Quick and the Dead

by Susan Moody

  ‘I’m a great fan of Masaccio’s,’ I said. ‘And I’m telling you it’s a great book.’

  ‘Then Madame over there definitely didn’t write it.’

  She really was amazingly tactless. Or just amazingly forthright, which amounted to much the same thing. I looked across the room to where a group of thin, young publishing assistants, dressed mostly in black, stood like members of the Schutzstaffel in a protective semi-circle behind another woman.

  Amy Morrison. Star of this launch party at the National Portrait Gallery. Slim as a knife-blade, in a fitted scarlet dress and a lot of silver jewellery. A mass of blonde curls. And drop-dead gorgeous. Author of Masaccio: The Magic of Illusion. I knew her to be some years older than myself, but from this distance, she looked to be no more than eighteen or twenty.

  ‘Who’s the man salivating down the front of her dress?’ I asked.

  ‘Gillon Drew. Owns a small private gallery in North London. Not that there’s a lot there for him to drool over.’ Helena glanced down at her own generous frontage.

  Someone tapped on a glass, and gradually the room fell silent. A tall man in a shabby Prince of Wales check suit stained yellow around the crotch area (obviously not a man who had been taught to catch the drip), a Tattersall-checked flannel shirt, a bow-tie and a red waistcoat liberally dusted with either dandruff or snuff, it was hard to tell which, spoke. ‘Good evening, everybody. I’m Donald Lewis, Amy’s editor at Lewis & Barton, and I want to say that we’re really thrilled to be launching her Masaccio book here tonight. It’s already received rave reviews from the critics, and we anticipate that it’s going to be a huge success.’

  He looked down at Amy who stood beside him, looking tiny and vulnerable. ‘Amy?’

  ‘I do hope so,’ she said shyly. She looked up at him and smiled, producing a pair of dimples as big as potholes.

  ‘We feel that Amy has a great future ahead of her,’ continued Lewis, while Amy did the dimpling thing again.

  Beside me, Helena whispered in a childish falsetto, ‘What, little me?’ which had people turning round again, this time to shush her.

  Amy clasped her small hands together, diamonds sparkling on her fingers as she spoke. ‘It’s been a wonderful journey,’ she said. Her voice was soft and high-pitched, part little girl, part aristocrat. ‘Ever since art school, I’ve wanted to write about Masaccio, to research his short life and gaze at his paintings. He died at a tragically young age, only twenty-six, as I’m sure most of you here know, and the marvel is that he produced so much outstanding work in such a brief time.’ She dimpled again and raised her glass of white wine. ‘I only hope I’ve done him justice. Here’s to Masaccio!’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Helena scornfully.

  ‘Does she know how you feel about her?’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ve barely been in contact since she left college.’

  Standing against the wall with two or three others I noticed a motherly-looking woman in a brown velvet dress under a magnificent jacket of fine embroidered silk. Her abundant grey-brown hair was piled untidily on top of her head and precariously fixed with a number of tortoiseshell combs, many of which seemed about to fall onto her shoulders.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I motioned with my chin.

  ‘Sadie Johns. I can’t imagine why she bothered to come. Unless she’s planning to drop a cyanide pill into dear Amy’s glass. Cheers!’

  ‘Why would she want to do that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Helena drained her own glass and made a face. ‘Christ, why do they serve such tooth-rottingly ghastly stuff at these events?’ She gazed round the room. ‘Oh, look … there’s dear Pieter Salzmann, and Hermann Braun.’ The two men were well-known art critics. ‘They must have flown over from Munich.’

  ‘Who’s the couple they’re talking to? They seem familiar.’

  ‘Bob and Mercy Lamont. Americans. Great collectors, both of them.’

  ‘Of course! Didn’t he pay a record sum at auction quite recently?’

  ‘They’re the ones. For a rare Leonovsky, one of the Russian Impressionists. Two and a half million dollars. Just walking-around money for him, though, since they’re both rolling in it!’

  ‘Isn’t there a son?’

