‘Yes, immensely. I’m fascinated by the work that’s on display here. In fact, I’m hoping to meet one of the artists today.’
‘Which artist is that?’
‘Rick Marks. If you want to see his work it’s down the far end in the sectioned-off area. It’s the kind of work that some people might find disturbing – that’s why it’s kept separate.’
‘But it doesn’t shock you?’
Cressida shook her head. ‘No, although it does make me feel very strange.’
‘Nice strange or nasty strange?’ he asked with interest.
‘I can’t work it out.’ said Cressida. ‘At first I thought it was too male dominated to be erotic from a female point of view, but the more I look at it the more I think I got it wrong first time round. I believe the artist is really saying that women hold the balance of power in sexual relationships, while men believe that they do. If you’ve got time, go and see what you think,’ she added as Marcia came out of her office.
‘I don’t need to,’ said the young man. ‘I drew them, and your second appraisal is the correct one. Love the outfit,’ he added, and then with a wink at her he followed Marcia back to her room.
Through her police work Cressida had long ago learnt that it was a mistake to judge people by appearances, but just the same, reconciling the open, fresh-faced amiable bear of a young man that she’d just met with the dark broodingly erotic pictures he drew was almost impossible. If Guy Cronje had drawn them it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least, but Rick Marks didn’t look as though he was an artist at all.
She was surprised at how much she’d liked him, and pleased that she’d chosen her cream linen shift dress with a matching waffle-textured tunic-style jacket, covered in pink and yellow flowers. It was going to be difficult for her when she had to wear her uniform every day. The upmarket clothes required for her present job were definitely gaining in appeal, and she knew that they suited her.
She was busy for the next hour and when Rick Marks emerged again he hung around, waiting until she’d finished dealing with a prospective buyer. ‘How are you fixed for lunch?’ he asked casually.
Cressida would have loved to have lunch with him, and knew that her superiors would approve as well, but if she didn’t make her telephone call about the customer she’d invented earlier, she had a feeling Marcia might tell Guy that she had doubts about her, which meant the call had to come first.
‘Sorry, I’m spoken for,’ she said with a regretful smile.
‘Permanently?’ asked Rick.
Cressida shook her head. ‘Absolutely not! I’m rather keen on keeping my freedom for a few more years yet, but I’ve already made arrangements for lunch today.’
‘How about dinner then? Where do you live? I could pick you up at eight and we’ll go to my favourite bistro at Covent Garden. They let me eat there for nothing because I did a free mural for them before they opened.’
‘I don’t think you’re meant to tell your dates that you’re getting their food free!’ laughed Cressida.
‘I’m making sure you know I’m a poverty-stricken struggling artist,’ said Rick with a grin.
‘Not for long, according to Guy,’ retorted Cressida. ‘He thinks a lot of your work.’
‘Yes, but that’s because he thinks he can make a lot of money from it,’ said Rick. ‘I value your opinion more.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere!’ laughed Cressida. ‘All right, let’s say eight tonight. Here, I’ll write down my address for you.’
As she was scribbling on her pad, Marcia came up behind Rick. ‘What’s this then?’
‘I’m taking Cressida out to dinner tonight. She seems a very discerning young woman and doesn’t look as though she eats too much,’ responded Rick.
Marcia nodded in approval. ‘She’s certainly a hard worker. She may even fire you with enthusiasm for the new series Guy wants. Incidentally, Cressida, has that man called back about the restoration of his Matisse?’
‘Not yet,’ said Cressida, keeping her head bent over her pad.
‘Well, make sure you tell me when he does. And don’t forget that Leonora Thornton starts with us this afternoon. You’ll have to find something for her to do that makes her feel useful, but nothing too complicated. Her stepmother says she’s got the attention span of a two-year-old.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve got to cut your lunch date short,’ said Rick sympathetically as he left.
‘You’re a busy girl,’ said Marcia. ‘A lunch date and a dinner date on the same day. I always did say still waters ran deep.’
