Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  I clear my throat meaningfully and arch an eyebrow.

  ‘Well obviously not THAT! Besides, now that the ol’ choke and collapse thing has worked on you, it’s passé.’

  ‘So you want me along to what? Make sure you behave and convince the MIMA staff you’re doing them a favour and not dancing on Meredith’s still warm body? Sorry, that sounded a bit harsh.’

  ‘Yeah but no, that’s exactly why I want you along.’

  ‘Yeah but no?’ I mock-shudder. ‘If you’re going to kill the English language like that, this relationship has got to end.’

  ‘See? Right there. Your pedantry will save the day.’

  I slowly shake my head. ‘Oh for God’s sake. Let’s get this over with then.’

  John offers me a hand for a high five and I give him a soft, slo-mo response.

  ‘Put on your seatbelt,’ I say, matching my words to the action. ‘It would be too ironic if you get catapulted through the windscreen on the way to repair the cursed painting.’

  ‘I wish I had some sort of siren on the van, like in Ghostbusters.’

  I give him the stink eye, but we’ve been friends too long and my dirty looks have less impact these days. All the way up Dandenong Road he hums the Ghostbusters theme and periodically yells, ‘Who you gonna call?’ Needless to say, I don’t answer.

  Ray is not on duty when we enter the mousehole, and we’re signed in by an older guy whose piercing gaze and sinewy forearms make me think his grey hair is just a ruse. First glance may say coasting toward retirement, but I’d bet nothing and nobody gets past this bloke. His eyes remind me of Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, and I can still feel him watching my back as we turn toward the conservation department, the echo of our footsteps chasing us around the corner and down the hall.

  ‘Funny that he just let us go without waiting for Giles or someone else,’ says John, glancing back over his shoulder.

  ‘Maybe everyone’s a bit rattled because of … you know.’ Now that we’re here it seems awkward to be talking about Meredith’s death.

  Ahead of us, a door opens and it’s immediately obvious why we were allowed to go on alone. Two uniformed police officers, male and female, step out and turn toward us, stiff-shouldered under their pale-blue shirts.

  ‘John Porter? Alex Clayton?’ He sounds relaxed and friendly as he poses the question, but his partner’s right palm rests pointedly on the butt of her gun. Is it a revolver or a pistol? I don’t know the difference and I figure it probably won’t matter if someone is pointing it at me.

  ‘Hi, yes, I’m John and she’s Alex.’

  ‘They probably figured out the who’s who part.’ I give John a look, then turn back to the cops. ‘Hi, guys.’

  We all stare at each other for a moment. I certainly wasn’t expecting police to be here and I guess John wasn’t either. Now I’m nervous about what exactly happened to Meredith and what we’re going to see in the conservation studio.

  ‘Giles Westerman is expecting us. Can we go in?’ I gesture past them to the still-open door.

  ‘We’ve finished here for the moment, but we understand you spoke with Ms Buchanan yesterday.’ Man-cop is obviously the chatty one. His partner seems to be fully occupied working on her intimidating glower.

  John and I nod.

  ‘Was there anything unusual about the conversation?’

  Now the two of us shake our heads. We must look like trained seals. Or idiots.

  ‘It was the first time we’d met in years,’ John says. ‘So I can’t say if that was her normal, um … personality.’

  I jump in. ‘All she spoke about was the, ah, painting and its … problems and how she was happy to fix it.’

  Silence stretches as the cops stare at us and I try not to look at John. I don’t want to mention the curse. It seems so trivial.

  ‘She said she wasn’t afraid of the curse,’ John says in a rush, then immediately turns red to the roots of his hair.

  The male cop sighs and his partner snorts derisively.

  She rocks forward on the balls of her feet. ‘We’ve heard all about that from her colleagues. I think we can safely say it has no bearing on events.’

  ‘Which are what exactly, Officer…?’ They’re too far away for me to read their name badges, but this woman’s atti­tude is annoying me, and I’d like to know who I’m talking to. Meredith is dead, and she deserves a bit more consideration.

  The male officer must read my mood because his face rearranges itself into a softer expression, presumably meant to convey kindness and support.

  ‘It’s not really up to us to tell you that, I’m sorry. But her colleagues made the discovery.’ He swallows. ‘That is … It’s probably best if you talk to them.’

  ‘Well do you mind if we go and do that now, then?’

  ‘Of course, sorry to have held you up.’ He half raises a hand in a sort of conciliatory gesture. ‘And sorry for the loss of … Sorry.’

  He steps aside and after a slight pause his partner does likewise. John and I sweep past them – or I sweep past and John shambles in my wake – into the conservation studio.

  The huddled groups of people give me a strange sense of déjà vu, only this time they’re not staring at us or pretending to work. Everyone is just standing around. Some of them are talking in low voices, I see one woman sort of hugging herself and rubbing her arms as though she’s cold, but mostly people are inert, fixed in place. I spot Giles over near the corner where Man Proposes was set up yesterday, the area now cordoned off by blue-and-white police tape. With a sigh of relief, I start heading in that direction. But as we clear the last worktable, I pull up so short that John bumps into me.

