by Faith Martin
Jude seemed to be speaking more to her mother than to Keith. But he didn’t mind. He was learning a lot. If Marion Druther hadn’t fancied being one of Wayne’s ‘clients’ he was a Dutchman’s uncle. And the fact that the daughter didn’t approve couldn’t have been made more clear if she’d been wearing a T-shirt sporting a logo that said as much.
Marion toyed with one curl of her hair, refusing to meet the policeman’s eye.
‘Going to pubs and drinking real ale was all a bit too plebeian for our Denise, Constable,’ Jude said, as if determined, now that she’d started, to be as catty as possible. ‘She was supposed to be interested in pen-and-ink sketches, but she never showed us any of her examples, did she?’ Again this seemed to be addressed to Marion, who shrugged.
‘Those of us who did work small enough to be shown at the pub crawls brought it along to be “critiqued”. Wayne liked to do quite a bit of that,’ Jude said sardonically, and from the way she flushed, Keith got the distinct impression that, at some point, their murder victim had said something less than complimentary about a piece of Jude’s work.
‘I don’t suppose you have Mrs Collier’s address?’
‘No. But she lives in Lynn Sutton somewhere,’ Marion said. ‘Please, Constable, don’t think our club was all about backbiting and nastiness. It isn’t. Most of us have a good time.’
‘Did Wayne?’
‘Well, he was, how shall I put it – a bit more serious about everything than the rest of us,’ Marion sighed. ‘Take Jude and me, for instance. We get by selling our stuff at craft fairs, and some of the antique shops in Woodstock and Bourton-on-the-Water, places like that, take our lampshades and stuff, strictly to sell to tourists. Hand-made, local glass; Americans especially go for stuff like that. And it pays the mortgage on this place, and keeps us in shoes. But Wayne … well, he was a serious artist. I didn’t much like his stuff, it’s true, but it was talked about.’
‘Yeah, this little student rag did a write up about him once,’ Jude said, smiling. ‘You’d think it was one of the major art review mags from London the way he went on about it, instead of some little back-room, two-man outfit from Wadham College.’
‘But he had a piece shown at the museum of modern art,’ Marion said. ‘Once.’
‘It was a public exhibition, Mum,’ Jude said, exasperated. ‘You know, members of the public got to show off their stuff to a panel of so-called judges, and the museum displayed a selected few for a summer show.’
‘It was bought though,’ Marion said.
‘Yeah, and you know who by?’
Marion flushed.
‘Denise Collier,’ Jude crowed.
Keith glanced at Marion curiously. He got the impression that mother and daughter were close, but had Wayne Sutton put some kind of serious wedge between them?
‘And Colin Blake? Did he sell many paintings?’
‘Oh yes,’ Marion said, obviously relieved to change the subject.
‘And to real punters too,’ Jude put in, not so willing to it let go. ‘There are one or two galleries locally that regularly take his work and sell it,’ Jude mused. ‘I’ve seen some of his stuff in the Woodstock galleries. And the one in Summertown, in Oxford. Wayne was always furious about that. You should have heard him go on about it. He claimed Colin only managed it, because of his “friends in aristocratic places”. That’s how Wayne put it. Real sarky he was. Remember mum?’
Marion sighed heavily. ‘Yes. I think Wayne was a bit jealous, poor boy.’
Keith frowned. ‘What did he mean by “aristocratic friends”?’ he asked. ‘I thought Mr Blake was a butcher by trade.’
‘And so he is,’ Jude said. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Wayne used to make fun of him, as if there was something wrong in selling sausages. At least Colin works for a living, which is more than Wayne was ever prepared to do.’ Jude’s voice rose indignantly.
Marion coughed gently. ‘I think Colin was friends with someone out Duns Tew way. Or was it Heyford Sudbury? You know, one of those pretty villages almost in the Cotswolds. They’re all becoming rather touristy nowadays.’
‘That’s right,’ Jude said, snapping her fingers. ‘I think Colin first met him when he bought one of his paintings. I can’t remember his name, can you, Mum?’
