The Gallery

by Fredrica Alleyn

  The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? I thought the job was taken. Just a moment, I’ll speak to Miss Neville.’

  Cressida’s confidence drained away immediately. If the job had gone she was in serious trouble, but Sue hadn’t mentioned the possibility and she couldn’t imagine how it could have happened, unless they’d taken on a personal friend.

  As she stood by the side of the desk an immaculately groomed blonde woman in her early thirties walked down the long main area of the gallery towards them. Her caramel-coloured dress fitted her like a glove and she was fastening a matching jacket with cream-coloured spots as she moved. Cressida noted the small gold earrings, the tiny gold chain round the base of the woman’s throat, and also her rings, three on each hand. It was all expensive but plain jewellery, while her blonde hair was drawn back off her face with just a few strands falling over the right side of her forehead.

  She wasn’t as tall as Cressida but she was equally slim, except for her breasts, and they seemed strangely at odds with the rest of her. Cressida wondered if they’d had some assistance from a plastic surgeon.

  ‘Hello, I’m Marcia Neville,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I do hope Saskia here hasn’t been telling you the position’s filled?’

  Cressida glanced at the dark-haired girl. ‘Well …’

  ‘Too silly! We’ve been holding it for you, because you know Susan Hinds and she’s spoken so highly of you. Never mind, that’s the problem with temps – they get everything wrong. Come through to my office – hope fully Saskia can manage to bring us some coffee. Remember, mine’s decaffeinated, Saskia.’

  Saskia nodded, her face blank but beautiful.

  ‘There, now sit down where I can take a good look at you and tell me all about yourself,’ Marcia said with another of her practised smiles once they were in her office.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Cressida launched into her well-rehearsed tale of qualifications, past experience and burning desire to work in a gallery where new artists were given a chance to launch their careers, and all the time she talked Marcia never once took her eyes off her face.

  After she’d finished, Marcia proceeded to ask her a series of searching questions and as the time went on she became more and more grateful to Sue for her insistence on thorough preparation. When Marcia finally settled back in her chair in silence, Cressida felt exhausted by the strain of it all.

  Marcia, however, seemed very pleased. ‘Susan was right to recommend you to us,’ she said with a smile. ‘You look right, your experience is just about sufficient, and I think you probably know more about the Impressionists than Susan does. She’s stronger on the Renaissance side, but I’m sure you know that?’

  ‘I’ve always thought of the Surrealists as being Sue’s speciality,’ said Cressida, and Marcia nodded. Cressida gave a silent sigh of relief. That had clearly been a trap, and she’d negotiated it safely.

  ‘Of course, Surrealists! I was getting her confused with her predecessor,’ murmured Marcia. ‘Now, I’ve checked out your references already and they’re highly satisfactory. If I were to offer you the position, when could you start?’

  ‘I’m free from next week,’ said Cressida.

  ‘Then I suggest that you start with us on Monday morning at ten,’ said Marcia, holding out her hand. ‘I have a feeling that you’re going to fit in with us all very well, Cressida.’

  ‘I hope so,’ responded Cressida. ‘This is exactly the kind of gallery I’ve always wanted to work in.’

  ‘The owner of the gallery isn’t in the country at the moment,’ remarked Marcia, leading Cressida out into the corridor. ‘I expect Susan told you about Guy, did she?’

  ‘She mentioned him.’

  ‘Luckily he’s perfectly content to let me make decisions over staffing matters. He’s more involved with the artists and the collectors, as you’d expect.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Cressida, anxious not to show too much interest in Guy at this stage.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ queried Marcia, glancing at her watch to make it clear that if there was, Cressida had better hurry up and do so.

  ‘No, I think you covered everything,’ Cressida assured her.

  ‘That’s wonderful! It’s so unsatisfactory when you’ve got temporary staff at the desk. First impressions are very important, and you make a very good impression indeed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cressida, and with a final handshake and smile the two women parted.

