by Jean Chapman
‘This is Bozena,’ he said, bringing her to the counter, ‘we have known each other over two years. Bozena means divine gift,’ he added.
Alamat’s penchant for analyzing words and sayings was occasionally embarrassing, Cannon thought, as he shook hands with this pleasant, broad-faced, smiling woman, who was exactly the same height as her fellow Croat. She greeted Cannon with the information that she was learning more English.
‘Alamat learns me.’
The teacher looked about to correct her but instead said, ‘Bozena is a very good cook and cleaner.’
It was only later when Cannon offered to run Bozena back to Boston that they realized Alamat was entertaining her for the night. ‘We’d better get that showerhead fixed,’ Cannon whispered to Liz as they met at the optics. She gave him a warning nudge but grinned.
Later, when the two had gone to Alamat’s quarters, Cannon sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘We’ve missed a few things under our own noses,’ he said. ‘They’re like a pigeon-pair, alike in size. I’ll have to tell him, he’ll like that saying – and I never realized he blushed so easily.’
‘And I never realized I could … well, be steered willy-nilly into doing something I feel is against all common sense, outside our responsibility, unnecessary, ridiculous,’ she said, ‘but just look what I’m doing!’
She was stacking sketchpads, pencils and colours into a neat pile.
‘Just don’t say anything,’ she warned him.
‘I don’t need to,’ he said, but rose, put his cup and saucer into the sink, took her hand and led her out of the kitchen, switching the light off as they went.
‘There’ll be a lot to do if …’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
Chapter 13
It was raining when they landed in Oslo just before eleven, gaining an hour on UK time on the journey. The end of October, and Cannon had expected to see some snow and ice. He wondered if global warming was responsible for there not being any.
As soon as they had collected their cases and reached the arrival hall, they saw Toby Higham waving to them. He came forward, shook Cannon’s hand and kissed Liz twice, three times – ‘one for luck,’ he said – then took her case and replaced it with the upmarket department store carrier he held. ‘It is for you,’ he said, ‘both of you. Open it when you get to your hotel. They are the same as the very first thing I bought when I came to Oslo. You’ll see, you’ll be glad.’
He whisked them into a taxi he had waiting. ‘It is a long drive to the city centre,’ he said, ‘about forty kilometres, but I can fill you in on the situation.’
‘The situation?’ Cannon queried. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Only my father,’ he said.
‘Just at the moment I have an ongoing project with children’s art and a television company. I set a theme and children send in their work. Usually this results in a programme on the work but this time it has all become far more meaningful. The latest one based on the theme of “father” has resulted in a programme for children, an exhibition and a late-night programme based on what a psychiatrist sees in their pictures. I want to take my sister to the opening of the exhibition and your arrival may just make it possible to do this. My father is still paranoid that someone is going to attempt something to harm Catherine.’
‘When is this exhibition?’ Liz asked.
‘This afternoon,’ Toby told them. ‘The official opening is at three but I’ve just come from there and I shall go straight back when I’ve seen you to your hotel.’
‘I’d like to see the children’s work,’ Liz said.
‘Of course, we’ll both be there to escort Catherine,’ Cannon said.
‘That’s wonderful!’ Toby’s enthusiasm and his chatter, full of information about the old city of Oslo, its many museums, its centres dedicated to Henrik Ibsen, which Cannon immediately felt he’d like to visit, and the Edvard Munch museum, which Liz was particularly interested in, passed the journey very pleasantly.
The roads were wide and modern from the airport, passing through newer suburbs before reaching the old city, where they glimpsed the parliament building, the cathedral and the docks before arriving at their hotel.
‘Everything to go on that,’ Toby emphasized as they booked in at reception and he handed over a bank card. ‘So, I will go and be back to pick up at 2.15. There will be refreshments at the exhibition and my father would like us all to eat at my house this evening. Is that…?’
They both nodded.
‘I’m sorry it is all such a rush,’ he added.
