by Tom Bale
She took herself off for a walk, and while exploring the cobbled streets of the old citadel, she swiftly revised her opinion of Rye. It was a beautiful town in a beautiful location, and somehow the older part, even while mobbed by tourists, managed to retain a winning charm and a wonderfully laid-back atmosphere.
She browsed a few of the gift shops and was back at the gallery by eleven thirty. This time there were lights on inside, and the door was unlocked. The gallery had looked quite small, but it actually extended across several rooms, with the furthest leading out to a courtyard at the rear.
In the central room Jen found a desk with a till, staffed by a plump, well-coiffed woman in a yellow pashmina, completing the sale of a small watercolour. Once that was done, Jen asked about the sculpture of the hares, and was content at first to be mistaken for a prospective buyer. ‘I’ve not seen anything like this before,’ she said. ‘Is the artist local?’
‘She is, yes – St Mary’s Bay. The work is popular, but it’s so time consuming to produce, she stands no chance of earning a living from it.’
Her name was Kitty Webster, and according to the gallery assistant she’d been on the brink of giving up a couple of years ago. ‘We’d held an exhibition for her, but it’s the sort of thing the critics simply sneer at. It’s a scandal.’ She pursed her lips. ‘This country produces such fabulous art, so much incredible talent in every town and village, and yet what gets all the attention and money? A pitiful unmade bed, and a cow cut in half. Disgusting.’
Jen had only a hazy idea of what she was alluding to, but she made the right noises in sympathy. Kitty Webster, it turned out, had eventually been persuaded not to quit, though her artwork was relegated to little more than a hobby.
‘The poor girl works for a bank in Ashford, which must be utterly soul-destroying.’
Jen tutted as required. ‘I’d like to find out more about her work. Does she have a website, a Facebook page?’
‘I know there was once a very basic site, but I think she let the domain name expire.’
‘And what about commissions? I have a real love of Celtic figurines, the ancient deities. Do you think she’d be interested in making anything like that?’
‘It’s not her normal subject matter, but who knows?’ She hunted for a pen. ‘Let me take your details and I can find out.’
‘Ah. I don’t suppose I could get in touch with her, if you have the number? Only I’ve come quite a long way.’
‘Oh. Whereabouts?’
‘Godalming,’ Jen said quickly, figuring that Brighton might not be regarded as distant enough to warrant the kind of indiscretion she was seeking. ‘If I rang her now and she was prepared to see me, I could go straight over there. St Mary’s Bay, was it?’
The woman nodded, still unsure. ‘I’ll call her myself.’
She took her phone into a small back room. Jen wondered if the woman would even make the call, or just return and claim that Webster wasn’t interested.
It was a wait of nearly five minutes, during which time anybody could have walked in and robbed the place blind. She guessed Rye wasn’t that sort of town.
Then the woman was back. ‘I can give you her number. She’s also happy for you to pay her a visit.’ Seeing Jen’s surprise, she smiled. ‘I didn’t expect her to agree to it. She’s quite shy. But I told her you have a sweet face.’
Jen grinned to mask the guilt. In the scheme of things this was only a minor deception, which she could justify to herself on the basis of what was at stake, but she took no pleasure in the lie she’d had to tell.
‘Very kind of you,’ she said.
33
The text was a reckless move. He’d been longing to do it, ever since he got her number. What was a more precious route into somebody’s life than through their mobile phone? Knowing you could whisper into their ear at any time of the day or night. . .
He’d held off for as long as he could bear, and then this morning he succumbed, giddy from an unexpected spell of freedom. The witch had taken herself off to help with some kind of family crisis in Sevenoaks involving her brother, who was a twat, and his wife, who wasn’t hot enough to engage Russell’s interest for more than a few seconds at a time.
And now, his prize: a glorious Sunday to himself. He’d lain in bed for most of the morning, laptop purring on the mattress beside him, his photographic handiwork fuelling his fantasies until he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to her.
