Guns in the Gallery

by Simon Brett

  Addison Willoughby smiled a humourless smile. ‘My son has few redeeming qualities. One thing he certainly doesn’t possess is any organizational skills. The idea that he is capable of planning what sounds like a fairly complicated murder is . . . well, frankly unbelievable.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I’ve asked him about what he was doing the night Fennel died, and he says he was drinking all evening with Bonita’s son Giles.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no reason to disbelieve him. It would certainly be in character.’

  ‘Hm.’ Jude deliberately moved the conversation in another direction. ‘What about Bonita’s daughter? What happened to her?’

  ‘Ingrid? Oh, they’ve completely lost touch. Never got on well . . . you know, mothers and daughters can be a combustible mix. Ingrid moved away from home at the first opportunity she had.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to her?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. She had inherited Bonita’s talent, was a very good artist when she was a kid, so maybe she too is somewhere in the art world. Another one of those who’s realizing her potential rather than capitulating to mediocrity,’ he concluded bitterly. Jude was once again struck by how little he valued his success in the advertising business. To Addison Willoughby’s mind, anyone who wasn’t an artist was a failure.

  A wisp of a memory came into Jude’s mind and she tried to trap it. ‘Just a moment. Ingrid, Ingrid. It’s not that usual a name, but I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere recently.’ Her brows furrowed with the effort of concentration. Then it came back to her. In what turned out to be their last session Fennel Whittaker had spoken of a tutor at St Martin’s College of Art called Ingrid, a tutor whom she had ‘rated’ and who had liked her work. The link was unlikely – Ingrid was not a common name, but nor was it strikingly unusual – but everything was worth investigating.

  ‘Denzil trained at St Martin’s, didn’t he, Addison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He never mentioned a tutor called Ingrid, did he?’

  ‘No. But then again we didn’t see much of each other while he was at college. He only tended to get in touch when he needed money.’

  ‘Yes. Fennel said he was only after her money.’

  ‘Entirely possible. Denzil may be my son, but I wash my hands of any responsibility for his moral values – or lack of them.’

  ‘When we met him, he expressed the view that artists needn’t be judged by the same moral values as ordinary people.’

  Addison Willoughby nearly choked with fury at that. ‘The arrogant little shit!’

  ‘He also complained that, given how well-heeled you are, you tended to keep him rather short of funds.’

  ‘He said that, did he? Well, there may have been one or two occasions when that criticism might be justified, but that ignores the many times when I have bailed him out. I’ve just learned by experience that, however much money I give Denzil, he’ll soon be back for more. So I’ve moved towards a policy of not giving him any.’

  There was a silence. Jude looked up again at the Piccadilly snowscape. ‘That really is very good,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. It also has considerable sentimental value for us.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The first time Bonita and I . . . when we re-met after we were both married. We’d had lunch and it was snowing in London. She came back to a flat I had then and the trains were all cancelled because of the snow, so she had to stay . . . Yes, as I say, considerable sentimental value.’

  Jude understood why the picture had had pride of place in the Cornelian Gallery. And she wondered whether Bonita Green had enjoyed the irony of a work by Addison Willoughby still hanging there at the Private View surrounded by the efforts of his son.

  The advertising executive looked at his watch. ‘Look, I do have other things to do with my day, so may I ask if you have any further questions for me? You’ve already cast a bit of a damper over what should have been one of the happiest days of my life, so, as far as I’m concerned, the sooner this interview ends, the better. Which being the case, is there anything else you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jude replied. ‘How did your wife die?’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jude went back to the same coffee shop from which she’d done her earlier surveillance. If the staff thought her apparent addiction to cappuccinos odd, they gave no sign of it. This time, instead of an almond croissant, she ordered a toasted ham and cheese panini. As soon as she had given her order, she used the Ladies, for which her need had become quite urgent.

  Her suspicions about the death of Philomena Willoughby had been quickly dashed by the ungrieving widower. His wife had been suffering from cancer for some time. She had spent her last months in a hospice. That explained why Denzil had been so preoccupied with his iPhone the previous Monday. He had been waiting to hear the worst about his mother.

  Jude rang through to High Tor, and was relieved when the phone was answered. Of course, she remembered, Carole didn’t even know that she was in London, so Jude didn’t bother to tell her the events of the morning, instead saying, ‘Look, there’s something I want you to check on the laptop. Could you do that for me?’

  Carole conceded that she could, and then of course had to go upstairs. The laptop’s portability continued to be ignored.

  ‘Very well. I’m there and switched on. What do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s something about St Martin’s College of Art. I’m sure they must have a website. Can you get on to it?’

  Carole did as instructed. ‘Yes. So what do you want to know?’

  ‘If they have lists of their tutors there, can you check and see if there’s one whose first name is “Ingrid”?’

  ‘I’ll try. What’s all this in aid of, Jude?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Just see if you can find the name.’

