McIntyre might trust the Tolmans but they worked for him. It was natural that they would be subservient, and would pander to his needs and his ego. It would be easy enough for them to work out a plot to kill him. Coletta was in the house all the time and would know his movements. Tolman lived by the sea so was sure to know how to handle McIntyre’s boat. They could easily have plotted McIntyre’s demise.
“Did the Tolmans know you hid your paintings in the boathouse?” Dylan asked.
“They didn’t know they were in the boathouse, but I told Coletta I was putting them out of sight and that she wasn’t to mention them to Jeremy. Why do you ask?” Realisation dawned and, smiling, McIntyre shook his head. “As I said, I’d trust them with my life. Literally.”
“They could have told someone,” Dylan said. “Perhaps they enjoyed working for the local celebrity and being in his confidence. They might have boasted about just how far in your confidence they were. A word or two about your paintings would have impressed a lot of people.”
“No.” McIntyre refused to believe such a thing.
“That leaves Prue then.” Dylan took a long swallow of beer. “If the Tolmans didn’t tell people you were painting again, Prue must have.”
“No.” McIntyre certainly wouldn’t believe that.
“Why not? She was young, she no doubt worshipped you and admired your work, and she must have thought her luck was in the day she hooked you.”
“I was the lucky one, Dylan.” McIntyre’s voice had chilled several degrees.
“Her sister visited her in France a couple of months before you hit the water.”
McIntyre frowned at him. “So?”
“So the sisters didn’t get along,” Dylan said. “So I’d stake my life on words being said. Maddie believed Prue was throwing her life away waiting on tables in France and would have wasted no time in telling her so. I’ll bet she was embarrassed by Prue’s situation. Perhaps Prue hurled a few words back. Maybe she told her sister that she was with a man who was richer than Maddie’s wildest dreams.”
“That’s not like Prue.”
“Maddie is a force to be reckoned with. Who knows how far she’d push someone?”
Dylan had expected a smile, or an agreement, but McIntyre merely fingered his shaggy beard.
“I remember the weekend they visited,” he said. “It was out of the blue. Long overdue, but out of the blue. I suggested they stay at the cottage and we let them know we were a couple, but Prue wouldn’t hear of it. She returned to her flat and pretended she was still living there.”
“She didn’t give up her flat when she moved in with you?”
“No. She was so anti our relationship that she was only ever staying for the weekend, then a week, then a fortnight. The only possessions she brought to the cottage were things she could pack in a rucksack and take with her. She went back to her flat and spent the weekend there with them.”
“What did she say about the visit?” Dylan asked.
“Nothing really. She said it went okay and that was all. Thinking back though, she was quieter than usual afterwards. I asked if she was okay, if anything had happened, but she said she wanted to forget all about her sister. We never spoke of it again.”
Dylan wondered if Prue had mentioned McIntyre to her sister, but it seemed unlikely. Maddie had heard of him—who hadn’t?—but she’d struggled to believe that Prue had known him. Maddie had taken that miniature and thrown it in a bag with a load of rubbish. If she’d known Prue had been involved with McIntyre, she would have assumed it was indeed one of his paintings. She would have taken much better care of it.
Maybe the man sitting opposite him right now had been so determined to retain his anonymous lifestyle that he hadn’t wanted anyone telling the world he was painting again. Perhaps, believing Prue would tell all and sundry, he’d decided to silence her.
Dylan hunted through his jacket pockets until he found the photograph he was looking for. He showed it to McIntyre. “Do you recognise this person?”
“Yes.” McIntyre looked from the photo to Dylan and back again. “I don’t remember his name—Mills, I think—but I know his body was found in a lake in Dawson’s Clough. I’ve seen that photo in all the newspapers. What does he have to do with anything?”
“I believe he saw Prue’s killer.”