‘No. But he’s something of an anachronism. That’s how Wayne put it, anyway. You know the kind – almost landed gentry, but of course, they’ve all lost their land now. I believe his family used to be important once, but now they’ve sort of, dwindled down, somehow. They live in these big, rambling houses but can’t afford to pay the fuel bill.’
‘I think I get what you mean,’ Keith said.
‘Anyway, Wayne said Colin only got half his commissions because this upper-class pal of his put his name about amongst his set,’ Jude carried on. ‘I think this friend of Col’s had an ancestor who used to live in Bath a few hundred years ago, and gave parties for the rich and famous. You know, Wellington slept in his spare room before going off to Waterloo, that sort of thing. It made Wayne wild.’
Jude suddenly giggled, and Marion winced.
‘I remember him once, at that pub in Wolvercote, when he heard Colin had just sold an oil to some gentleman farmer type. “Just because he’s got a pal who’s great-great-great-great-great-grand-daddy showed Beau Brummel how to tie a cravat or something.” He said it was pathetic. He went on and on about how he sold his own stuff on the merit of the paintings themselves. Which was a laugh of course. His women only bought his canvases because …’
‘Jude! Please, that’s enough. I’m sure the constable can’t be interested in any of this.’
But Keith was very interested in all of this. What’s more, he thought his boss, Hillary Greene, would be too. Before he left, he asked, as casually as he could, ‘And where were you two ladies, say between six o’clock and midnight, on the last day of April?’
Marion Druther blinked. ‘Here, I think. We tend not to go out much.’
‘You live together?’
‘Can’t afford to rent a place of my own,’ Jude said with a sigh. ‘And yeah, we were here. We stayed in and watched that programme on the telly you were so keen on,’ she added to her mother, who nodded.
Keith wrote it all down and left. It wasn’t much of an alibi, and both, in his opinion, would back the other up without a second thought. Of course, it was possible that they could have killed Wayne together. Two women would have a better chance of overwhelming a man, than just one.
But Keith couldn’t see it somehow.
Hillary Greene tapped on the door to Detective Superintendent Philip ‘Mellow’ Mallow’s door and went in without bothering to wait for a summons.
She and Mel had been friends since her first days at Kidlington, and when she took the seat in front of his desk, she sighed heavily. ‘You don’t still have any of that decent Colombian blend left do you?’
Mel grinned and walked to the coffee pot kept constantly perking on a nearby shelf. Tall, lean, classically good-looking, he was wearing a dark blue suit and red tie.
‘How’s Janine?’ she asked automatically, accepting the mug he offered her. Janine Tyler had been her DS before embarking on an affair with Mel that had nearly proved disastrous for them both. It had resulted in Mel being overlooked for a promotion, and his career seemed doomed to fizzle out. And then, out of the blue, the pair had decided to marry, which meant that Janine had been transferred out of HQ to Witney.
‘She’s resitting her Boards next month,’ Mel said. It had come as a shock to his confident, ambitious wife, when she’d failed her Inspector Boards at first try.
‘She’ll get there,’ Hillary said soothingly. ‘But you didn’t call me in to chat about the wife.’
Mel smiled. ‘No. The murder case, how’s it shaping up?’
Briefly, Hillary filled him in. Mel frowned when she was relating the finding of the red paper heart on the victim’s body, and when she’d finished, it was the first thing he went back to.
‘You did a check, to see if any other killings fit the MO?’
Hillary smiled grimly. ‘My new DS did. Relax, there were no matches. I really don’t think we’re dealing with a serial killer. Well, not yet. But if another young Lothario turns up dead with a paper heart attached to his body, you won’t forget to let me know, will you?’
‘Don’t!’ Mel shuddered, then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Did I detect a bit of angst back there? When mentioning your new DS?’
Hillary smiled blandly. ‘No.’
Mel regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Gemma Fordham gave an excellent interview. She’s experienced, smart, and can obviously work without supervision. After the year you’ve had, what with a new DC, and with Frank like a constant albatross around your neck, I thought you’d welcome someone competent and quick on your team.’
