Face in the Frame

by Heather Atkinson

  CHAPTER 15

  It wasn’t difficult to track Oliver down. Brodie found him at the exhibition, which was closed, fussing over the creepy faces with a tall, severe-looking woman with the shoulders of an Olympic shotputter.

  “You can’t come in here, the exhibition’s closed until this evening,” said Oliver when Brodie strolled into the room.

  “Are you Oliver Fender?” said Brodie, glaring down at the wee man.

  “Err…who wants to know?”

  “The name’s Brodie MacBride. I’m Cass Carlisle’s boss.”

  Sweat broke out on Oliver’s forehead. “You can’t be here,” he repeated.

  “I’d like to see you throw me out.” He looked to the blond. “You’d have more of a shot at it than him hen. You want to give us a minute?”

  “No she doesn’t. We’re working here,” babbled Oliver.

  “Of course Mr Brodie,” the woman smiled before leaving the room.

  “But…,” began Oliver helplessly.

  “I did her a favour once,” explained Brodie. “How do you think I got in here in the first place?” His smile was evil. “You forget you’re on my turf. Maybe you should have considered that before you started poking your nose into my business.”

  “Not your business. Cass’s.”

  “Same thing. She works for me. I don’t like slippery little sods sticking their big fucking beaks in where they’re not wanted. What the hell has it got to do with you anyway?”

  “Lucas is not only my client but my friend, I was protecting his interests.”

  “And what threat is Cass to his interests?”

  “I thought she was some sort of honey trap, sent in by Lucas’s competitors. There are a lot of people jealous of his success.”

  Brodie’s snort could only be classed as derisive. “What a load of shite. You want him for yourself.”

  “I do not.”

  “Course you do, it’s obvious. Well you listen to me pal, he makes Cass happy and if you in any way make her unhappy then I’ll make you unhappy.”

  “Oh yeah?” he snorted, wilting beneath Brodie’s whisky-coloured stare. “How are you going to do that? Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “An annoying little farthole with bad dress sense.”

  “Just who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

  “I’ll tell you who I am, I’m the fucking king snake around here and you are a little rat that I will swallow whole if you piss me off again.”

  “You’re joking?” he said uncertainly.

  Brodie threw back his head and released a bellow of laughter. Oliver frowned up at him before adding his own nervous laughter, looking confused. He went abruptly silent when Brodie suddenly lowered his head and scowled at him.

  “I never say anything I don’t mean. I’m not a two-faced wee shitebag like you. I don’t sneak around people’s backs snooping and causing trouble. I come at them head-on. Leave Cass alone. Lucas is lucky to have her, not the other way around.”

  “My priority is protecting my client’s interests.”

  “Why does he need protecting so badly? He’s a big boy. Or does he have skeletons in his closet that he’s anxious aren’t released?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied shiftily.

  Brodie thrust his face into his, eyes searching. “Then why are you so worried?”

  “There are some people who are curious to understand how Lucas produces the faces, how he makes them so lifelike and they’d go to any length to find out.”

  “How does he make them?” said Brodie, sensing he was on the verge of a breakthrough.

  “Sorry, trade secret.”

  “I want to know.”

  “And I can’t tell you. We can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry copying Lucas’s work.”

  “Do I look like some poncy artist?”

  “Then why do you want to know so badly?” he countered.

  “Why did you want to know about Cass so badly? Just tell me.”

  “Sorry, no can do. Threaten me all you want, I won’t tell you.”

  “I don’t threaten, I just do,” he growled, making the man swallow hard. “How does he do it?”

  “Do your worst because I’m not telling.”

  “I don’t want to know the exact process. Just tell me where he gets his inspiration from. Whose faces are they?”

  Oliver shrugged. “They were born in Lucas’s fertile imagination. They are beings created in the very depths of his mind.”

  Brodie pulled a face. “Don’t give me that load of old fanny. Just tell me straight.”

  “He makes them up,” Oliver added, speaking slowly, as though he were simple.

  “That’s better. But if he does make them up then how come some of them look like real people?”

  “He does get some inspiration from what he sees around him, like any artist and he takes casts from people’s faces. Why do you care so much anyway?”

  “I’m a nosy bastard.”

  “That I can believe,” sighed Oliver, folding his arms across his chest. “Are we done now?”

  “No,” said Brodie, thinking. He wanted answers but he didn’t want to put Lucas on the alert. No doubt this wee turd would run back to him and tell him all about the bad man who’d cornered him in his exhibition and Lucas might do something drastic, if he was guilty of what Brodie’s gut was accusing him of. Plus Cass was happy again and he didn’t want to spoil that for her.

  “Hello?” said Oliver when it appeared Brodie wasn’t going to reply.

  “I’m thinking,” he snapped before pondering for a little longer. “Does he get models to sit for him?”

