Local Artist Page 3

  But what I love is words.

  By the time I had finished my statement, printed off a copy, and signed it, my appetite had returned. I went to the kitchen, made cheese on toast, and took it back into the office to do a final read through of the hard copy. I started yawning as I did so. Ridiculous, I told myself, since I’d been asleep all day. I’d get up and make some coffee in a moment. But for now, the padded office chair was very comfortable. I lay back in it and closed my eyes for a while.

  I’d slipped my mobile into my dressing gown pocket. Its sudden vibration jerked me out of a doze.

  The Word for the Day. Why did it always come in at three in the morning? Who on earth – who in what time zone on earth! – would do that?

  The word was “Sprunt”, meaning “to germinate, to bring to life, to leap or make a sudden movement”. Or in Scotland, “to chase girls around the haystacks after dark”. Interesting, but I could see no immediate way of using it. It certainly wouldn’t fit into my statement.

  I was yawning again. Not wanting to disturb Graham by going back to bed, I went into the living room and lay down on the couch. I probably wouldn’t go back to sleep, I thought, but I should probably try to rest for a while.

  My eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again sunshine was slipping through the gaps in the curtains.

  Daylight already? I rubbed my eyes and peered at the clock, which had suddenly jumped past 7 a.m. I sat up and searched through my head, but thankfully there were no dreams or memories of dreams. Just the memories of reality, which were bad enough, but even they were at a safer distance now.

  I made coffee and stood in the kitchen to drink it, watching the morning light on the hill behind our house. It looked inviting. It promised a gentle peace, the freshness of a new day. I dressed, put on the walking boots, and took Brodie out to enjoy it with me.

  We have the great privilege of living on the outskirts of town, with open countryside at the end of our street. Within a few minutes Brodie and I were on the footpath, winding through trees, skirting fields, and climbing gently to low hills where the first hints of autumn were showing in distant woods.

  Early morning sunshine has an especially intense quality to it. It stabbed between leaves, poured over rocky outcrops, challenging all the living world to get up, get going, and face the new day. It washed over me, wiping away the darkness and the ugliness of what had been concealed there.

  Brodie bounded ahead, dropped behind, caught up, and wandered off on little side expeditions of his own, sniffing, marking territory, and contentedly living in the moment. I watched him, wondering (not for the first time) what it was like to always be in the “now”. No future to worry about, no past to overshadow, just the present tense.

  It occurred to me that this would be a good time and place for prayer. And – God knows! – I had enough to pray about.

  But I wasn’t really in the habit of talking to God. Hadn’t been for a long time now.

  Perhaps this was when I needed to reopen that channel?

  My mobile rang, closing off the moment. Graham’s ringtone.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes. I’m OK,” I confirmed. Better, at any rate, thanks to Brodie and the countryside.

  “Good. I’ve got DI Macrae on the landline. He was asking after you and would you be up to a visit this morning?”

  I glanced at my watch, noted that it wasn’t long past eight o’clock. “He starts early, does Mr Macrae. Well, I suppose he does have a murder investigation under way.”

  “Shall I put him off till later?”

  “No. I’m heading back now anyway. Ask him to come round after nine. Unless he’s planning on a bit of sprunting.”

  “What?”

  “No, ignore that last bit. It’s too late for that, now the sun’s up. And besides, he’s got a Scottish name, he might understand.”

  “I certainly don’t. I’ll just tell him nine o’clock, then.”

  Graham hung up. I stood still for a moment, once more allowing the sunlight and peace to touch me, closed my eyes in a silent prayer of thanks, then called Brodie and headed back down the path.

  *

  Detective Inspector Macrae arrived at nine on the dot. June Henshaw was with him, in civvies. I shut Brodie in the kitchen (to his annoyance, as he loves meeting people), while Graham got them sat down in the living room, with tea and biscuits.

  Macrae both looked and sounded as Scottish as his name – slight, wiry, and sandy-haired, with an intense look in his eye, slightly at odds with the gentle burr of his voice.

  “Mrs Deeson. Thanks for letting us come and visit. I appreciate you’ve had something of a shock, but I’m sure you’ll understand that we need to progress this inquiry as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course. I’m over the worst of it, I think.”

  “You’ll perhaps be wondering what a Scotsman is doing down here?” Macrae smiled gently – obviously making small talk to settle the atmosphere, but doing a good job of it. “I’m on an attachment with your local force, they being a bit short-handed in the CID department recently. And I understand you know Sergeant Henshaw? She’s helping me out on this investigation.”

  “Yes, of course. Hello, June. Thanks for getting me home safely yesterday. I was a bit out of it, I think.”

  She nodded. “You were, but that wasn’t surprising under the circumstances. I was shaken up myself!”

  I turned my attention back to Macrae. “I’ve written out a statement about what happened. I hope that helps.”

  He took the paper from me, but barely gave it a glance before passing it over to June. “Aye, that’s very useful, Mrs Deeson. Thank you. But we’ve pretty much got those events clarified. What I need your assistance with is in what led up to this tragic situation.”

