Resolutions

by Jane A. Adams

  Abe leant back in his chair and thought about it. Fitch had called, telling him about the sudden change of plans, but Abe was glad to hear that Mac and Miriam and Joy would now be out of harm’s way. Three less people to look out for. He needed now to talk to the gallery owner, see if Karen had left any leads. No way on earth did he look like someone who might be interested in art.

  Rina, Abe thought. Rina could do the intellectual, arty bit, and he could just hang around and look lost.

  He picked up the phone. ‘Rina, it’s Abe. I’ve got a little project for you. Get your glad rags on and try to look affluent. We’re going on an art hunt.’

  Back in Pinsent, Alec was involved in a major argument with DCI Wildman.

  ‘You think I leaked that information?’ Alec was furious.

  ‘Some bugger did and it sure as hell wasn’t me.’

  ‘And what reason would I have?’

  ‘He’s your bloody friend. You’ve undermined me every step of the way, Alec. Like you didn’t know McGregor had gone. Like you back him up on the lie he and that bint concocted. He bloody did it, Alec, and you’re intent on making us a laughing stock. “Didn’t know the cuts were that bad”,’ he mimicked.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Alec said slowly. ‘I leaked nothing. I did not know Mac had gone or where. I have no more wish than you do for us to look like fools, but if you go to a press call with a story so full of holes a child could drive a truck through it, never mind a room full of journalists – whose sole mission in life is to sniff out the lies, turn them round and use them against you – then what the frigging hell do you expect? The landlord at the Cross Keys knows that story is full of shit – so do his staff, so does half the village, not to mention any and everyone who’s been working the case since. Covert police operation? So covert none of us had managed to turn up? Where had we been hiding out, then? You’ve seen the size of that village; a chihuahua couldn’t pass through without the locals seeing it. And, for the record, I don’t believe that Miriam Hastings lied to protect Mac, though, fucking hell, Wildman, who could bloody blame her if she had?’

  ‘Mac killed Peel. End of story.’

  ‘And the forensic evidence to back that up? It isn’t there. You have nothing, nada. The only blood on Mac’s clothes was a smear on his sleeve consistent with him having searched Peel’s pockets for the handcuff keys.’

  ‘On his sleeve. Consistent with him stabbing Peel in the side. He’d have been protected from the spatter by the man’s body so—’

  ‘On his right sleeve. His right sleeve. The angle of thrust is consistent with Miriam and Mac’s story. The killer came in from behind Peel, stabbed him in the left side and, from the angle of entry, with their left hand. They’d have had to stand at the side of him and thrust in and up to do it with the right, and I seriously think Peel might have moved out of the way if he’d seen anyone standing next to him and then come at him with a knife. And, if Mac stabbed him with his right hand – in the side, as you suggest – then no, Peel’s body would not have protected him from the spray. There’d have been blood all across the front of his coat, all over the sleeve, not just a smear on the frigging cuff.’

  Wildman was not about to give up. ‘So, it was unexpected. Mac made a run at him, took a chance. He took every other bloody risk he could. You’re not telling me he wouldn’t have done anything imaginable not to have a repeat of what happened to Cara Evans. He didn’t want to get another one killed. So he took a chance. I don’t know, maybe Peel got distracted and McGregor was able to take him. Split second, that’s all it would have taken. Peel looks away, Mac gets him.’ Wildman took a deep breath, tried for conciliation. ‘Look, any way you look at it, there was provocation; I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Generous of you.’

  ‘A sympathetic jury, good lawyer . . . But he bloody did it. I know he bloody did it.’

