‘My painting?’ she said sharply. ‘What did they say?’
Oliver told her and for the first time a flicker of emotion crossed her face. It was fleeting but he could have sworn it was fear.
Fake Violet picked up both cups and took them into the kitchen where she dumped their contents and wiped them clean.
‘Stay here, I’ll be right back.’ She disappeared down the hallway.
Let’s get out of here.
I thought you wanted to confront her.
There was a soft sound from the other end of the apartment. Oliver listened but couldn’t hear anything else.
I do, but we’re not exactly in charge here. She’s never going to tell us anything while she has a gun.
‘Thank God, finally we agree on something,’ he muttered, grabbing his dismantled phone from the coffee table. He quietly got to his feet and crept across the floor to the hallway.
Hurry up!
If I make a noise she’ll come back and like you pointed out she has a gun. Now please let me concentrate on escaping.
He stepped into the hall. There were two closed doors between him and the front door. She could be behind either of them. Aware of his heart beating and ragged breathing, he inched down the hallway, expecting her to pop out and gleefully shout “Got ya” before shooting him in the face.
Why the face? She could just as easily shoot you in the chest.
Is that helping?
Halfway down his nerves got the better of him and abandoning all attempts at stealth he leapt at the front door, flung it open and darted out of the apartment. Rushing over to the elevator he pushed the down button.
Take the stairs you idiot.
He turned towards the stairs and took one step before two giant hands gripped his arms from behind.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ a voice boomed.
TEN
A gigantic man loomed over Oliver – with a face of concrete that said he would welcome any sudden movements – until two police constables arrived. They proceeded to ask Oliver what he was doing in the apartment of Frances Williams, who was at that very moment on a cruise ship in Asia. In his early sixties, the man whose name was Joshua Pastion, confirmed that Frances had left a week ago and that he, who lived in the apartment next door, had been asked to keep an eye on the place. His tone suggested he took the job very seriously. So when Mrs William’s niece had knocked on his door and told him that there was an intruder he urged her to get to safety while he apprehended the man. As he retold the tale Joshua’s chest puffed out with pride.
She set us up.
You think!
Alright, don’t take it out on me.
All the while he was furiously thinking about what to say to the police. I’ll have to tell them the truth.
Do you want to be done in time to pick the children up or not?
Oliver glanced at his watch. It was 1.45, which meant he had a narrow window of opportunity to either be done here or phone Jennifer and explain he couldn’t get the kids because he was being arrested for breaking and entering. What do you suggest?
Repeat after me.
So he did, and even as the words came out of his mouth, Oliver tried not to look surprised at what he was saying.
While they were talking, an officer went into the apartment. He came back out and confirmed that everything seemed in order.
In the end they took his details, including a picture of his driver’s licence to confirm identification, and let him go. He had the shakes all the way back to the car.
That was fun.
‘You have a strange definition of fun,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve seen more police in the last three days than in my entire life, and fun is the last word that comes to mind.’
Oh, loosen up Oliver. We found Fake Violet, and we learned somethings about her.
‘Like she has a gun,’ he replied sarcastically.
Quit moaning. You act like it’s the first time you’ve had a gun pointed at you.
‘It was!’
Anyway I wasn’t talking about that. Did you notice how she reacted when you mentioned the police asking about the painting?
Oliver thought back. ‘Yeah, she seemed a bit worried.’
And didn’t the police ask you to identify the painting? So let’s go find out what’s so special about it.
‘Later, right now the only painting I’m worried about is the one that Rose will have done on herself.’
Yet Rose was remarkably paint free, and had all her belongings. Which was more than could be said for Reed, who ran up in his socks and casually told his father he had lost his shoes. He then raced off to play, leaving Oliver to wonder, firstly how it could have happened, then secondly why he was surprised.
When he relayed the story to Jennifer later that night she rolled her eyes.
‘Rookie,’ she snorted. ‘How many clothes have your children lost over the past few years?’
I’m guessing more than I owned in my entire life.
‘I know,’ he sighed.
She gave him a smug smile, something they often did to each other when one said something silly. ‘Did you hear anything more from the police?’
For a terrifying moment he thought she knew all about the afternoon’s events. When he didn’t reply instantly she glanced up from her iPad. ‘The police? The ones that came yesterday. Or have you forgotten in your senility?’
He laughed in relief. ‘I’m only six months older than you, so you can’t exactly talk about being senile. No, nothing, but I have to give them a call tomorrow about viewing a painting.’
Jennifer grinned slyly. ‘They’re asking you, a colour-blind, art heathen, about a painting?’
He threw a cushion at her. ‘I only have to identify it, not critique it.’
She went back to her iPad and he to watching a cooking show.
This thing is amazing. Are there people in a different room doing this right now?
He explained the concept of television and Violet instantly demanded he change the channel. Jennifer was used to his surfing tendencies so didn’t think anything of it as he sped from one to another, skipping over the fashion channel much to Violet’s disgust. Eventually she became too distracting and he switched the TV off.
