majority were unframed prints and canvases stacked upright in racks that meant buyers could flick them back and forth to gauge what was on offer. Not being able to see what the room contained at a glance led to a feeling of anticipation. You didn’t know if you might find a gem, somewhere amongst the collection. She was just getting the measure of the stock, some of which she quite fancied herself, including a pen and ink drawing of Great St Mary’s, the university church in town, when Blake appeared at her elbow.