  Giles has his back to us, and now I can see what he is staring at. The painting is still on the easel but there is debris strewn all over the floor: brushes, jars, paper, rags and an array of other tools and materials that are part of the conservation trade. The sharp tang of turpentine hits the back of my sinuses. A bottle must have spilled or been broken. It looks as though Meredith must have collapsed and tipped over a table. I can’t believe she would have meant to create this mess. In the middle of all the chaos there is a clear patch of floor and I understand with a jolt it is roughly the size of a person. This must be where she fell, and just as I make that connection, I also see the floor is not clear after all. Part of it is covered in blood. The realisation explodes in my brain and I feel like vomiting. I make a gagging noise and Giles turns, notes the direction of my gaze, and turns back to contemplate the scene.

  ‘Alizarin Crimson,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I gasp.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s what I thought, too. But it’s not. Blood, I mean. It’s paint, Alizarin Crimson to be precise.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now I feel like an idiot for nearly puking over some spilt paint. We all stand there for a moment, contemplating the expanse of red.

  ‘Was she lying in the paint?’ John asks. It’s exactly where my thoughts had gone, only I was going to work up to the question delicately.

  ‘What? No!’ Giles sounds startled. ‘She was …’ He points to a small, blank space behind the easel.

  ‘Sorry, Giles. That was a silly thing to ask. The paint looks so smooth –’

  ‘John …’ I cut him off. ‘Giles, we’re both so sorry. This must be terrible for all of you.’

  ‘Yes, sorry Giles.’ John reaches out a hand toward Giles’ shoulder, then pulls back. ‘Meredith … had a lot of personality. Our condolences.’

  ‘Thank you both. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. And so soon after … To be honest, I feel a bit crass that I even called you under the circumstances. It was just … after I found her and … then the police came and sent me out of the room. I was standing in the hall, thinking about Meredith and feeling awful and useless, and I guess I thought at least I could play my par
t in pulling the exhibition together if I called you. Meredith was such a professional, she wouldn’t have wanted her … this … to get in the way of the exhibition. I thought of you, John, with your experience, that you could oversee one of our junior conservators …’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this today?’ I ask. ‘I assume you’re going to send everyone else home.’

  ‘I should, shouldn’t I?’ He steps around us and hurries across to the knot of conservation staff.

  There is a lot of hand clasping and hugging, and a couple of people look in our direction. I don’t know if they’re staring at us or the place where Meredith died. After a few minutes, the conservators begin breaking away, collecting their belongings and moving toward the door. One young-looking girl, her dull blonde hair in a messy ponytail, stays behind, watching us but keeping a respectful distance. Giles heads back to our corner.

  ‘If you don’t mind John, Fiona,’ he gestures to the girl, ‘is a junior conservator, quite good. It’s probably best if she does the actual work and you supervise. I mean, step in if you feel you have to, but in regard to our report back to Royal Holloway …’

  ‘Of course. On paper at least it should be one of your people. Whatever you need.’ John claps Giles on the shoulder.

  ‘The police want to have a look through everything, but said they’d at least let us take the painting out of … there.’ He looks at the corner and shudders.

  ‘Giles, I think perhaps you should go home too,’ I say. I can’t get my head around his mixture of numbness and desire to carry on. Shock does weird things to people.

  ‘I should stay.’

  ‘Well then go to your office and have a stiff drink. I’m sure John can manage the work.’

  Giles nods dumbly and turns to leave.

  ‘Giles,’ John puts a hand on Giles’ arm. ‘You never said. Was it a heart attack? Asthma? She seemed fine yesterday.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Giles pulls off his glasses and looks at them before looking back at John. An out-of-focus world must be quite liberating at times. ‘I thought I told you.’

  John shakes his head.

  ‘The police think she did it herself. They said it was suicide.’

  ***

  ‘What? No!’ John’s mouth hangs open for a moment. ‘How?’

  ‘They think she took something. I don’t know what. They didn’t say what they meant. I assumed pills, but then they started asking about all the stuff in the lab. God knows you could take your pick around here from the glues, solvents, acids and whatnot.’

  ‘No one in their right mind would swallow any of that stuff.’ John squeezes his eyes shut and winces. ‘I mean, maybe she breathed in fumes or something? It’s just, if you were going to kill yourself, there’s a million more pleasant ways to –’

  I put my hand on John’s arm. ‘I think what John means is Meredith didn’t seem the type. She was so energetic yesterday and making that crack about promotions to you. It sounded like someone who was planning for the future, not …’ I shrug.

  ‘That’s how she always was. And I would have promoted her if something came up, because she was good at what she did and worked hard. But she never spoke much about her private life, so maybe … I suppose the police will look into all that.’

  ‘Maybe she was sick,’ John says.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, John?’ I’m starting to understand why he wanted me along as a filter.

  ‘You know, cancer or something, so she decided to –’

  I hold up a hand. ‘I’m sure the police will find the reason.’

  ‘But you saw her yesterday; she fought to get to work on that painting. Why bother? So maybe she got news between then and … later.’