  Graham picked up at once on my puzzled and slightly worried expression. “I don’t think Sandra can help you with that, Inspector. She doesn’t know anything about it apart from what she saw the night before last.”

  Macrae placated him with a gentle smile. “That may well be the case, Mr Deeson. But you’ll understand that we need to get as full a picture as possible. At this stage of the investigation, we can’t be sure what is or isn’t relevant.”

  He turned back to me. “For example, I understand that in the evening prior to the incident you were working quite late at the library?”

  “Yes. I was helping the art club set up for their exhibition.”

  “And that would be the Templeton Art Club?”

  “Oh. Yes, but everyone just calls it ‘the art club’. There isn’t another one locally.”

  “And you were the last to leave?”

  “That’s right. I think it was all secure then, though I must admit that I didn’t check the bathroom window, so that could have been left open.” I wondered if that was going to be an issue, and gave June a worried look. Her face, however, was giving nothing away.

  “Tell me, Mrs Deeson – were there any problems with the art club at all?”

  Not a question I’d been expecting, and it threw me a bit. “Problems? What do you mean?”

  “Did any difficulties arise whilst they were setting up? Any disagreements, arguments?”

  “Oh. Well, there was some discussion over who got what position for their paintings. Most of it was quite good-natured, though.”

  Macrae homed in on the slight ambiguity. “Most of it?”

  “Um. OK, there was quite a heated argument at one point. That was between the chairman and the club secretary.”

  “The chairman being Mr Claude Ferrers-Manton, and the secretary, Mr Jonathan Carr?”

  “That’s right. But although it was quite heated, as I said, I don’t think there was any suggestion of violence.”

  The DI nodded in gentle agreement. “You’re probably right, Mrs Deeson. But perhaps you could just go over what happened anyway?”

  “Yes, OK. Er – if you could give me a moment to think about it. With
all that’s happened since…”

  “Certainly. Take all the time you need.” He picked up his cup, took a few short sips, and cradled it in his hands while he waited for me.

  I sat back, stared at the ceiling, and tried to recreate the scene. The two of them had been standing just inside the exhibition – in exactly the same place where the body had been, I realized with a chill. Ferrers-Manton was short and rather rotund, going red in the face with indignation. He’d been wearing a long black leather coat, which looked ridiculous on such a little man. And a wide-brimmed black hat, which I’d never seen him take off, even inside. Perhaps he thought it made him look more artistic.

  Carr, on the other hand, was tall, dark, impeccably dressed in a grey suit, all very urbane and cultured. Quite calm but not giving an inch.

  “They were arguing about the display stand directly in front of the doors,” I said. “It’s the prime location, the first pictures anyone would see as they came in. Ferrers-Manton thought that, as chairman, he should be able to put his paintings there. But Carr was telling him that the stand was reserved for someone else’s work.”

  “For Mr Carr’s own paintings?”

  “No. At least, he didn’t say so. In fact, I don’t think that Carr is an artist himself.”

  “Really?” Macrae raised an eyebrow. “And yet he’s secretary of this rather prestigious art club?”

  “I know. It does seem strange. But from what I understand, he’s some relation to Sir Arthur Templeton, the patron of the art club. Nephew, I think.”

  “Ah. So that’s where the club gets its name, then.”

  “That’s right.” I paused for a sip of tea, which was getting cold, but it helped lubricate my mouth. “It used to be just the ‘Northdene Art Club’, I think. Northdene being the area it was based in. It was rather a small affair in those days, I understand, and essentially moribund. Carr arranged for his uncle to lend his name and patronage – Sir Arthur was born somewhere round here and was quite a well-known artist in his day. The club picked up after that and has become quite a big thing.”

  “I see. So Carr, despite not being an artist himself, has a lot of influence in the club. That would explain why he was able to overrule the chairman.”

  “Yes. That seems to be how it works.”

  “And who was the stand reserved for?”

  I shook my head. “Carr wouldn’t say. I think that that was what was making Ferrers-Manton angry as much as anything. He was demanding to know who had more right to it than him, but all Carr would tell him was that it was a top artist whose inclusion would hugely increase the club’s standing in the art world. Then he was asking where this person’s paintings were, claiming that he should be the one to decide if they were good enough for the exhibition. Carr told him that they would be arriving later, and said, in so many words, that Ferrers-Manton didn’t know enough about art to make that judgment. He was all very cool and calm about it, but the chairman was spitting nails by this time, going red-faced and shouting loud enough for the whole room to hear.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Oh, something about how Carr wasn’t even an artist, it was only due to his uncle’s influence that he was secretary, he had no right to make judgments about other people’s work when he didn’t produce anything himself… and so on.”

  “Did you get involved?”

  “No. I was about to, but fortunately Emily stepped in. Emily Coombe, that is. She’s one of my staff at the library, and also a member of the art club, so she was probably in the best position to intervene. At any rate, she managed to get Ferrers-Manton to calm down and stop shouting. I’m not sure what she said, but I made an excuse to take Carr away and talk to him about something innocuous, and then Ferrers-Manton left. Still a bit huffy, I gather, but that was as far as it went.”

