by Peter Helton
‘I’ve never seen such a tan on a white man,’ Dawn said in an awestruck voice.
‘It’ll fade,’ Hufnagel said.
‘Yes, but until then …’
‘Get some more paint on the walls,’ I moaned, ‘or we’ll still be here at midnight.’
I was nearly right, too. Preparing a room for showing artwork always takes longer than you think, even without having to dance around a taciturn electrician on a huge ladder fiddling with spotlights. The students had long-finished hanging their work. For pride of place in the entrance hall they had chosen, as I thought they might, Hiroshi’s forest painting. It wasn’t just the painting that was huge, his talent was massive too: the composition, the execution, the startling detail here and there gave the painting an old master feeling. I was pretty sure I had very little to teach Hiroshi. Had he really done his research in the nude, I wondered? Perhaps I was missing a trick.
When it was done it looked good. Claire and Henry had managed to find a few framed examples of John Birtwhistle’s work, sensitive little etchings of nature subjects and views of Batcombe village. The freshly painted walls and waxed floor set it all off well and the spotlights that had now replaced the strip lighting made all the difference.
Landacker’s canvas had taken pride of place opposite the French windows and was looking superb. I had only seen the very first beginnings of it on my uninvited inspection of his studio, now it hit me with the full Landacker broadside that his canvases always delivered. They had a depth and emotional ambiguity that was hard to pin down. Mysterious, was how many critics described his abstract compositions. The contrast with the man’s personality was as stark as ever.
I was the last to leave. When I turned off the lights I was sure tomorrow could be a success, provided we kept shootings and other maimings to a minimum.
If you’re a painter and you’ve been doing it for a while then I’m sure you’ll agree that it can be difficult to find enough items of clothing without paint stains on them to make an ensemble. When you’re a student, spatters of oil paint on your clothes can still be worn as a badge of honour, and if you’re desperate, a talking point. Later on in your career it may simply denote a lack of funds, as it did in mine. Annis was doing rather better than me, which is easy if all you’re wearing is a pair of tights, shoes and little black dress, but when that evening I stepped from my shiny DS 21 in an almost spotless black suit and rollneck and without my arm in a sling, I thought I would not let the side down as long as no one slapped me heartily on the shoulder. We knew the anniversary exhibition was well-attended even before we got there since cars were parked all the way up and down the lane, which meant that the little car park was full to bursting. The sky had threatened rain all day but none had materialized, just a blustery wind that tore at suits and dresses and was noisy in the trees.
‘I think rather than keeping them away,’ said Claire, handing each of us a glass of red by way of a greeting, ‘Rachel’s death and your near miss have had the opposite effect.’ Claire looked splendid in a dark, sequined outfit, and I could tell Henry, hovering near her, thought so too.
‘It’s the English murder mystery effect,’ I agreed. ‘Country house, stormy night, plenty of suspects, all we need now is a power cut.’
‘Oh no, not that, I don’t think there are any candles,’ said Claire seriously.
‘Petronela has a wind-up torch. Any sign of Anne?’
‘None. We are truly blessed.’
‘And look, we are blessed with a police presence too.’ Hard to overlook, DSI Needham was mingling down the corridor towards us. He was fond of a drink or two, which meant the orange juice in his fist was probably a sign he considered himself on duty. He noticed me, acknowledged me with a nod but parked himself at the bottom of the stairs. There was a trickle of traffic up and down the stairs – parents going to check out the offerings of the printing and graphics department – but the bulk of people and students were on this floor, close to the paintings and the drinks, dispensed from behind a table by a couple of sculpture students. Kroog, who had made no secret of her loathing for this kind of occasion, had dutifully turned up but was puffing so furiously on her pipe that only the most determined parents (and of course Alex) went anywhere near her.
I recognized none of the parents and none would know who I was unless I stood next to my painting which was just as well since I shared Kroog’s aversion to polite chatter. By contrast, and despite his limited capability for politeness, one who didn’t seem to mind as long as the booze lasted was Hufnagel. He had been even less successful in finding any paint-free clothing but looked happy as a sandboy carrying two glasses of red through the crowd towards Studio One.