  ‘That’s right. A very promising artist. And a good academic mind as well. Not sure what he’s doing at the moment. I taught him for a semester, some years ago, when I was a visiting prof in New York. He and La Morrison were actually an item at one point.’ She hoicked another glass of wine from a passing tray. ‘Must catch those two.’

  ‘I may just quietly leave, Helena. Thanks for bringing me along.’

  ‘My pleasure. See ya, babe.’ And she swirled off into the crowd like a peacock on acid.

  I slowly made my way over to Amy Morrison, stopping here and there to talk to friends and acquaintances. It seemed like the whole of art-connected London was there. Finally there was a space in the crowd around her, into which I inserted myself. She turned cold eyes on me and raised an uninterested eyebrow.

  ‘I’m Alexandra Quick,’ I said. ‘Freelance picture editor – I’ve worked for your publishers from time to time.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Amy’s eyes rested on me without curiosity.

  ‘You’ve done a great job, and I’m sure the book will—’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her silver chains, lockets and necklaces jangled against her almost-non-existent bosom as she turned to someone standing beside her. ‘Isn’t that Pieter Saltzmann over there? I’d better go and be sweet.’

  Consider yourself dismissed, inferior person. Non-person …

  What a bitch! I could hardly believe that anyone could be so ill-mannered. Working in picture editing, I had heard other tales about the Morrison woman: temper tantrums, failure to show at programmed meetings, ridiculous demands insisted on. I just hoped she would get her come-uppance one of these days.

  I felt bad when she did – but perhaps not as bad as I should have done.

  I stopped to introduce myself to Bob and Mercy Lamont, whom I’d met before, though briefly. A handsome couple, they were both in their sixties, tall and distinguished-looking, with the impeccable manners, displayed in that blue-blooded way that only well-bred American Yankees can truly produce.

  Mercy grimaced sympathetically, indicating that she had witnessed my comprehensive rejection by the star of the evening, and that she sympathized. We chatted for a while, mostly about the world of art. ‘We both love your compilations,’ she said. Her voice was low and husky; I imagined that in her young girlhood, it was incredibly sexy. Still was.

  ‘They’re hard work, but great fun to do,’ I said. ‘The trouble is that often the production costs don’t match with the profits they bring in to the publishing houses.’

  ‘My wife and I have been talking for some time of setting up our own company,’ Bob Lamont said. ‘Unlike other commercial publishers, we wouldn’t have to make the books balance overall.’

  ‘It would be a labour of love,’ Mercy said. Her eyes briefly glowed.

  ‘Look, do you have a card?’ Bob asked. ‘We should keep in touch.’

  I delved into my shoulder bag, found one and gave it to him.

  He glanced at it. ‘We must talk some more.’

  ‘Sounds like an excellent idea.’ And I meant it. With backers like the Lamonts, Drummond & Quick could really take off. Helena had a host of other jobs bringing in money, but I didn’t. I had refused any kind of alimony payment reluctantly offered by Jack the Rat. A little financial security would most definitely not go amiss.

  Meanwhile, there was Helena to worry about. As DI Fairlight had pointed out, things were not looking good for my friend. In fact, they were looking exceedingly bad. It was far too easy to come up with some kind of scenario which involved the arrival of Amy – if it was Amy, of which I was more and more convinced – at Helena’s place (for whatever reason, to be determined later), a heated altercation, during which Helena had swung at her former student with something heavy, such as th
e candlestick (maybe the one I had picked up as a defensive weapon without even thinking about it), then, panicking, tried to make the scene look like some crazed sexual psychopath’s battleground (Helena loved crime novels, the more gruesome the better), before fleeing for a hiding place somewhere. Or crossing the Channel on an early ferry. Maybe even flying out to Oz.

  But two minutes’ rational thought gave the lie to this supposition. First of all, if there had been an argument, why would it have taken place up in the bedroom with at least one of the protagonists more or less naked? Second of all, it might not even be Amy Morrison. And thirdly, although it was relatively easy to imagine Helen losing her cool, it was absolutely impossible to imagine her stripping the body, or ramming some sharp instrument into the woman’s eyes, setting a false trail by closing curtains and switching on bedside lights.