‘My lunch date isn’t very exciting,’ Cressida said quickly. ‘He’s more of a friend than a lover now. You know how it is.’
‘Not really,’ said Marcia. ‘When I stop being a man’s lover then I lose interest in him as a friend. Let’s be honest, most of the men we fancy aren’t chosen because of their “friendly” qualities! Personally I like men who are dangerous as lovers. Men like that aren’t usually interested in being “friends” once an affair’s over either. Maybe you prefer a different type of man though?’
‘I probably do,’ said Cressida, wishing they could get off the subject of her non-existent lunch date. ‘I go for men who make me feel safe and cherished.’
‘You’re much too young for that,’ exclaimed Marcia in mock horror. ‘Mind you, if that’s what turns you on, make sure the man in question is both elderly and rich. That way you can have your fun later on. Rich women of a certain age never have any problem in finding a gorgeous young man.’
‘I wouldn’t pay for sex!’ said Cressida, genuinely shocked by the prospect.
‘Why not? Plenty of men do, often when they marry their third or fourth young wife as they go into their sixties! I expect they pretend it’s love, but deep down they must know the truth. We see a lot of that with the people we deal with. Men who can afford expensive art collections are usually well past their prime, but never without a lithe beauty on their arm, I can assure you. Remember now, let me know when the Matisse owner calls, and enjoy your lunch. Leonora won’t be here until two.’
‘Fine, I’ll make sure I’m back by then,’ Cressida promised her.
The rest of the morning passed quietly and she found that she was thinking about Rick Marks a great deal of the time.
As soon as it was time for her lunch break, she collected her handbag and then hurried out to her car. Deciding it wasn’t safe to make the call anywhere near the gallery, she used a public phone box a couple of miles away, and then had to wait while they paged Detective Chief Inspector Williams. It seemed to take an age for him to get to a phone and all the time the minutes of her lunch break were ticking away.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Cressida assured him, and then she explained what had happened.
‘Let me make sure I’ve got this right,’ he murmured after listening to her story. ‘The man has to be tall and well built, in his mid-forties and have a shock of grey hair, yes?’
‘Yes!’ said Cressida impatiently.
The chief inspector ignored her efforts to hurry him. ‘And he’s inherited a Monet from his grandfather, is that it?’
‘No, a Matisse which needs cleaning and possibly some restoration work. He shouldn’t know too much about art. I made him out to be a novice in the field to make it easier for you.’
‘How kind! And where do we pick up a cheap Matisse within the next hour or two?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve really no idea,’ said Cressida. ‘I’m doing my very best this end, and I really think I’m making some progress. I can’t afford to start arousing suspicion now particularly since one of the artists has asked me out to dinner tonight, and he knows both Guy and Marcia very well.’
‘In that case I’ll hand this over to someone with specialised knowledge immediately,’ promised her boss. ‘Keep up the good work, Cressida. I’ve got a feeling we’re go
ing to crack this one with your help. One thing, now that you’re well and truly in at the gallery make sure Tom stays away from you. Right, off you go and leave everything to me. Your tall grey-haired stranger will call in during the afternoon.’
After her call, Cressida just had time to buy herself a roll and eat it in the car before driving back to the gallery. Polly looked up as she entered and tilted her head to the right. Glancing in that direction, Cressida saw a young girl standing by the wall, biting on the skin at the side of her thumb. She had shoulder-length light brown hair, hazel eyes and a pale face that wasn’t helped by her navy outfit of oversize T-shirt and ankle-length baggy skirt. It drained any slight vestige of colour that she might have possessed.
‘You must be Leonora,’ said Cressida brightly, privately wondering what on earth Marcia would say about the girl’s clothes. ‘I’m Cressida, and you’ll be helping me while you’re here. Sorry I was out when you arrived.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the girl flatly. ‘I was early. Daddy dropped me off. He probably thought I wouldn’t come if he didn’t.’
‘If you’re interested in art you’ll like it here,’ Cressida assured her. ‘Everyone’s very friendly and helpful, and the customers are generally a nice lot.’
