“I’ll help you get everything ready, Bev,” Frank said. “I’m surprisingly domesticated.”
“I would, too,” Dylan put in, “but Luke would never forgive me if I didn’t take him to the game.”
“It’s okay.” Bev spoke grudgingly. “Your mum’s taking charge of Freya for the day so I’ll be able to get to the supermarket and shop unhindered. You could come with me, Frank, and be responsible for choosing the wine. I wouldn’t know good from bad.”
“You can count on me,” Frank said. “It’ll be fine.”
Bev sincerely hoped so. But if she wasn’t going to be there, it hardly mattered. She could blame Dylan if it all went wrong.
“We’d better get busy, Frank,” Dylan said.
“What are you doing?” Bev asked as they began poking around in corners. “Don’t you dare make a mess—I’ve cleaned. What the hell’s going on?”
“You’re better off not knowing,” Dylan said. “Trust me, Bev.”
Chapter Forty
Dylan thought their meal had been surprisingly tasty considering he and Frank had taken orders from Bev on how and when to serve. The ordeal had been unbelievably drawn-out though. Dylan had thought they’d never make it to the coffee stage.
Maddie had flirted with him for the duration but her attentions had had zero effect. The fun-loving girl he’d known twenty years ago was long gone and the thought saddened him.
Tim Chandler and Eddie Bryson were polite and charming. Shaz, Eddie’s bimbo of a girlfriend, talked crap. She was fascinated by celebrities and celebrity gossip. She spoke of famous actresses as if she was on intimate terms with them.
Frank, like Dylan, wanted to get down to business, but Frank was blessed with patience.
So far, no one had mentioned Prue.
“I’ll get the coffee,” Frank said.
Dylan supposed that living alone had taught Frank how to be such an attentive host. He’d taken instructions from Bev and seemed to know the kitchen better than Dylan.
When Frank returned, he had coffee and chocolates that had been put in a sparkling silver bowl that Dylan had never seen before.
“It’s such a shame Bev can’t be here,” Bryson said for about the tenth time. “I bet she was looking forward to having you to herself at last, Dylan, because you haven’t been home a lot lately, have you?”
“No, but I’ve more or less finished now.”
“Oh?” Maddie was instantly alert. “How do you mean? Are you giving up?”
“I mean that I’m confident I know what happened to Prue. Proving it could be tricky but—well, we’ll have to wait and see.”
Seeing Danny Thompson and Prue’s landlord together had given him a sleepless night but, according to Thompson, they’d been having a dispute about one of Windsor’s properties. Thompson had agreed to take on the lease, thinking it would be a cheaper option for his wine bar, and Windsor had allegedly increased the rent. According to Thompson, he’d been telling Windsor where he could shove his lease.
Dylan believed his story.
“Tell us more,” Bryson said. “Of course, you mentioned those paintings of Jack McIntyre’s. Where have you hidden those?”
“There’s no need to worry about those,” Dylan said. “They’re safe enough.”
“I for one will be happy if you’ve come to the end of your investigation,” Chandler said. “I think it’s high time Prue was laid to rest. It’ll be far better for Maddie and her parents too. Perhaps they’ll be able to move on.”
“What about you, Frank?” Bryson was always keen to bring Frank into the conversation. “Are you aware of the case Dylan has been investigating?”
Frank was nibbling on a chocolate. No one else had touched one as yet. “Oh, yes.”
“Didn’t I give Frank his full title?” Dylan asked. “Of course, he’s off-duty right now but this is DCI Frank Willoughby. He’s been a great help in Prue’s case.”
Chandler, Bryson and Maddie all stared at Frank as if he’d suddenly turned green and was wearing a baseball cap with an I’m From Mars slogan printed on the peak.
“Also,” Dylan said, “it was getting to know you again, Maddie, that really helped me solve the riddle of Prue’s murder. That and talking to Clare Finch.”
“Who?” Maddie asked.