‘Studio One looks really excellent,’ Claire said. ‘You should go and have a look while there is still some daylight.’
‘Oh, all right then …’
‘No sign of Greg Landacker yet,’ I heard Claire say to Henry as Annis and I walked away. No one had told either of them that Mr Landacker never even came to his one-man shows any more. Quite a few people, students and parents, were admiring some kind of exhibit on the wall near the door to Studio One. It turned out to be a long, narrow noticeboard covered with photographs of the last thirty years of the college: students, tutors, art works, exhibitions, arranged by Kroog who had dug around in the hundreds of pictures John Birtwhistle had taken of the life of the academy. I caught a glimpse of a younger Lizzie, with more hair but otherwise the same Kroog, down to the notorious pipe. Annis dragged me away into Studio One. Ours was the best-lit room and attracted most of the attention. I refused to feel guilty about this since that was what the show was about, showing off the work of the tutors, past and present. Landacker’s painting had pride of place but the canvas attracting most of the attention was Hufnagel’s. He was being eagerly quizzed by earnestly nodding people and photographed by a press photographer in front of his painting.
‘It is a good painting,’ Annis admitted.
‘Yes, but how much of it is his?’ I sniped.
‘And how about yours?’
‘Yes, good point,’ I admitted as we walked across to my own painting. ‘But at least the phantom didn’t completely change the theme of my canvas, he just … erm, hang on.’ I nearly spilled my wine in my haste to elbow my way closer to the canvas.
‘What?’ Annis asked irritably.
‘It’s changed again. The phantom has added to the painting since last night, since we finished the hanging.’
‘Oh, yes, I can see it, it’s a working kiln now.’
In what I had hoped was my finished painting the mouth of the kiln had been open, showing the shady and slightly mysterious-looking entrance to the dark interior. Now the front entrance was closed up with firebricks and there was smoke and haze issuing from the domed part of the kiln. Next to the entrance the phantom had added something else. I had to get in close and go down on my knees to identify it. ‘It’s a pair of shoes, women’s shoes, kitten heels.’
‘You know what that reminds me of?’
‘Shoe shops?’
‘No, dummy. Hansel and Gretel. After they shoved the witch in the oven.’
‘The witch in the oven … where is Dan? I have to find Dan!’
Annis gulped her wine and left the empty glass on a table. ‘Who’s Dan?’
‘Ceramics tutor,’ I said. We were outside, marching along the side of the building to the brightly lit conservatory.
‘The one with the fake CV.’
‘And the one whose department Anne threatened to close.’
There were so few people in the ceramics department that the place looked forlorn, though there were plenty of exhibits, mostly by students of course. Dan was there, looking quite chirpy nevertheless. ‘I think we’re a bit far away from the bar,’ he said by way of explanation.
‘The kiln – the kiln in the woods. Have you used it yet?’ I asked urgently.
‘No, we’re nowhere near done restoring it. And we need bone-dry wood and
what’s out there isn’t—’
I cut across him. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about Anne’s disappearance, would you?’
He looked around to see who might be listening before answering. ‘No. But I’m jolly glad she did disappear. That woman was a disaster. I hope her brother takes more after his dad. Why are you asking me all this?’
‘Not sure yet. You haven’t got a torch here, have you?’
‘I have as it happens, I got it for working inside the kiln.’
It was rapidly getting dark outside as Annis and I crossed the lawn towards the black streak of woodland beyond. ‘We are looking for a dead body, aren’t we?’ Annis asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because I’m not really dressed for it. That’s more a paper-overall kind of job.’
‘I’m aware of it. You don’t have to come, I just have to check; it might be nothing.’
‘No, I’m coming,’ she said when we reached the trees. ‘Just hang on one second.’ She popped her shoes off and slipped off her tights. ‘They won’t last two minutes in there, I remember woods.’ She stuffed them into my jacket pocket. ‘Ready now.’
