You Think You Know Me
Page 1
You Think You Know Me
Clare Chase
Book 1 - London & Cambridge Mysteries
Books in series:
You Think You Know Me
A Stranger's House
One Dark Lie
Gripping Edge of Your Seat Reads!
www.choc-lit.com
Copyright © 2015 Clare Chase
Published 2015 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Clare Chase to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78189-209-1 (epub)
To Charlie, Georgie and Ros,
with very much love.
Contents
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
About the Author
More from Choc Lit
Introducing Choc Lit
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to my family for the amazing support they’ve given me, especially Charlie, Georgie and Ros for their steadfast encouragement, and Mum for acting as a one-woman PR agency. (I haven’t forgotten the photocopied Bookseller article at the family party…!) Also to Dad, Phil, David, Pat, Warty and my wider family. Massive thanks to my friends too, the Cambridge ones, the Westfield gang, the Portland ones and all elsewhere.
Before signing with Choc Lit, I received invaluable advice from the RNA’s New Writers’ Scheme. It’s also been great to get to know fellow RNA members. And in those pre-signed days, thanks also to Novelicious for shortlisting You Think You Know Me (then called Anna in the Works) for their Undiscovered prize.
And so to Choc Lit, and heartfelt thanks to the Tasting panel who gave my book the thumbs up (Sarah C, Leanne, Sandra F, Rebecca, Linda Sy, Liz G, Betty, Jane O and Margaret J). And thanks also, very much, to the entire Choc Lit team who have been truly great to work with: friendly, professional and supportive. And last but definitely not least, thanks to my fellow Chocliteers, who’ve made me feel instantly welcome.
Chapter One
It was 8 p.m. when I walked into Sebastian Rice’s gallery that Halloween. I’d come late for the event, hoping I could lose myself in the crowd.
Given the option, I would have avoided the private view altogether, but there was no wriggling out of it. The exhibition was opening in just over a week and I needed to get my article written in advance. I was meant to be whetting people’s appetites. Radley Summers, Seb’s exhibitions manager, had been enthusiastic. ‘It’ll be a whole different experience to coming along later, with the hordes,’ she’d said.
I knew that. It would be a nastier experience, where I would be expected to strut around making intelligent comments about Zachariah Shakespeare’s paintings. I’d seen a photograph of one of them beforehand and had been instantly struck dumb.
The work showed a woman and man, standing partly entwined, but where they touched there was decay. He’d painted both whole and rotting flesh perfectly, the peach and cocoa skin tones giving way to sickening blood-red, creeping with the browns and blacks of gangrene. It was horribly graphic. He certainly had talent but, with his taste in subject matter, that wasn’t a plus. Still, I would just have to make the best of it.
I was wearing a woollen mini dress – green, to match my eyes – and knee-high boots so I wouldn’t feel too much like me. Instead, I hoped the costume would instil confidence. I just had to play a part for the evening and then I could escape again. Unfortunately the boots had to have towering heels, to bring me up to normal adult height, which meant I’d be in agony before home time. It was always the same; my mother used to call me her little fairy child. Having that sort of stature was all well and good when I was eight, but less than ideal now I’d reached maturity.
I waited in the queue for the cloakroom, my coat slung over one arm. In front of me, a tall woman with spiked blonde hair was rattling on to a tiny woman in leather and four-inch stiletto heels. Watching her mouth open and close at such a speed was mesmeric.
The effect of my own clothes was ebbing away already; the brief feeling of alrightness seeping out of me as though I’d sprung a small but definite leak. The stupid thing was, I didn’t really need to talk to anyone if I didn’t want to. I could just soak up the atmosphere and then leave again. I had my interview with Shakespeare booked for the following week, so I could probably even avoid him, for now.
But the mad flurry of conversation in the room left me feeling conspicuous: a small isolated pool of silence in amongst the carrying, confident voices that filled the air.
The man after me in the line had just met a friend. They embraced, with lots of kissing on both cheeks: ‘Haven’t seen you since that awful do of Simeon’s’, ‘God! Don’t talk about it. Been looking forward to this for ages though … Did you see Désirée’s here? We’ll catch up with her in a moment. I did hear she was at that party Shakespeare threw a week ago … you know, the one that made the nationals?’
A woman with a nose ring, black mini dress and fishnets took my coat and gave me a skull and crossbones tag with the number ninety-four on it. There was no more queuing to do, and barring a sneaky spot of loitering in the ladies’ loos there was nothing for it but to go and join the melee.