‘I’m not interested in art,’ said Leonora. ‘I’m only here so that Daddy’s free to screw my stepmother during the day. I get in the way and stop her making a noise.’ Polly snorted with laughter and quickly went into the back room.
Cressida couldn’t think of anything to say in reply, so got out a catalogue and handed it to the disinterested girl. ‘Have a look through this,’ she said firmly. ‘It tells you all about the artists whose work we display here, and the other services we offer. For example, we sell prints and can get them framed, we also clean old paintings and –’
‘Is there a coffee machine?’ asked Leonora, interrupting Cressida in mid-flow.
‘No, we have to make our own but you have to fit your refreshment round the work, not the other way about.’
‘You sound more like a teacher than an art graduate,’ remarked Leonora. Cressida was grateful the wretched girl hadn’t said a policewoman.
As she and Leonora Thornton stood staring at each other, Marcia and Guy came in through the door. Guy was wearing a blue and grey checked jacket over a pale blue shirt, open at the neck, and navy trousers. His dark hair was tidier than the first time Cressida had seen him, but he looked pale and tense and there was no hint of a smile on his face as he greeted her.
Marcia, who had been smiling as she entered the reception area, stopped the moment she set eyes on Leonora. ‘Where in heaven’s name did you get those ghastly clothes?’ she demanded in an icy voice.
Leonora’s cheeks showed a hint of colour at the criticism. ‘They’re my favourite,’ she muttered.
Guy glanced briefly at her, raised his eyebrows at Cressida and went into the office, leaving Marcia to deal with the girl. As Marcia started to tell Leonora the standard of dress she expected from her in future, the phone buzzed and Cressida was summoned into the office to see Guy.
He was sitting behind the desk that she’d searched early that morning and his face was tight with tension although he did attempt a smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. ‘Marcia tells me you had a customer in this morning who was interested in our cleaning service,’ he said abruptly.
Cressida looked straight into his eyes and smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right. He said he’d call back later today. Is it a profitable sideline?’
Guy frowned. ‘Sideline?’
‘I didn’t think it was the main function of the gallery,’ explained Cressida.
‘It’s one of our most important functions,’ said Guy. ‘It’s a very specialised art, and we’re lucky to have contacts in the profession who can do an excellent job. As for it being lucrative, as a matter of fact, it is. It also works on commission, so if this stranger does return and leave us his precious inheritance you’ll find a little bonus in your pay package.’
Cressida felt very guilty but gave a polite smile. ‘That would be nice,’ she acknowledged.
Guy looked searchingly at her. ‘That would be nice!’ he mimicked. ‘I didn’t realise you were fortunate enough not to have to think about money, Cressida.’
‘I’m not! It matters to me the same as to everyone, but it isn’t everything. I’d rather be in a job I liked and earn sufficient than thoroughly miserable but earning a fortune.’
Guy’s fingers fidgeted with some paperclips on his desk and again Cressida was aware of the suppressed energy within him. ‘What about sex?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Sex?’
‘You didn’t mention your love life in that interesting and worthy speech. I wondered where sex came on your list of priorities.’
‘Somewhere in the middle I suppose,’ she replied, wishing he wasn’t looking at her so closely because all she could think about was Tom and how unco-operative he’d been when they’d last made love.
‘How boring,’ said Guy shortly. ‘Let’s hope Rick can change your mind for you. If you’re to be the inspiration for his eagerly awaited next picture then he’d better. “Somewhere in the middle” doesn’t conjure up a very erotic image.’
‘Who told you I was going out with Rick?’ asked Cressida in surprise.
‘Marcia of course. She and I don’t have any secrets from each other. At least, Marcia doesn’t have any from me,’ he added with a half-smile.
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Cressida, realising that she was taking far too much interest in his face; the sharp jawline and the deep brown eyes; the mobile mouth that hinted at passions she’d never even experienced.
‘No, nothing else. Off you go, and try and get that dreadful girl out there into some sort of presentable state by tomorrow please.’
‘I didn’t choose her,’ said Cressida, irritated by the assumption that she should be responsible for Leonora. ‘She’s the daughter of your friend, not mine.’
