A long bench seat was provided and Dylan sat to give the paintings a more leisurely inspection. Nope, they simply weren’t worth the money. They were a varied mix. Two were beach scenes, the colours pale except, on one, a bright red diamond kite and, on the other, two red-and-white striped deckchairs. Another showed a hefty lady, her skirt swirling around chubby knees, eating an ice-cream. His favourite was of a herd of sheep gathered round a red tractor. They were okay, but they weren’t anything special.
He wondered if Prue had sat on this very bench to admire her lover’s work. He’d give a lot to know what she’d been thinking as she’d looked at them. He’d give a lot more to know why she’d called her sister that same day. Had something happened here at the gallery? Something to frighten her?
He had no idea and staring at a bunch of paintings wouldn’t solve the mystery.
He wandered round the rest of the gallery then sat with a coffee in the café. Prue presumably caught the train to Manchester, walked to the gallery, checked out McIntyre’s paintings, sat here with a cappuccino before taking the train back to Dawson’s Clough. The station, the gallery—she must have been captured on CCTV a dozen times or more.
He finished his coffee and went to the main desk. Several people were leaving or arriving but the desk was quiet.
“Can I help?” a young woman asked.
Dylan gave her his best smile. “I hope so. I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of a young woman.”
The woman’s shocked expression increased with each word.
“We know she came here on the day she was killed,” Dylan said, “and it would be an enormous help if I could check your CCTV images for the day in question.”
“Sorry—we can’t let you. We’re not allowed because of the Data Protection Act. You have to apply to—”
“I know, and I will. But this is a matter of some urgency.”
“Sorry.” She folded her arms across her considerable chest as if preparing to do battle.
“No problem.” He took the photo of Prue from his pocket. He’d meant to have it enlarged, but hadn’t got round to it. “I wonder, would you remember seeing this woman?”
She took the photo from him and studied it closely, so closely that a small ray of hope flared but she soon dashed it. “Sorry. I don’t recognise her. I’ll ask my colleague.”
Half an hour later, several people had seen the photo of Prue but no one had recognised her. Dylan wasn’t too surprised.
He wandered around the gallery, showing the photo to more people, but the result was always the same—a regretful shaking of the head. Prue hadn’t been the type to kick up a fuss in the café by claiming her coffee was cold so no one would have cause to remember her.
He left the gallery and stood by the main entrance to call Frank. He explained that Prue had visited the gallery the day she died. “I need CCTV images, Frank. For the gallery and the train stations. Something made her call Maddie that day. The sisters weren’t close so I think something really bad must have happened either at the gallery, in the city or on the train home.”
“Like what?”
“God knows, but something must have happened. It would be interesting to see if she’s on camera and if she’s with anyone who—” Not ten yards from him was a familiar character. “Got to go.” Dylan snapped his phone shut. The bearded man turned, spotted him and set off at a run.
Dylan followed. “Shit!” Traffic hindered him, pedestrians got in his way, and a yappy terrier almost tripped him. He was gaining on his quarry though.
A car pulled out in front of the bearded bloke, forcing him to stop or risk getting mown down. Those extra seconds helped and Dylan was soon grabbing him by the arm, dragging him across the pavement and slamming him against a wall.
“Right, Sunshine, talk.” He could barely say the words as his out-of-condition lungs struggled to pull in air. “What were you doing at Prue Murphy’s funeral? What are you doing here? What do you know about her murder?”
The chap gazed back at him. He was as breathless as Dylan, but he was totally unfazed.
“Come on, out with it.” Dylan gave him an encouraging shake.
He was tall, about sixty, bearded, blue-grey eyes—
“Bloody hell!” It couldn’t be. Could it? As God was his witness, it bloody well was. He’d seen photos of this man. In those, he’d been clean-shaven and usually wearing a dinner jacket. He’d been smiling for cameras and raising a glass of champagne.
“You’re Jack Bloody McIntyre!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Carlton Amesbury attached the bait to the hook, put his rod in the water and waited for a fish to bite. This was his first day off work in eight and he was determined to enjoy it.
