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  LOCAL ARTIST

  “A compelling mystery told with an extraordinary insight into the heights and depths of human nature. Paul Trembling has a gift for making heroes out of ordinary people.”

  Fiona Veitch Smith, author of The Death Beat

  Text copyright © 2017 Paul Trembling

  This edition copyright © 2017 Lion Hudson

  The right of Paul Trembling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Lion Fiction

  an imprint of

  Lion Hudson IP Ltd

  Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road

  Oxford OX2 8DR, England

  www.lionhudson.com/fiction

  ISBN 978 1 78264 259 6

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 260 2

  First edition 2017

  Acknowledgments

  Cover photo © Philip Askew / Trevillion Images

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  For my boys – Tom, Matt, and Andy. Thanks for all the support and encouragement. Each one of you is an artist: you have painted love into my life.

  DAY 1: LOLLYGAGGING

  A phone call at four in the morning is rarely a good thing. Especially not from the police.

  I fumbled through the clutter on my bedside table, found my mobile, and jabbed my finger at the screen, more or less at random, until the noise stopped.

  “What?” I muttered.

  “Hello? Is that Sandra? Sandra Deeson?”

  “Um.”

  “Sandra, this is June Henshaw. Sergeant Henshaw. From Central Police Station?”

  “Um. Yes. June.” I knew her slightly.

  “Sorry to bother you at this time, but we’ve got your name and number as keyholder for the library on Bromwell Street?”

  My brain fog started to clear. “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Has something happened?”

  “We’re not sure, but an officer has discovered an insecurity at the library. We need to gain access to find out what’s happened. Would you be able to come down and meet us there?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll be…” I paused, trying to focus my thoughts. It could take an hour to get to work in rush hour traffic, but at this time the roads should be much quieter. “Half an hour.”

  “That’s great. Thank you, Sandra. I’ll meet you there.”

  Graham had rolled over in bed and was peering in my direction. “Who was that?” he muttered.

  “June Henshaw.”

  “Rob’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes, but she’s got her police hat on. Helmet on. Whatever. Something’s happened at the library. I need to go and open up for them.”

  “Want me to come with you?” He was already half out of bed.

  “No, love; no need for that. I just need to drive down there and open the doors. And you’re supposed to be avoiding stress, remember?”

  “Nothing stressful about a phone call from the police at this time of the morning.”

  “My call, my stress. Really, love, you don’t need to bother yourself. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

  He gave me a long, if still bleary, look. “OK. If you’re sure. Call me if you need an emergency flask of coffee rushing to the scene, or anything like that.”

  I nodded. “It’ll be fine.”

  I fumbled for some clothes, made my way downstairs. The dog raised his head and wagged a hopeful tail.

  “You go back to sleep as well, Brodie.”

  Nevertheless, he got out of his basket and followed me to the shoe cupboard, to make sure I wasn’t sneaking out in walking boots. I slipped on my trainers, and he wandered grumpily back again.

  Clear skies, cold night. I wished I’d had time to make a coffee, but I’d just have to manage without. No time to do anything with my hair, either. Being pale blonde disguises the grey quite well, but without grooming, it sticks out at ridiculous angles. I pulled a woolly hat over my head, found my keys, and went out.

  Even without the coffee, the sharpness of the night air began to wake me up, and the empty roads gave me opportunity to think. And the first coherent thought that came to me was: “Why didn’t the alarm go off?” If there had been an intruder in the library, I should have been woken up by the company that monitored the alarm, not the police.

  I’d locked up myself last night. Hadn’t I? I was sure I was the last one to leave. I’d been helping the art club set up for their exhibition. It was supposed to open this morning… they’d been fussing over their displays, arguing over who got the best positions. Closing time was six, but it had been nearly eight before I’d managed to usher the last of them out.

  The ring road was a fifty-mile-an-hour limit, but I felt no guilt at doing sixty. Maybe sixty-five, but I was responding to a police emergency, wasn’t I? And in any case, there was no other traffic to speak of. One set of headlights passed on the other side of the dual carriageway, some huge artic lumbering through the night, but I had the rest of the road to myself.

  I was sure I’d set the alarm. It made a horrendous high-pitched warbling sound when you did, to let you know you had ten seconds to get out of the building. Since the panel was right next to the exit, that wasn’t a problem, but it still made me panic slightly. And it was impossible to forget to do it.

  Wasn’t it? If I’d failed to set the alarm and there had been a break-in…

  Worrying about that, I nearly failed to stop at the red lights as I came off the ring road. Not a residential area, fortunately, or the screech of rubber on road might have woken someone. Why were the lights red at that time? There was nothing else moving.

  Having enjoyed their little joke with me, the lights reluctantly allowed me to go on my way. Down through the industrial estate and out onto Lock Road.

  No, I must have set the alarm. So that meant nobody had actually got in, then. Perhaps just some drunk causing damage to the door or a window. Years ago, when we were more lax about security, someone had left a fire escape door open. We’d come in next morning and found an inebriated gentleman sleeping it off in the reference section. He was very apologetic when he woke up and realized where he was. Didn’t remember how he’d got there.