We hadn’t gone more than a few yards into the trees when we needed the torch. The leaves were turning but there were enough of them on the branches to make it dark and murky down here. The wind was loud in the bows above us and everything in sight moved and shifted, with the torch beam adding jumping shadows to the picture.
‘This isn’t much of a path, you know?’ Annis complained as we staggered on.
‘I know, but I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track.’ It wasn’t easy to find, but eventually I recognized the approach to the place. ‘If you see a naked man, throw a pine cone at him where it hurts, I want to hear his voice.’
‘I didn’t bring any and there’s no pine trees.’
‘Use your imagination, woman. There’s the clearing.’
And there was the kiln, a dark, mysterious hump in the bank that bisected the clearing. I focussed the spider’s web of the torch beam on to the entrance of the kiln. As in my painting it had been bricked up.
‘Chris, look,’ Annis whispered. ‘The shoes.’
‘Exactly as in my painting,’ I whispered back.
‘Shh, I can hear something,’ Annis hissed. ‘Singing?’
We tiptoed closer to the looming dome of the kiln. Annis was right, someone was singing, deep inside the kiln, in a thin, slightly flat voice. As we got close to the bricked-up entrance I was able to pick out the words:
Oh you canna shove your Grannie off a bus
Oh you canna shove your Grannie off a bus
Oh you canna shove your Grannie
‘Cos she’s your daddy’s mammy
Oh you canna shove your Grannie off a bus
It was sung to the tune of She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain.
We crouched down by the entrance. Annis picked up the shoes to inspect them, then set them down again with a what-the-hell shrug. I called: ‘Hello?’
The answer was a shriek, loud and prolonged, then Anne’s voice, hoarse but unmistakable. ‘Get me out of here! You get me out of here, you hear? Who are you?’
‘It’s me, Honeysett.’
‘About bloody time. I am starving! The bastards!’
‘Right, keep away from the entrance, we’ll try and bash it in.’
‘I can’t get at the bloody entrance or I’d have bashed it in myself by now, you stupid man.’
‘On second thoughts perhaps it would be easier if we waited until daylight …’ I suggested maliciously.
‘You get me out of here now, you hear? Now!’
‘I’m not sure why but let’s do it,’ I said to Annis. I didn’t have far to look for a suitable rock to hit the bricks with. They gave almost immediately. ‘No mortar; they just stacked them up, it’s just symbolic.’ Like so much else recently.
We pushed and pulled until the entrance was more or less clear, then I crawled through the short tunnel until I reached the chamber.
Anne, in a frazzled and filthy business suit and with a blanket over her shoulders, sat at the furthest end, hands cuffed at the front and with a chain around her waist. The chain ran to the wall and out through a gap. She looked miserable, furious and ever so slightly mad. She was surrounded by empty plastic containers, sandwich boxes and bottles of water. The place smelled bad.
‘About bloody time! Did none of you nits notice that I was missing? How could it have taken you this long to find me? I screamed myself hoarse.’
‘We thought we’d leave it to the police,’ I said sweetly. ‘Who locked you in here?’
‘How would I know? They put a filthy sack over my face. They threatened to drown me in the pond if I screamed.’
‘What did they sound like? Would you recognize them again?’
‘I doubt it. They spoke in Micky Mouse sort of comic-strip voices. But definitely students. They smelled like students. I hate the smell of students.’
‘I’m sure. I wonder what they’ve got against you? Okay, I’ll have to go out again to see where that chain leads. Won’t be a mo.’
‘You’d better not be long. I am sick of this place. Sick of the dark, sick of the smell, sick of my voice …’
‘How is she?’ Annis asked.
‘In fine fettle. They chained her up, the other end is round the back, wait here.’
‘You really know how to show a girl a good time.’
‘Ah, but you’ll never forget tonight, will you?’
‘Not for want of trying. It’s freezing out here.’