“What?” McIntyre visibly reeled at the knowledge. “You think that’s why he was killed? You think Prue’s killer—”
“I do.” And it was quite possible that Dylan was enjoying a drink in his favourite pub with that killer. “Have you seen any unusual cars around? Sporty, expensive, out of the ordinary in some way?”
“Only yours. Why?”
“It’s possible that the killer was driving a car that caught Kevin Mills’s attention. He was sixteen so I’m trying to think of the type of car that might interest him. I’m not sure my Morgan would. He’d think that too old, I imagine.”
McIntyre considered that, a finger stroking his beard. “You’re thinking along the lines of a top-of-the-range Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche perhaps? Then again, it could have been an old wreck that lacked a silencer and had go-faster stripes plastered all over it.”
“I think it was unusual in some way, but yes, you could be right. A lot of kids have poor taste in cars.”
“I’ll get us another drink,” McIntyre said and Dylan nodded his thanks.
It was motive that was bugging Dylan. Assuming McIntyre’s story was true (assume nothing), it was safe to guess that his killer was driven by greed. He’d wanted to get his hands on McIntyre’s paintings, or he had paintings to sell—either way, the motive was tied up with McIntyre’s work.
The killer had needed to silence Kevin Mills. Again, the motive was fairly simple to see. Kevin had seen Prue’s killer and that killer had to make sure he didn’t tell the world.
But Prue? Only McIntyre, as far as he could tell, had a motive to kill her. If he’d believed she was on the brink of exposing him and his work, perhaps he’d decided to silence her for good. Maybe, despite his claims to the contrary, there had been plenty of contact between the two over the months.
Maddie kept popping into his head only to be dismissed. At the age of ten, eleven or twelve, she’d been photographed while looking as if she wanted to kill her sister. So what? Plenty of siblings struggled to get along. It meant nothing.
“Here we are.” McIntyre put their drinks on the table and sat down.
“Thanks.” Dylan took a swig of beer. They kept the best pint in the country in this pub, which made visits to the godforsaken north much easier. “What would have happened if Prue had left France, returned to England and told the world you were painting again?”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“How do you know?”
McIntyre smiled at that. “I knew her. I trusted her.”
“But if she had, what would have happened?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Dylan. I suppose the media would have hounded me, wanting to see my new work. I would have shown them the Chaste Collection—the paintings of Prue.”
“How would you have felt?”
McIntyre shrugged. “Betrayed, I suppose. But the Chaste Collection is my best work. Truly, I’ve never created anything like it. Probably never will again. I couldn’t have kept quiet about it. As soon as they were finished to my satisfaction, I would have exhibited those paintings.”
“Where are they now?”
“In a bank. They’re quite safe.”
Dylan was getting nowhere. His phone rang. He took it from his pocket, saw that Maddie was calling, and hit Answer.
“Hi, Maddie. What can I do for you?” He always felt the need to speak in a businesslike fashion to her. It helped keep images of blue bedrooms and smiley faces from his mind.
“Where are you?” she asked and he could hear a pout in her voice.
“In Dawson’s Clough. I’ll be here for the next couple of days. Why?”
There was a pause. “I n
eed to come up there. I’ve booked myself in at the spa and—I’ll drive up tomorrow. Shall we have lunch?”
He needed to talk to her. He had to know exactly what had happened during that weekend they spent with Prue in France.
“I can’t do lunch,” he said. “But how about dinner?”
“Even better. And then, after dinner, I’m sure we’ll find some way to pass the time.” Her voice was a purr.
“I’m sure we will, Maddie.” Dylan ended the call and looked at McIntyre. “I appear to have a date with Maddie tomorrow.”
McIntyre nodded, but didn’t comment. Dylan wondered if McIntyre and Maddie knew each other. They both claimed ignorance of the other but it was an interesting theory.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The twenty-five-mile drive into Manchester took just over an hour and they encountered rain, sunshine and snow. Bloody snow!
“I don’t suppose spring bothers springing this far north,” Dylan said, and Frank chuckled.