  In the twisted mind of the killer, did the fact that Ms Morrison spent so much of her professional life gazing at pictures (as Helena and I did) take on a new significance? Only someone filled to the brim with hatred and anger against humanity, especially women, could possibly indulge in such macabre behaviour.

  But if Helena wasn’t the perpetrator, why had she disappeared? And perhaps more pertinently, given the fact that her car was parked outside her house, how had she disappeared? A trawl of local cab firms might be in order, if the police had not yet got onto it. In the morning, I knew I would need to do some intensive work running down facts, contacting her colleagues, chasing down even the slightest lead. And all the time anticipating the feeling of being an idiot, because Helena was going to waltz in at any moment, with some rational excuse for why she had gone AWOL.

  Wasn’t she?

  My heart began to sink as I contemplated the possibility that the police were correct in assuming that she was responsible for the murder.

  ‘Still haven’t a clue who she is.’

  Off-duty the following morning, DI Fliss Fairlight had telephoned again. ‘I passed on your hypothesis to Garside and his team, but so far no nearest and dearest have shown up. We haven’t got due cause to go into Morrison’s house to get DNA, but the pathologist has taken scrapings from the body and we’re thinking of sending them off to the lab. Trouble is, to get the tests done will cost a fortune, stretch the budget tighter than we’d like, and after all that, it might not even be her.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘We play the waiting game for another twenty-four hours, in the hope that someone will miss her and start making enquiries.’

  ‘When can I get into Doctor Drummond’s house?’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘It’s work-related.’ I had never minded telling useful lies.

  ‘I suppose under supervision …’ Fliss said doubtfully.

  ‘Are you actively looking for her?’

  ‘Of course. A corpse found in someone’s home, the owner vanished? Of course they’re actively looking for her!’

  ‘And where are you looking?’

  There was a silence. After a moment, Fliss said, ‘I expect someone will be coming round to interview you some time soon.’

  ‘Again? I’ve already told Garside and his team absolutely everything I can.’

  ‘But last time they were concentrating on the victim, not the possible perp.’ Fliss yawned loudly. ‘Anyway, it’s been a long night. I’m off to bed.’

  FIVE

  Over coffee in Willoughby’s Books, I asked myself what I actually knew about my friend and collaborator. The answer was remarkably little, I discovered, although we had been working closely together for over three years. I knew something of her professional life, but apart from the two husbands, almost nothing concerning her personal affairs, though I was well aware that she was keen on men, especially those younger than herself. Nor did I know where to start looking.

  The police were after her as a possible murder suspect, whereas I myself simply wanted to find out what had happened to her and to offer help if it was needed. Did she have children? If so, she had never mentioned them. Or siblings? It was unlikely her parents were still alive, but they might be, if only I could track them down. If I knew where to start looking. But Helena wasn’t the sort to run home to Mummy when in trouble. Or Daddy, for that matter. What other leads could I try?

  In my bag I found a notebook and pen.

  Colleagues at U of K @ C, I wrote.

  Colleagues at U of Melbourne

  Should I add the name of our current publisher, the vindictive little Tyson Lowell? But we had comprehensively dissed him. If he had any information in the first place, he was unlikely to pass it on to me, out of spite, if for no other reason. Anyway, why would he be offering help and succour to Helena?

  The University of Melbourne was an expensive phone call away, even supposing that in the last couple of days Helena had managed to evade the police, fly out of England and land up in Australia. So a line went through that item too. Helena’s husbands I knew nothing about. Which left the faculty in Canterbury. To which it would be better to drive than try to telephone. I smiled at the bookshop man, gave him a little wave and went outside. I shivered, got into my car and set off.

  I’d had occasion to visit Helena on campus the previous year and knew it was built on several hundred acres of green parkland, overlooking the city. Very pleasant, if you liked modern buildings, which I didn’t particularly, with plenty of open green spaces between them. Courtyards, gardens, ponds and woodland, with stunning views of Canterbury and the Stour Valley – okay, so it wasn’t Oxbridge, nor was it meant to be, but as contemporary campuses went, it was up there.