‘We don’t mind that,’ Cannon assured him.
‘At least we are starting with some art,’ Liz said when they had been shown into an elegant room with a large sitting area, a balcony overlooking dignified old stone buildings, and a huge double bed with a large quantity of enormous square pillows.
Cannon sat on the edge of the bed then leaned back. ‘Wow,’ he breathed appreciatively, ‘these are the most comfortable pillows in the world! Liz, try them!’
She sat on the other side of the bed and followed suit. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You know, it could be a holiday. We could have left Higham’s troubles in England. Holiday from murder,’ she said.
His head pressed into the great down pillow, his laugh was hopeful but still ironic. ‘What’s in the bag he gave you?’ he asked.
Liz pulled the looped silver cord through so she could open the bag. She drew out two very stylish broad-brimmed hats and looked at the labels. ‘They’re rainproof,’ she said. ‘I see what he meant by being the first thing he bought when he reached Oslo but they’re rather …’ She put one on at a rakish angle.
‘Very nice. You’ll probably need it this afternoon, but what about grabbing a coffee and a sandwich before we’re whisked off to wherever – it could be a long afternoon.’
Toby arrived back for them at 2.15. He looked flushed, excited and a little put out. ‘My father’s in the car with my sister. He insisted we all ride together, and I’ve just insisted they stay in the car while I fetch you. I have a VIP opening the exhibition. I can’t afford to be late.’
Liz was ushered into the back seat next to Catherine. Higham reached across his daughter to shake hands. He was clearly delighted they had both arrived, but the conversation was quickly taken over by Catherine, who was excited not only about being in Oslo with her brother but about going to his exhibition. This made for a few extra breaks in her speech but her enthusiasm was catching.
‘We must stay together to see everything,’ Liz said. ‘Perhaps we will learn a lot from each other.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Catherine agreed. ‘I … love talking … about … painting.’
‘And doing it?’ Liz questioned.
‘Yes!’
Cannon thought it sounded like a friendship forming.
Accompanied by Toby, they were all allowed in by a side entrance before the general public were admitted. The curator of this museum of childhood came to meet them. He was a surprisingly young man: small, slight, pale faced, black beard, very welcoming.
Catherine exclaimed aloud as she saw the main hall where there was a huge shout of colour from the assembled children’s work. She went straight to one picture which showed in bold outline the back of a man with a boy, walking together, their arms around each other. Liz was by her side as the girl lifted her arms to it in appreciation and joy at the closeness of father and son. She looked back to her own father. ‘Just like us, Pa,’ she said.
Cannon was aware that the television crew were already in place. They were busy, absorbed in their own affairs, in a separate universe looking at everything and everyone through dispassionate lenses, receiving instructions from directors. He wondered how far afield these broadcasts were transmitted. Were they filming at that moment?
He went to stand behind Catherine and Liz, between them and the cameras. Higham’s tormentor had followed this family about before; whoever it was did not need to have any of his possible victims lo
cated by a television broadcast.
Three o’clock approached quickly enough, the public was admitted and assembled in the main hall, and cameras and Toby awaited their guest celebrity.
Cannon had ascertained that the lady was a minor but popular royal. She was certainly glamorous, he thought, as the dark-haired sylph-like young woman glided in, arm outstretched to Toby, who bowed then kissed the gloved hand.
The crowd greeted her with something approaching rapture. Cannon and Liz listened politely to the speech in Norwegian but her enthusiasm for the project was obvious in any language.
The presenter now walked into camera shot and began to speak to Toby in English, the whole country’s second language.
‘Mr Toby Higham, I think we could say this is another successful art project you have organized for children all over Norway and beyond. At this time of day we will have a lot of young viewers, and –’ He directed his remarks to the camera ‘– be patient, children, for we will soon be showing you many of the pictures you have sent in and which have been hung in these magnificent rooms. First, though, I want to ask Toby here –’ And now his gaze went back to Toby ‘– just how he makes these exhibitions work so well. So tell us …’
The camera was now on Toby, who was confident and completely unselfconscious. ‘The children will know,’ he said, ‘that I set a theme, a subject, which I ask them to illustrate. In this case it was just one word, “father”, but what happens is the children turn the word into a question. “Father?” In their pictures they then attempt to answer that question.’