“Snow in April isn’t unheard of. Maybe it’s even snowing in London on you soft fucking southerners.”
“No. The sun shines on the righteous, Frank.”
The only parking option was the multi-storey car park. They left the car there and dodged the rain on the sprint to the art gallery.
Frank had the necessary paperwork—and the voice of authority—and they were soon sitting down to look through images recorded on the day Prue Murphy visited the art gallery.
Dylan had forgotten how much he hated looking at CCTV. The images were invariably crap and he often wondered if he’d recognise his own wife. The angle was always wrong, the lighting poor.
“It’s a busy place,” Frank said after a long hour had passed. “That’s surprising for a weekday. At least, it surprises me.”
“Me, too. You’d think people would have better ways to spend their time.”
Another hour passed. And another.
“There!” Dylan paused the film. “That’s definitely Prue.”
She walked through the main doors and up to the desk. She was smiling. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and her hands were deep in the pockets of her jacket.
Three hours and they’d confirmed that Prue was indeed at the art gallery on the day in question. As they’d already known that, it could hardly be classed as progress. They continued to stare at footage.
“This,” Dylan said, “has to be the most mind-numbingly awful job ever invented.”
“Agreed.”
Dylan was starving but they couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to have to come back tomorrow.
“Is that—?” Frank paused the film. “Could that be Maddie Chandler?”
“What?” Dylan peered more closely. “No. Of course not. It’s nothing like her. And how would you know what she looks like? You’ve never met her, have you?”
“No, but I’ve done a bit of research on her. There are a lot of photos of her on the internet.”
Of course there were. She was a model, or had been, and spent a lot of time in front of cameras.
“And,” Frank said, “I can’t believe she read an article that mentioned your name while she was up in Dawson’s Clough.”
Frank had mentioned that before. “Why not?”
“I checked with the paper,” Frank said. “The last article that mentioned you was printed just before Christmas.”
“So? It was probably an old paper she saw.”
“Not in the sort of hotels she stays in,” Frank said. “You might, at a push, find yesterday’s edition but not copies from months ago.”
“How else could she have found me? And why would she lie?” Dylan didn’t have time for this.
“I don’t know.” Frank nodded at the screen. “Are you sure that’s not her?”
“Yes.” The woman in front of them was tall, slim, elegant and blonde. She was wearing a long leather coat and carrying a handbag. There were similarities, but it wasn’t Maddie. Dylan was sure of it. “It was Maddie who told me Prue was here. She only knew that because she found a receipt in Prue’s coat.”
“Right.”
Dylan didn’t like Frank’s tone, but he didn’t have time to argue. Instead, they both continued to stare at images of people walking into the gallery on the day Prue was killed.
It was long, painstaking work.
“There she is.” Dylan checked the note he’d made. “Prue spent a little over two hours in the gallery.”
She’d walked in all smiles. She was hurrying out. It was impossible to see her expression because her back was to the camera. The bag was still slung over her shoulder. Her hands weren’t in her pockets because she was striding past the camera and reaching for the door. There was no one with her.
“We’re none the wiser,” Dylan said. “She came, she left. We knew that. She probably took the train home, watched TV, went to bed and disturbed a burglar.”
But that didn’t explain the attempt on McIntyre’s life. If indeed, there was such a thing.
They looked through images from different cameras for the two hours of Prue’s visit.
Just as Dylan was about to suggest they call it a day, he saw a man he thought he recognised. It was impossible to be sure, but the chap looked very familiar. He was wearing a white shirt, a dark tie and a short jacket.
“That looks like Eddie Bryson.”
“Who? Oh, Chandler’s partner? Are you sure?”
“No.” Dylan tapped his pen against his chin as he first tried to see if it really was Bryson and second, tried to work out what it meant. “If it is Bryson, I’ll bet Chandler isn’t far away. Maddie thought her husband was having an affair with Prue. Maybe—just maybe—she’s right.”