  “Occasionally he might see a face that speaks to him and incorporate it into his work, then he’ll get someone to sit for him and he’ll take casts. Now that’s all I’m willing to say on the matter. Usually I don’t tell anyone that much.”

  “Why’s it such a big secret?”

  “Because there are unscrupulous people who wouldn’t hesitate to try and copy his work. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Just hold your horses there pal,” said Brodie, putting a hand on his arm. “Cass said you mentioned something about Lucas’s parents to her.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened. “I did not.”

  “Aye ya did and I want to know what’s so weird about them.”

  “I never said they were weird.”

  “You said his parents were nightmares and I want to know why.”

  “What has that got to do with you?”

  “Like I said, I’m a nosy bastard.”

  “I will not break the trust of a friend.”

  “You told that to Cass with a little arm twisting. I wonder what you’ll tell me when I start to twist your daft wee heid off.”

  “This is outrageous. Who do you think you are, coming here and threatening me? I’m leaving.”

  When he attempted to walk past Brodie a large hand clamped down on his arm.

  “We’re no’ finished wee man.”

  “Yes we are,” countered Oliver, struggling to free himself. “Emma,” he called when he realised Brodie wasn’t about to let him go.

  “She’ll only come back when I’m good and ready.”

  “I can’t believe this,” shrieked Oliver. “This is kidnap. I’ll see she loses her job for this.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You see, I’ve done a lot of favours for a lot of powerful people in this city and you’re a fucking visitor. Who do you think they’re going to want to keep happy?”

  “They’ll soon change their minds when I threaten to pull the exhibition.”

  “Like they’ll give a shit. Everyone has their secrets and I help people protect theirs. Who’s more valuable to them? Me or you, with a bunch of faces stuck on a wall?”

  Oliver hesitated, thinking this over before saying, “fine. His parents are odd to say the least.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  Brodie rolled his eyes. “How are th
ey odd?”

  “Lucas comes from a wealthy family. No one’s really sure where they got their money from. Some say they’re criminals.”

  “What sort of criminals?” said an eager Brodie. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

  Oliver shrugged. “Fraud, burglary, drug dealing. The theories are varied. I don’t think they are criminals, I think they just inherited but because they’re vastly unpleasant people everyone decided to make up nasty stories about them.”

  “So how are they unpleasant?”

  “Just full of vicious comments. As soon as I walked into the house Lucas’s dad called me The Ferret.”

  Brodie released a chuckle. “I’m starting to like him already.”

  “If you want me to give you information then you’d better start being more pleasant to me.”

  “Just get on with it.”

  Oliver sighed wearily. “Brenda, Lucas’s mother, is enormous. Obese isn’t the word. She sits in her specially adapted chair in a room downstairs that has also been adapted for her because her heart couldn’t stand the strain of walking up the stairs. She seems to be under the impression that she’s royalty, barking orders at everyone. I feel sorry for their staff. They live in a huge house and they have an army of servants who they treat like rubbish. She even talks to Lucas like he’s nothing when he visits, which he does dutifully every six months. He couldn’t stand any more than that. There’s only one person Brenda actually likes and that’s her husband and Lucas’s father, Derek. No wonder she thinks she’s royalty because he treats her like she is. He’ll buy her anything and do anything she wants, including berating his own son for nothing.”

  “So Lucas’s parents put him down?”

  “It’s horrible. They call him all sorts of names - useless, untalented, ugly, pathetic. No matter what amazing work he produces, how much money he earns and how famous he becomes it’s never good enough. His dad makes out as though they’re trying to keep their son’s feet on the ground but it’s just an excuse to put him down. I’m sure they enjoy it.”

  “Why?” said Brodie, genuinely interested.

  “Because they’ve done nothing but sit around on their arses their entire lives, achieving nothing except making everyone they come into contact with hate them. They’re jealous but they’d never admit it. Honestly, I don’t know how Lucas has become the man he is today after growing up in that nightmare house.”

  “Where is the house?”

  “An isolated mansion in Kent.” Oliver paused to regard him with big, startled eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re going out there.”

  “What a great idea. I think I just might,” he replied although he’d already decided on this course of action the second Oliver had started talking about Lucas’s mummy and daddy.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “How no?”

  “Because…because…”

  “Lucas might find out you’re a grassing wee toerag? That’s your problem, no’ mine.”

  With that Brodie turned on his heel.

  “Wait, you can’t,” exclaimed Oliver, making chase.

  Brodie halted, almost causing Oliver to run into the back of him. “And why not?”

  “Why are you so interested in Lucas anyway? I don’t understand.”

  “Because the pair of you scream dodgy and I will find out what you’re hiding.”

  “Are you mad? We’re not hiding anything.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ll keep this conversation between the two of us.”

  “I’m not going to tell Lucas, do you think I’ve got a death wish or something?”

  Brodie went rigid, eyes blazing. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Oliver’s eyes darted from side to side as he backed away. “Nothing.”

  “Does Lucas have a temper?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all.”