Almost an hour now, and she hadn’t replied. No one ignored a text for that long – not if they had any respect for the sender. Okay, maybe there was an outside chance that the phone was out of battery, or she was tied up in some way—
Tied up. Huh. His thoughts were on a loop, back to sex every couple of minutes. There were times when he seriously contemplated whether this was an addiction, a sickness; perhaps he should see himself as a victim, entitled to help and support. . .
Some chance of that. He shut the laptop and picked up his phone. One more text, and if she didn’t answer he’d go round and see her.
As his fingers prodded the keys, a voice of caution tried to intervene. Jen knew he was married. She knew where he lived. Armed with just those two facts, she could cause mayhem. And yet. . .
The thrill it gave him, to operate with such a tiny margin of error, was indescribable. He revelled in how much he could hide from Kelly, how far he could push her tolerance, her credulity. Every day he sustained his secret life, every day he flirted with danger.
Which was fine, except for the constant battle against his worst impulses. Because he didn’t just want to flirt with danger: he wanted to tear off its clothes and screw it senseless.
He looked at his phone so often, it became like an OCD. Again and again: no reply. A perfectly fair, friendly enquiry – and still she was treating him like dirt.
He imagined her in the flat, maybe lying in bed, reading his message and. . . what? Supposing she did want to respond, but was worried about his wife? Some women were really uptight about all that female solidarity shit.
And she wasn’t on great terms with her ex-husband, he’d gathered that much from his trawl round Facebook. Her security settings were tight, though he was able to find pictures and posts on other profiles where she was tagged or had made a comment, and from that he’d gleaned a surprising amount of information. The ex clearly fancied himself, so maybe he’d been playing around, and as a result any suggestion of infidelity turned her off.
That wasn’t to say she didn’t fancy him. All Russell had to do was clear a path.
You could go round there now. He knew her kid was away in Greece: here was his big opportunity.
He read over the second text, making sure he approved of its content.
Assume u saw my message? Have the decency to answer, will you? I’m offering to save your life. Gotta be worth a lot, hasn’t it – and you will ENJOY IT, I guarantee that ;) ;)
There: perfectly reasonable. He’d give her twenty minutes.
He thought about a shower but decided it wasn’t necessary – he’d had one yesterday morning. There was some of last night’s lasagne left, so he ate that, cold, for brunch. He dressed with some care: a clean pair of jeans and one of his old work shirts. Important to make the right impression.
No one paid him any attention on the short walk up the hill. He’d idly followed her along the street a couple of months ago, so he knew the block where she lived, and last week he’d found her name on the set of buzzers by the entrance. Flat 7 – top floor, he guessed, given the size of the building.
He also knew the main door was sometimes left ajar, as it was today. The gods were smiling on him: no less than he deserved. He took the stairs to the top floor and knocked, quietly, so as not to alert the neighbour across the hall.
No answer. He knocked again, then pressed his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear anybody inside, though he pushed against the door, just on the off chance that the lock wasn’t properly engaged.
‘Yes?’<
br />
He wheeled round and discovered that a squat, elderly woman had opened her front door and was squinting suspiciously at him, her chin almost resting on the security chain.
‘Oh, hello there. I’m. . . a police officer.’ He saw her eyes narrow, sceptically, and added, ‘Detective Sergeant Doors.’
Stupid name: the first thing that popped into his head, though if pressed he would spell it D-a-w-e-s.
‘You know she’s in trouble?’ he said, jabbing a thumb at the apartment behind him.
‘I had that impression, yes.’
‘She broke into a house along the road. Criminal damage.’ With the old biddy lapping it up, he relaxed into the role. ‘I was hoping to gather some background detail. How long has she been separated from her husband?’
‘Ooh, I’m not sure. A while before she moved in here.’
He gave her a suitably professional nod. ‘And is there anyone on the scene now?’ He got a blank look. ‘A new boyfriend?’