Guy glanced up at her in surprise. ‘My word, it bites! You’re quite right, she isn’t your responsibility, but I thought you might do a make-over job on her more tactfully than Marcia. She goes straight for the jugular. You don’t have that killer instinct; at least, I don’t think you do,’ he added softly.
‘I feel sorry for her,’ muttered Cressida.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because she doesn’t want to be here any more than we want to have her. She’s being pushed around so that her father and stepmother can have their fun and games without fear of interruption.’
‘That’s life,’ laughed Guy. ‘Her time will come. Although I can’t imagine when, the way she looks at the moment. It’s almost enough to make me consider taking her in hand myself, but I don’t think I could cope with the teenage sulks.’
‘She might think you’re a bit old for her,’ Cressida pointed out.
Guy’s eyes widened in surprise and then he grinned. ‘I’m sure you’re right. What a dreadful thought, that I might go out of my way to show her the wonders of life only to be turned down because I’m past it! Back to work, Cressida. And remember, let us know the moment your Matisse man arrives.’
As Cressida shut the door behind her, she knew that despite the banter and apparent amiability Guy was suspicious of her. He didn’t believe in her customer, and the fact that he and Marcia kept mentioning the man seemed to be proof that they had something to hide. Clearly Cressida should not have seen the contents of their files, and they were waiting to see if she was a spy. Unfortunately for them innocent people weren’t worried about spies, but criminals were. They were starting to show Cressida that Interpol were right; the gallery had things it needed to hide.
The next two hours dragged by. Leonora had to be told everything at least three times and even then did her jobs with a very bad grace. Customers were few, which meant that there was little to distract Cressida, and every time the door did open she looked up, hoping desperately that it would be the man
with grey hair.
At 4.15, when Cressida’s heart was beginning to beat faster than normal with stress, the bell over the door went and a tall man in his mid-forties with a mass of thick grey hair walked into the gallery. He glanced at Polly, who took half a step towards him, and then as Cressida made a slight movement with her right hand he turned and smiled at her.
‘I said I’d come back. I hope this is a better time?’ he said quietly, picking up her hint.
Cressida felt a surge of relief and smiled back. ‘It certainly is. If you don’t mind waiting I’ll go and tell the owners of the gallery that you’re here. Did you bring the painting with you?’
He held a brown paper package tied loosely with string. ‘Yes, it’s here.’
‘Wonderful! Just a moment.’ Once outside the closed office door, Cressida composed herself carefully before knocking. It was vital that she didn’t seem relieved that the man was here. This was meant to be run-of-the-mill work for her and she knew that both Guy and Marcia would be studying her carefully when she announced the visitor.
After a light tap on the door she went in and Marcia, who was standing very close to Guy in the far corner of the room, took a step back from him. ‘Yes?’ she asked irritably.
‘I thought you’d like to know that the man with the Matisse is here,’ said Cressida quietly. ‘Shall I show him through?’
A frown creased Marcia’s forehead but Guy smiled at Cressida and nodded. ‘Please do. And well done,’ he added. ‘You’re proving a great asset to the gallery.’
‘We haven’t seen the so-called Matisse yet,’ Marcia pointed out.
‘No, but I think Cressida has done her part.’
As the man sent by Detective Chief Inspector Williams was ushered through to see her employers, Cressida felt like shouting aloud with triumph. Clearly Marcia had been certain the man didn’t exist, and equally clearly Guy was delighted that he did, which must mean that he liked Cressida. All in all she felt that her work was going extremely well, and she had the added bonus of dinner with Rick that night to look forward to.
When Rick arrived to collect Cressida she was still dressing, having put on and then discarded numerous outfits as either too dressy or too downbeat. Throwing a towelling robe over her underwear she showed him into her front room and then dashed off again, hoping there wasn’t anything around that would give away her true profession. She’d been careful to remove all photographs of herself in uniform several days earlier, in case someone from the gallery called round unexpectedly.
The Gallery Page 8
