‘And so you went to meet him. That must have been interesting?’ Annie smiled gently. ‘He was quite a character.’
‘I thought he was nuts,’ Bee said frankly. ‘I couldn’t believe my mum had ever been in love with him. I mean, he was so old.’ She smiled. ‘He seemed really old anyway, until I got to know him. Then I realized he was just a two-year-old pretending to be an adult.’
Annie nodded. ‘From what little I knew of him,’ she said, ‘that sounds about right. He was never very good at the responsibility thing.’
‘No, my mum always said it was fun while it lasted but there was never any future in it. When she fell pregnant it was a shock to both of them, but she wanted to keep me. Freddie apparently said that he’d make a terrible father but promised to help out financially as much as he could, and that’s what they agreed. Then Mum died a year ago, and Freddie was all I had. I even took his last name, did the deed poll and everything. Mum’s idea.’ She shrugged almost apologetically. ‘She thought it would be better if I looked like I belonged somewhere, said it would make life less complicated, but I think she just wanted to let me know it was all right to be with my dad. That we had her blessing, you know? And then he went.’
Annie reached out across the table and took Bee’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was in my early teens when I lost both of my parents. I remember how it felt.’
They were all silent for a moment and then Annie asked, ‘So what brings you here to Bob? What can we do for you?’
Bee took a deep breath and looked from Annie to Patrick as if what she was going to say next would be very difficult and she wasn’t sure what she hoped their reaction would be. ‘You’re both going to think I’m crazy, or upset, or in shock because I’ve lost both my mum and my dad within a year, but really I’m not. You see I think my dad was murdered.’
Patrick knew he looked shocked but Annie’s only reaction was a slight critical raise of one eyebrow.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked. ‘I thought your dad had a heart attack. Bob said he drank and smoked even though the doctors had told him not to.’
‘And that’s all true,’ Bee agreed, ‘but, you see, he told me … he told me his life was in danger. He told me there were people out to get him. The next thing I know he’s dead. The police don’t believe me of course, nobody does. In fact I’d stopped believing me too. I thought what they told me was true, that I was just upset and imagining things, and friends of Freddie’s – of Dad’s – always told me that he was a bit, well, imaginative. You know, like making things up.’
‘But something’s happened to make you think there’s more to it?’ Annie asked.
The girl nodded slowly. From out of the pocket of her jacket she took a folded piece of newspaper and smoothed it out on the table top. ‘It was this,’ she said. ‘This happened.’
Annie turned the paper around so that she and Patrick could both see. ‘It’s about Antonia Scott’s murder,’ she said. ‘That was a terrible tragedy, an awful thing to happen. Antonia was such a lovely woman. I heard the police thought it was a theft gone wrong.’
‘Something was stolen,’ Bee said. ‘But I bet you don’t know what it was.’
‘No, I have no idea. The murder was on the news, of course, and Bob phoned Antonia’s brother to give his condolences and see if there was anything we could do to help, but that’s all we know. So what was taken?’
‘It was a portfolio,’ Bee told her. ‘Dad dropped it off at the gallery a few days before he died. It was a portfolio of Freddie’s work.’
TWO
Bob Taylor arrived about half an hour after his wife. He recognized Bee immediately and expressed condolence for her father’s death. ‘He was a good friend,’ Bob said. ‘I’d known him for years, of course. I knew your mother too.’
Bob helped himself to coffee and then came and sat at the table. Bee repeated the story that she’d already told Annie and Patrick. Patrick could see Bob considering carefully and wondering how to respond to her. Eventually he said, ‘I agree it is something of a coincidence, Antonia’s murder and the theft of the portfolio, though from what I’ve heard the police are still treating it as a robbery. Other things might have been taken, you know.’
‘Coincidences do happen,’ Annie said gently. ‘Just because something bad happens to two people in the same time period doesn’t necessarily mean those two events are connected.’
Patrick blinked. It felt as though Annie was being unusually restrained and unsympathetic, after her first efforts to comfort this near stranger who had come so unexpectedly to her door. Tears began to well in the girl’s eyes and Patrick looked to Annie to see what she would do but Annie was leaning back in her chair, as though keeping her distance. She sipped her coffee, her expression neutral. Annie caught Patrick’s look and shook her head gently, and Patrick bit back his first instinct, which was to object to her caution and seeming indifference. It seemed obvious to him that Freddie’s death and Antonia Scott’s must be linked, but he trusted Annie and her judgement so he kept quiet.
‘I take it you’ve spoken to the police?’ Bob asked.
‘I’ve tried. They think I’m crazy, or grieving, or just in the way. They say my father had been ill and died of a heart attack, and that’s that. They say, like you just did, that it’s just coincidence that some of his work was stolen. Antonia’s brother told them that the portfolio had been left quite close to the door because Antonia was going to go through it that morning. He’d left it next to one of the print racks so she’d know where it was, so the police just say it was probably the first thing the thief saw. That the thief took a chance and grabbed it. But there were paintings hanging on the wall, just inside the door. What thief would go for a portfolio when they could see proper paintings?’
She had a point, Patrick thought.
‘And was anything else missing?’ Bob asked.