‘I’m off to bed,’ he announced.
Jennifer nodded absently and said she would follow along shortly.
As he got ready for bed Oliver thought back to the early days of their relationship, when they walked around the house naked, came to the bed because they had to and not because they were exhausted from children.
You sound like you miss those times.
It was simpler back then.
But was it better?
He thought about that, glancing down at the super hero toothbrush lying next to the basin, then across to the clothes that somehow had invaded their bathroom even though the kids never got undressed in here.
‘No.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘Just simpler.’
He slipped into bed and switched off the light, refusing to think about the events of the day, or of the small, tiny, almost non-existent part of him that had enjoyed it. Violet’s gentle laugh was the last thing he heard before drifting off to sleep.
ELEVEN
The next morning Oliver rang Detective Wilson and offered to go into the shop to view the paintings. There was a slight delay while schedules were checked, then they agreed that eleven o clock would be a mutually acceptable time.
While he waited Oliver sat down at the laptop and tried writing.
Why are you writing this story?
‘Because it’s what sells.’
Not if it’s rubbish.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ he retorted.
Do you have anything else you’ve written?
‘Why? So you can mock that as well?’
Maybe.
Reluctantly Oliver opened an older file, something he’d played with before the thriller idea took over.
“The leaf lay on the surface o
f clear water, the sort that lets you see all the way to the rock covered bed. The type of water that you knew was cold even without touching it, but you didn’t mind, because it tasted pure, like it had been ripped straight from the belly of a cloud.
It was small, about the size of a child’s hand, with pale white veins stretching from its spine out to the edges. The pulse of the water pushed the tiny vessel against boulders, nudging it onto the bank before snatching it away again.”
Now that’s something I’d like to read more of.
‘Why?’
Because I want to know where the leaf is going.
Oliver’s first instinct was to dismiss her, then a thought tugged at the edge of his mind, and he tapped out a couple of words, then a couple more, and suddenly the dam broke and his fingers flew furiously across the keys. Sentences grew into paragraphs which morphed into pages. Half the time he didn’t even know what he was writing until he stopped and went back.
The next time he glanced at the clock on the fridge he was stunned to see an hour had passed. He was equally shocked to see he’d written ten pages. On a good day he was lucky to write two.
He read the new work. ‘Wow.’
That’s pretty good.
‘That’s the best stuff I’ve ever written.’
Must be my good influence.
A tiny suspicion fluttered through Oliver. ‘Did you do this?’
I’m just the hitchhiker, remember. You’re in the driver’s seat.
Doubt remained as he reread it and compared the pages to his previous work. There was definitely something different. The new words were more dynamic and engaging.
He mulled over it all the way into the city. A part of him wanted to believe her – to believe that this level of writing had been inside him all the time – but he didn’t put a lot of faith in coincidences. And the difference between the pages he’d written before and those since she’d arrived was marked.
Maybe you just found something better to write about?
As he approached the shop he could see a police officer waiting outside for him. Once he’d gone through the necessary identification process the front door was unlocked and he was ushered inside. The officer lurked by his right shoulder, ready to direct or restrain him if required. Unlike the old-time television shows there wasn’t a chalk outline on the floor, but there was a dark stain that he didn’t remember seeing the last time. He shuddered, realising it was probably blood.
Oliver was directed to a section on one side of the shop where several paintings hung on the wall, or rested on easels. He studied each of the paintings carefully but none of them were familiar.
Well?
It’s not here.
‘Are these the only paintings?’ Oliver asked the officer.
‘I believe so. Let’s just double-check in the back room sir,’ came the polite response.
The back room was highly organised and completely full of lots of expensive, ugly things, but not the painting. Oliver advised the officer that Fake Violet’s painting wasn’t there, and he was escorted out of the shop with a promise that they would be in touch if they needed anything else.
‘So someone killed the owner and stole the painting,’ Oliver said once he was back in the car.
Seems that way. Although we don’t know what else was taken.
‘But Fake Violet was worried about the painting as well.’
It does all seem to revolve around it.
Oliver started the engine. ‘Okay let’s go do some research.’
He drove back home, made himself a sandwich, explained the concept of individually wrapped cheese slices to Violet, then sat down at the computer. Immediately he recognised the problem of searching for a painting that he knew absolutely nothing about. He couldn’t even narrow it down by year or artist.
‘This is hopeless.’
We need an art expert.
‘Sure, I’ll just look one up.’ He typed ‘art expert for missing painting stolen from a murder scene’ into a search engine. Surprisingly it produced some results, but nothing that was remotely helpful.
Can you search for anything?
Oliver confirmed they could.
Can you type in the name John Strong?
He did and it came up with pages of results. Violet told him that John was a painter and Oliver added that into the search parameters. Immediately the first result had a link to a website on artists from the 1940s and halfway down the page was a section on John Strong.