  ‘No,’ Alec said quietly, ‘you wish you had. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Twice, Mac left you out of the loop. You think if you’d been there that night, then Cara Evans would still be here. You believe you’d have taken Peel down. You can’t accept the fact that you might have failed, just like Mac failed. And then he goes and does the same thing all over again. More than you can take, isn’t it? Knowing that Mac didn’t trust you, didn’t trust any of us, with Miriam’s life.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I was there, remember. I saw the look on your face when Mac was brought into the hospital with that little girl. I saw the look on your face that night and you couldn’t forgive him. The rest of us – well, we all thanked God it hadn’t been us put to the test like that; all you could think was that you wished it had been you. Wished you’d been there because, in your own fucked-up little head, you could see yourself playing the hero, taking out the killer and rescuing the kid. Well, it wasn’t like that, was it? Not so neat and clean as all that? Truth is, Wildman, I don’t think anyone could have stopped Thomas Peel from killing Cara Evans, because he got off on it; he relished it, enjoyed every minute. If he could have arranged for someone to film it for him, then I don’t doubt he would have done it. He liked the buzz and he liked to be reminded how good it felt, and that’s why he set Mac up with Miriam: he wanted to capture the moment all over again.’

  He looked away from Wildman, something echoing, something deep in his memory.

  Wildman noted the change. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘It was a clear night. The night Cara Evans died. Bright, clear, you could see for miles.’

  ‘So?’

  Alec shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Just . . . Rains, he took pictures. Peel knew Rains was employed to take pictures.

  ‘So what?’ Wildman scoffed. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to talk to Billy Tigh. Oh, and you should organize an interview with Sara Curtis, the prison visitor who went to see Rains. Her brother abused Tigh’s.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘Information received,’ Alec said and left before Wildman could say more.

  The coast road was clear this time of year and the drive pleasant, Rina thought. Bare trees and hedges thinned of their summer growth meant that it was possible to look across the fields and see the sea for a good deal of the journey, only the section of road near Abbotsbury being sufficiently inland and the road between high enough walls for the open view to be blocked.

  She and Abe talked, running through what they knew so far, and Abe finally told Rina just how deep Karen had buried herself in what had been her father’s world. Knowing that because she had warned Karen and given her time to run, others had died, depressed Rina thoroughly.

  Abe was more sanguine. ‘If not Karen, then someone else,’ he said. ‘The life they led would have ended in violence one way or another.’

  ‘I don’t find that comforting,’ Rina said tartly. ‘Abe, my world has not been one that featured a great deal of violence until fairly recently and, frankly, I am heartily sick of it. I’m not cut out for this kind of thing at all. No, don’t you dare laugh; I mean it.’

  Abe’s attempt to control his humour ended in a choking fit, and Rina seriously worried they might crash as the car veered across the road and dangerously close to a dry stone wall. ‘Rina,’ he said at last. ‘Given the choice, I’d have you watch my back any time.’

  ‘You’re laughing at me again.’

  ‘No,’ Abe said seriously. ‘No, I’m not. I mean every word.’

  Bridport confused them for a while, West Bay Harbour being on the other side of the river from where they’d expected it to be. ‘Should have used the satnav,’ Abe said. ‘I’m sure this was just called the quayside last time I came.’

  The gallery was small, tucked back in the middle of a row of little shops and cafés, looking rather upmarket for its location, but also friendly and welcoming with its array of pretty Christmas decorations featured in the window, all made by local artists. Rina paused to admire the glass stars and little wooden ornaments,
quilted baubles and plump ceramic choirboys. Through the window she caught the glimpse of an avant-garde Christmas tree, a twiggy affair hung with what looked like gold medallions and stained glass. She was less keen on that.

  An exhibition by a local printmaker faced them as they entered. Woodblock prints created in the Japanese manner, intricate and multicoloured. Rina moved closer to examine a street scene. Streetlights giving way to stars in a rich blue sky, hurrying crowds intricately described.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Rina turned to the woman who had spoken. Adrienne Kossof, the gallery owner, sat behind a wooden desk on which was set a cash register, card reader and a stack of pastel-shaded tissue paper and another of tiny, oriental boxes. She was about Rina’s age, but very slender and willowy and with grey hair in an elfin cut that suited her delicate features. She wore jeans and a heavy sweater and still managed to look chic and neat. Rina had given up on jeans years and years ago; she had never been that keen.

  ‘Very beautiful,’ Rina said, glancing back at the print. ‘It just seems so sad that the block is completely destroyed in the making, doesn’t it?’