  A long-suffering sigh from High Tor preceded the clacking of fingers on keyboard. Then, ‘Oh goodness, there are a lot of them. Every course seems to have its own army of tutors. Can you narrow down the search a bit for this Ingrid? What’s she likely to be tutoring in?’

  ‘Fine Art, maybe? Painting? Drawing? Watercolours? I don’t know.’

  ‘This could take some time.’

  ‘Call me back then.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the mobile.’ Which, to Carole’s mind, was an inadequate answer.

  It was about twenty minutes later, when Jude was wiping the cheese grease off her lips, that her neighbour rang back. ‘There’s only one,’ said Carole.

  ‘Only one Ingrid?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She’s a tutor in The Foundation Diploma Art and Design Course, and her surname’s Staunton.’

  ‘Ingrid Staunton.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, come on, Jude, who is she?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely certain, but I think she may be Bonita Green’s daughter.’

  ‘Really? That’s amazing. How have you got on to her?’

  ‘Long story. I’ll fill you in on the details later.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t even know where you’re calling from,’ said Carole plaintively.

  ‘I’m in a coffee shop in Pimlico.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ooh, one other thing . . . Could you give me the number for St Martin’s College of Art? It’ll be on the website.’

  Grudgingly, Carole did as requested. ‘I wish I knew what this was all about.’

  ‘I’ll phone you back when I’ve got something definite. Promise.’

  And the line went dead.

  Jude tried the number of the St Martin’s College of Art, but the girl who answered wouldn’t give contact details for the tutors. Which was very right and proper, but not a little frustrating.

  She was trying to think what to do next when her mobile rang. It was Carole again.

  ‘I’ve just googled “Ingrid Staunton” and found her website. She’s an artist.�
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  ‘What kind of stuff does she do?’

  ‘It says,’ replied Carole, contempt curdling her words, ‘she “plays with the defamiliarization of everyday objects until they reach a state of figurative reciprocity”.’

  Jude giggled. ‘You must get one of hers for your front room.’

  ‘Very amusing,’ said Carole drily.

  ‘Is there a photograph of her on the website? Does she look like Bonita Green?’

  ‘There isn’t a photograph.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But there are contact details for her. Including a mobile phone number.’

  ‘Great,’ said Jude.

  ‘Now will you please tell me what the hell you’re doing in Pimlico?’

  Carole Seddon felt very restless after the end of their call. In terms of their investigation, Jude, it seemed, was having all the fun. It was Jude who, on a whim, had followed Bonita Green up to London and found out what happened on her ‘special Fridays’. It was Jude who had met and interviewed Addison Willoughby. It was Jude who had got the lead to Ingrid Staunton. Carole felt marginalized and useless.

  She vented some of her spleen by cleaning the bathroom. It didn’t really need cleaning, but the task made her feel a little more virtuous. Only a little, though. There was still a deep dissatisfaction within her.

  Then she wandered back to the laptop, incarcerated in the spare room. Idly, she once again googled ‘Ingrid Staunton’, hoping to find out more about the mysterious artist. But she drew a blank. There were other references to the woman, but only names of galleries where she had exhibited and that kind of listing. Nothing that would come under the heading ‘revelatory’.

  Carole’s frustration grew. She had finished The Times crossword at breakfast. An easy one, as it usually was on a Friday, demonstrating some psychological ploy on behalf of the newspaper to cheer people up for the weekend. But that afternoon she wished the puzzle had been a stinker, something into which she could channel her anger.

  It was then that she had the idea of having another look at Denzil Willoughby’s website. Once again she tutted inwardly at the number of four-letter words the home page contained. Then she clicked on the ‘Artist at Work’ link.

  After a moment she found herself looking at the webcam’s view of the converted warehouse. The artist didn’t seem to be doing much work, because there was no sign of the two assistants to whom he delegated most of it. But there were two people in animated discussion at the far end of the space. Denzil was one, and the other Carole recognized from his photographs as Addison Willoughby. Their hairstyles seemed to symbolize the contrast between them, the father’s expensively shaped white coiffure and the son’s pale stringy dreadlocks.

  The webcam was a long way away from them and its inbuilt microphone was not very good quality, so Carole could not at first hear very well. But after boosting the sound level on her laptop up to its maximum and attuning her ears to the sound, she managed to pick up most of what they were saying. It would have helped if the two men were near enough for her to lip-read, but they were not, and anyway they kept moving about.

  ‘. . . and when I told you I was doing the exhibition at the Cornelian Gallery,’ Denzil was protesting, ‘you still didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Why should I have said anything then?’ asked his father. ‘It wasn’t as if you didn’t know Bonita. You’d seen her lots of times when you were with Giles.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Dad! None of those times did I know that she was screwing my father.’

  ‘Look, there’s no way I could have told you earlier, Denzil. Not while Philomena was still alive.’

  ‘Oh, you think now Mum’s dead, that changes everything, do you?’

  ‘Of course it does. She can no longer be hurt.’

  ‘But you were hurting every time you screwed Bonita.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Philomena didn’t know that was it was happening.’