  Macrae had finished his tea, put the cup down, and selected a bourbon. “Miss Coombe, would that be? Not married?” When I nodded, he continued. “What can you tell me about her?”

  Again, I found myself wrong-footed by the shift in focus. “Emily? Well, she’s what we call a Library Assistant. Nice girl, very efficient, but quiet. She’s been with us about two years, I think, but I can’t say I really know her well. She hardly ever talks about herself. The only thing I can say for certain is that she’s quite passionate about art. She’ll talk about that readily enough. In fact, she had a lot to do with organizing this exhibition. The art club normally hire somewhere in the town centre, but with our new wing opening, she persuaded them that the library would be a good place to use.”

  “I take it that she would have had a key? And the alarm codes?”

  “Yes, all our staff have those.”

  “How many would that be?”

  “Well, we have five full-time staff at the moment, and three part-time. The cleaners have access as well, and there’s a caretaker who covers all the libraries in this area for general maintenance and so on.”

  “And all these people would also have the code for the door to the exhibition?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know if the keys or the code have ever been given to anyone else?”

  “Not as far as I know. There is a set of master keys at head office, of course – County Hall, that is. But there’s a strong policy on security, and I can’t think that any of my staff would go against that.”

  Macrae had been playing with the bourbon, rolling it around in his fingers. Now he broke it in half, but still didn’t eat any of it. “What happened after Miss Coombe broke up the argument?”

  This tactic of suddenly changing the line of questioning was certainly effective in keeping me on my toes. It would have made it particularly difficult to keep track of a lie, so it was fortunate that I only had truth to tell.

  “As I said, Ferrers-Manton left. I talked to Carr about organizing some refreshments, and Emily… I’m not sure what she did then. I didn’t see her for a while. But people started leaving, and she was standing by the door, seeing them out. Carr left as well. I said goodnight to Emily – thanked her for sorting out the argument – then she left through the front door. I locked up and left through the back, putting the alarm on as I did so.”

  “Does Miss Coombe have a boyfriend? A partner?”

  I shook my head. “No. I shouldn’t think so. Well, not that I know of.”

  “Why wouldn’t you think so?”

  “OK, I suppose that’s a bit of an assumption,” I admitted. “It’s just that she isn’t very… sociable, I suppose. Not outgoing. And, to be honest, not what you’d call pretty.”

  “Plain, then? Not attractive?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, she has a pleasant face, and I always thought she could do more for herself if she wanted, but she’s never seemed to give much thought to her dress or appearance.”

  Macrae finally took a nibble from his biscuit. “We have an address for her of Flat 5, 62 Market Way. Do you know if that’s correct?”

  “I think so. I’d have to check the records at the library, but I’m pretty sure it’s Market Way, anyhow.”

  “Did she have any other properties that you know of?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I was finding all this interest in Emily very strange, and gave June a glance which tried to convey my puzzlement, but she made no response.

  “Any family?” He finished the biscuit while I thought about it.

  “As far as I can remember, her next of kin is listed as a sister who lives somewhere abroad. I’d have to check her records to be sure, but you should be able to get the details from County Hall. I believe that her parents passed away some time ago. I don’t know about anyone else.”

  “Can I ask if you have a contact number for her here with you?”

  “Er – yes, I have her mobile number in my phone. I don’t know if she has a landline at her flat.”

  “That’s no problem, Mrs Deeson. Would you mind telling us what that is, to compare with the number we have?”

  “Of course.” I
dug my mobile out and started scrolling through my contacts. As I did so, I finally realized why there might be so much interest in Emily.

  “Has something happened to her?” I blurted out.

  “We’ve no reason to believe that,” Macrae said. His tone was professionally reassuring, but something in his face belied his words. “It’s just that we haven’t been able to make contact with Miss Coombe as yet. Under the circumstances, we’re keen to do that as soon as possible, of course.”

  “Of course.” I handed my phone over. Macrae opened a notebook and checked the number against what he had written down.

  “Aye, well, it’s the right number. A pity. It would have been a lot easier if we only had a misplaced digit to contend with.”

  He handed my phone back to me. “Could I ask you to call Miss Coombe yourself, please? It may be that she’s blocking calls from unknown numbers, but perhaps she’ll talk to someone she knows.”

  I nodded, and pressed dial.

  It was very quiet in our living room. Apart from distant traffic noises, the only sound was the gentle “burr-burr” of the ringtone.

  It rang six times, while we all stared at the phone. Then it stopped, and I felt a moment of relief as a voice spoke. But I quickly realized that it was just the voicemail message.

  “Emily, it’s Sandra. Please get in touch as soon as you can. Please!” I said, almost desperately, as if the tone of my voice could increase the chances of a reply. I broke the connection and looked up at the others.

  “Well, it was worth trying. Thank you for that, Mrs Deeson. If you do hear from her, please let us know as soon as possible.” Macrae wiped a few biscuit crumbs from his fingers, and stood up. “We’re all but finished for the moment, but I was just wondering… did Miss Coombe ever say anything about any particular artist that she was interested in?”

  Once again, he had confused me. “Artists? Well, she talked about all the usual names, and a lot more that I don’t know… She liked the Impressionists, I think…”