  The woman raised an eyebrow and smiled warmly. ‘It does, rather. Of course, in Japan, in the heyday of printmaking, the artist would hand the work over and a whole troop of makers would create each colour block from the original. Richard, the artist here, he does the whole process himself. This exhibition – twelve prints – that’s two years’ work.’

  ‘Well worth it,’ Rina said and really meant it. She looked at the price of the street scene and inwardly flinched, but that didn’t stop her from wanting it. There was a vibrancy about the scene that really appealed. Anyway, she rarely treated herself and, also anyway, it seemed like a good way of breaking the ice. Look affluent, Abe had said.

  ‘I’d like that, please,’ Rina said. The woman looked first shocked and then pleased.

  ‘Wonderful! I’ll mark it sold. Richard is due to take down this weekend. Will it be all right to send it on then? Unless you’d like to collect it, or, of course, if you want to take it now?’

  ‘No, the weekend is fine,’ Rina said. ‘It seems a shame to disturb the exhibition, and we’re only just along the coast.’

  ‘Oh, it’s mostly locals this time of year,’ the woman nodded. ‘Really, I wanted to feature Richard in the summer, but it just didn’t happen. But he’s picked up a bit of pre-Christmas trade. We go entirely over to the Christmas display from next week.’ She smiled confidingly. ‘To be honest, some of the Christmas stuff is just well-made tat, but it sells and this time of year that really matters.’ She glanced from Rina to Abe, noticing him for the first time. Her look was curious, as though she tried to work out what their relationship might be. Abe might be young enough to be Rina’s son – had she started a family very early – but they looked nothing alike and he was clearly younger than Rina was, so . . .

  ‘The window display is very pretty, though,’ Rina nodded sympathetically. ‘I heard you might be selling the gallery?’ she added.

  Raised eyebrows from Adrienne Kossof. ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘I’ve told very few people yet. I don’t want to give the wrong impression, you understand. I’m retiring through choice, not because the business isn’t doing well.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Rina said. ‘That’s what I heard. No, a young friend of mine is interested in taking over. She wants me to think about being a sleeping partner in the business.’ Rina smiled as she handed over her credit card. ‘You see, Karen is very young; having a, shall we say, older financial partner gives her a lot more credibility.’

  ‘Oh yes, I see.’ Adrienne took the card and inserted it into the reader. She frowned. ‘I thought her name was Carolyn.’

  Rina didn’t miss a beat. ‘Carolyn Johnson is her given name,’ she said. ‘She was named after her mother.’ She leaned in, confidentially. ‘They never really got along. We’ve always called her Karen. That would have been her father’s choice. I said I’d call in and look around on my way to see her today. See what I thought. I must say, I’m very impressed.’

  ‘Thank you. Pin, please,’ she turned the card reader towards Rina. ‘Well, we have talked about it, of course; she said her solicitor would be in touch this week.’

  ‘She’ll be using Rawlinsons, I expect,’ Rina said. ‘They arranged the purchase of her house recently.’

  ‘No, Deerhams, I think. Take your card, please. Now I’ll need your address for delivery, and the artist usually sends the occasional catalogue to his customers, if that’s all right?’

  They left ten minutes later and Rina was frowning. ‘I think I gave more away about me than we found out that was useful. Still, couldn’t be helped. At least we know what name she prefers to go by and the name of her solicitors. Now all we need is an address.’

  Abe nodded. ‘I don’t think the Kossof woman swallowed any of it,’ he said.

  ‘Of course not. She’s a businesswoman and she’s the aunt by marriage of Igor Vashinsky. I imagine she’s used to con artists.’

  Abe could tell she was annoyed with herself. ‘Rina,’ he said, ‘you did a good job. You’ve given us another lead and bought yourself a pretty picture.’

  Rina scowled at him. ‘You didn’t like my picture?’

  ‘Not a lot, no. I’m more of a Constable man, or Turner before he got all abstracty. Oh and I don’t mind a nice Pre-Raphaelite. At least you can tell what it is.’