  As the swing doors closed behind Cressida, Marcia Neville stood by the desk and looked down at Saskia. ‘I may have to watch that one,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s more to her than meets the eye, and Guy does like a challenge, as you well know, Saskia.’

  The dark-haired girl blushed scarlet. ‘I’d really rather not –’

  ‘Remember the other night? Yes, well, that’s perfectly understandable, although personally I found your cries of ecstasy highly arousing, even though the setting was, shall we say, a little bizarre! Incidentally, Guy asked me to give you his best wishes and to say how much he appreciates all you’ve done during your brief time at the gallery!’

  Saskia kept her eyes down until Marcia had walked away, and then stared around her. She’d always known it was only a temporary job, but she’d never expected to learn what she had during her stay. At the memory of what had taken place only two nights earlier between her, Guy Cronje and Marcia, she shivered with guilty pleasure.

  Somehow she couldn’t imagine Cressida Farleigh becoming personally involved with the mysterious and exciting owners of Room With a View – but if she did, her life would almost certainly change for ever.

  Chapter Two

  AS CRESSIDA DRESSED for her first day at the art gallery, she realised that she was feeling decidedly nervous. It was strange, because during all her time as a policewoman, and there had been some very tense moments over the years, she’d never had the sensation of butterflies dancing in her stomach before.

  Being out of uniform was part of the problem. Once she was wearing that, Cressida ceased to exist as an individual and became part of the police force instead. There was no such disguise now, nothing for her to hide behind. She had to cope as herself, and the prospect was unsettling.

  At least her clothes looked right, she thought with satisfaction. The short cropped navy-blue jacket with gold buttons sat neatly on her hips, and the matching straight skirt that rested two inches above her knees emphasised her excellent legs. She’d obeyed Sue’s instructions and was wearing opaque navy hold-ups, but as an individual touch knotted a red scarf at the base of her neck. This dash of bold colour helped lift her naturally pale skin tone and she felt quite pleased with herself. After a final check in the full-length mirror she threw a light raincoat over her arm and left the house.

  Luckily it was only a short drive to Elgin Crescent, but as usual the London traffic meant it took longer than she’d anticipated and by the time she’d found the parking space Marcia had told her was reserved for gallery employees, it was five minutes past ten. Not a very good start, she thought wryly.

  Luckily Marcia was also late, and the gallery was still locked. Five minutes passed before the blonde woman arrived, and then she didn’t bother with an apology. In fact, Marcia was surprisingly distant, and didn’t even give a smile of greeting.

  ‘Make me some coffee when you’ve put your coat and things away, would you, darling?’ she asked Cressida, lighting a cigarette. ‘You’ll find all you need in the small room behind the front desk. I like mine strong and black.’

  ‘What if anyone comes into the gallery?’ asked Cressida nervously, seeing her new employer walking off to her own office. Then you’ll have to deal with that first,’ said Marcia sharply.

  Luckily no one did come in, and Cressida was able to take Marcia her coffee quite quickly. ‘I hope it’s strong enough,’ she said with a polite smile.

  Marcia, who’d been sitting with her head in her hands, looked up and this time managed to
smile back. ‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve got such a headache I can hardly bear the light of the day.’

  She certainly didn’t look too well. There were dark circles beneath her eyes that even her make-up couldn’t conceal, and around her eyes the skin was puffy with what looked to Cressida like lack of sleep.

  Leaving Marcia to recover in her own time, Cressida returned to the desk and started going through the very comprehensive list of instructions that Sue had typed out for her. After twenty minutes, when she’d read them through twice, she left her desk and walked down the L-shaped gallery to look at the pictures.

  The walls on either side of the longest part of the L-shape were covered with fairly conventional paintings – landscapes, portraits and the occasional still life – but at the far end, where the room branched off into the bottom of the L-shape, there was an alcove, and once through that Cressida felt as though she’d entered another world.