  ‘I think it’s time you stopped talking and got to work fixing the painting. Giles is relying on you and Fiona to have it ready for the exhibition opening, aren’t you Giles?’

  ‘Yes, yes. We got the go-ahead to start, although Royal Holloway want us to consult them again if there are major choices to be made about the repair method. I waited back last night for the call, then came to tell Meredith –’ Giles breaks off, his eyes drifting back to the corner of the room where the painting sits behind that shocking pool of red paint.

  ‘Come on Giles: office, whiskey. John, let’s get you set up.’ I give Giles a gentle shove in the direction of the door and watch as he leaves, a man who seems to have grown old in the space of twenty-four hours.

  Once he’s gone, I turn back and survey the mess around the painting. ‘I was going to say that Meredith was probably set up with everything you’ll need, but if she was it’s no longer usable and I guess we’re not supposed to touch it. Why don’t you find the supply cupboards and start getting things together while I at least try to get you a clear space to work in. Maybe we could pull the easel out this way a bit or something?’

  ‘Moving the painting is probably outside our remit. Giles must’ve meant to get it organised for us, but forgot. I’m sure he’s already taking a risk with insurance by having me touch it. Imagine if we tried to move the easel and the whole thing fell?’

  ‘Point taken. So what do we do?’

  John and I stare at the painting, marooned behind police tape.

  ‘Maybe I could push the detritus out of the way and throw a drop sheet over the paint?’ I say.

  ‘The police said we could only touch the painting, so you shouldn’t do that.’

  John and I both jump and spin around. I’d forgotten about Fiona and she’d come up behind us while we were talking. From this close I can see dark roots starting to show, and her eyes are a strange sort of hazel: brown closest to the pupil and then green further out. She’s wearing a paint-splattered lab coat, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a Swatch watch that ticks loudly in the sudden quiet.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  ‘It’s okay. I guess we’re all a bit on edge. I’m Alex Clayton and this is John Porter.’

  ‘Giles told me.’ Her unblinking eyes are fixed on John. ‘I’m really pleased to be working with you. I’ve seen some of your work.’

  John smiles. ‘Thanks.’ Fiona is still staring at him like a groupie confronted by a boy band member and John’s smile starts to look a little strained.

  ‘Maybe Fiona could pop along to Giles’ office and check if we can move the easel a little,’ I suggest. ‘And even the drop sheet. It’s not like we’d disturb anything, and that way we wouldn’t have to look at … that.’ I wave a hand toward the chaos in the corner.

  ‘Great idea! I’ll start getting supplies and Alex can find a couple of drop sheets while you do that, Fiona. How does that sound?’ John claps his hands together and looks at her expectantly.

  Fiona nods. ‘Sure. It’s always best to get the tick of approval from someone higher up around here. Back in a minute.’ She bustles off and disappears through the door, pushing up her sleeves as she goes.

  John and I exchange a glance, then move off to find what we need. Devoid of people, the conservation lab feels strange. I don’t want to say spooky; there are no portraits with following eyes or mysterious, shrouded shapes that might be statues or maybe not, but with the energetic vibration of Meredith’s death, it’s not an entirely comfortable space.

  ‘Alex?’

  I jump again at the sudden sound of John’s voice. I need to get a grip. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’d like to say again how really, really glad I am that you’re here.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Feels a bit off in here, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Shit yeah.’ John’s voice is muffled as he moves further away and into an alcove. He says something else I can’t hear.

  ‘What was that?’

  John sticks his torso around the corner. ‘I said, usually I’d put on some music, but I guess that wouldn’t be appropriate,
would it?’

  ‘You’re learning.’ I nod at him. ‘Are you finding what you need?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all here. Plus there are groovy little wheeled trolleys like they have at the hairdresser, only more industrial. I can load up everything in one go.’ He disappears again.

  I wander around the room, taking the chance to check out the various things people are working on. This space is all about paintings, prints and drawings. We’d passed the textiles studio on the way in, and I assume there’s another area for decorative arts and possibly furniture. Over by the suction table I spot a lovely little Charles Conder watercolour, sitting loose in its frame and clearly waiting to have its cockling – wrinkled paper – attended to. In another corner, a large oil by J M W Turner sits on an easel. A ruined castle perches on the edge of a cliff, the sea pounding below, and it’s a race to see which will crumble first: the castle or the cliff beneath it. I recognise Dunstanburgh Castle, one of Turner’s favourite Northumberland subjects. The painting is lighter in one corner, signalling that discoloured varnish is being removed. I lean in close to look at the brushwork. Any time I’m around the paintings of one of the greats, I study their technique. The way an artist applies paint to the canvas can sometimes be like a signature, and the more I look at those subtle and not-so-subtle variations, the easier it gets to spot the real thing. Or a fake.

  Stepping back, I take another look at the overall com­position. Then I realise something.

  ‘Bloody morose Poms,’ I mutter. In my mind, this painting is suddenly displayed side by side with Man Proposes. Despite the fact this work was painted almost sixty years before the Landseer, both reflect each artist’s obsession with the idea of man’s heroic fragility in the face of the overwhelming power of nature. This is too depressing – I need to find a painting of sunflowers.