‘Well, I. . .’ She faltered. ‘If you’re a detective, then you’ll have a warrant card?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He made as if to reach into his back pocket, but it was a bluff, and once his hand was behind his back he didn’t know what to do next.
The woman issued a scornful laugh. ‘I don’t think you’re a policeman. What are you doing here?’
She was staring at him the way a crow would stare at carrion. Russell focused his own gaze on the silver chain stretched across the doorway. If he threw himself against the door he suspected it would give way, and even if the impact didn’t kill the old woman, it wouldn’t take much to wring her neck. . .
All this whipping through his mind in a split second, before a reversion to sanity. ‘All right.’ He tried out his most winning smile. ‘I’ve had a couple of dates with Jenny. She’s been coming on strong, but then this happened – the arrest – and it’s kind of freaked me—’
‘I’ve seen you before.’ The woman spoke over him as though he counted for nothing, just like Kelly did. ‘You live along Henley Gardens. I don’t believe you’re her boyfriend. What are you really up to?’
‘Nothing. Christ, you’re a nosy old cow!’ He stormed away, pushed through the fire door and thudded down the stairs. Now he was truly screwed: she was bound to speak to people – Jen, for definite – and she might even know Kelly by sight.
Shit. Would she go to the police?
Once outside, he started to recover his equilibrium. Okay, so he’d sort of pretended to be a cop, but he hadn’t gone anywhere with it, hadn’t tried to talk his way into her home or anything like that. What reason would she have to take it further?
She wouldn’t need a reason. It was just what women did. And right on cue, here was his phone chiming. A text from the witch.
Hi hun, hope you’re behaving! Not as bad as I thought here, thank god, tho Shaz is very weepy. Should be able to come home soon xxx
He frowned. Hope you’re behaving: what the hell was that about? He felt a tickle of fear. Sometimes he wondered if she was spying on him. It was the easiest thing in the world these days: little hidden cameras and microphones, keylogger programs on the computer. She always acted clueless about technology, but what if that was a bluff? Or what if her lover had the IT skills?
‘Bitches,’ he growled. ‘The whole fucking lot of them.’
Sneering. Mocking him. Well, he wasn’t going to take it any more.
34
St Mary’s Bay was a small seaside town about fifteen miles east of Rye, in the neighbouring county of Kent. It meant another slow journey on single-lane roads, twisting back and forth across the grassy flatlands of Romney Marsh, past a wind farm whose giant blades were turning even on this calm summer’s day.
The artist lived along a dirt track north of the town, on land that might once have been part of a farm. The main building was a large, sprawling bungalow, but Jen had been told to look for an annexe on the right-hand side, partially obscured by a mass of wild rhododendron. The annexe had its own address, The Studio, evidenced by a sign in the form of a large sculpture of an owl, fashioned from wire and glass.
The front door opened before Jen reached it. Kitty Webster was younger than Jen had expected – mid twenties at most. She was a slender, attractive woman with long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore glasses with narrow silver frames, a large denim shirt and black leggings. Her voice was soft and melodious, her movements smooth and measured.
Greetings were exchanged as the woman beckoned her inside. The annexe’s living room served primarily as a studio, but there was a sofa and TV unit squashed at the far end.
‘Nice place.’ Jen nodded towards the bungalow. ‘Neighbours a bit close, though. Do you get on okay?’
‘Most of the time. They’re my mum and dad.’
‘Ah. That works out well, then.’
‘It’s fab. I’m as independent as I want to be, but I can still ask Mum to do my ironing.’
Jen chuckled, immediately warming to this woman; then felt bad about it. ‘Look, I’d better come clean. I’m afraid I can’t afford to buy anything from you.’
‘Oh.’ The woman took a moment to appraise her. ‘So why are you here?’
‘It’s about some artwork I believe you might have made. Celtic figures, deities – there was a beautiful one of Elen of the Ways. . .’
Webster was nodding. ‘Those are mine. I’m glad you like them.’