  That must be it, I thought. No actual burglary. Panic over.

  All the same, it still made my stomach churn when I finally turned onto Bromwell Street and saw two police cars pulled up in front of the library.

  As I parked behind them, a police officer got out and walked towards me. I wouldn’t have recognized June if I hadn’t been expecting her: in fleece and stab vest she looked stocky, and the blonde hair which normally framed her face was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “No blue lights?” I asked.

  “On the off chance that someone is still inside, we didn’t want to alert them. Of course, they’re probably long gone, if anyone was there at all. Still, we need to be sure, so thanks for coming out, Sandra.”

  “Well, I didn’t want you kicking the door in!” I meant it as a joke, but tiredness made it come out sharper than I intended. I forced a smile. “Not that you would, of course.”

  “We try to avoid it wherever possible.” June showed no sign of offence, but of course she was used to dealing with much worse than grumpy middle-aged librarians. “In this case, we’re not even sure that there has been any illegal entry,
so we weren’t about to cause any unnecessary damage.”

  The word “damage” drew my eyes to the library itself, wondering just what harm might have been done.

  About a hundred and fifty years ago, a local businessman had been inspired to build a great edifice of learning and enlightenment. And self-importance; it was to be named the Arthur Diogenes Bromwell Institute of Culture. However, his lofty vision came into conflict with his natural inclination to save a bob or two wherever he could. The result was a single-storey red-brick building, high windows facing the street, blank walls along the back, and a massively oversized front entrance, all columns, brass plaques, and Latin inscriptions. The double doors were ten feet high, oak and stained glass. In short it was a fine example of Victorian Monstrosity. Various mismatched additions accumulated over the years as needs dictated and funds enabled, improving functionality but doing nothing for appearance.

  It was hard to see details in the dim street lighting, but everything looked as solid, secure, and ugly as normal. I raised an eyebrow in June’s direction.

  “It’s round the back,” she explained, and led the way. “We got a call from a member of the public about an hour ago, telling us something was happening here. PC Newbold” – she indicated the young copper who had joined her – “came to have a look round, and he found an open window.”

  We came to the narrow alley between the library on one side and a block of flats on the other. June shone a torch down it. “Mike, you stay and watch the front, just in case someone tries to do a runner. Are you OK with this, Sandra?”

  “Of course. I doubt if anyone’s actually got in, or the alarm would have been activated.”

  “You’re probably right, and if anyone was here I expect they made off when Mike showed up. But there might be somebody lurking around at the back, so stay behind me and if anything kicks off, don’t get involved, OK?”

  We walked down the alley, the only illumination coming from June’s torch. I told myself to stop feeling so nervous. I’d come this way every working day for twenty years, after all. Just not at night with the police.

  The red Victorian brickwork gave way to the grey blocks of the Children’s Section, a 1950s addition. “Was it someone from the flats who reported it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know. Anonymous call from the TK down the road. Telephone kiosk, that is. Long gone by the time we got here. But I’m not sure how much of the library you can see from the flats; there are no windows directly overlooking it.”

  We came to the end of the Children’s Section, followed the path round the back, and came out on a scrappy bit of lawn. Ahead of us was the toilet block, built in the late eighties to replace the original facilities.

  “Just there.” June shone her torch, indicating a transom window sticking out rebelliously when it should have been flush with the wall.

  “Ladies’ loo. Is that big enough for someone to get in?”

  June shrugged. “You don’t get many fat burglars. You’d be surprised at the holes they can wiggle through. Could it have been left open by accident?”

  I thought back. “I locked up, but it was quite late, and I didn’t check everywhere. One of my staff had done that earlier, but I suppose it’s possible that someone came in and opened a window afterwards. The art club were here all evening – though I don’t know why they’d open a window.”

  “The windows aren’t alarmed?”

  “Not here. There are sensors in all the rooms, though, and the corridor.”

  She looked more closely at the window. “No sign of any forced entry. Screwdrivers or crowbars leave marks, especially in UPVC like this. OK, let’s go inside. Which door do we use?”

  “Round here.” I led the way to the bottom end of the toilet block. “The main entrance is bolted from the inside, the back door is easier.”

  I fumbled with my keys. The door had both a Yale and a solid mortise lock. I opened them both, and paused with my fingers on the handle.

  “The alarm panel’s on the wall just next to the door. The delay is quite short, so I’ll go straight in and turn it off. Then you can go ahead and look round – OK?”

  June nodded. I pushed the handle down and the door in. Strip lights automatically began flickering into life as I stepped through, turned sharp right, and put my hand out to the keypad.

  It wasn’t there.

  For a moment I stood and waved my hands in empty space, glancing round in bemusement. Was I in the wrong place? Was this even the right door?