‘Who is he?’
You’ll see.
She sounded amused which instantly made Oliver suspicious.
Is there any way we can see his paintings?
Oliver clicked on a link which took them to another page, with thumbnail pictures of John Strong’s paintings. Oliver felt his face burn hot. Even as thumbnails he could tell that most were female nudes.
‘I might not remember much about the painting, but it definitely wasn’t a naked woman.’
Keep going.
Reluctantly he selected the nudes one by one, enlarging them to full screen. He had to admit the paintings were very good, but he felt uncomfortable viewing them with a woman, even one who was only a voice in his head.
Don’t be a prude, she laughed, but as he opened the next one her laughter trailed off. The painting was a young woman with long dark hair that lay across one shoulder. Her lower body was turned away but her torso was twisted back, exposing her breasts. Her eyes and sly smile hinted at a shared joke.
‘She seems happy,’ Oliver said.
Happy! Is that all you have to say? She’s gorgeous.
‘Yes she is,’ he agreed. A nasty feeling tugged in the back of his mind. ‘Wait a minute. When was it painted?’ Quickly he scanned the painting details. The painting had no name but there was a date underneath the picture, 1943. ‘Violet, is that…?’
Yes, I’d almost forgotten what I looked like. Isn’t that funny, to forget what you look like.
‘And you posed…for this.’ He waved at the screen. ‘But you would have only been –’ he did the sums, ‘– eighteen.’
And living in the city and making a living. I don’t know what eighteen year olds are like now, but when I was alive we left school early and earned our way. When the painting was done I had already been on my own for two years.
Oliver readjusted his thinking. ‘And how did you come to pose naked?’
He couldn’t pay his bill, and instead of money he offered to paint me. He was such a sweet old man I figured why not. It would be something I could show the grandchildren one day. Except it didn’t work out that way.
‘Bill? Did you work in a hotel?’
Violet laughed.
‘Or a shop?’
I could have, but they were boring jobs and I wanted to have fun.
‘So what did you do for a job?’
There were lots of opportunities for young, attractive women during the war. Lots of ways to make decent money.
‘Violet, what did you do?’ he repeated.
I had fun.
‘Doing what?’
Sleeping with men. I was a prostitute.
Oliver was shocked. ‘You what?’
Got paid to have sex. It was great.’
Oliver was slightly outraged and incredibly uncomfortable. He reached out to close the page.
Wait! I haven’t seen myself in seventy years.
Reluctantly he dropped his hand away. Looking at the picture seemed wrong so he averted his eyes.
I can’t see if you’re not looking at it.
Oliver turned back, trying to focus on the background rather than the model. To say it was awkward was a complete understatement. Staring at the nude painting of the woman currently hitching a ride in his head went straight to the top of the list of weird things he’d done. Everything else was a distant second, even the time he’d come across some friends in high school talking about a hot woman only to find out they were referring to his mother.
Behind th
e chair Violet was lounging on was a bed with rumpled sheets, and a pillow with a head sized indent. A faded white bedside table completed the furniture, and though there were several items spilled across the top they lacked definition.
Slowly he found his eyes drawn to Violet’s face. She wasn’t classically beautiful, whatever that meant, but she was very pretty. Her eyes were deep green in colour and there was something warm and inviting about her face. She was half lying back on a pale colour chair, one hand flat on her stomach, the other hanging in space.
‘You look so…’
Worldy?
‘Young.’
It was a horrible time for the country. We’d just come out of the depression, then suddenly there was a war and everything changed again. There were all sorts of shortages – food, clothes, men. And then the American’s arrived. Alice, a friend of mine, told me how there was money to be made in sex, and she was right. It wasn’t technically legal, or morally right, but I was sick of having nothing, and other people deciding what was right for me.
‘So you sold your body for money,’ Oliver said.
Why not? It was my body.
‘I wasn’t passing judgement,’ he hastily replied.
Sounded like it. Anyway I only did it for a few months.
‘Why did you stop?’
It wasn’t fun anymore. Okay you can take the picture away now.
Gratefully he closed the window.
Violet was silent for a while, maybe reminiscing about the old times, or in her case the young times. Oliver wrestled with the problem all through the takeaway dinner, because he couldn’t be bothered cooking, and a bath time that turned into a recreation of Jaws. Reed was the shark and Rose the victim, although halfway through she forgot her role and kicked her brother in the testicles. As Reed howled in pain, Oliver winced and mused that it was probably time they started having separate baths.
Later while they lay in bed reading Jennifer commented that Oliver had been quiet all evening. Hamstrung from telling her the complete truth, he gave a version, phrasing it as the plot of his book. The hero needed information and didn’t know how to get it.
‘In the movies the hero would just hack into the store computer to get the info,’ she offered.
Murder in Paint (Hitchhiker Book 1) Page 7