  Rina shook her head. ‘Take me home, Abe Jackson,’ she said. ‘Then go and investigate something: contact Deerhams and find out where Karen’s house might be.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Abe said. ‘Whatever you say. We are only here to serve.’

  Alec had to wait before they’d let him in to see Billy Tigh. He’d been placed on the medical wing and, though he’d eaten well, slept soundly and watched television avidly – all normal behaviour for Billy Tigh – he’d said nothing more about the killing of Philip Rains. He’d been formally charged, received legal advice, been seen on a daily basis by the visiting psychiatrist, but shown no sign of remorse, concern or even acknowledgement of what he’d done. He’d certainly offered no explanation.

  Alec had to get clearance from the psychiatrist before he was allowed to see Billy Tigh. They took him to the medical wing, settled him in a side room and brought Tigh in, a guard remaining by the door, both protector and chaperone.

  Alec knew he was breaking with protocol by coming alone; maybe being around Mac, such breaches were catching. He hadn’t let on to Wildman, but he too was angry with his friend. Mac had never been a team player, not really, but he’d at least given the impression of being so until now, and the doubt festered; what if he had told Wildman what was happening, alerted him to Peel’s call? Would Cara Evans still be alive?

  Alec, in his heart of hearts, believed that Wildman was more likely to have driven roughshod through Mac’s attempt at negotiation and the result would have been the same. Alec could appreciate just why Mac had not taken Wildman into his confidence back then; he was having a harder time dealing with the fact that Mac had, this time, excluded Alec too.

  Billy Tigh looked bored, as though he anticipated Alec’s questions; the same ones had been asked time after time. Alec studied the young man. Light grey eyes stared back, non-committal and wary.

  ‘Tell me about Terry,’ Alec said.

  Tigh blinked, the wariness more emphatic.

  ‘I know about Brian Curtis,’ Alec said. ‘What he did to your brother. Did he hurt you too, Billy?’

  A slow, hesitant shake of the head.

  Alec caught his breath, and the look on the guard’s face told him this was totally unexpected. Don’t rush, Alec counselled himself. Take it easy.

  ‘We know there were pictures of Terry and Brian Curtis.’ He knew no such thing, but it was a reasonable bet.

  A blink this time, wariness exchanged for something else. Something feral and angry.

  ‘Billy, can you tell me, do you know who took those pic
tures? Was it Philip Rains?’

  He nodded then: a small, slight movement of the head. ‘He told me Rains did it. Took them pictures.’ Billy’s voice was hoarse, harsh.

  ‘Terry told you that?’

  The feral look died. Boredom again. Alec knew he had missed the clue, overshot the mark.

  ‘Peel,’ he said, mentally crossing his fingers. ‘Thomas Peel told you?’

  Again, the sharp nod. ‘He told me. Rains took them pictures for him. Rains took all his pictures too, all them kids; he had a book, he said. Not like a real book, a book on the computer where people like that bastard Brian Curtis could order pictures off. Like it was a catalogue, he said. He laughed at me. A catalogue like me mum used to order stuff, clothes and stuff, like for Christmas. He took them pictures and Peel put them in his book. Our Terry, like he was a toy or a pair of jeans. He said he had loads of pictures.’

  ‘When did he tell you this, Billy? When did you talk to Thomas Peel?’

  Billy shrugged. It didn’t matter to him when. Just that he had. His gaze drifted from Alec to some point on the bare, green walls.

  ‘Billy,’ Alec said, ‘was it before or after Terry killed himself?’

  Attention snapped back, and Alec quailed beneath a look so intense and hate-filled that he glanced instinctively at the guard by the door and saw that he too had noted that change and was now tense, expecting trouble. Was this the look that Philip Rains had seen, just before he died? It occurred to Alec that the mode of death had been the same. Rains and Peel: a strange echoing, as though whoever had killed Peel had known where and how to strike, had seen . . .

  He shoved the thought aside. It was irrelevant for the moment and also inaccurate when he thought about it. True, each man had died of a single stab wound, but Billy Tigh had walked up to Rains and driven the improvised blade home while looking straight into his victim’s face. Peel’s assailant had attacked him from behind.