  Then I registered the holes in the wall where the screws had been, plaster dust leaking out and a bent Rawlplug showing. I glanced down, and saw the shattered plastic box with broken wires trailing out of it.

  “June…” I began, but she was already through the door behind me. “Wait outside please, Sandra.” She keyed her radio. “November Delta one-five to HQ. Confirmed break at Bromwell Library.”

  “Ten-four. Do you need back-up?”

  “No sign of anyone still here at present, but if November Charlie three-six has finished booking her prisoner in, you can send her over.”

  “Three-six. Got that, Sarge. On my way.”

  “Thanks. November Charlie four-two, receiving?”

  “Four-two. Do you want me to join you, Sarge?” Mike’s voice.

  “Not yet. Cover the front till Sara arrives, then come round the back. I’m going to stay here till then.”

  “Roger that.”

  June stepped back out through the door. “Do you want to go and wait at the car?”

  I thought of finding my way back through the alley, which would be pitch-black without June’s torch. Of course, I could ask her to escort me, but then if there was anyone still in the building, that would give them an opportunity to escape.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. I expect you’ll want me to see if anything’s missing when you go in?”

  “Once we’ve checked it’s clear. This shouldn’t take long. Sara – PC Middleton – is only about ten minutes away.”

  It was a very long ten minutes. We waited in silence, June carefully scanning all the other windows visible and listening intently. But the silence was unbroken except by the buzz from one of the fluorescent tubes and the occasional message coming over June’s radio. I had to restrain myself from jumping every time I heard it crackle.

  A good thing Graham hadn’t come, I decided. This was definitely tense, and I could imagine how he’d fret if he was sitting in the car waiting for me. Not doctor’s orders at all.

  My phone pinged, another pluck on my overstretched nerves. I fumbled for it, my chain of thought leading me to expect Graham, checking up on me.

  “Message?” asked June. “From the alarm company?”

  I located the phone, deep in the most inaccessible pocket, unzipped several layers, and finally managed to pull it out.

  “No. Just my ‘Daily Eloquence’.”

  “Daily what?”

  “It’s an app I’ve got. It sends me an ‘Eloquent Word for the Day’ every morning. Usually something obscure. The game is that I’ve then got to use it in conversation sometime that day, and post it online. There’s a sort of points system for the best use of the word, and you get a prize if you come out top over the month – a dictionary, usually!”

  “That sounds like…” June obviously didn’t want to say what she thought, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say something polite and meaningless.

  “Sounds weird, I know! Don’t worry, Graham tells me that every day. I tell him, ‘No, it sounds eldritch!’”

  I gave her a hopeful look, but June just raised an eyebrow. Someday, that’s going to get a laugh.

  “Never mind. I’m a word-nerd, that’s all.”

  “OK. So what’s today’s word?”

  I glanced at the screen again. “Lollygagging.”

  “Lolly–gagging? Choking on a lollipop?”

  “No. It’s an American word, I think. It means ‘to spend time aimlessly, to dawdle or be idle, to procrasti
nate or avoid work’.”

  “As in lying around, doing nothing? I can think of a few people I could apply that to! But not this morning, I hope… that sounds like Sara arriving.”

  “November Charlie three-six, State 6 at the library.”

  A few moments later, PC Newbold appeared. With firm instructions for me to stay there until told otherwise, the two officers pulled on disposable gloves and went inside.

  The silly conversation over words had relieved some of the tension, but standing round on my own brought it back. I always had suffered from an excess of imagination, and my mind, running in neutral, quickly began to offer increasingly bizarre scenarios for what they might find. When I reached “terrorist incident” I decided that enough was enough. I had to do something before I progressed to “alien wormholes”. And I’d been wondering about that open window. I knew it was the ladies’ loo, but which part did it actually open into?

  I crept forward, ready to turn and run if anyone not the fuzz came out of the main library. The ladies and gents had both been checked by the coppers on their way in, I’d seen them do that, so at least I knew that no one was hiding in there. Therefore it was safe to proceed that far at least – or so I told myself.

  There were three doors along the corridor, all on the right: cleaner’s store nearest the exit, then the ladies, then the gents. The store was locked, as it should be. I progressed a few more steps, and eased open the door to the ladies.

  The lights flickered on automatically as I stepped in, showing the sinks directly in front of me, a row of cubicles running off to the left. The windows over the sinks were firmly closed, which didn’t surprise me. With taps, basins, and soap dispensers in the way, they were awkward to get at and probably hadn’t been opened since they were installed.

  I went to the first cubicle and – remembering just in time that this was a crime scene – pushed it open with my elbow. I had read enough detective novels in my time to know not to leave my fingerprints on the door handles.

  Sure enough, the window above the toilet was wide open.

  These windows would be easy to reach if you stood on the toilet seat. Anyone climbing in would probably have trod there as well. I peered at the plastic lid, trying to make out any footprints, but the position of the strip lights put it in shadow. I stepped forward for a closer look, and the door swung shut behind me with a bang that made my heart lurch.