‘From talking to Walter and your own knowledge, we know there are limited people who understand the true nature of the painting. Given Peter had it in his possession for less than a day, what are the odds that he told enough people that one of them would be prepared to break into the shop and kill him for it?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But Peter wasn’t supposed to be there.’
‘According to his drunk cheating wife, who was also the person he was swindling out of profits from the shop.’
‘Okay, so she might have been lying.’
‘We need to check his phone records, to see who he called.’
‘I know a guy.’ She pulled out her phone and made a quick call, relayed what she wanted, then hung up. ‘He’ll email it to me shortly.’
Oliver stared at her and she cocked her head to the side in question.
‘If you knew a guy, why break into the shop?’ he asked.
Amanda smiled. ‘Who broke into a shop?’
‘Fine. So what if he went back to the shop, and the painting was already gone? Then someone else killed him.’
‘It’s a stretch. That on the same night a thief and a killer both targeted Peter and his shop.’
‘It is a stretch, but it’s not implausible,’ he argued.
‘Okay, let’s run with the idea. Peter tells someone he has the painting. It has to be that way. I refuse to believe a random thief broke into his shop on the same night he got the painting, and only stole the one thing. So it’s someone he told.’
‘Then at some point later Peter comes in and is killed.’
‘You realise that points the finger straight at Charlotte? She was the only one who knew he was going to be there,’ Amanda mused.
‘Was she? Or did she tell Kristin as well?’
‘You know, Kristin is the only one we haven’t talked to,’ Amanda said.
‘I guess we have a next step then,’ Oliver concluded.
Amanda’s phone pinged, and she tapped the screen and studied it silently for a moment.
‘We actually have two next steps.’ She showed him the screen and he saw it was Peter Yarrow’s phone records. Amanda pointed out a number at the bottom.
‘Jean told us that she last spoke to Peter the day before he died. But according to this he called her that afternoon. She lied to us.’
‘She’s a thief and God knows what else – I’d be surprised if she wasn’t lying to us,’ Oliver retorted.
‘True, I lie all the time – it’s an occupational hazard. Still, it would be interesting to know what else she’s been lying about.’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘No, I think you should ask her. I’m going to tackle Kristin,’ Amanda replied.
‘Not literally, I hope,’ Oliver joked.
Amanda shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Come on, I’ll drive. We can set up the meetings on the way.’
True to form, Amanda was driving a different car, a black Ford Festiva. It smelt new, and Oliver snuck a glance at the mileage, which was less than one thousand kilometres.
A couple of phone calls – and reluctant responses – later and they had arranged to meet Jean and Kristin at separate cafés in the city. Amanda dropped Oliver off and they worked out a place to meet afterwards.
Oliver was a few minutes early to the café, which was overflowing with office workers seeking their mid-morning caffeine fix. He queued, ordered, then found a table in one corner. He sat facing the door and alternated between looking at his watch and the steady stream of customers arriving and leaving.
She’s late.
No she’s not. She got here a couple of minutes ago.
Startled, Oliver scanned the crowd once more, and spotted her wedged in between two tall men in business suits.
I thought you could only see what I did?
You did see her, your brain just didn’t register her. She’s doing a great job of blending in.
Jean caught him looking, and picked through the crowd, slipping into the seat next to him.
‘Where’s your partner?’
Up close he could see there were dark lines under her eyes. She slumped in the seat as if the journey to the table had sapped the last of her strength.
‘You don’t seem well. Are you okay?’ Oliver asked.
‘Gee thanks,’ she snapped. ‘I’m just tired okay!’
‘Sorry.’
‘What do you want? I thought you guys were done with me.’
The couple at the next table stopped talking and looked over. Oliver flashed them a smile, and red faced they turned back to each other, resuming their conversation at a muted level.
‘You told us that you didn’t talk to Peter the day he died. But he called you that afternoon.’
Jean stared defiantly into space. ‘So?’
‘So what did he say?’
Her eyes flicked to his, then away again. ‘He told me to come around the next day. Said something had come in that was going to leave everything we’d done in the dust. Said it was going to set us up for a long time. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. I guess it was that painting you told me about.’
She paused, searching for confirmation, and slumped back down when Oliver nodded.
Don’t tell her too much. Remember Amanda said she’ll probably lie to us.
‘Why did you lie to us?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I panicked,’ she replied in a small voice. She seemed vulnerable, as if she was about to dissolve into a fountain of tears.
‘When was the last time you ate something?’
She shrugged in response. Oliver marched over to the counter and bought a chocolate muffin. When he put it in front of her Jean ripped off a chunk and shoved it into her mouth.