‘It has brought a very wide range of work.’
Cannon thought the presenter was now a little cautious, and could imagine some pictures might raise issues too sensitive for afternoon viewing.
‘Indeed it has,’ Toby agreed.
‘There is to be a programme in our later schedules, I understand.’
‘That is correct,’ Toby said, ‘and many of the pictures you see here today will form part of a travelling exhibition on our arts bus, which will visit as many schools as possible. Schools can apply for a visit through our project address, or website.’
The presenter bowed towards the celebrity who, joined by Toby and several officials, began to make her way around the pictures in the main hall. Double doors to other rooms were now opened and visitors were free to go where they wished. Some were obviously looking for particular drawings, others had children with them eager to find their own work.
The afternoon wore on, the crowd began to thin, the celebrity departed and Cannon and Liz found themselves with Catherine and her father alone in the refreshment room. Toby had left them there to go and thank the curator and all those who had helped hang the works and have a short conference with the television director. Liz and Cannon were then to be driven back to their hotel and picked up again in time for a late dinner with the Highams. Toby’s wife and his mother, who they learned had opted to watch the occasion on television, would be waiting to welcome them. So it had all been live, Cannon registered.
Higham was more relaxed now the crowds had gone. He sat with his arm around the back of his daughter’s chair. Catherine was full of talk, impatient with her own inability to chatter as quickly as she wanted. ‘So many … drawings … of fathers,’ she said, ‘tossing their children up in the air … reading at … bedtime.’ She turned to her father with a smile. ‘You have done all … those things.’
Higham’s arm slid from the chair-back to hug his daughter. Cannon glanced at Liz as he blinked away a ridiculous threat of tears, but her face was impassive, even a little remote, which surprised him.
There was a sudden flurry of activity in the doorway and Toby burst in, looking a completely different man to the composed, assured individual who had left them fifteen minutes before. Cannon rose to his feet and heard Higham whisper, ‘Something’s happened.’
‘Toby?’ both men questioned.
‘Yes.’ He acknowledged their concern. ‘There has been an incident.’
‘Has someone…?’ his father began.
‘No, no, it’s one of the pictures, one of the largest drawings, but it’s very disturbing. No one saw anything.’
‘But are we able to leave now.’ Neither Alexander Higham’s words nor his manner made it any kind of question.
Their footsteps and voices echoed eerily in the empty museum as Toby led the way out. The curator was standing in the main hall looking disturbed and shaking his head as they walked towards him.
‘Such a thing,’ he said, ‘so unexpected. We do not want this kind of publicity.’
Higham walked on determinedly, the curator scampering to keep up.
‘It must have been done so quickly and, one might say, so expertly.’ By almost leaping in front of Higham, he diverted the man from the exit to the vandalized picture. ‘One of the pictures we were most pleased to exhibit, so big and bold, such a pity, and whoever did it must have taken the … with him.’
Higham stopped as if struck, pole-axed, before the drawing Catherine had so admired, the picture of father and son walking away from the viewer. Only now the father was missing; the son walked alone.
‘And whoever did it must have taken the –’ The curator waved a hand at the missing oval ‘– with him. There’s no trace, we found nothing, and no one saw anything.’
‘Someone with … a disturbed mind,’ Catherine said. ‘How sad.’
Cannon went closer. It was indeed expertly done; had a template been laid over the picture a more perfect oval would have been difficult to remove, and the mounting board behind was deeply scored by the sharpness of the instrument used. Cannon recollected Higham’s vandalized car and the sweeping cut across the gamekeeper’s carpet.
