by Maxine Barry
Reeve sneered. ‘Don’t worry I will. But first, I just want to check something out,’ he said, before leaving, shouldering his way through the thrilled delegates, a look of fury and determination on his handsome face.
Annis shrugged very elegantly, smiled vaguely at her watching audience, shot Ray a thoughtful look, and left.
Outside, she headed for the Lodge and waited for Reeve to catch up with her. She wondered, vaguely, what Ray was doing with a painting in his briefcase. Something to do with the play, probably. Perhaps he’d thought up a last-minute change?
‘Hello you murderous female, you,’ a warm voice whispered in her ear and she jumped and looked around.
‘You idiot!’ she spluttered at Reeve. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that. I might extract a dagger from my sleeve and stab you.’
‘You? You’d probably miss, you clumsy so-and-so. Don’t think I didn’t notice you knocking our esteemed director for six.’
Annis laughed. ‘I know. Wasn’t it awful? Thanks for helping me cover it. Do you think they noticed?’
‘I think the men were far too busy watching your flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, to notice anything,’ Reeve drawled. ‘So what did Ray have to say? Did he haul you over the coals, or applaud us for our impressive improvisation?’
They had an hour before lunch, and without thinking about it, headed for the Fellows’ Garden, which they now thought of as their own, secret garden.
‘He didn’t say anything as a matter of fact,’ Annis murmured thoughtfully. ‘He just stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost.’
They sat down on the warm grass, in the shade of the magnificent silver birches. ‘I wonder why he was so shaken?’ Reeve said, leaning back on one elbow.
Annis smiled lovingly down at him. ‘I’ve no idea. But when his briefcase fell open, I saw a rolled-up painting. A bit strange, don’t you think?’
Reeve opened his eyes and looked at her. Then he frowned. Suddenly he remembered the feeling he’d had when he and Annis had gone to rehearsals in London that day and discovered Ray arguing with someone in the bedroom. He had the same feeling of unease now. The sensation of something being not quite right. And now this. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t like it.
‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that painting the College was good enough to take down from Hall is a really valuable picture. You heard what that fine art student said.’
Annis scowled. The last thing she wanted to talk about was a girl as pretty as that student. ‘I suppose,’ she shrugged indifferently. ‘But what are you saying? That it somehow found its way into Ray’s briefcase?’ she laughed. ‘That’s stretching your imagination a bit too far, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’ Reeve shrugged. ‘But, Annis, I don’t like this,’ he added slowly. ‘Something’s not quite right.’
‘Not quite right . . . ?’ Annis repeated softly, letting two of her fingers walk up his calf.
Reeve swallowed hard. ‘Minx,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Concentrate on the task in hand. You can ravish me later.’
‘Promises, promises,’ Annis murmured with a grin. And for the next half-an-hour, neither of them gave the painting in Ray’s briefcase another thought.
* * *
Ray was at that moment knocking on Carl Struthers’ door. It was opened almost at once.
‘You have it?’ Struthers demanded, the moment Ray stepped through the door.
‘Yes, I have it,’ Ray snapped back, slinging the briefcase on to the bed and opening it. He extracted the painting and rolled it out on the bed. A look of pure rapture crossed Struthers’ face that Ray, for some reason, found distinctly disgusting. Perhaps it was the naked greed that accompanied the look.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Struthers breathed, stroking the painting sensuously, as if it was a cat. ‘Wonderful!’
‘Glad you like it,’ Ray snarled. ‘But if you want to take possession now, I have to have the money. Cash, like we agreed.’
Carl straightened. He had a thin face, topped with dark hair and greedy eyes. His thin mouth sneered. ‘I’m hardly likely to carry that amount of money around with me.’
Ray nodded, having expected nothing else, and rolled the canvas up again. ‘Then we meet in London, as planned.’
‘Yes,’ Carl said, his eyes burning with the hot flame of obsession. Soon the painting would be all his. ‘Things have gone perfectly,’ he muttered.
Ray grunted. ‘They were going perfectly,’ he corrected.