‘The thing is, I didn’t know you. You could have been cops trying to trap me, so I lied. Sorry,’ she added through a mouthful of muffin.
Oliver, look at her hands.
He glanced down at them. Why?
Tell you later.
‘So you never saw the painting then?’ Oliver asked.
She shrugged. ‘What’s the big deal with the painting anyway? You guys are making out like it’s worth a fortune, but it was just by some hack painter.’
‘So you have seen the painting,’ Oliver pressed.
Again she responded negatively. ‘Peter told me about it. It sounded a little out there. I mean, he didn’t even have proof it was by this John guy, other than the name. It could have been a fake.’
‘Have the police been to see you?’
She paused mid-chew, eyes wide. ‘No, why? Did you tell them about me?’
‘No,’ he reassured. ‘But they are the police, they might figure it out for themselves.’
She thought about that, gave a curt nod, then continued demolishing the food.
‘Did Peter ever mention his sister?’
She snorted, and a piece of muffin flew from her mouth, across the gap and tumbled onto the next table. The couple glared at them and Jean replied with a chocolate grin.
‘That bitch. He couldn’t stand her. He was always going on about the things she and her daughter did. He thought she was screwing the girl up. But I doubt it.’
‘Why?’ Oliver asked.
She shrugged. ‘Because it sounds like she was too busy screwing the wife.’
Oliver sat up straighter. ‘He knew about the affair?’
‘Why do you think he was syphoning money out of the business? He’d known for ages.’
Jean lapsed into silence after that, and failed to provide much more as she finished off the muffin and slunk out the main door with a sketchy wave.
By the time Oliver got outside she had vanished into the crowd. He asked Violet, why did you want me to look at her hands?
Her nails. They were manicured. And the dark marks under her eyes? They were done with make-up.
How do you know?
I’m a girl Oliver. There might not have been as much make-up available in my day, but I still know
when someone’s wearing it, and she had plenty under her eyes.
Oliver began walking back to the rendezvous point. She had nice nails, so what?
She was dressed down, yet she had perfect nails.
And?
She was faking Oliver. Pretending she was vulnerable. The way she sat, the way she looked – it was all designed to make you think one thing about her. That she was weak, that you should feel sorry for her.
How do you know? he repeated.
Because I sometimes did the same. Sometimes it pays to be underestimated.
But why would she do that?
To get information out of you.
Oliver replayed the conversation in his head. She didn’t learn anything, he finally concluded.
Maybe, or maybe she learned more than you realised. I’m starting to think there’s way more to Jean than we first thought.
He played the conversation at a slower speed, straining to remember every word, every inflection, every movement. It all came back surprisingly clear. At first it all seemed innocuous, but then he ran it for a third time and some things stuck out. Small things. And just a couple of times there had been something in her eyes – a fleeting hardness. He shook his head. Maybe he was just inventing something that wasn’t there.
Trust your instincts, Oliver. And if you don’t then trust me.
Oliver reached a corner, checked for traffic, then stepped onto the road. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something moving. An engine burst above the other noise. Oliver instinctively leapt backwards just as a car flew past, missing him by the tiniest of margins. His heel hit the curb and he tumbled onto the pavement. He caught a glimpse of a dark coloured car as it turned the next corner.
‘You alright mate?’ A couple of strong hands hauled him up.
‘Yes, I think so. I guess I should be more careful,’ Oliver said in a shaky voice. His heart thumped uncomfortably fast.
‘I don’t know mate,’ the young man replied, ‘it looked like it was gunning for you.’ The man slapped him on the back and wandered off.
Are you really okay, Oliver?
I’m fine.
Someone just tried to kill us.
Oliver looked towards the corner the car had disappeared around. No, they probably just didn’t see me. The words sounded unconvincing to them both.
Amanda was thoughtful when he recounted the meeting with Jean.
‘Do you think the car was trying to kill me?’
‘We can’t rule it out. You need to be extra careful, Oliver. Although if it was it’s a good sign.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
She laughed. ‘I just mean someone must think we’re getting close. Or it might have had nothing to do with this and it was just a crappy driver.’
Oliver wasn’t comforted with either scenario.
Amanda then told him about her meeting with Kristin. The hostility of their first meeting had only intensified when Amanda put the pressure on. Finally the woman had cracked and said she told Peter about her affair with Charlotte the day before he’d been murdered. Kristin admitted Peter hadn’t been all that surprised which she found insulting, and angry words had been spilled.
‘Which gives her a motive as well,’ Oliver pointed out.
‘I don’t think so. I can see her lashing out in the heat of the moment, but there was no reason for her to kill him. Charlotte and Peter get divorced, