The Artisans

by J G Alva

  Aimee was silent for a moment.

  Sutton continued.

  “We had this thing in college, where we had to pick out the colours inside a shadow. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but a shadow is never just black, never just one flat colour…and people are the same. Nobody is just one thing. How hard do we really look at people? I mean, you, walking around the office…do you ever really look at the people you work with? And spend the time to wonder about who they are? They exist, they’re real, you don’t question that – and why should you – but shouldn’t you question why they are there…It’s a thought.”

  “Or a sign of a deeply distrustful nature.”

  He tilted his head toward her in acknowledgement of the merit of this statement.

  “I won’t argue with that. But I will say that, from my experience, nobody is what they say they are. They’re just pretending to be that way.”

  “So who I am pretending to be?” Aimee asked.

  How long to Bristol? They had been in the horse box for twenty minutes, so another ten at least.

  “This is a dangerous game, Aimee,” he said. “Nobody wants to hear their truth. Not really. They want to be told that the world sees them in the way they project themselves to it…not who they really are: the tell-tale ticks that give away their true, flawed nature…which in its way is more beautiful, more real, than any artificial construct.”

  “Nice manoeuvring,” she said, squeezing his hand. “But I want to know. Or at least, I want to know what you think. I can’t swear I’ll believe it…”

  He felt her smiling in the dark, but he wasn’t happy. He shook his head. He wished he’d never said anything.

  “Alright,” he said mildly. “Tell me: what do you do that’s truly yours?”

  A car horn blared outside momentarily, but it was passing at high speed, and Toby didn’t stir.

  “What?” She shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  Sutton held out a hand.

  “Just what I said: what do you do that’s yours? For example.” He paused a moment to think. “What hobbies have you got?”

  “Hobbies,” she said, amused. “You know my hobbies.”

  “Netball, badminton. Squash. All sporty stuff.”

  “That’s right.”

  “All good fun…and all good for the glands. And keeping the weight off doesn’t hurt. Nobody likes a lump.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not-“

  “No other hobbies?”

  “You know I don’t-“

  “Nothing irrational? You’re not in a choir you haven’t told me about?”

  “A choir?” She said, half-laughing. “Why would I be in a-“

  “A drama club?”

  “Drama? My God, I hardly think-“

  “Pottery?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing. But not unexpected. You are a very rational individual. Very controlled. All unnecessary frivolity has been cleanly excised. All that’s left is lean muscle.”

  Aimee was silent a moment.

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” she said eventually.

  “Well. I’m just remarking on what a rational individual you are. And how perfectly adapted to your environment you’ve made yourself. Nobody looking at you could find anything wanting. You’ve given up everything nonsensical to succeed. Because you’ve only got so much energy, so much will…and it’s best to use it where it’s most effective. Because that’s the only rational course. You’re the perfect woman: clean, attractive, fit, intelligent. And every part of you can be used by somebody for something. Your mind…your body…But…what’s left of you?”

  “I don’t-”

  “What’s left of Aimee Graham that is you? Because you didn’t kill who you were before you recognised the dimensions of the world, and responded accordingly….you just buried her. What do you want? Can you find her – can you find the true Aimee Graham? Not because it’s rational, not because it’s expected, not because it will mean you are needed, but just because you want it. For no reason that makes any sense, even to yourself.”

  Aimee shook her head.

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  He had already gone too far. The hope was always there, that someone would embrace the truth of his words rather than deny it…and swept up in that hope he could end up going over the edge of a cliff. Better to back off, and live to fight another day.

  “Alright,” Sutton said pleasantly.

  “You’re not making any sense. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “It’s fine.”

  There was a beat, and then suddenly she was leaning towards him, whisper-shouting, a ferocity so contracted and protracted that Sutton was a little shocked by its force. Occasionally, her breath buffeted his face: a pleasant effluvium of her Aimee-smell.

  “I decide what I want to do, not somebody else. How…” She drew two-three quick short breaths, like an agitated horse. “Who do you think you are to say I’m not doing exactly what I want? You don’t know me. Just because we’ve slept together a couple of times, and you’ve gone down on me and I’ve blown you-“ She remembered where she was, and cast a look back over her shoulder at Toby…but he was still out for the count. “You don’t know me, Sutton. You think you do, but you don’t. I don’t need to be needed. People don’t use me…at least not without me letting them.”

  Sutton nodded.

  “Alright.”

  “I can’t believe…” She shook her head.

  “Hey.”

  She shook her head again but said, “what?”

  “Better that, than nobody wanting you for anything at all.”

  She was silent a moment.

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me a whore.”

  “I haven’t called you a whore once. It’s you that keeps using that word.”

  “Well. It’s pretty fucking clearly implied.”

  “See?”

  “What?”

  “No one likes to hear their truth.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you for a while,” she said.

  He felt very tired then.

  “Alright.”

  “Primarily because you’re a sanctimonious asshole.”

  “That’s me. Old sanctimonious Sutton.”

  “Just don’t talk to me. Not until I can look at you without wanting to smack you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Pat went outside to make the call.

  “DCI Kent?”

  “Yes, Pat. Do you have our person?”

  “I’m in Mark, at the address. Greg Matheson is dead.”

  On the other end of the line, Kent released a breath.

  Pat tried to picture the man and what he might be doing: he would be in his study, Pat thought, in the chair by the window. Pat had been there once, five years ago. It was a nice study, with comfortable armchairs for reading, wood panelled walls, framed landscape watercolours behind the door and beside the window. Kent had a face that would have done just as well in the army as in the police force; it was that sort of face: hard; fiercely determined; rigidly disciplined. A good policeman, by all accounts…and an ambitious man. He knew Greg Matheson; that much was obvious. Pat shouldn’t have been surprised; he was the sort of man Kent would hang around with. An overachiever. Successful. An alpha male.

  Men like himself.

  “Was he our witness?” Pat asked.

  “No,” Kent said, his voice hushed. He sounded like he’d been punched. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Then who?”

  “His son. Is he there?”

  “There are two other bodies.”

  “Oh God.”

  “We’ve yet to identify them. One is a young man, eighteen or nineteen. The other is older; he’s Indian.”

  “Toby’s only sixteen.”

  “Does he have blonde hair?”

  “No. Dark.”

  “Then he’s not here.”


  Kent released another breath, this time of relief.

  “I think we can infer the Cult has him,” Pat said.

  “Can we?”

  “Well…” Pat was completely confused; he hadn’t considered anything else. “I mean, they must-“

  “I spoke to Greg, just over an hour ago,” Kent said, talking over him. He sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “He knew where the Cult was. Their current location, I mean.”

  Pat hesitated.

  “Where are they?”

  “On a farm just outside of West Kennet.”

  “We can move on them now,” Pat said, turning to look back at the bodies in the hall. “Besides kidnap, there’s murder.”

  “But can we?” Kent challenged him “Do we know they have the boy? There were other people with Greg. He had other people helping him. Are there any more bodies?”

  “No.”

  “Then there might be more witnesses.”

  “But…why haven’t they contacted us?”

  Kent let that go.

  “You’ll never prove it,” he said. “About the Cult. Not conclusively. They’ll just say one of their members was acting independently. Then where are you? The Cult will survive. You know this. I’m not telling you something you don’t already know.”

  Pat cleared his throat.

  “Yes. But if we can get the boy-“

  “He might be dead already.”

  “We don’t know that-“

  “And even if he’s not, even if by some miracle you can get him…he won’t be the most reliable witness.”

  Pat frowned.

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  Kent sighed.

  “He didn’t leave the Cult so much as he was recovered from the Cult.”

  “He didn’t leave willingly?”

  “Not strictly speaking, no. Not as far as my understanding goes. So even if you find him, and take him out of there, we have no idea what he might say. He might turn around and renounce us. Honestly, I have no idea.” Kent gave a hard sigh. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

  Pat made a face. He didn’t think there was a need to use offensive language for any reason, but he couldn’t argue with the senior man’s assessment. It was a tricky position to be in. There seemed like nowhere they could go.

  “Also, there’s another problem,” Kent said.

  Pat didn’t think he could deal with any more problems.

  “There is?”

  “Yes. Only a small number of people knew Toby was in Mark.” Kent paused before adding, “and your team was amongst them.”

  Pat felt the dread spread from his middle…like the warmth from a shot of whiskey. Of course Kent was right…but who?

  And even worse: why hadn’t he thought of it?

  He knew why: because he liked both Darren and Bob, and the thought of either one of them betraying him was too much to bear.

  “Could either one of your team be responsible for talking to the Cult?”

  “I can’t believe it,” Pat said, looking at Bob and Darren in conversation.

  But of course he could. People did strange things all the time, uncharacteristic things; if thirty two years on the police force had taught him anything, it had taught him that.

  “I know Costar pretty well,” Kent said. “He’s had something of a minor breakdown recently.”

  “His wife left him,” Pat said, the words hollow and unpleasant. But of course that wasn’t even half of what had happened…

  “What’s he been like, these past three weeks?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really? No unexplained absences?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  There was some unidentifiable noises in the background: movement; a ticking.

  “I don’t know Darren Board at all. Any unusual behaviour?”

  “No. Nothing. This is the thing: they’ve both been normal.”

  “It says here, Board’s brother died…” Kent flicked some pages; he was going through their files. “Three years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “He had an operation?”

  “There was a cyst,” Pat said, feeling like he was betraying them both as he spoke. “It burst in the middle of the operation. He died from septicaemia.”

  “He had a drink problem-“

  “Briefly. And understandable. But he’s all straightened out now. He’s a good kid. Enthusiastic. He loves the job.”

  “Okay.” More paper being turned, but when Kent spoke next, he had moved on from Pat’s team. “It may not be your guys,” he said. “Other people knew.”

  “Who?”

  “Greg’s Chief of Security: Alfred Alger. Or Greg’s second in command: Aimee Graham. I think it’s safe to assume she was helping. Greg trusted them both, but…I just don’t know.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Pat asked.

  Kent considered for a moment. Pat waited patiently.

  “We can’t really do much until we’ve identified who is talking to the Cult. So that’s got to be your primary focus for now.”

  How was he supposed to do that?

  But no sooner had the thought popped into his head, than the answer followed in its wake: by yourself.

  Besides investigating the Cult, he now had to investigate the members of his own taskforce.

  “Can you do it?” Kent asked.

  “Yes,” Pat said, but Kent would have had to be deaf not to hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

  Kent offered, “I can call Pointe. In fact, it might be better if someone independent did look into your team-“

  “No,” Pat said quickly. “No. I’ll do it.” He paused. “Anyway, Pointe might make them suspicious.”

  “Good point. Pun intended.”

  “What about the boy-“

  “Let me…handle the boy. There’s something I’m thinking of, which might be better all round…but I’ll have to check it. So leave it with me. Like I said, we don’t know if he’s even alive. We need confirmation on that front before we do anything. So leave the boy with me. And I’ll ask about the woman, see what I can find out. You need to keep an eye on your team. I mean, a close eye.”

  “What about me?” Pat asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “It could be me. I could be in communication with the Cult.”

  Kent laughed. He actually laughed.

  “No, Pat. No. Of all the people…no. You are the only one I do trust. So. Let me see what I can find out about this Aimee Graham. See if we can’t rule her out.”

  “And the Chief of Security?”

  Kent considered.

  “I’ll speak to Alfred Alger,” he said eventually. “I’ll pay him a visit. I know him a little. I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll call you again in an hour. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open. We’ll reconvene then.”

  And just like that, Kent hung up.

  ◆◆◆

  The house was on Sion Hill, and overlooked the gorge and the suspension bridge.

  The sun was just coming up when Sutton finally knocked on the door. It was a long line of terraced houses that followed the gentle roll of the hill in a curve until it reached the Avon Gorge Hotel. They were all much the same: aged stone, small wrought iron balconies on the first floor, front doors painted in bright primary colours. Sutton looked up at the sign above his head: the Lion’s Rest. It was something of a joke. As Dot put it, “my husband is always lyin’ about”.

  The door opened, and Dorothy “Dot” Salting peered owlishly out at them, a hand holding her robe closed at the throat.

  “My God, Sutton?”

  “Morning, Dot. How are you?”

  “Come here.”

  She spread her hands, and Sutton hugged her. She was a tiny woman, and had grown smaller with age: she barely reached Sutton’s collar bone.

  “It’s been years.” She looked down. “No wedding ring. You’re not married yet? What have you done to your hair?”

  “I’ve had
it cut.”

  “By a blind witch? It looks terrible. I hope you got your money back. No wonder you’re not married. You look like a beggar.”

  Sutton smiled.

  “No woman will put up with me.”

  “Oh, tush.” She batted the statement away. She reached up to pinch a lock of his hair. “I used to cut hair for my nieces and nephews. I’ll sort you out.” She peered past him. “Are these your friends?”

  “Yes. Aimee, and her son, Toby,” Sutton moved out of the way so Dot could get a better look. He felt bad about lying to the woman…but this was too complex to involve her. And she would involve herself, if they weren’t careful.

  Aimee shot him a look and then smiled at Dot.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Is your son not well?” Dot asked, with feminine concern.

  Dot had been a nurse for fifty years before retiring, and had probably seen two of everything…medically speaking.

  “Just a bug,” Aimee said, putting a protective arm around him.

  It was more than a bug, Sutton thought: shock and whatever the lingering effects of Bellafont’s special cocktail had done to his system. He looked grey and tired, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “We’re in a spot of bother,” Sutton said mildly. “We’re wondering if you have any free rooms?”

  Dot peered up at him. She knew what he did for a living, and she wasn’t fooled.

  “I currently have an empty house. So I’d welcome the company. Please. Come in.”

  Dot ran a Bed and Breakfast in Clifton; it had been her retirement plan for as long as Sutton had known her. She had bought the house in the eighties and then had spent ten years – and a considerable amount of money – converting it. Now, she had the option to offer someone a choice of five rooms, all reasonably spacious, all pleasantly decorated. It hadn’t made her rich, but she was comfortable. “It keeps me ticking over just fine,” was how she had described things to Sutton.

  Dot led them along the hall, down some steps, and along another shorter hall to a kitchen at the back. The room was redolent with the smells of coffee and freshly baked bread. There was a large white table against the wall, and on it a half empty coffee cup, three plates with the remnants of their contents, and a folded up newspaper. At the back of the kitchen, a small arched conservatory was just being touched by a lick of sunlight.