Carl Struthers stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’ his voice cracked like a whip. ‘The painting’s ours, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, it’s ours,’ Ray said flatly. ‘But your stupidity in having me bring it back here could have cost us dearly. In the chapel, the briefcase was knocked out of my hand. It snapped open,’ Ray said, his voice spilling out in a rush. ‘Someone saw the scroll.’
‘Who?’ Struthers hissed like a lizard. ‘Who saw it?’
For a moment, Ray had no intention of telling him. Then he saw the look in the avid art collector’s eye and gulped. ‘Annis Whittington,’ he squeaked. ‘The pretty actress with black hair and the beautiful eyes. She saw it. But I’m sure she’s already forgotten all about it,’ he wheedled hopefully.
Carl Struthers said nothing, and Ray, hugging the briefcase to him, all but ran out of the room. It wasn’t in his nature to feel ashamed of himself, but as he headed back to the Raleigh to stow the painting, he began to feel worried. Very worried. But, surely, not even Carl Struthers would do anything stupid at this stage?
Back in his room, Carl Struthers stared blankly at a wall. Then his mind filled again with the vision of the Hogarth. So perfect. So utterly exquisite. Nothing must stop him gaining possession of it. Absolutely nothing! And no one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Frederica left St Bede’s for Lorcan’s house, she was livid, and driving far too fast. The two policemen who were following her in a grey car pulled off on to the side of the road at a discreet distance and watched as she marched up to the front door of an impressive white villa. She leaned her finger on the bell and held it there aggressively, fuming.
‘Better phone this in to the boss,’ the driver of the car said to his companion.
‘You think her contact’s right here in Oxford then?’ the other policeman asked, surprised.
‘Could be.’
Detective Inspector Richard Braine, contacted at home just before sitting down to his traditional Sunday roast, ignored his long-suffering wife’s indignant look and took the phone call. He recognised the address at once, told his men that it was not the drop-off point, and to keep following Miss Delacroix. Next he rang Lorcan’s number. The telephone rang and rang, but the man did not seem to be at home.
Frustrated, Frederica returned to her car and sat there, thinking. Behind her, the policemen waited patiently. He obviously wasn’t burning the canvas here then. For she had no doubt whatsoever that it was Lorcan who’d taken ‘The Old Mill and Swans’. Could he have gone back to London? She supposed his gallery would have a basement, a room where he could safely burn the painting, far away from prying eyes.
Or, perhaps, even now, he was taking it to the Art Fraud Squad? ‘No,’ she said aloud. Enough of that. Apart from anything else, the police needed to catch her in possession of the canvas in order to bring charges. The last thing Lorcan would do, if he was still working for the police, would be to steal the painting.
Suddenly, Frederica began to laugh. ‘Oh Lorcan, you crazy, gallant, wonderful fool.’ She shook her head, wiping away tears of relief. It was over at last then. Not in the way she’d planned, but then, what did it matter? She could let him have his way this time. She turned on the engine and then thought . . . where am I going? She’d intended to go home, but now . . . Lorcan would return here, to Oxford, when he was done, of that she was sure. If for no other reason than to confront her and tell her what he’d done. And her room at St Bede’s was still officially hers until Monday morning.
&nbs
p; She nodded, turned the car round, and headed back to College. She didn’t know it, but she had two very puzzled policemen to keep her company on the short journey back.
* * *
In the JCR, Reeve and Norman Rix were doing their big scene, hissing in whispers that no one, no matter how they strained their ears, could quite catch. At one point, Reeve put out a hand and physically restrained Norman from leaving.
Norman shook his head vehemently. As arranged, all the ‘employees’ of the ‘Oxford Spires Publishing Company’ stood in one group, and when both Reeve and Norman pointedly looked their way, to the frustration of the delegates, none of them could tell who the two men were looking at. Right on cue, Julie said defensively, ‘I know everyone thinks I killed John because he made me have an abortion, but I think there’s more than one killer,’ she pouted. ‘I mean, it stands to reason, it would take more than one person to steal the painting. I think those two,’ and she looked at Reeve and Norman, ‘are in this together, and planning to frame me for it.’ And she burst into hysterical tears.