At the back of the kiln I found the chain running out from the chink in the wall; it had been wound and padlocked around a brick. It took a few blows but eventually I managed to break it into three pieces and pull the chain off. It was still a tight squeeze with the padlock on but Anne managed to drag the thing through to the inside. By the time I had made it back to the front she was already emerging from the entrance on all fours, cursing fluently and dragging her chain like a ghost in a castle. ‘My shoes!’ she greeted them like lost children and wriggled inside them. ‘Prison is too good for them. When the police find them I want them flogged. I’ll kill them! When I get my hands on the criminal creeps I’ll make them pay. Where the hell are we and how do we get out of here?’
Suddenly the impulse to shove her back inside with a fresh supply of sandwiches was overwhelming. I took a deep breath. ‘This way for Batcombe House.’
For someone who had spent days chained up in the dark, Anne Birtwhistle displayed surprising vigour. She seemed a touch deranged at that moment but a bolt cutter, a hot bath and a quick raid of Mrs Washbrook’s fridge would probably restore her to her old self, more was the pity. She stormed ahead of us across the lawns and disappeared into the house through the conservatory. Moments later a loud crash made it pretty clear that she had taken out her anger at being chained up in a kiln on the nearest piece of smashable ceramic.
The evening was now in full swing. Some of the parents had left but there was still a good crowd, and naturally the students would hang around until the last of the booze was gone, of which there was presently no danger; with Anne safely locked up a decent amount had been ordered. Annis wriggled back into her tights and we dived back into the studio. Almost immediately I was accosted by Claire, who looked like she had drunk just the right amount of red wine to be jolly, only she clearly wasn’t. She seemed agitated and angry. ‘Has Greg Landacker arrived yet?’ she asked. ‘Do you have any idea when he might get here?’
‘I doubt he will, Claire,’ I said carefully. ‘These days he doesn’t even turn up to some of his one-man shows.’
‘What? You can’t be serious!’ She was nearly shouting now. ‘But then it’s all pointless!’ She stormed past the approaching Hufnagel, knocking his brimful glass of wine over him with a deliberate slap.
‘What’s eating her?’ slurred Hufnagel, his pale blue shirt dripping with red wine. ‘Look at me. That was my last shirt with a
ll the buttons on it. I’m ruined now. Hold that.’ He thrust his now empty glass at me and stripped off his shirt. The vest he was wearing underneath had seen better days and had soaked up some of the wine too. It made him look like the victim of a stabbing.
‘You’d best soak the shirt in the sink,’ I suggested.
‘I’m going to,’ he said and turned away.
That’s when I saw it. I grabbed Annis, who had been talking to a painting student, by the arm to get her attention. ‘What now?’
Hufnagel had squeezed through the throng towards the Belfast sink in the corner; I dragged Annis after me. ‘Look. There. The tattoo on Hufnagel’s shoulder. What do you think that is?’
The tattoo was simple; a small, crude home-made thing.
‘It looks like an hourglass. Yes, it is an hourglass, not very well done. And if you look at it sideways …’
‘Then it looks like our ubiquitous I>
‘Yeah?’
‘Your tattoo.’
‘Which one? I’ve got two, only one is a rose and I couldn’t possibly show it to you here – think of the scandal.’
‘The one on your shoulder blade. What is it?’
‘Meant to be an hourglass; it’s pretty rubbish.’ He craned his neck to try and look at it. ‘Not finished either.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘A girl.’
‘What girl?’
‘That student girl, you know? The one that I got chucked out of here for. She had one too. We were very pissed and infatuated. It was meant to be a symbol of how we counted the hours and so on.’
‘Who was she? What was her name?’
‘Erm … Sara. Sara Horn. And I can tell you she certainly did …’
‘Come with me.’
‘My shirt,’ he complained as I dragged him away from the sink and out into the corridor.
I shoved him towards the wall of pinned-up photographs. ‘Find her.’
‘What, in this lot? There’s hundreds of pictures. What makes you think she’s even in one of them?’ His eyes flitted over the display.
‘Do it methodically, left-to-right.’