It had rained heavily all morning but, just to prove it really was spring, the sun had decided to put in an appearance this afternoon. He’d gathered rods, boxes and chair, and set off for this small lake on the edge of town.
He had it to himself because few people could be bothered with it, but it was close to home and he couldn’t afford to waste petrol going further afield.
Wendy often said he should quit moaning about the job, that he should be grateful to have it, and perhaps she was right. Uncle Jim, a traffic cop, had bought him a policeman’s helmet for his sixth birthday and Carlton had decided there and then that, one day, he’d wear the uniform himself. When he should have been studying at school, Carlton had mentally plotted his rise in the force. Promotion would follow promotion—
Twenty-four years later, he was sick of the damn uniform. There were more crooks wearing the blue than there were behind bars. What a bloody fool he’d been. He hadn’t realised that promotion depended not on what you knew but on who you knew. Nor had he realised that if you’d been born black you could forget it. There were the odd few black coppers who climbed high, but they were most likely the ones who could—and would—dish the dirt. Blackmail.
Yeah, blackmail was the only way to get on. If you had the proof and threatened to expose them for the crooks they were, you might progress. There would be hearty slaps on the back, and those at the top would make a big song and dance about your promotion. They’d happily show the world that a black man could succeed in the British police force. Of course, they wouldn’t actually utter the word black.
Carlton had a piece of ammunition but he very much doubted it would work. Frank Willoughby had been—still was—a legend at the station. Everyone thought he was the most honest, trustworthy copper who ever lived. He’d had to retire for health reasons but that didn’t stop him being treated like a hero on his many visits. He was helping a friend out, some ex-copper turned private investigator, and he’d called at the station to get up-to-date information. To Carlton’s mind, that was wrong. Police information shouldn’t leave police walls. It didn’t matter that Willoughby had been the best detective chief inspector to walk the earth. Only the facts mattered, and the facts were that Willoughby had taken a file pertaining to Prue Murphy’s murder from the station.
If he could prove it, and if he kicked up a fuss and threatened to expose those who’d let Willoughby walk out with that file, no one would give a damn if Carlton’s skin was black, white or fucking pink with yellow spots. He couldn’t prove it though. They’d all take Willoughby’s side. They’d stand united.
He put down his rod and lit a cigarette. He’d cut down to less than ten a day because he couldn’t really afford the habit. Who could? It meant that he enjoyed every single one.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of electric blue. A kingfisher. He used to come here as a kid and he’d been fascinated by the speed and colour of the bird. The sight still thrilled him.
It was a peaceful spot. There was no one in sight. His car sat alone on the small gravelled area. It was just him and the birds. And, hopefully, the fish.
Perhaps Wendy was right and he should be grateful he had a job. Maybe it wasn’t all bad. Maybe, just maybe, something would happen without him ha
ving to expose Willoughby.
He stubbed out his cigarette and put fresh bait on his hook. With luck, he’d catch something big today.
He made a good cast and waited for a fish to bite. He tried to reel in but he’d caught something, all right. He’d bet folk had been dumping rubbish. God knows what was at the bottom—old prams, shopping trolleys, who knew? There was no way he was getting his line free. He’d have to cut it.
He was reaching for his cutters when it moved. It was far too heavy for a fish—
It was no use, he’d have to cut the line. No, it was near the surface. It felt lighter now, so perhaps he could reel it in after all.
“Sweet fucking Jesus!”
He staggered back as an arm broke the surface of the water.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dylan didn’t believe this. He really didn’t believe that he was sitting in a Manchester pub with the not-so-late McIntyre.
He’d had him pinned against that wall for what had seemed an age and they’d both been breathing heavily. “You are Jack Bloody McIntyre, aren’t you?”
“Guilty,” McIntyre had replied. “And you’re Dylan Scott. I’ve admired your car. Very nice indeed.”
If he thought he was getting in Dylan’s good books by complimenting his pride and joy, he had another think coming.
“So what have you been doing at the gallery?” Dylan asked. “Admiring your paintings?”
