by Clare Chase
Jonny Trent was probably just as tall as Luke Cope had been, but pretty portly compared with the artist. But Tara wasn’t sure Megan’s hypothesis was right. ‘If Freya got to the nature reserve first she’d have been on high alert,’ she said. ‘No one stands around in that sort of place late at night letting their mind wander. In the quiet, the slightest noise gets your attention. So the moment her murderer arrived all her focus would have been trained on him – or her.’ A woman could have tucked long hair into a cap or under a scarf; the weather had been so cold. ‘My bet is that even a killer the same build as Luke Cope would have to have acted fast. Freya would have known in a moment that the person walking towards her wasn’t her lover.’
She imagined the woman’s feelings: she’d have assumed for a moment that the person was simply another local, out for a breath of fresh air before bed. But then they’d have approached with hurried steps, making straight for her, and fear would have kicked in…
No one responded to her point, and a moment later, Blake let the team go. She wondered if everyone thought she was arguing for the sake of it. But she was sure she was right. The fact that anyone might think she was being childish brought her anger back.
Thirty-Five
Patrick Wilkins was walking along St Andrew’s Street in the centre of town, towards Not Now magazine’s offices. It was nearly lunchtime and the pavement was crowded with office workers, scurrying into sandwich shops. When the hell was the weather going to get better? The damp of the fog played havoc with his hair.
It was as he crossed over Downing Street, towards John Lewis, that he saw a figure he recognised. Mostly, he didn’t find pregnant women attractive, but DI Blake’s wife, Babette, was an unusual specimen. She managed to look voluptuous. He wondered when she was due – she had to be quite far along. She was leaning down to talk to a small child – her and Blake’s daughter, Patrick assumed. Strands of her golden hair had fallen forward. As she stood upright again she caught him watching her, and a smile of recognition crossed her face.
From the warmth of her expression, Wilkins guessed Blake hadn’t mentioned his suspension. Unless Babette didn’t remember who he was. They had met – at a staff drinks do only last year. For a moment, the thought that she might not be able to place him set anger bubbling up in his gut. But it had been a busy event. And it made sense to be friendly if that was how she was going to play it. It was too good an opportunity to ignore – chatting to the DI’s beautiful wife, Babette the babe.
‘Mrs Blake.’ He walked forward, holding out his hand formally, whilst giving her a smile that also took in her daughter. Women liked it when you included their kids – treated them as though they mattered. ‘Patrick Wilkins, from the Cambridgeshire Constabulary.’
He found he couldn’t bring himself to put his subordinate position in relation to her husband into words.
‘Of course – I remember you.’
Patrick wondered. Did she? Or was she just well versed in managing people? She probably didn’t have a clue whether he was a DS or the Chief Constable.
‘And please,’ she added, her own smile widening, ‘do call me Babette.’
‘Well, it’s lovely to bump into you again, Babette.’ He bent down to look at the little girl, who had mid-brown hair with ringlets. Sickly sweet, Patrick thought. ‘And who’s this?’
The girl – she could have been anywhere from five to eight, Patrick had no idea how you could tell – clung to her mother’s camel-coloured coat, half hiding behind her. God, he hated it when kids did that. What did they think? That he was some sort of child molester? Did he look dangerous?
But Babette laughed. ‘She’s shy. This is mine and Garstin’s daughter, Kitty.’
Garstin. Patrick tended to forget his DI had such a ridiculous first name. He made most people call him Blake – if it wasn’t ‘boss’, or ‘sir’. He could see why. What mother would give a kid a handle like that?
He was tempted to back off, but he felt he had to keep going now, even if he couldn’t convince the child he was all right, so he bent down again slightly, without fully committing himself, and smiled at her. ‘Hello, Kitty. Pleased to meet you.’
The girl’s grip on her mother’s clothes loosened just a little, and slightly more of her face became visible. Patrick sought inspiration and at last had it, when his eyes lit on Babette’s pregnant stomach again.
‘You must be very excited that you’ll have a baby brother or sister soon,’ he said.
It seemed to have been a good move. A cautious smile spread across the little girl’s face now, and she nodded. ‘Mummy says it will be here in time for the summer,’ she said.
He was ashamed at the relief he felt that Blake’s daughter had accepted him. How pathetic. Why had he even stopped to talk to them?
‘That’s very exciting,’ he finished, lamely.
The little girl nodded, setting her ringlets quivering. ‘It is. Daddy was very excited when we told him. It was a big surprise.’
Babette laughed. ‘It was a lovely surprise all round!’ She ruffled the daughter’s hair. ‘Come along, sweetie. We need to go into John Lewis and get some baby gear.’ She turned to Patrick. ‘She’s off school officially – just a cold – but I should march on with the shopping, so I can get her home again. Being out in this weather probably isn’t the best idea.’
The child didn’t look very ill. Patrick’s mother had never let him go out when he was off school.
As they walked away, and he pressed on towards Not Now’s offices, he played the last bit of their conversation over in his mind. ‘A lovely surprise’… very interesting. People added to their families by accident all the time, of course. Patrick had vaguely gathered over the years that he himself had been the result of an unplanned pregnancy – he was the youngest of five. And Babette had clearly tried to pass their situation off as something similar.