A waiter put a tray of red fizzy drinks under my nose.
I raised an eyebrow and he leant forward. ‘I
t’s just Cava with food dye in it. The purple ones have got Pernod in, if you want something stronger.’
‘This’ll do fine thanks.’ All the same, I decided to keep an eye out for the purple ones, just in case.
I paused next to a group by one of the canvases and listened to their talk.
‘… epitomises the relationship between love and death,’ a man was saying, indicating the painting with an outstretched hand. It was the same one I’d seen in the photograph before I came.
Seb had been right to have the private view on Halloween. Zachariah Shakespeare’s paintings fitted the occasion perfectly. Each picture was lit from above by a clear, white light, but around the artworks lamps glowed dark red and orange. Some of the bulbs had been embedded in a false floor and everywhere they cast strange shadows, making the faces of the visitors almost as sinister as the paintings. Wherever I looked shapes distorted, heads seemed to elongate and lights danced. I made my way round the room, taking in canvases with titles such as Road Kill and Autopsy. Another, For All Time, was created entirely in shades of white and grey and stood out all the more because it left the gore behind. It showed a woman encased in ice, her face devoid of expression.
Not all of the guests were repelled. One man was so enthusiastic his companion seemed almost flattened by the force of what he had to say. I grinned in her direction but she didn’t notice.
Then, looking just over her shoulder, I realised someone else was watching the scene too: a dark-haired man, tall and broad, lounging against a pillar. After a moment he raised his eyes, caught mine and cocked an eyebrow. He held my gaze for a moment before moving off to another part of the room.
A waiter darted past with a plate of crudités. He looked edgy. At least I was having a better time than he was. It would be tense downstairs in the kitchens where Alicia was no doubt in full flow, spitting out orders. My cousin was scary enough at the best of times, and if I ever found myself quailing at the prospect of my own work, I could console myself that it couldn’t be as bad as working for her. Lodging with her was enough of a challenge to the nerves.
The gallery was stifling. The windows had been covered with reflective film – almost entirely opaque – which increased the claustrophobic atmosphere. Over at one end of the room I could see a way out. Time to investigate.
The swing doors closed quietly behind me, though they didn’t do much to keep out the din beyond. The bliss of finding myself on a landing was almost overwhelming, and would have been complete if I hadn’t known I’d have to go back in again.
My green dress contrasted my auburn hair nicely, but it was way too hot. I could feel myself becoming auburn in the face as well.
I glanced over my shoulder to check for onlookers and then rubbed at the wool where it was irritating my neck. The gentle scratching gave some relief, so I scrabbled away some more, aware I was probably leaving a mark. Never mind. I would let it fade before I faced anyone again.
I leant against the landing windowsill, bending my head forwards until it touched the cool glass. The smell of gloss paint filled my nostrils; Seb had spent a fortune recently, doing the place up. Or at least a fortune to anyone else. Small change to him.
Outside, a patch of the Thames glittered in the lights that ran along a jetty. Nearer, in the square just below, some party-goers straggled by, leaning in against each other and stumbling sideways. One was wearing some kind of monster mask. From a distance, the face looked like molten wax, reminding me of the people I’d just left in the exhibition hall, with their freakishly up-lit cheekbones.
‘Had enough?’
The voice made me jump so badly I knocked my head against the glass. Turning, I saw the man who’d caught my eye earlier. The light of the landing revealed a five o’clock shadow. His ruffled hair contrasted with his suit, but fitted with the sleep-deprived look. Still, there was a twinkle in his blue eyes.
I suddenly realised I’d been sizing him up so thoroughly I’d forgotten to speak. My embarrassment must have shown, but luckily he misread it.
‘You look guilty,’ he said. ‘Are you meant to be in there for work?’
I nodded. ‘I’m interviewing the artist in a couple of days.’
‘And you don’t fancy chatting to someone you suspect might be a latent serial killer? Don’t worry. His publicist will have the answers you need. Contact with Shakespeare should be minimal.’
I noticed he had a small scar just by his left eye, but pulled my attention back to the matter in hand. ‘You’ve met him?’
‘Lawrence has, my brother. He’s an art dealer, but he had to be with a client tonight so I’m here in his place. What will you write about the paintings, do you think?’
I shook my head. ‘God knows. They’re brilliantly done of course, but I can’t wait to get away from them.’
‘Sounds like a fair comment. Shakespeare will probably love it. I get the impression he enjoys repulsing people.’
He moved closer to me.