“Clare was Prue’s best friend. It was Clare who nudged me in the right direction really. Oh, I had bits and pieces, a theory of sorts, but only when I spoke to her, and she said that you’d be the very last person Prue would call if she had a problem, was I able to piece them together. I know Prue called you that day, probably as soon as she arrived home from the art gallery, but she wasn’t frightened, was she? If she’d been upset, frightened or worried about anything, she would have called her parents, a friend, maybe even Clare in Australia. No. She called you because you were connected with what was on her mind. She may have been confused. She may have been angry. But she wasn’t frightened.”
Maddie was scowling. “I thought she sounded frightened.”
“No.” Dylan picked up his coffee and took a long, slow sip. He was enjoying keeping them dangling. “Let me tell you what I think happened.”
“Please do,” Bryson said with a laugh. “You’re like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat, Dylan.”
Dylan returned his smile. “When Prue was living in France, she had a weekend visit from her sister and brother-in-law and she got drunk. She was embarrassed the next day. She was also concerned that she’d said things she shouldn’t have. She had every right to be concerned because I believe she told her brother-in-law, a man she liked and trusted, that not only was she having an affair with a famous artist but that said famous artist was painting again.”
“Did she?” Maddie demanded of Tim.
“Good God, no, of course she didn’t. I think I would have remembered her saying she knew Jack McIntyre, don’t you?”
“Of course he would, Dylan.” Maddie shook her head at Dylan. “Tim would have told me something like that. I might not have believed him but he would have told me. This is ridiculous.”
Dylan was fairly convinced that Maddie knew nothing about it. Fairly.
“Hear me out. I believe,” he said, “that Tim then told Eddie. So, we have two men with a struggling business—and yes, I’ve checked out your company—who happen to know where there are some extremely valuable paintings whose existence is fairly secret and where security is lacking. So Eddie decides to pay the artist’s home a visit. Coincidentally, he chooses a day when Jack McIntyre’s agent is also visiting. Nothing goes to plan though. When he’s walking down the deserted lane to McIntyre’s cottage, he meets Prue, who’s walking back to the village.”
“Me?” Bryson said. “You think I went to McIntyre’s place? You think I met Prue? I’ve told you, I never met Prue. I wouldn’t have known her from Adam.”
“I know,” Dylan said, “and she wouldn’t have known you from Adam, so it would have been easy for you to pretend to be a tourist. So, you pretend to be lost and walk back to the village with her. When you’ve got rid of her, you return to the cottage. By now, though, McIntyre is entertaining his agent. While waiting and thinking what to do, you pay his boat a visit. It’s less than a mile away so it passes time. When you’re poking about on that, looking for anything of value, McIntyre and his agent turn up planning to put to sea for a couple of hours. I suppose you have no choice but to hide on board. But that’s okay because you’re pretty skilled with boats, aren’t you? You used to have one, I gather. Also, I saw photos of you on board a jolly nice boat when I visited your office.”
Bryson was on his feet. “I’m sorry, but this is libellous and I’m leaving.”
“Sit down,” Frank said with the hard voice of authority.
Bryson looked at Frank, looked at the wide-eyed guests at the table and sat down.
“Actually, it’s slanderous,” Dylan said, “but humour me, will you? So you hid on McIntyre’s boat. You had plenty of time to think, didn’t you
? The paintings were valuable in their own right. They’d be difficult to sell but I’m sure you have contacts abroad. But then you thought how much more those paintings would be worth, and how much easier it would be to sell them, if McIntyre was dead. What could be better than a boating accident? So, when the time was right, you pounced. Your weapon was a fire extinguisher. You killed Jeremy Collins and then you went for Jack McIntyre and knocked him overboard.”
“Dylan,” Chandler said, aghast, “you can’t possibly come out with stuff like this and accuse Eddie of such things. How can anyone know what happened on McIntyre’s boat? It’s preposterous.”
“I know what happened because I have a witness. Believe it or not, someone was on the boat who saw the whole thing. I’ve invited him to join us for drinks and I’m surprised he isn’t here yet. I’ll send him a text.”