Also, if it was Bryson, perhaps Maddie wasn’t too far away.
“I’m having dinner with Maddie this evening,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“You do that. And find out where she read that article about you.”
Dylan smiled at that. “Yes, boss.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
When Dylan returned to his hotel, the receptionist handed him a note. I’m in Room 206. Ring me as soon as you arrive. Maddie xx.
He’d assumed, wrongly, that she would have checked in to the more upmarket Carlton Hotel. He wished she had.
He took the lift to his room, showered and changed, and then lay back on his bed to stare at the ceiling. Maybe if he got up close and personal with her, she’d be more forthcoming with information. He wasn’t going to leap into bed with her. Not that up close and personal. He did need her to open up though. She was the one paying him to look into her sister’s death and yet he was coming to believe that she knew a lot more than she was saying.
Even supposing it was true, she was hardly likely to broadcast the fact that she was having an affair with her husband’s business partner. Nor, having recently buried her sister, would she tell the world that she’d been unable to stand the sight of Prue.
He sat up, took his laptop from its bag and switched it on.
Information on her husband’s company was sketchy. To the casual viewer, it looked to be a highly profitable affair. He and Bryson only dealt with properties that the very rich could afford. If you wanted a luxury home in Spain or the Algarve, Tim Chandler was the expert. Dylan would dig deeper and see what he unearthed.
At six-thirty, someone knocked on his door. He knew who it was before she spoke.
“I thought you were going to call me when you got in, Dylan.”
He went to the door and held it open. She was wearing a short, figure-hugging black dress that showed off legs that went on forever. Clutched in her hand was a small black bag. Again, he was reminded of the girl he’d made love to in that blue bedroom all those years ago.
“Hi, Maddie. I was planning to call you but I had some work to do first. I’m all finished now though. Let’s go and eat, shall we?”
She leaned past him and eyed his rumpled bed. “I can think of other ways to pass the time.”
“So can I, but I need to talk to you about Prue.”
She sighed at the mention of her sister’s name. “Come on then. We’ll have drinks in the bar first.”
The bar was warm—and deserted. For the first time that Dylan could remember, no guests were sitting on stools and complaining to the barman about the weather.
Dylan ordered a pint of beer.
“Gin and tonic.” Maddie gave the barman an irresistible smile but no “please.”
As soon as their drinks were in front of them, Maddie decided they should sit on the sofa by a long, low table close to the fire. “We’ll be private here.” Her smile offered almost anything he wanted. All he wanted was the truth and he wasn’t sure that was on offer.
“Good idea.”
She sat close to him, much too close, with her arm through his so that he had to use his left arm to lift his pint.
“Right,” he said, “I need to know what happened during the weekend you visited Prue in France.”
“What?” The question took her by surprise and made her laugh. “What do you mean? Nothing happened.”
“Tell me about it. Everything you can remember. What time you arrived, what you did, who you saw, when you left, what Prue did—everything.”
“Okay, if it will make you happy. Let me think. We arrived early on the Friday evening. Maybe five or six o’clock. Prue had offered to meet us from the airport but that would have involved catching sixteen trains and four buses before we even glimpsed her flat so we hired a car and Tim drove us to her flat. She took us to a nearby pizza house for dinner. An awful place. Cheap and cheerful, Prue said. Cheap was the only accurate part of that.” She took a sip of her drink. “Are you bored yet?”
“No. Carry on. How did Prue seem to you?”
“The same as Prue always seemed. Polite, smiling, ingratiating.”
“Did anything happen during that meal?”
“Nothing. We talked about the flight, she kept saying how lovely it was to see us. Boring, boring, boring. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Go on.”
“After we’d endured our pizzas, we went back to her flat—poky doesn’t even begin to describe that—and sat about talking for an hour or so. We had a couple of glasses of wine while we caught up on each other’s news.”
Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 22