I was very conscious of his nearness and it took me a moment to think of something to say. ‘I still haven’t met him. I assumed he’d be in evidence.’
‘Word is he decked a man outside a restaurant at lunchtime and is helping the police with their enquiries.’
‘Blimey. And you still reckon it’s usually minimal contact as far as he’s concerned? One punch and he’s off?’
He laughed. ‘It’s probably just a publicity stunt. It all boosts the hype and avoids the risk of him turning up and demystifying himself. Do you always write about art?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m a generalist. I’m cashing in on the fact that I know Sebastian Rice. Shakespeare’s his discovery. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to work up the required enthusiasm.’
‘Hang on a moment.’ He disappeared through the swing doors into the gallery and returned with a couple of the purple drinks. ‘Here.’ He handed one to me, his fingers touching mine for a second. ‘I met someone earlier who told me that after four of these, the paintings seem quite appealing.’
‘Sure they didn’t say appalling?’
He laughed again and raised his glass to me. ‘I’m Max by the way, Max Conran.’
‘Anna Morris.’
‘So, have you known Sebastian long?’
‘Since university. Do you know him?’
‘Hardly at all. What’s he like?’
‘A charmer …’ God, after all these years that was still the first thing to come to mind. ‘Intelligent … single-minded. I guess you can just about imagine. It’s harder to catch up with him now he’s such a hotshot, but we were quite close once. I mostly deal with his publicity people these days.’
He had drained his glass and so had I, despite the knowledge of the Pernod. I had a feeling he’d be able to cope with a lot more purple drinks than I would.
Now he moved next to me, his elbow on the windowsill.
I felt light-headed and a familiar warm and unreliable sensation lit up somewhere inside me. I couldn’t put it all down to the cocktails.
His blue eyes were the sort you found yourself staring into; lulling you into a false sense of security. He smiled and I realised I’d been looking into them for slightly too long.
‘I’m glad I came now,’ he said and I turned to look outside again, my cheeks feeling hot.
As he shifted position his shoulder brushed against mine. It had a disturbing effect, as though the patch was newly sensitised. What on earth was happening to me?
He pointed down to the square below. ‘There’s a bar just off Tanner’s Yard. Let me buy you a drink?’
‘Anna Morris?’
I jumped almost as much as I had the first time. The doors from the gallery were far too quiet on their hinges. When I turned my head, a woman I didn’t recognise was looking at me, her eyebrows raised. Her smile revealed very white, but uneven, teeth. She had slanting cheekbones, a wide mouth and long eyelashes.
‘Yes?’
‘Radley Summers, Sebastian’s exhibitions manager. We’ve bee
n speaking on the phone.’ She held out a hand and I shook it, noticing the silver ring she wore on her thumb and her neat, unvarnished nails. ‘Good to meet you,’ she went on. ‘Seb pointed you out to me earlier. Look, I’m sorry to butt in, but could I have a quick word? I’ve got a bit more background for you.’
She turned to Max and he looked over towards me. ‘Come and find me when you’re ready,’ he said and disappeared, back into the orange glow of the gallery.
I spoke into the silence he’d left: ‘It’s good to meet you face to face. So, you had more information for me?’
‘Sorry,’ said Radley, ‘but that was just an excuse. I thought you might need rescuing.’
‘Rescuing?’
‘I don’t want to freak you out, but Seb has several of us watching the CCTV cameras, looking out for social wheels that need oiling, that kind of thing. It helps this sort of event go off smoothly.’
‘And you were watching me and Max Conran?’ I suddenly wondered about the scratching earlier. Radley was just the kind of woman I particularly wouldn’t like to scratch in front of.
She nodded. ‘Seb pointed you out to me quite early on. I wasn’t keeping an eye on you specifically of course, but I noticed when you nipped out here for a break. I switched screens and I could see you were just cooling off. All fine. But I’d already seen that man watching you when you were inside the exhibition.’
‘Watching me?’
‘It made me uneasy. I mean, it wasn’t as though he was just eyeing you up. It was as if … well, as if he was taking notice of what you did. Do you see what I mean?’
I thought it was a pretty fine distinction. Perhaps she just found it unbelievable that someone like Max would be interested in me.
‘And then I saw him follow you out here. He stood behind you for ages before he said anything.’ She paused. ‘I even wondered if he was going to try to steal your bag.’
I must have looked incredulous.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘it’s pretty weird. Well, the next bit’s even weirder. At that point he took out his phone. And I’d swear he took your photograph.’