“This is madness,” Bryson said. “I’ve read up on McIntyre. There were only two people on the boat that night and they’re both dead. There’s no embarrassment in admitting you can’t say who killed Prue, Dylan. I imagine the police are right and she disturbed a burglar. Why not let it rest at that?”
Dylan didn’t waste his breath on answering. He was busy sending a text message.
Maddie was scowling at Dylan, presumably because she believed he’d wasted her money. Chandler looked furious, although it was impossible to tell who bore the brunt of his anger. Bryson, not surprisingly as he was the centre of attention, was blustering. He was blowing hot and cold, intrigued and angry, his face red one minute and a sickly white the next.
“I expect our guest of honour will be here in a minute,” Dylan said. “Meanwhile, let me continue. To recap, Prue had said in her drunken state that Jack McIntyre was painting again and that those paintings were in his tiny cottage on the coast. Easy, yes? Except, having arranged a very convincing boating accident and then returning to the cottage, there was no sign of any paintings, was there?”
“I refuse to—”
The doorbell silenced Bryson. He alternated between fear and confidence.
“I’ll go.” Frank was already halfway out of the room.
“This will be my witness,” Dylan said, smiling to the shocked gathering.
Dylan almost didn’t recognise the man who followed Frank into the room. He was clean-shaven and wearing a dinner jacket and looked like the artist Dylan had seen smiling for cameras at exhibitions, rather than the scruffy bearded man Dylan had taken a liking to.
Bryson leapt to his feet so suddenly that his chair crashed back onto the floor. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at but I’m not staying. This—this charade has become too childish for words. Don’t expect me to believe that this is really—I mean, any fool knows it’s some two-bit actor you’ve hired for your little game. I’m not staying.”
Frank was at the door, barring Bryson’s exit. “Sit down.”
“Who is this?” Chandler said, his face ashen.
“I’m Jack McIntyre.” McIntyre gave the guests a broad smile. “As you can see, news of my death has been greatly exaggerated.”
“You expect us to believe that this is really McIntyre?” Bryson’s tone was scoffing now. He’d finished his coffee and he reached for the wine bottle to refill his glass. “This is laughable. It’s like one of those tedious mystery weekends people pay to go on. All second-rate actors and clichés.”
“I agree that it’s all a bit clichéd,” Dylan said, “but let me continue. Having assumed that McIntyre and his agent were dead—lost at sea in a freak boating accident—you searched his cottage. You found nothing because, despite what Prue had said in her drunken state, there was nothing to find. You thought maybe Prue had the paintings, so one or both of you broke into her home and searched it. That’s probably when you lost that button, Tim.”
“Oh, no. You’re not pinning anything on me.” Chandler, usually so smooth and calm, was furious. “Okay, I’ll admit that Prue told me about the paintings and I told Eddie. And that—you have my word on this—was the last I had to do with any of it.”
“Shut up, Tim.” Bryson’s voice was becoming slurred. He’d clearly had more wine than Dylan had thought.
At least they knew that Prue had told Chandler.
“You went to Manchester and the art gallery,” Dylan addressed Bryson, “probably to see if you could find out something about those paintings. Or perhaps, as you claim, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Either way, you saw Prue. Sadly, for her, she saw you. She recognised the man who’d pretended to be a tourist on the day she left France, the day that Jack was involved in that boating accident. You made a call to Tim from the cafeteria there. Perhaps she heard you and discovered who you were. Perhaps she was about to make herself known, to tell you that she was Tim’s sister-in-law, when she realised you were the same man she’d met in France that day. I don’t know. We’ll probably never know. We do know, however, that she recognised you. You panicked and decided she had to be silenced. You broke into her home—again—and this time you killed her.”
“No!” Bryson banged a furious fist on the table, making glasses jump.
“As you left her home, in your hire car, a young boy spotted you. He was more interested in your car’s registration plate than he was in you. I couldn’t understand that until I checked and double-checked the car you were given by the hire company. The car was ordinary enough. The registration plate, however, spelled his name. KEV.”