He glanced at Higham, who looked so stricken he might fall to his knees. Cannon moved quickly to his side, held his arm, led him a few paces towards the door and said in a low voice, ‘Bear up, don’t let your daughter see you upset.’
‘He’s here, isn’t he?’ Higham whispered. ‘He’s followed us.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Cannon agreed.
Higham’s gaze shot to Cannon’s face, and his lips parted, shocked and surprised that someone should so readily agree with him. ‘Oh, thank God,’ he said, ‘thank God you’re here. I began to think I was deranged.’ He looked as if he might have opened his heart, said so much more, but Cannon shook his head.
‘Not now,’ he advised, ‘this evening.’
‘This evening,’ Higham repeated.
The ride back to the hotel was uncomfortable, restrained, Catherine looking continually to her father, who was silent. The way he kept putting the back of his hand to his lips then shaking his head suggested that his mind was working overtime.
‘Do we keep running?’ he suddenly asked, but seemed unaware that he had spoken aloud.
‘I like it … here,’ Catherine said, ‘with Toby.’
‘And we’ve promised to show each other our paintings,’ Liz intervened.
‘Will you bring some this evening?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow would be better,’ Cannon said. ‘You’ll have more time.’
‘OK.’ Catherine beamed at Liz. ‘Tomorrow.’
Cannon was quite pleased to get back into the privacy of their hotel room. ‘It feels like sanctuary already,’ he said, stretching out in one of the armchairs. ‘Will you use the shower first?’
‘Looks like it,’ she said. ‘we’ve only an hour and a half.’
‘Hmm.’
‘John, you won’t forget we’re going out!’
‘No,’ he said abstractedly, and sat staring into space.
She watched him closely. She could see this was going to be one of those moments she called his epiphanies, when something struck him so forcibly he just stopped functioning in the present. She had seen him do it many times in their Met days: during meetings, at crime scenes, in hospitals interviewing victims, and in mortuaries. She shook her head, went into the bathroom, showered and was sitting at the dressing
table when he said, ‘The loving father obliterated, cut out with something as sharp as slashed Dick Ford’s carpet.’
‘You honestly believe this picture being destroyed is something to do with the Highams being here?’ she asked.
‘The loving father obliterated, the devoted dad destroyed,’ he said, ‘like Niall Riley, murdered, bludgeoned to death. Yes,’ he said, ‘I do.’
‘It could surely just be a local feud, even parental jealousy …’ she suggested.
‘Some sort of parental sin more likely,’ he said. ‘I wondered about the expression on your face when Higham’s daughter was listing all the things in the pictures they had shared.’
‘Ah! No.’ She shook her head at the idea it was anything to do with Higham or his daughter. ‘For some ridiculous reason I suddenly remembered that family I knew as a child, the one whose son competed in the swimming gala and left the cups he’d won behind the door at the pool.’
‘Another father who cherished his disabled son to the detriment of the normal,’ Cannon mused. ‘That’s not a ridiculous reason for remembering.’
‘Another?’ Liz questioned that. ‘Niall Riley had only one son, and Dick Ford was not a father.’
‘No, but Higham is, and has a disabled child.’
‘Yes but his sons do not seem disadvantaged in any way whatsoever,’ Liz said, ‘and you’d better get ready.’
‘We never met the other son. I don’t even know his name. Isn’t that odd?’
‘Not really,’ Liz said. ‘He runs the London office of Higham Associate Companies, he is like his mother and his name is Jacob.’ Then obviously quoting someone, she added, ‘Bit of a runt compared with the other son.’
‘How?’
‘According to Hoskins,’ Liz said, adding, ‘we’ve now less than an hour.’
‘Thought you were going to shower first.’
‘I have,’ she said patiently.
When the time came they were ready but Cannon was hot and fussed. ‘I could do with a walk,’ he said.
‘You certainly won’t have time,’ she said as their phone rang and reception told them Mr Toby Higham was waiting for them.