  Both walls were covered in stark black and white sketches of men and women, but men and women as Cressida had never seen them before. The women were nearly all in chains, either sitting provocatively in chairs, naked with their wrists and ankles chained, or else suspended from doorways or wall brackets, their forward-thrusting breasts emphasised by the constraints of their chains and the careful positioning of their bodies. Each picture also contained a man, but he was always faceless, a shadowy figure secondary to the woman despite being larger and clearly in a position of power.

  She moved closer to see the name of the artist and as she did so she noticed that the expression on the faces of the women were not quite what she’d expected. There was certainly fear there, but also a strange glitter of triumph and superiority, as though they had obtained some special knowledge that nothing, not even their chains, could take away from them. She just had time to mentally file away the name of the artist, Rick Marks, when she heard the bell that went when the gallery door was opened and had to hurry out to the main desk again.

  For the next hour she was quite busy. People came in and browsed, or asked to see the latest work by their favourite artist, while others ordered well-known prints, usually by Picasso or Salvador Dali. She was searching for a supplier for Dali’s ‘Persistence of memory’ when Marcia finally emerged from her office and took over.

  ‘Go and have a break, Cressida,’ she said with a smile. ‘You deserve it. I didn’t mean to leave you to cope on your own for so long but a problem cropped up which I had to deal with immediately.’

  Cressida retreated gratefully to the back room and made some more coffee, adding cream and sugar to her own cup. After she’d drunk it she went back to the desk and Marcia glanced up from the order book.

  ‘We aren’t usually this busy on a Monday, Cressida. I hope you didn’t have too many problems?’

  Cressida shook her head. ‘Everything was fine.’

  ‘Good. I’ve had Guy on the phone. It seems that he’s promised a friend of his, Sir Peter Thornton, that his daughter can come and work at the gallery for the next few weeks while she takes time out to “find herself” – whatever that phrase means. It’s a nuisance because the girl’s only eighteen and isn’t particularly bright, but an extra pair of hands is always useful I suppose. Her name’s Leonora, and she can act as your junior. If she can “find herself” making endless cups of coffee and trying to sell some of those contemporary Parisian photographs we mistakenly decided to stock, then she’s brighter than I thought.’

  ‘Do you know her father too?’ asked Cressida.

  Marcia nodded. ‘Guy and I dine with Sir Peter and his wife about once or twice a month and I remember that Leonora was due to finish at boarding school at the end of this term. His wife isn’t Leonora’s mother, of course, she’s far too young. I think she’s the result of his second marriage. He’s had three, and it’s difficult to keep track with these men!’

  ‘Perhaps her stepmother wants her out of the way while she “finds herself”,’ suggested Cressida.

  ‘I’m sure she does. Rose is only twenty-three herself, so an eighteen-year-old stepdaughter is bound to cause trouble, but then what do these men expect? Tell me, have you had a chance to look round the gallery?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ve seen everything,’ said Cressida.

  Marcia looked thoughtfully at her. ‘What did you think of Rick’s work?’

  ‘The ones in the alcove?’ asked Cressida. Marcia nodded. ‘Well, they’re certainly powerful,’ conceded Cressida slowly, ‘but I also found them very disturbing. I don’t think I’d want one hanging on my bedroom wall.’

  ‘The perfect place, I’d have thought!’ laughed Marcia. Then she seemed to decide that wasn’t the right thing to say and stopped laughing. ‘It’s all a question of personal taste,’ she remarked briskly. ‘Personally I think he’s incredibly gifted and Guy’s convinced he’s going to be very famous indeed one day, but the dark side of his work isn’t to everyone’s taste.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop looking though,’ admitted Cressida.

  ‘Really?’ said Marcia slowly. ‘That’s interesting. I’ll tell him when he next rings. Like most artists, he’s so insecure that any praise helps him keep faith in himself.’

  It was difficult for Cressida to believe that a man who could create such powerful drawings would need anyone to boost his self-confidence, but she knew from what Sue had told her that all the artists were insecure and neurotic and clearly this Rick was no different.