“Jesus Christ,” Chandler muttered.
“You had a witness,” Dylan went on, “and so you went back to Dawson’s Clough to look for him. Unfortunately for him, you found him. Just like Prue, Kevin Mills had to be silenced.”
“I know nothing about any of this,” Chandler said. “Nothing at all.”
“Nor does he.” Bryson was on his feet again. “It’s a great theory, Dylan, but it’s pure fiction. Even if it was true, you wouldn’t have a hope in hell of proving any of it. Not a hope in hell. So if your little game is over, I for one am leaving. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure—”
“You’re going nowhere,” Frank told him. “There are a few detectives who want a nice long chat with you.”
“You can’t—”
“Ah, but we can,” Dylan said. “You might be right in that I won’t be able to prove any of this. However, while you’ve been eating and drinking and listening to my theory, police officers have been searching your homes—”
“Mine too?” Chandler was horrified.
Maddie’s phone rang for the third time in five minutes. She ignored it.
“Yours too, Tim. And forensics officers are going through that hire car with their box of tricks. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, Eddie, if they find anything that says Kevin Mills was in that car. It doesn’t take much—a hair, a tiny drop of blood or saliva.”
Bryson lunged at Frank in a bid for escape. Dylan had been ready for anything and he soon had Bryson pinned against the wall. He pushed the bloke’s head against it and there was a satisfying bang.
“You’re reasonably safe for the moment, Bryson.” Dylan spoke in a whisper so that his words wouldn’t be caught by the recording devices planted in the room. “But in the unlikely event of officers being unable to put you away for a very long time, I promise you this. I’ll come after you and I will personally break every bone in your detestable body. And then I will kill you.”
“You won’t prove anything!” Bryson spat in his face.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Maddie’s phone rang yet again and Chandler rounded on her. “Is it so difficult to either answer it or turn the fucking thing off?”
Chandler’s fury silenced the men. Only Maddie’s voice broke the silence as she spoke to her caller.
“I think perhaps I should go,” she said when the call ended. There was something odd about her voice. It was high-pitched and breathy, and it cracked. “I—that was my mother on the phone. My father—my father—he’s dead.”
A dozen questions kicked Dylan in
the ribs. None would be asked, or answered, however, because Maddie collapsed to the floor.
Chapter Forty-One
The taxi driver taking Dylan and Maddie to her parents’ home must have realised they weren’t candidates for sparkling conversation. Dylan was keen to talk but Maddie was incapable. Staring ahead, her expression vacant and a little disturbing, she seemed suddenly frighteningly fragile. Her hands trembled in her lap.
Police officers had arrived as they’d been picking her up off the floor. Chandler should be sitting in this taxi holding his wife’s hand and grieving for his father-in-law, but Maddie hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. Besides, he’d been arrested along with Bryson on suspicion of murder, attempted murder and a couple of dozen other charges.
Maddie hadn’t said more than half a dozen words since she’d fainted, so Dylan had no idea if Andrew Murphy was dead courtesy of a heart attack, a car accident or a mugger.
“Which house number do you want, mate?”
Dylan looked at Maddie but she gave no indication of having heard the driver.
“It’s at the far end,” Dylan said. “That’s it—next to those two tall trees.”
The taxi stopped and Dylan handed over a note. “Keep the change.”
“Yeah? Thanks, mate. Have a good evening.”
There wasn’t much hope of that. “Thanks. You too.”
Maddie looked incapable of leaving the vehicle’s warm interior so Dylan took her hand and gave her a gentle tug. Like an automaton, she got out and walked up the driveway to her parents’ house.
“Maddie!” Ruth held the door open for them and reached for her daughter, but Maddie flinched from her touch and walked along the hall and into the sitting room.
She stood in the centre of that room. She was completely still and she seemed to be listening.
“Maddie,” Ruth said again, but Maddie shook her head to ward off the distraction. Dylan was sure she was listening for something.
Then, just as she had back at Dylan’s house, she fainted.
Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 25