‘And the man who sells them for you, Alex Wilson—’
‘He doesn’t sell them,’ she cut in, confused. ‘He commissioned me to make them, that’s all.’
‘Commissioned them? How many – and what period of time are we talking about?’
‘It was about thirty, and all in a single order.’ Kitty blew out a sigh at the memory. ‘Hardest I’ve ever had to work, but I wasn’t going to complain. I bought a car from the proceeds.’
‘When was this? And how did he find you?’
She shrugged. ‘I think he saw something at the gallery. He first got in touch around March, April? I had the work completed by June, and since then there hasn’t been a word from him.’ A laugh. ‘Never known anything like it before, and probably never will again.’
Jen was speechless for a few seconds, trying to make sense of this news. ‘So the subject matter, did you come up with it, or did Wilson?’
‘Oh, he chose it all. I had very detailed guidelines. One piece in particular had to be exactly right—’
‘Elen of the Ways?’
Kitty almost did a double take. ‘How did you know?’
‘Lucky guess. Why was that one so important, did he say?’
‘No. But he made it easy by giving me a nice clear image. I think I still have it, actually.’ She drifted across to a battered pine dresser, which evidently served as storage for tools and working materials. After rooting around in a drawer, she came back with a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Jen.
It was the picture she’d liked on Facebook.
Jen tried to stifle her shock, so as not to alarm the woman, but it was impossible not to let something show.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’ She smiled, but Kitty wasn’t convinced. She slipped away to a small kitchenette and returned with a glass of water. Jen felt embarrassed; for the second time this weekend, she was being nursed by a stranger.
‘What’s this about?’ Kitty asked. ‘Is Mr Wilson a friend of yours?’
‘Not a friend. He’s. . . well, someone I know.’
She took a minute to sip the water and try to process what she’d learned. They must have planned this so carefully: months of preparation, all designed to frame me for a crime. . .
And now she was faced with revealing that this woman’s artwork, so lovingly created, had been nothing more than expendable props. No, that felt too cruel.
‘Can I ask – did he leave you an address, for an invoice or delivery?’
Kitty was shaking her head. ‘Once we’d spoken on the p
hone he came here and paid a cash deposit – half the cost up front, no argument. I was, like, whoa!’ She smiled. ‘Then cash for the rest when he collected it.’
‘I see.’ Jen sighed: another dead end. ‘I know you must be wondering what this is about, but to be honest I wouldn’t really know where to begin explaining. I’m just very sorry for raising your hopes of a commission.’
‘It’s no big deal. I’m more worried about you.’
Jen smiled gratefully. ‘You don’t need to be. I’m all over the place at the moment.’
The generality sent a clear message, and it was one the artist seemed to accept. They chatted a little about the difficulties of establishing a reputation. Kitty said, ‘I care too much just to churn these out, and because of that it’ll only ever be a fun hobby.’
‘The woman at the gallery said you’re working for a bank?’
‘Yeah, I love it!’ She saw that Jen looked taken aback, and grinned. ‘The call centre’s such a buzzing place. We have a great laugh.’ She regarded a work in progress on the large central table, which appeared to be the hindquarters of a squirrel. ‘When I tried doing this full time, day after day on my own, it nearly drove me bonkers. I realised I’m just not cut out for that kind of life.’
This willingness to turn away from her talent made Jen feel sad, even though she appreciated what Kitty was saying. Offering more profuse apologies, she left the house and drove away with her thoughts in turmoil.
The existence of a conspiracy to frame her now seemed beyond doubt, but would the police agree? Running through what she’d learned over the past few days, she had to conclude that it was no slam dunk. If anything, she risked having the spotlight turned back on her, and if it came out that she’d searched Dhillon’s hotel room she’d be in even more trouble.
The town of Rye had just come back into view, a bulge in the landscape, when her phone started to bleep; she must have lost her signal in the wilds of Kent. She pulled in at the next lay-by to check her messages.