  At this time of year, with the students gone for the Christmas vacation, parking was easy. I got out, shivered again – damn, I really didn’t like being cold – and started walking towards the Jarman building, which housed the School of Arts. Once through the doors, I could hear a lot of distant wavery shouting, rather like the sounds you get in a swimming pool, but there was no one around to ask. What would happen if I shouted myself? Would anyone come? I saw directions to Studio 3, which Helena had mentioned in the past, and started to make my way there. I was in luck. A youngish man in a paint-stained T-shirt and jeans which gave new meaning to the word ‘threadbare’, was standing in front of an abstract painting full of swirls of pink and green, with his hands on his hips and his head on one side.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ he said, without bothering to see who had just come in.

  ‘Not much,’ I said.

  ‘You know, I think you’re right.’ He turned round in a single fluid movement. ‘I’m Perry Nutley, and you are …?’

  ‘My name’s Quick. Alex Quick. I work with—’

  ‘Oh my goodness, yes, I know exactly who you are. You work for Helena Drummond, n’est-ce pas?’ He flung out an expressive arm, fingers flexed.

  ‘That’s one way to put it.’

  ‘And how is she? We haven’t seen her for a couple of days.’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me. It’s a long story, but …’ I swallowed. ‘… She seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘And you’re bothered about it?’

  ‘Of course I am. Especially since we were supposed to go to a meeting two days ago and she didn’t turn up.’

  ‘That’s not like her.’ Light grey eyes, unkempt eyebrows, hair in need of a trim, his movements a sort of ballet dance. He was somewhat older than I had first taken him to be. Despite his feyness, his expression was kind and he displayed an obvious sympathy for whatever dilemma was bugging me. ‘Come and have a coffee,’ he said.

  He showed me into an office the size of a freezer chest, plugged in a kettle and made two mugs of instant. ‘Now,’ he said, handing one to me, ‘tell me what’s happened.’

  So I did. ‘And now I have no idea where she could possibly be, and the police are after her, and to be honest I’m worrying that she’s been abducted or worse.’ I sipped at the disgusting coffee. ‘The thing is, I’ve only just realized how little I know ab
out her, even though we’re working colleagues. She comes across as so open and let-it-all-hang-outish, but in fact she gives almost nothing away. So I don’t know anything about her background or her family situation. Nothing. Apart from the fact that she’s been married twice.’

  ‘To Liam, and of course, to dear Ainslie,’ said Perry. ‘Ainslie’s a painter, lives in France, in the Dordogne. Liam’s—’

  ‘Do you mean Ainslie Gordon?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  I literally felt my jaw drop. ‘Are you seriously telling me that Helena was once married to Ainslie Gordon?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  ‘Yes, I seriously am.’

  ‘But …’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’

  ‘She plays her cards very close to her chest, does our Helena.’

  ‘Yes, but even so …’ I had to admit that I was ruffled by this news. Not too long ago, I had even suggested one of Ainslie Gordon’s paintings as suitable for inclusion in a possible future collection of pictures of woods – Lovely, Dark and Deep – but she had turned the suggestion down flat. ‘Especially when she knows how much I admire his work.’ It was spare and powerful stuff, blocks of colour, almost impressionistic, but symbolic rather than representational, suggesting that things bleak and sinister were taking place just out of sight. I was always reminded of Lyonel Feininger or Howard Hodgkin when I saw Ainslie’s work.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’ My phone vibrated in the pocket of my coat, but I ignored it.

  ‘Not really. I know she’s been a visiting professor somewhere Down Under, but otherwise …’ Perry spread his hands wide and shrugged.

  ‘What about family?’

  ‘I think there might be a daughter somewhere, but no idea where. I have a feeling that they don’t get on.’ He frowned. ‘Or am I mixing her up with another work colleague? Yes, scrub the daughter – it’s not Helena I’m thinking of at all.’

  ‘What about siblings?’

  ‘If she has any, she’s never mentioned them to me.’