  The rest of the day passed quickly. In the afternoon Cressida was joined by a young woman called Polly who was responsible for making sure all the reproduction orders went through quickly and also took orders for her own framing business which she ran from her home on the opposite side of Elgin Crescent. Cressida decided that Polly might be able to give her some useful information, and just before the gallery closed for the day she managed to engage her in conversation.

  ‘Do you know any of the artists who display here?’ she asked.

  Polly shook her head. ‘Not on a personal level. They come in from time to time and we chat, but that’s all there is to it. I’m not one of the chosen ones, if that’s what you mean!’

  ‘Chosen ones?’

  ‘Yes, Marcia and Guy take a fancy to a gallery assistant now and again, and then they take them round some of the parties and dinners where artists and collectors meet up. From what I’ve heard they’re very interesting evenings, but that’s only gossip. As I say, I’ve never been invited.’

  ‘Was the girl before me invited?’ enquired Cressida.

  Polly raised her eyebrows. ‘She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? Why not ask her?’

  Cressida cursed herself for the slip. ‘I know her family,’ she explained quickly. ‘Sue might not want to tell me everything.’

  ‘Then far be it for me to talk out of turn. I tell you who they did take a fancy to, and that was Saskia. She was just a temporary receptionist – she only did about eight weeks part-time in all – but they took her around with them almost from the day she started here. Of course, she was very attractive, and that makes all the difference to Guy Cronje.’

  ‘All the art I’ve seen here is modern. Don’t they go in for anything else?’ asked Cressida casually.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, paintings in the style of some of the Renaissance painters or –’

  ‘There’s no point,’ Polly cut in. ‘You can get prints of all the famous artists of that time. What this gallery does is offer an outlet for new artists, the greats of the future as it were. Most of our collectors have their family homes stuffed full of tiny Holbeins and Rembrandts anyway, and they’re the genuine article. Why would they want something similar by an unknown artist?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ admitted Cressida, who was beginning to wonder how the gallery could possibly be involved in any kind of fraud involving old masterpieces when they were so committed to modern works.

  ‘Your friend Sue seemed to think there must be money i
n reproduction work too. I mentioned it to Marcia. She said that wasn’t the way that Guy wanted the gallery to go, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s building up quite a nice little name for himself, not just here but in France, Italy and Germany too. Why spoil a good thing?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Cressida quickly, deciding it was time she changed the subject. ‘Rick Marks does some strange work. Does it sell well?’

  Polly smiled to herself. ‘Yes, but it’s very specialised. Some people are totally obsessed with his pictures and buy almost everything they can afford. Others refuse even to view it. I can see their point too; it’s pretty kinky, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what I think,’ admitted Cressida. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to study it more closely if I get the time.’

  ‘My partner likes his work,’ said Polly as she got up to leave. ‘He says that every picture expresses a different aspect of genuine sexuality, as opposed to society’s glamorised view of it. I say give me the glamour any day! See you tomorrow.’

  As soon as Cressida got home she punched out the number she’d been given by Inspector Cross and was immediately put through to Detective Chief Inspector Williams. She told him about her day and could tell that he was disappointed she hadn’t yet come into contact with Guy Cronje himself.

  ‘He’s been abroad,’ she explained. ‘Marcia hasn’t said when he’s due back, but to be honest, so far I haven’t seen anything that makes me think this gallery can possibly be a front for the kind of fraud you’re interested in. It doesn’t deal with that kind of clientele, and the paintings are about as far removed from Rembrandt as you can get!’

  ‘You’ve only been there a day,’ he reminded her sharply. ‘I think you can safely leave it to us to decide whether or not we have grounds for being suspicious. I don’t expect the kind of people we’re talking about to wander round the shop ordering a few prints. These are important people, and they have special relationships with Cronje.’

  ‘In that case, how am I ever going to get to meet them?’ she asked in bewilderment.