She shook her head angrily. ‘No,’ she said vehemently. Then shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t think so anyway; no one will tell me. I only know about the portfolio because Matthew Scott telephoned me to tell me it was missing. Technically, you see, it was mine. My father left everything to me. The portfolio had been dropped off so that Matthew Scott could value it. The Scotts specialized in selling my dad’s drawings, I don’t know if you know that?’
Bob nodded. ‘He was a tremendous draughtsman.’ He smiled. ‘The Scotts liked his drawings because Freddie could knock one up in the morning for them, if he felt inclined to do so. For Freddie that was effortless. His paintings took a lot longer and you could never be sure—’
‘He’d given all that up,’ she said quickly. ‘He promised me. He’d make copies but he always signed his name to them these days.’ She looked anxiously from Bob to Annie and then to Patrick and this time the tears spilled over on to her cheeks.
‘Freddie was a lovely man,’ Bob said quietly, ‘but you have to understand something. For him it was an addiction. It wasn’t to do with the money he might make or getting one over on the art world, it was more like … more like the need to climb the next mountain just because it was there. When Freddie discovered another artist he liked and thought he could, shall we say, emulate, it was as if someone had breathed fresh life into him. I’ve no doubt he told you that he was on the straight and narrow and I’ve no doubt he almost believed it. Freddie didn’t lie – he was just economical with the truth, even to himself.’
‘He was my dad, you didn’t know him like I did.’
‘Forgive me, but I had known him for a lot longer. Freddie was my mentor when I was a young artist starting out. He taught me so much and I will always be grateful to him. Freddie was also unreliable; your mother knew that, which was why she withdrew from him when she was pregnant with you. Believe me, I stayed friends with both of them all through that and neither had a bad word to say for the other, but your mother was wise enough to know that if she was going to give you any kind of stability it would have to be on her own, and on her own
terms.’
‘My father loved me. I know I didn’t know who he was when I was growing up, but he always provided, and when we finally met …’
‘He was so happy,’ Bob told her. ‘So happy that you wanted to get to know him and that you actually liked him when you did. Freddie was never sure you would. He thought you might bear a grudge. Bee, I’m not saying anything against your father. He was what he was and we all loved him because he was a very easy man to love. But the other thing you need to know is that Freddie told people what he thought they wanted to hear because he knew that’s what would make them happy.’
‘You’re saying he lied to me.’
‘No, I’m not saying that. But I have a painting in my studio that Freddie probably created about ten years ago and evidence that he was making another version, and probably intending to apply the same provenance to it.’
‘I told you he was still copying things.’
‘Not this one. Someone – probably Freddie – had gone to a great deal of trouble to give this one a provenance and a history, and it was sold for a great deal of money on the basis that it was done by an artist who was not Frederick Albert Jones. I’m sorry, Bee, but there are signs that he was still up to his old tricks, whatever he might have said to you to the contrary.’
‘And if he was, what difference does that make to what I’m telling you? Someone killed him. He was scared, he told me that. And Antonia Scott was murdered and his portfolio was stolen. Why doesn’t anybody believe me?’
She again looked from one to the other and there was a beat or two of silence. Then Patrick said, ‘If Freddie Jones was producing forgeries, and someone found out, doesn’t that make it more likely someone might have killed him? It’s happened before, hasn’t it?’ He was thinking particularly of the death of Eric Hebborn, widely believed to have been suspicious. His classic, The Art Forger’s Handbook, was in Bob’s library.
‘It has,’ Annie conceded.
‘But is there any evidence of anything untoward happening to Freddie, apart from his being a little more paranoid than usual?’ Bob asked.
Bee glared at him. ‘I thought you were his friend.’
‘I was; that’s what allows me to say these things. Entitles me. You can still be friends with someone, still care about them, even if you open your eyes and see exactly what they are and what they’re capable of. Friendships happen despite all of that, not because the other person is perfect.’
It was unusual, Patrick thought, for Bob to be this harsh with anyone and he wondered at it, alongside Annie’s reticence.
‘I’d better go,’ Bee said. ‘It’s obvious no one here is going to listen to me.’
‘No one here can really help you,’ Bob pointed out. ‘We can’t force the police to make these connections. We don’t know what they’re thinking or what they know and they aren’t going to tell you.’
‘Maybe Naomi could help, or Alec.’ The words were out almost before Patrick realized he was saying them.
Annie frowned slightly. ‘I don’t see how,’ she said. ‘Neither of them are in the force any more. Though I suppose talking to Naomi might help Bee get a handle on how the investigation would proceed in a case like this.’ She turned to the girl. ‘She might be able to help you put your questions in a way that the police would take notice of.’ She looked questioningly at both Patrick and her husband, and Bob shrugged.
‘Who’s Naomi?’ Bee asked.
‘She’s a friend. She used to be a detective inspector,’ Annie told her.
‘I want to see her.’
‘We will ask her if she’s willing to talk to you,’ Annie said gently. ‘But you have to understand, she has no influence; all she can do is perhaps put your mind at rest about how the investigation will proceed. You do understand that?’
Bee nodded but Patrick could see that Annie’s words were just feeding her anger.