‘And so I do,’ Hillary carried right on smiling blandly.
Mel watched her for a moment more, then smiled slowly. ‘Miaow?’ he said thoughtfully.
‘You carry on like that,’ Hillary said amiably, ‘and I’ll scratch your eyes out, Mel.’
Gemma Fordham walked into a room full of dead flesh and looked around with a vague sense of distaste. The butcher’s shop was located in tiny side street off an already narrow lane, which was typical for a market town that went back to medieval days. There were places in Banbury where you could still walk down ancient cobbled streets and come across a fifteenth-century coaching inn.
Inside Blake and Waincott, however, all was modern strip lighting, refrigerated units, and EC regulation meat products. She hastily turned her eyes away from bright red piles of minced beef, and turned her head towards the back, where a young man with red cheeks and a white wrap-around hat, appeared.
‘Yes, madam?’
‘I’m looking for Colin Blake please.’
The youngster looked surprised, then hurt, as if he suspected that she didn’t trust him to be able to fillet a joint. ‘Hey, Col!’ he yelled, turning his head to face towards the opening, the better to be heard. From out the back came the steady thunk, thunk, thunk, of a cleaver on wood. The noise stopped abruptly, and a moment later, another man stepped into the serving area. ‘Hello?’
Colin Blake was about the same height as herself, with well-kept, dark-brown hair that Gemma instantly suspected was dyed. He had dark, chocolate-brown eyes, a large, Roman nose and extremely well-shaped lips. He was sexy, even in a white apron spotted with blood.
Another reason why Wayne Sutton would instantly dislike him. Not only did Colin Blake rival him in the painting stakes, he could probably turn a few ladies’ heads himself.
Gemma showed her card. ‘It’s about Wayne Sutton, Mr Blake. Is there somewhere we could talk?’
‘Oh, sure. Let’s step outside. There’s a nice place just across the way.’
He walked from behind the counter, taking off his apron and leaving it just inside the door. Outside, the closeness of the other buildings blocked out the worst of the dazzling sun, and he led her to a small area, centred around a large tub of flowering pansies, with a baker’s on one side, and a charity shop on the other. He sat down with a sigh, and spread his long legs out in front of him.
‘I heard about it on the radio,’ Colin Blake said at once. ‘At first I thought they must have been talking about another Wayne Sutton. Then they mentioned he lived at Deddington, and I realized they weren’t.’
‘I understand you were both members of the Ale and Arty Club, sir,’ Gemma said smoothly. ‘We’ve been interviewing all members, asking for background really. Anything you can tell us about the victim?’
Colin Blake jerked on his seat. ‘You know, it’s really odd to hear him referred to like that. As a victim, I mean. Wayne always struck me as one of nature’s survivors. He had a hard edge to him. You know, ambition, drive. He was young, of course, but I always felt he had an old head on his shoulders. I simply can’t imagine someone getting the better of him.’
Gemma blinked in surprise. Now that was something she hadn’t considered before, but she should have. Oh yes, she definitely should have. Because Wayne Sutton was a taker. A man who played on people, especially women; who read them and used them. That kind usually were wary.
It was very astute of the butcher to pick up on that. And she knew, right then and there, that Hillary Greene would probably want to reinterview Blake herself, once she read the report on him. It made Gemma more determined than ever to do a good job of it herself, first time around.
‘So, Mr Blake,’ she said brightly, eyeing the butcher closely. ‘What can you tell me about Wayne Sutton?’
chapter seven
Thursday dawned bright and clear, giving no sign that the spring heatwave was going anywhere in a hurry. Hillary got into the office early, and quickly read through the updates.
She gave Gemma Fordham’s interview notes with Colin Blake a second reading, and made a note to herself that a follow-up interview might be called for. With both Barrington and Fordham coming up with evidence of a rivalry between the two men, it needed looking into. But that red paper heart, found on the victim’s body, kept intruding into her thoughts, and just before nine o’clock she lifted the receiver of her phone and dialled Steven Partridge’s number.