“No.”
“What have you done? Faked your own death? Killed your old girlfriend?”
“Nothing like that.” He was well spoken and he seemed quite calm. Far calmer than Dylan at any rate.
Dylan didn’t release his grip. No way was he risking losing McIntyre again. “So what’s your story?”
“It’s a long one.” McIntyre pointed to a narrow side street. “There’s a pub down there. It’ll be packed with the scum of the earth who wouldn’t recognise a dead artist or a live private investigator.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“I’ve been watching you and I asked a few questions. I’ll buy you a drink, Dylan. I can just about afford it.”
“Too right you can. I know how much your paintings are worth.”
“They’re worth nothing to me. It’s the devil’s own job getting hold of your money when you’re dead.”
Dylan didn’t want to argue in the street, he needed a drink, several drinks, and the short walk would give him time to get his thoughts in order. The fact that McIntyre might be alive hadn’t crossed his mind and he felt like he’d been conned. He should have considered the possibility, damn it. “Come on then. Let’s have that drink. It’ll give you time to invent a good story.”
“I don’t need to invent anything...”
They’d crossed the road and walked down a narrow, busy street and here they were, in the darkest pub Dylan had ever seen. It was dingy but surprisingly busy.
They’d brought their drinks to this corner where it was unlikely anyone would be able to hear them over the hum of the TV at the other end of the bar. It was also so dark that no one would recognise them.
“So what’s it like being dead?” Dylan asked.
“Damned inconvenient.” McIntyre had bought himself whisky and he took a small sip. “It’s also necessary—for the time being, at least.”
“Why? Is this stunt supposed to increase the value of your paintings?”
“No.” McIntyre smiled at the notion. “Although I gather I’m commanding a high price.”
“Yes, well, they say fools and their money are soon parted.” Dylan had a pint of beer in front of him. He took a big swallow. It tasted flat. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Where shall I start?”
“Try the beginning, why don’t you? From the moment you met Prue Murphy.”
“Right.” McIntyre thought for long moments as if he couldn’t decide where the beginning was. “I met her in France last August when I was attending a friend’s daughter’s wedding. Caterers had been employed and Prue was working for them. There are probably worse waitresses in the world but I’ve never met one.” He smiled as he spoke. “I struck up a conversation with her and we met up the next day. She was fun to be with, we got on well, very well, and she moved in with me in September.”
That was probably a lie. Maddie and Tim had visited Prue in September. Visited her at her flat. “Go on.”
“We were happy. We were in love.” Dylan rolled his eyes, but McIntyre merely smiled. “Did you know Prue?”
“Yes. Sort of. Okay, no, not really. I knew her sister, Maddie. She’s the one who’s asked me to look into Prue’s murder.”
“Ah. And how’s Mad Maddie?”
“Do you know her?”
“Hell, no.” McIntyre grimaced. “I’ve seen photos of her so I know she’s God’s personal gift to the male population, but I never had the pleasure. She was in rehab when I was with Prue.”
“Rehab?” Dylan tried to keep the surprise from his voice, but he was struggling to keep track with the events of the last hour.
“After her nervous breakdown—or whatever it was.” McIntyre looked as puzzled as Dylan felt. “Didn’t you know about that?”
“She hasn’t mentioned it, no.”
“According to Prue—and she always referred to her sister as Mad Maddie—family members could spot the signs. Maddie would be fine, although a bit up and down emotionally, and then she’d start going downhill. It’s happened several times in the past and I gather this time was no different. Maddie took to her bed for three days—didn’t eat, drink or talk—and ended up in some place I can’t remember the name of. It’s a private clinic for the, how shall we put it, mentally fragile?”
Dylan didn’t know what to make of that. That the sisters hadn’t got along was becoming clear to him, and he wouldn’t be too surprised to learn that Maddie suffered from depression. Anyway, it wasn’t important. McIntyre’s relationship with Prue was what mattered.
“So why, if you were so in love, didn’t Prue stay with you?” he asked.