  “Does he get violent regularly?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Does he lash out if you piss him off? Tell me,” he barked in Oliver’s face, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him closer.

  “He can get angry, like everyone else.”

  “Has he ever hit you?”

  “No.”

  Brodie’s stare was cold. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well it’s true. Get your hands off me,” he said, writhing on the end of Brodie’s hand like a fish on a hook, unable to escape.

  “Does he get violent?”

  “Worried about that little tramp who works for you? You’re in love with her, aren’t you? That’s why you’re going to all this trouble.”

  “In our line of work we have to look out for each other. She has my back and I have hers and if anyone hurts her I will remove their genitals with a rusty knife and stuff them down their throat.”

  “It’s more than that. You’re a man possessed. The only thing that has that effect is love.”

  “Shut that huge fucking gob of yours before I stick my fist in it.” He shoved Oliver away contemptuously. “Prick,” he yelled at him before stalking out.

  “What do you mean you’re going to Kent?” said Cass.

  “I’ve been asked to sort something out for someone and I need to go,” replied Brodie. “I’m booked on a flight in the morning.”

  “What about all the work we’ve got on at the moment, not to mention all that business with the McVays?”

  “I’ll only be gone one night, it’ll be fine.”

  “I hope this is important,” she tutted.

  “It is.”

  “Is it dangerous? Do you need any back-up?”

  “No, it’s nothing to worry about. I just need some information.”

  “Then send Christian or Ross.”

  “You’re joking. I’ll be lucky if they find Kent.”

  “They’re good investigators.”

  “They are when they engage their bloody brains, which isn’t often. Any problems just give me a bell.”

  “I think this is the wrong time for you to be swanning off.”

  “I’ll be back before anyone notices. I really need to do this Cass.”

  “Alright, if you say so,” she sighed.

  “Remember I’m just at the end of the phone. How are things between you and Lucas?”

  “You mean the elf?” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “They’re great, thank you.”

  “He’s not upset you again?”

  “He’s not had time. We only had lunch together.”

  “If he does just let me know hen and I’ll pull his wee balls off.”

  “And thank you for that,” she said flatly. “Go on, boost yourself then. The sooner you leave the sooner you can get back.”

  “You going to miss me?” he grinned.

  “Don’t I always? Especially when we’ve got psychotic gangsters on our tails.”

  “The McVays are only concerned with me. They won’t bother you.”

  “I hope you’re right. Safe trip Bossman and if you need any back-up just let me know.”

  “I will,” he replied with a fond smile.

  Brodie was in Kent by lunchtime the following day. The flight from Glasgow to Gatwick only took an hour and a half and Edenbridge - where Ma and Pa Thorne lived - was only twenty five miles from London.

  His stomach rumbled as he climbed the steep, winding road that led up to Thorne Manor, a grim medieval mansion that scowled down on the pretty little market town. The sun darted behind a menacing grey cloud and he clutched his jacket around himself tighter as a chilly breeze blew, the only sound the tramp of his feet as he made his way up the uneven track. The house loomed on the summit above him, the guttering lined with crows and he was sure there was hunger in their eyes. Pausing, he turned to look back down the hill at Edenbridge laid out before him, the sun shining down on it, looking all pretty and inviting. Brodie thought himself mad when he turned back round and carried on tramping up the hill towards the monstrous mansion. But then again, he would do
anything for Cass.

  He stared at the huge oak front door of Thorne Manor, which looked like it had been there since the Norman conquest and lifted the heavy black iron knocker. The thump reverberated right through the house, so loud it startled the crows, sending them up into the air, squawking.

  “Jeezo, this place gives me the fear,” he whispered to himself seconds before a harassed-looking girl opened the door dressed in grey jogging bottoms and a red t-shirt, mousy hair scraped back off her pixie face.

  “What do you want?” demanded the girl, clutching a duster.

  “I want to see Mr and Mrs Thorne.”

  “Why?”

  “None of your business hen. Are they in?”

  “Yes but they don’t like visitors, especially unexpected ones.”

  “They’ll want to see me.”

  “Why?”

  Brodie had no idea. “Just tell them I’m here,” he barked, losing his patience, thrusting one of his business cards at her.

  She frowned at it suspiciously before accepting it. “I’ll tell them you’re here but don’t hold your breath.”

  “I’ll wait inside if it’s all the same to you,” he said, hastily stepping inside when she attempted to shut the door in his face.

  “Whatever,” she said before wandering off, leaving him alone in the hallway, which was creepier than the exterior. It looked like an overstuffed museum, every spare inch taken up with suits of armour, stuffed birds and animals, dusty old paintings and swords hanging from the walls. He recoiled when he turned and was confronted by a screeching hawk, glassy eyes wide, beak open, as though it was about to swoop down on something. The pointed beak missed his right eye by millimetres. He was still staring at the macabre trophy taken by some brain-dead hunter when the girl returned, looking stunned.