But that didn’t explain why it had been she and Kitty together who’d broken the news to Blake. Daddy was very excited when we told him. It was a big surprise. What woman told their child about a pregnancy before the father? Assuming Blake was the father. Babette must have been holding the news back for some reason. If he could get at the truth it might be worth his while…
He was thinking so hard that he almost walked past the entrance to the magazine’s premises, between two of the shops on St Andrew’s Street.
As he climbed the stairs to the first floor and pressed the buzzer he felt even more pleased with the way the day was progressing.
Five minutes later he was in Giles Troy’s office with a skinny latte in front of him.
Giles raised an eyebrow. ‘What have you decided?’
Patrick took a sip of the coffee and felt better than he had done in weeks. ‘That a new career awaits. And that I’m happy to work with your proposal.’
A lazy grin crossed Giles’s face. ‘Excellent. I’m delighted that I’ll be your first client.’ He raised his coffee cup. ‘Here’s to making Tara Thorpe’s life uncomfortable.’
‘Amen to that.’ He raised his drink, too.
Tara was standing by the coffee machine at the station, queueing for an after-lunch pick-me-up, when the text from Matt, her old colleague at Not Now, came in. He was the only person on the staff that she’d kept in touch with. As workmates, it had been their habit to let off steam about their boss, Giles Troy, over long evenings at the pub.
How goes it? That policeman guy who caused all the trouble’s been in and out of here like it’s his second home of late. I wanted to warn you in case something’s up. He’s just left the building with Giles. The boss said something about having cause for celebration.
What the hell was Wilkins up to? The news was more than ominous.
She was so distracted she hadn’t noticed it was her turn at the coffee machine until Max – who was just behind her – nudged her elbow.
When he saw her face, he put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Everything all right?’
She turned her phone so he co
uld see Matt’s message. Max frowned and shook his head.
‘Wilkins is an arch stirrer,’ Tara said, ‘who hates people making him look small.’ She pulled a face. ‘And I’ve certainly done that – with Kemp’s help. As for Giles, he’ll hold his grudge against me until he’s in his grave. Or I am. I feel as though I’m the common denominator, and whatever they’re planning, I’ll be at the centre of it. But I might not be the only one to suffer.’
When Shona Kennedy had written her poisonous article about Tara just before Christmas it had thrown a bad light on the whole team – and made Blake look like a two-timing lothario to boot.
Max gave her shoulder a squeeze and smiled before he took his hand away again. ‘You can’t stop people like them,’ he said, ‘but they’re ten a penny. It happens all the time. The force has got broad shoulders and it looks after its own. If anything happens it’ll be dealt with just as calmly as it was the last time. And six months down the line, it’ll all be forgotten.’
She didn’t quite believe him, but she appreciated his attempt to make her feel better. For all that life had thrown at him he was always calm and grounded. Tara took a deep breath.
‘Thank you.’ It didn’t seem adequate, but when her eyes met his she somehow knew he’d got the message – and understood just how much she meant it.
She let the machine dispense her drink and then started the walk back to her desk. She was halfway along the corridor when she noticed Megan. Instead of going back to the room the team shared, the DS moved towards the station’s main entrance and beckoned Tara to follow. She did so, taking a quick sip of her hot, black coffee, which was threatening to spill.
When they’d both come to a standstill, Megan opened her mouth, but then closed it again. She didn’t look happy.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Tara asked. She didn’t think she’d injected any antagonism into her tone.
Megan’s dark eyes met Tara’s. ‘We just need to be careful of Max’s feelings. That’s all. He works for me and I’ve got his back.’ She made it sound like a threat.
O-kay. So, Tara had been right about the connection she’d sensed between Megan and her fellow DC then – even if it was mainly felt by Megan, perhaps. And presumably she’d seen Tara and Max’s interaction at the coffee machine and overreacted, big time.
‘No problem,’ Tara said. ‘I agree with you. Max is the best friend I have here – I’d never be careless of his well-being.’
She turned and walked smartly back towards her desk. Thank goodness she’d already drunk her coffee down to a reasonable level. It would have been a shame to lose her dignity by slopping it everywhere.
Thirty-Six
Professor Antonia Blake wasn’t worried about Jonny Trent recognising her: it had been months since she’d visited his gallery, and all the slimeball’s attention had been on Freya Cross, in any case. But when it came to the crunch she decided to dump the turquoise and navy geometric tunic she’d been wearing over thick tights and boots and – going completely against the grain – change into the most boring, presentable skirt and jumper combination she owned. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a set of pearls she’d inherited from her grandmother. Well-to-do but artistically ignorant was the image she wanted to convey.
An hour later, in the foyer of the gallery, she decided the effort had been wasted. Antonia doubted that Jonny Trent saw women in technicolour – separating out those that might be rich but clueless from potential experts in the field. She guessed the groupings he used were more basic: women he found sexually attractive and those he didn’t. As he’d welcomed her in, he’d put a guiding arm around her shoulders, close to her but not touching, just to steer her in the right direction. But Antonia knew how to walk from the car park into the building. Patronising and a predator. It made her blood boil.