“Because she had morals, I suppose. We came from different backgrounds, and Prue—God, she insisted on paying her way in life. If I took her to dinner one night, she had to pay the next time. You would not believe the awful places I’ve eaten in. She also didn’t like being involved with a married man. Nor did she like the fact that I had a reputation for being a bit of a womaniser. On top of that lot, she believed that, one day, I’d return to the spotlight and spend my life at exhibitions and parties. It wasn’t the sort of life she wanted. I had no intention of ever returning to that life, but I couldn’t convince her of that. She decided she needed to make a fresh start for herself, far away from me. She said it was time she grew up. She was heading back to England, she said, and nothing I could say would change her mind. So I let her go. I was fairly confident she’d come back to me...” His words trailed away.
“Okay,” Dylan said, prepared to accept that for now. “So she walked out that day and met a man—who was he?”
“How do you mean, she met a man?” McIntyre’s eyes narrowed to small slits. “Where? When?”
“The day she left you.” Dylan couldn’t decide what to make of McIntyre. He didn’t trust him, but he didn’t trust a lot of people. “According to Coletta—”
“You’ve spoken to Coletta?”
“Of course. I wanted to know how Prue came to have one of your miniatures hanging on her bedroom wall. I thought it possible that she’d known you so I went and checked out your old home. I spoke to Coletta and her husband. Coletta says she saw Prue the morning she left you. Prue was supposed to be walking back to the village but she met someone. Coletta thought he might have been a tourist because Prue looked as if she was giving him directions before they walked toward the village together.”
“Perhaps he was a tourist although they’re thin on the ground in November.” McIntyre’s brows were drawn together as he took another sip of whisky. “I didn’t see Prue after she walked out of the
cottage. Within the hour, Jeremy had arrived. He’s—was my agent.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been very thorough.”
“Not thorough enough, it seems. Carry on.”
“We were friends, Jeremy and me, but I knew why he was coming. When people start making money from your work, they want you painting every minute of every day. They want a machine.”
“So you’re just a commodity.” Dylan’s heart bled for him.
“More or less, yes. The world thought I’d quit and I was happy to let them believe that, but I’d started painting again. Painting Prue. To say she was beautiful was an understatement. She had such an expressive face. So I was painting what I thought of as the Chaste Collection. I’d sketched her coy, happy, angry, sexy, timid and excited.” He emphasised each word so that Dylan understood why he’d chosen to call the paintings the Chaste Collection. “They were nowhere close to being completed and I wasn’t ready to announce their existence to the world, so I hid the paintings from Jeremy. I had a boathouse—well, you’ve probably seen it.”
Dylan nodded.
“I hid the paintings there,” McIntyre said. “Jeremy turned up and we had lunch. He tried to show me the error of my ways—told me that prices would drop, people would lose interest in my work, the usual stuff. It didn’t take too long for him to realise that I wasn’t going to even talk about painting. Once that was out of the way, we settled down to the enjoy the day. It was a lovely one too. Unseasonably warm. We wrapped up well that evening and took the boat out.”
“In the dark?”
McIntyre laughed at that. “It’s the best time. You can’t beat sailing beneath the stars.”
Yeah, yeah. “And then what happened?”
“We’d been out for about an hour, maybe even less than that, and I’d gone below to get more wine. When I returned to the deck—” He paused briefly. “It happened so quickly. A man raised a fire extinguisher and whacked Jeremy in the face, knocking him overboard. And no, I can’t say what he looked like. The deck was lit up like Oxford Street at Christmas, but he had some sort of black mask over his head. Even if I’d had time to look, I wouldn’t have come up with a description, but I didn’t have time because he came at me with the fire extinguisher. How the hell he got on the boat or managed to stay hidden for so long, I have no idea. He meant business though. He wasn’t planning on giving me a warning tap. I managed to duck so, instead of slamming the extinguisher into my head, he only caught my shoulder. That was painful enough, believe me. It also had the desired effect of knocking me off balance and into the water. I stayed under for as long as I could, but it wasn’t many seconds before my boat was speeding off to the shore.”
Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 15