Gerry turned away in scorned wife-turned-widow disgust. Annis patted her arm gently, but looked worried. The delegates conferred. Just after dinner, before the conference finally broke up, the ‘Inspector’ was due to give the final denouement. Before then, everyone had been invited to write down who they thought had killed John, and why. None of them had any idea, as yet, that they were due to be treated to the magnificent spectacle of Reeve being ‘poisoned’ with the wine!
* * *
Frederica returned to her room, and, with time hanging heavy on her hands, pulled out a paperback, as she waited restlessly for Lorcan to return. She refused to think, even for a moment, that she might never see him again. He was not the kind of man to get out when the going got tough. No. He just got tougher. Half the time she kept an ear cocked, expecting a knock on the door, and a burly policeman with a warrant for her arrest.
The afternoon wore on, and there was no knock, but no Lorcan either.
* * *
In the basement of the Greene Gallery in London, Lorcan’s eyes glowed orange in the reflected flame of the burning canvas. Frederica’s weeks and weeks of careful planning, sketching and painting, went up in flames in a remarkably short time. With the smoke curling up to the ceiling, Lorcan felt the tension slipping away at last. Now Frederica was safe. And the only thing she had to worry about was him.
He would keep her on the straight and narrow if he had to chain her to the bedpost. The thought made his body ache . . .
* * *
By two-thirty, everyone from the conference had already made their way to the park for the scheduled cricket match between the delegates and St Bede’s, even the women whose interest in cricket was zero.
The Bursar’s team, consisting of a few graduates who were still up, and several Dons, won the toss and elected to bat first for St Bede’s. The delegates had assembled a fair team from their own ranks, and soon the very English sound of a cricket match filled the somnolent afternoon air. Several tourists and local families out enjoying the sunshine soon discovered the match and sat on the grass, swelling the audience, clapping politely in all the right places.
‘I know nothing about cricket,’ one woman confessed to her companion, ‘but I could watch it all day if they all looked like him.’ She nodded towards Reeve.
The other woman turned to look at Reeve, who was standing nearby ready to field. ‘I know what you mean.’
Annis, who was sitting within eavesdropping distance, felt the dual thrill of ownership and jealousy lance through her, and she smiled softly, settling down on the grass, hands tucked behind her head.
They’d be back in London tomorrow. She wondered if he’d ask her to move in with him. It would be nice to get out of her depressing little bedsit. It would be even nicer to have a real life again. Since Reeve had come into it, she was beginning to realise how empty it had been before.
Parked in the shade of a big horse-chestnut tree out on the road, a dark-blue Mercedes, with darkened windows, waited silently. Its number plates had been smeared with mud, making them impossible to read. Inside, Carl Struthers watched the cricket match through the park railings, his fingers drumming impatiently on the edge of the steering wheel. It was baking hot in the car, but he didn’t seem to notice. In his mind’s eye, he could see again the dark-haired actress, walking hand-in-hand with her handsome companion, entering the park gates as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
His lips thinned. How dared she interfere with his plans. How dared she? Visions of the painting of Alfred Gore swam through his mind. He pictured nights and nights of sitting in the hidden, private room which housed his collection, drooling over it in pleasure. Nothing would stop him from doing that. Nothing.
Any threat simply had to be removed. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Sweat poured, unnoticed, from his forehead. The afternoon wore on.
* * *
Lorcan poured water into the grey ashes in the can, watching the water dissolve into a grey slush. He then carefully poured it down the drain. He hadn’t dared do this in Oxford. With Richard around, it was best to take no chances.
As the last of the evidence disappeared down the drain, Lorcan let out a huge sigh of relief. It was not quite four o’clock when he got into the Aston Martin and took the now familiar route back to Oxford.
* * *
Reeve made a mad dash, jumped into the air, and squarely caught the hard, round, red cricket ball. The batsman groaned as he was caught out, but left the field in good grace as the umpire indicated that it was time for the teams to change places. Reeve, who had gone to a public school that appreciated cricket, was a fair bowler, and as he began to play, interest in the game markedly perked up.