‘I’d better go,’ she said again, and this time she stood up and shrugged off the blanket that Annie had wrapped around her.
Patrick opened his mouth to offer to drive her back to her car but a look from Annie silenced him. He frowned; there were undercurrents here that he didn’t understand. Again, he told himself that he trusted Annie and that she must have her reasons.
Bob walked Bee to the door and Patrick watched as, hunch-shouldered, she started back down the long path to the main road. Bob returned to the kitchen.
‘So,’ Patrick said. ‘What’s going on, then?’
‘What do you mean?’
Patrick sighed. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve been around both of you for a while now and the way you acted today tells me something is going on that she doesn’t know about. I mean, I know it’s none of my business but …’
‘You expected more sympathy from us,’ Annie said.
‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘Patrick, it would not surprise either of us if Bee was right,’ Annie said. ‘Freddie played some dangerous games with some very dodgy people and we are, quietly, looking into that possibility and have been ever since we heard the news of Antonia Scott’s death. It is, as Bee says, just too much of a coincidence, so we are having someone look into it.’
Patrick nodded. Annie had some unusual connections, two of whom he had come to know. Nathan Crow and Gregory Mann, people he now considered to be good friends, were not the kind of individuals most people would encounter happily. Sometimes life took you in strange directions.
‘Nathan and Gregory?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No, this isn’t their field.’
Bob laughed. ‘We don’t actually want to get anyone killed,’ he added. ‘And that includes Bee. If she’s right, and if her father was frightened, maybe he’d crossed the wrong people yet again. And believe me, Patrick, Freddie sailed close to the wind on a number of occasions. They are not the kind of people that you want a nineteen-year-old girl chasing down. Not the kind of people that you want to be anywhere near. You understand that?’
‘You want to protect her; you think that talking to Naomi might satisfy her and stop her prodding and poking where she shouldn’t be.’
‘I wouldn’t have suggested it,’ Annie said. ‘But since you did, it felt like a possible solution.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘It won’t work,’ he said. ‘What you think doesn’t matter. The only people whose opinion mattered to her are both dead. Her mum and Freddie. The way she looks at it, she’s got nothing to lose.’
‘Only her life,’ Bob pointed out.
‘I don’t think she’ll even think about that – not because she’s brave or anything, but because she won’t think it’s real. Until you’ve been there you don’t think it’s real, that asking the wrong questions might get you killed. She’s just angry, and when you’re angry you don’t really see reason, do you?’
Bob and Annie exchanged a glance.
‘You’re not often wrong,’ Annie said. ‘Patrick, I hope you are this time.’
‘I’d better get back to work,’ Patrick said.
He set his coffee mug down in the sink and went back to the studio.
THREE
Naomi Blake, now Naomi Friedman, lived with her husband, Alec, in the flat that she had first moved into when she had come out of hospital following her accident.
Both had been serving officers when a motorway pile-up had ended Naomi’s career, though at that time they had not been married or even together.
Naomi had been blind ever since.
This little flat had become her sanctuary and though she had spent time living elsewhere, when it had come up for sale again at an opportune moment she and Alec had bought it and moved back. It was small, easy to manage and peaceful and though Naomi would have liked a garden she was otherwise satisfied with the arrangement.
Alec was away. He had left the police force under slightly difficult circumstances some eighteen months before and, after mooching around unsure of what to do for a while, had accepted an offer to work for a private
security firm and was now frequently absent two or three days a week. Naomi missed him, but Alec was evidently enjoying himself and – though she didn’t like to admit it – she was also enjoying her alone time. She loved her husband deeply but the last couple of years had been difficult and intense and she now felt the need for some quiet and reflection.
And besides, she was never alone. Her big black guide dog, Napoleon, kept her company.
When Patrick arrived at her flat that evening, she was playing around with some new computer software that he had installed for her a few days before. Since losing her sight, Naomi had become a real fan of technology; it enabled her to use voice input to access the internet, to have documents read out to her from websites and also to access books that were not available as audio.
Patrick rang the bell and announced himself so that she would know who was coming up the stairs, and then let himself in. His father, Harry, had been an emergency key holder for quite some time but it was usually Patrick who actually had the key. He had known Naomi since he was fourteen years old and he counted her as one of his best friends, despite the age difference.
‘So,’ she said, glancing across from where she sat at her computer screen – her sighted habits still prevailing when it came to body language. ‘What can I do for you this fine evening?’
‘Fine! Have you heard the rain?’
Naomi laughed as another gust of wind blasted a mix of hail and snow against the window. ‘Winter hasn’t let up yet, has it? You want to get the kettle on while I just finish here. I’m doing the grocery shopping and I’m worried it might time out on me.’
Patrick took himself through to the kitchen, followed by Napoleon. He bent to pat the big dog, ruffling his ears. Napoleon’s tail beat against the cupboard doors. It was a small kitchen and crowded with both of them in it. Patrick filled the kettle and then stood waiting for it to boil, listening as Naomi completed her order. He guessed from the amount of meat she was ordering that Alec was due home. Naomi would happily have become a vegetarian, but Alec was a committed carnivore.
Fakes and Lies Page 2