As they passed through the gallery hallway, a well-presented but unimaginatively dressed young woman joined them, accompanied by a balding man with grey hair, wearing jeans and a shirt. She recognised the female from her previous visit.
‘Good morning,’ the woman said to Antonia, with a bright smile, before turning to the gallery owner. ‘Mr Fisk would like to see the back gallery now, Jonny.’
Trent beamed. ‘Excellent, excellent.’ He turned to Antonia. ‘In that case, I’ll leave you in my gallery manager Monique Courville’s capable hands for the moment. Please, Mr Fisk,’ he turned to the other visitor, ‘follow me.’ He began to manoeuvre away, whilst smiling at Antonia over his shoulder. Thinking of her son, and his mission, which might include putting one over on this horrible man, she managed to smile back. The sort of fixed grin she saved for buttering up the necessary people in her faculty. At which point Trent gave her a little wave. ‘I do hope you’ll follow us through, once you’ve finished out here,’ he said. ‘The back gallery’s my pet project. I’d love to show it to you.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ she replied, skilfully supressing a shudder.
Monique Courville stepped forward now, her expression warm. It was a veneer put on for customers, clearly, but that was fair enough. They were running a business and there was no reason why either of them should be genuinely pleased to interact with her.
‘Feel free to ask me any questions,’ Monique said. ‘We have information sheets here that detail the works that are on display, but I can tell you more about the artists and their backgrounds, which ones will take on personal commissions and so on.’
Antonia nodded, whilst trying to look vague. The work on show was all right – nothing she’d have been tempted to shell out for though, even if she’d had the money. Nonetheless, she peered closely at each piece in turn and asked a couple of questions. Monique accompanied her to the middle room where they followed the same pattern.
There was nothing that struck her as off – except perhaps that it was a large building to maintain and they had no stand-out works that were likely to bring in really big money.
‘I think perhaps I will take up Mr Trent’s suggestion now, and look at the back gallery,’ Antonia told Monique.
The woman’s smile faded ever so slightly, but she jacked it up again almost immediately. ‘Of course.’
Antonia guessed Courville got commission on paintings sold from the main rooms, but no doubt not from Jonny Trent’s ‘pet project’.
The room at the back of the building was a revelation. It felt quite separate to the rest of the gallery – visitors had to go through two doors to get to it. These were both propped open with wooden wedges, but not to their fullest extent, so that you felt you were going somewhere slightly secret. The interior of the back gallery reminded her of a Paris flea market. The whole room was crowded with works of art – some mounted on the dark-red walls, lit by the glow of soft lamps, and many more stored in folding display racks that sat on the floor. Even she could feel its draw, old cynic that she was. It held that promise that you might find a bargain, an undiscovered treasure. For her, she’d be living in anticipation of stumbling across a new artist, as yet unrecognised by the establishment.
She gave Jonny Trent a smile as she entered the room. He smiled back, making her feel clammy all over. The things you did for your children.
As she’d expected, Trent was still dealing with his other visitor. The balding man was staring down at one of the paintings in the folding rack and biting his lip.
Torn, clearly. She could see the agony of indecision on his face and wondered what he’d spotted. At last he raised his eyes to meet the gallery owner’s again. ‘I’m going to think about it.’
Trent gave a wide smile, reminding Antonia of a frog.
‘By all means,’ he said. ‘As I say, I wasn’t intending to sell it today in any case. Ideally, I’d like to get an independent expert to look at it before I let it go. Believe it or not, I’m one of those people who buys on instinct. I’m not formally trained to value what we sell. My gallery manager knows her onions, of course – one of us has to. Personally, I operate on passion. This is my little
find, my gamble. I don’t suppose it’s worth anything like what I hope, but buying it is my version of a flutter. For some, it’s betting on the races, for me, it’s art. You never know, maybe one day I’ll make a packet! If you see in the papers that I’ve sold this one for millions then you’ll know I finally got it right.’
The man in the jeans had been backing off, but now he looked at the painting again. More of the lip-chewing.
Antonia tried to glimpse the work they were talking about without moving closer. If she showed any interest she’d probably push the would-be buyer over the brink. Whatever Jonny Trent’s game was, she didn’t want to help him with it.
At last, the man turned and left the room. Antonia let Trent catch her interested look and then pottered over to where the other visitor had been standing. She found it hard to control her expression as she glanced down at the canvas. She ran her tongue over her lips and raised her eyes for a second to meet Trent’s.
‘I’m rather fond of it,’ Trent said. His look drifted away from her for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose it could be the genuine article for a minute, but I should know by next week.’
‘So you won’t sell it now?’
The gallery owner shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘I’ve priced it quite highly. If someone’s convinced they want to take a gamble, then I might let it go. After all, I could be wrong.’ He let out a low laugh. ‘Though I’ll be kicking myself round the room this time next week if you take it off my hands and it turns out I finally backed a winner. I should probably hang onto it.’
‘But a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,’ Antonia said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’ll have done well if it turns out to be an imitation, or something done by an admirer.’