Outside, in the car, Carl Struthers sweated and waited, his eyes glimmering with dark, obsessive hatred.
On the grass, Annis turned on to her stomach and watched, with amber eyes that glowed, as her lover played cricket.
At the end of their innings, the delegates were winning by a comfortable margin. As the players shook hands with traditional sportsmanship, the spectators began to disperse, and everyone slowly made their way to the park gates and back to their rooms in time to bathe and change for dinner. Annis stayed where she was, and as Reeve walked over to her, sat up, and watched him with a secretive smile.
‘Quite the sportsman, aren’t we?’ she drawled.
Reeve grinned. ‘I’m a bit out of practice.’
‘Poor baby,’ Annis purred, holding out her hand. Reeve helped her up, and casually slung his arm across her shoulders as they walked to the gates, laughing. There, they met a mother with a double-buggy pushchair, taking pretty identical twins through the gates. Annis moved to one side and Reeve to the other to let her through, Annis emerging on to the pavement first.
‘Are we going to go back to Squitchey Lane before dinner?’ she asked over her shoulder, stepping out on to the deserted road. Reeve, who was still grinning down at the pretty twins, nodded and looked up. ‘I think so. We’ve got a few hours before the final scene.’
‘Oh yes, I’m looking forward to poisoning you!’ she called cheekily, heading across the road. Somewhere to her left a quiet engine suddenly purred into life.
Carl Struthers moved slowly away from the kerb, lining the woman up in front of him, and then, with a sudden jerk on the accelerator and a jubilant grin on his face, roared towards her. Reeve heard the change in engine pitch at the same time as Annis did. Annis’s head swung around, her black hair creating a perfect fan around her head as she swivelled. All she saw was a dark-blue shape bearing down on her at terrific speed.
Carl saw a white oval face and big, shocked eyes. He laughed. She was as good as dead.
Reeve shouted, but even as his agonised voice filled the air with her name, he was already moving. There was a short stretch of grass that led down on to the road, but he didn’t even touch it as he leapt over it, landing on the road with a jarring sensation that
rattled his teeth. But even then he kept going, moving, diving forward towards Annis, who stood frozen in the road.
Although it had been less than second it seemed like an eternity. Annis’s brain frantically assimilated all sorts of useless data, taking up precious time, as she stood rooted to the spot. She could make out the insignia of the car and thought, dazedly, ‘It’s a Mercedes.’ Her favourite car. It was so close, she could see the tiny chip marks on the front bumper. And then something hit her, propelling her forward with brutal force. She felt the air of the car rush by her legs as she flew forward, and then the heat from the exhaust.
As she hit the tarmac with a painful thump, she heard the squeal of brakes, then the sudden gunning of the motor, as the car that had missed her by inches sped away. She was aware of pain then, and a crushing weight on top of her, and found herself lying in the middle of the road, Reeve on top of her, holding her tight.
Annis, dazed, felt herself being hauled to her feet. She turned a white, shocked face to find Reeve’s face as white as her own. His dark, sapphire blue eyes were wide with shock and horror. ‘Annis, I thought I’d lost you,’ he said, his magnificent, actor’s voice for once dull and devoid of all expression except blank horror.
Suddenly he hugged her close, rocking her back and forth in his arms. ‘Annis, for pity’s sake, don’t ever do that to me again,’ he choked out.
Annis closed her eyes. She had nearly died! She hugged him back, fiercely, ignoring the bleeding scratches on her arms and legs. ‘I won’t,’ she promised him. ‘I won’t. Oh Reeve, I love you so.’
Reeve shuddered and continued to hold her, knowing he’d never let her go again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Reeve carried in a mug of coffee laced liberally with brandy, and brought it to the settee. ‘Here, drink this,’ he urged her, handing her the steaming brew.
They’d taken a taxi back to Squitchey Lane, and Reeve had insisted on carrying her inside, before going into the kitchen for a hot drink and a bowl of warm water and antiseptic. He tenderly cleaned her grazes, whilst Annis watched, wincing painfully.