  ‘And you think that makes it better? It was still deceit on a massive scale.’

  ‘I think it’s pretty rich, you criticizing my morals. Your own track record with women hasn’t been particularly distinguished, has it?’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’ve never married any of them, have I?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘If you don’t know the answer to that, then there’s no bloody hope for you. Mum said you were still a Catholic.’

  ‘Well, I am a kind of Catholic.’

  ‘Then you should know about the sanctity of marriage. Has it ever occurred to you, Dad –’ Denzil Willoughby managed to put a lot of sneer into the monosyllable – ‘that the reason why I haven’t got married is that I still have some respect for marriage. I wouldn’t go into it with the firm intention of screwing someone else.’

  ‘That is not how it happened.’

  ‘Oh, no? You were deceiving Mum, that’s all I know.’

  ‘But I did it discreetly. I didn’t hurt her. Would you rather I’d gone public and put your mother through the humiliation of a divorce?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would. In many ways that would have been less deceitful.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Addison Willoughby was by now almost beside himself with fury. Throughout his marriage, at great personal cost, he had done everything he could to avoid divorce and now, instead of being praised as a good Catholic, he was being condemned for his behaviour. By his son!

  ‘All you need to know, Denzil,’ he thundered, trying without success to control his anger, ‘is that I am now free to marry Bonita. And that is exactly what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Fine! By all means go ahead. Marry the woman who killed my mother!’

  ‘Bonita did not kill Philomena.’

  ‘Oh no? I’d be a bit more sure of my facts before I made a statement like that, Dad.’

  ‘Bonita would not dream of killing Philomena. She would not commit murder.’

  ‘Oh no?’ Denzil Willoughby’s mouth curled into even more of a sneer as he spat out the words, ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Jude had considered various subterfuges before she rang Ingrid Staunton’s mobile number. She knew that a good way of getting through to an artist was to pretend to be interested in commissioning a work from them. That would generally get them listening and even agreeing to meet.

  But she would have felt rather shabby, raising someone’s expectations of paid work and letting them down, so in fact when her call was answered, she just said, ‘Hello, my name’s Jude. You don’t know me, but I believe you used to tutor Fennel Whittaker.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ The voice was cultured and intelligent, but also anxious. ‘Why, has something happened to her?’

  ‘I’m afraid it has.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ said Jude, choosing her words carefully.

  Ingrid Staunton sounded genuinely shocked by the news. Jude gave very little of the background, just the fact that the death had occurred at the Whittakers’ home, and the woman needed no urging to agree to meet. She had a class to teach at two o’clock that afternoon, but would be free by three thirty. She suggested a wine bar in Theobald’s Road as a rendezvous.

  Before the art teacher arrived Jude was already ensconced with a large Chilean Chardonnay in front of her. She had switched off her mobile. The imminent encounter was important, and she didn’t want any interruptions.

  There was something in the trim build and manner of the woman who entered the wine bar that was reminiscent of Bonita Green. Her eyes were brown but the hair was short spiky blonde. On the other hand, Bonita’s hair had been dyed black for so long that perhaps it once, too, had been fair.

  Ingrid Staunton was probably late forties, which would have put her about the right age to be Giles Green’s sister. And she wore a wedding ring, which might explain the change of surname.

  But Jude was not going to start with the woman’s family history. Nor, had that been her plan, woul
d she have been allowed to. Having checked she was talking to the right person, Ingrid Staunton immediately said, ‘I’ve been thinking about Fennel ever since I got your call. She was such a talented girl. This is really tragic news. Has it only just happened?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘I’m surprised I haven’t seen anything in the press.’

  ‘Her parents have worked quite hard to keep the news quiet.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember the Whittakers. They’re good at that.’

  ‘They certainly are. Let me get you a drink.’

  ‘Something white, please. What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘Chilean Chardonnay.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Once they’d both got drinks, Jude gave Ingrid an edited version of events surrounding Fennel’s death. She noticed a definite reaction when she mentioned the Cornelian Gallery, but didn’t pick up on it. Ingrid also recognized the name of Denzil Willoughby.

  ‘I taught him for a while. Very talented, but a distinct attitude problem. More concerned about his image than the art he produces. Denzil has more natural talent for drawing and painting than anyone I’ve taught. But that wasn’t the way he wanted to go, he took the route into conceptual art, which I think is a bit of a cul-de-sac.’

  ‘For everyone?’

  ‘No, for some of them it’s good. For Denzil, though, I’m sure it’s the wrong direction. With his conceptual stuff he’s never going to be in the first rank, whereas with his drawing and painting he could be. Maybe he’ll see the light at some point, start following his instincts as an artist rather than just leaping on to the latest bandwagon.’ Ingrid Staunton sighed. ‘But I’m desperately sorry about Fennel. She had a breakdown, I know, and didn’t finish her course at St Martin’s, and I did hear a rumour that she’d made a suicide attempt back then, but I rather hoped she’d been cured. Depression is a wretched illness.’