An assistant answered, telling her that he was currently doing the autopsy on a nine-year-old girl found mysteriously dead in her bed, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Hillary left a message, gently but firmly emphasizing that she needed to know, as soon as possible, the contents of the soggy note found on their murder victim, Wayne Sutton. She carefully recited the case number, and hung up, just as Barrington walked in through the door.
Hillary got up and grabbed her bag, and met him halfway across the floor. ‘Come on. We’re going to interview Denise Collier,’ she said crisply, not surprised when Barrington looked pleased.
It was one of the leads he’d picked up himself, and he was glad his DI was letting him follow up on it.
As they drove to Lynn Sutton, a small village near Banbury where Denise Collier was currently living, she had him go over the interview with Marion and Jude Druther again. By the time they were making the final turn-off towards the small village, he’d finished.
‘You got the impression then, that this Collier woman was possessive?’ Hillary asked, after a small silence.
‘Yes, guv. She was obviously one of his women, but from what the Druthers were saying, it sounded as if she fancied herself as being well and truly a cut above the rest. It’s why I ran a preliminary check on her before I left the office last night. No known priors. Married in ’91, to an airline executive, divorced ten years later. No kids. Typical middle-class background. Mother, a small-town solicitor; father, a headmaster of a small private prep school.’
Hillary nodded. Just the sort of woman who’d end up in a genteel village like Lynn Sutton, in fact. They were approaching the village now, a small village of perhaps a hundred or so houses and cottages, clustered around a large church with a Norman tower. A village school, now closed down and turned into a private residence, rubbed shoulders with what had once been a large vicarage, probably now converted into large, desirable flats. There was the obligatory village pub, called intriguingly The Angry Cat, but there were no signs of any sixties-construct council house cul-de-sacs. For some reason, the council town-planners must have overlooked Lynn Sutton. Cottages, some thatched, some not, ran the length of a dog-leg main road called, not so surprisingly, Freehold Street. Avillage square, rather than a green, had planted firmly in its centre a gloriously green oak tree. Probably planted for Queen Victoria’s jubilee or coronation.
‘Collier lives at 31, Freehold Street. Green Acres. See it?’ Hillary asked.
‘Not yet, guv.’
She parked her ancient car under the shade of the oak tree and got out, glad to stretch her limbs. From above her came the raucous calls of jackdaws. ‘You walk up, I’ll walk down,’ Hillary instructed, wishing she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. Already the gla
re was making her eyes ache, and before long, she’d have a headache.
A small stream, almost running dry now, ran down one side of the street, and clusters of the palest-of-pink cuckoo flowers grew alongside it. Hillary hadn’t gone far, however, when she heard a sharp whistle. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Keith beckoning her over.
Green Acres wasn’t set in many green acres, but the garden it did have was impressive, in a modernistic, low-maintenance kind of way. Low-lying evergreen shrubs, designed to provide the patch with winter interest, gave way to large, impressive tubs, each holding a single banana plant, fern, or other dominating specimen. Most of the garden was landscaped in shale, patio bricks and gravel, off-setting a tinkling water feature, with not an inch of grass that needed to be mown.
The house itself was large, and had probably once been two, or maybe even three tiny cottages now converted to one roomy residence; large picture windows and a pair of French doors to one side had been added. Hillary rang the bell and waited.
The door was eventually opened by a short woman, no more than five feet one or two, with a cap of rather startlingly red hair. Snapping green eyes went straight from Hillary, fixed on Barrington assessingly, then moved back to Hillary. From Keith’s background check, Hillary knew that Denise Collier was 51-years-old, but this woman could easily have passed for thirty. She was wearing a pair of white slacks, with four-inch, high-heeled sandals, and a silver lamé top. Platinum and diamond earrings sparkled at her lobes, and a large diamond ring glittered on the third finger on her right hand.
‘Yes?’
Hillary held up her ID card, and Denise Collier’s face closed down. It had, somehow, the effect of highlighting her make-up, which was heavy but cleverly applied. Her green/silver eyeshadow seemed to glitter that bit more, and her plum-coloured lipstick turned garish. The blusher on her rounded cheeks looked faintly ridiculous.
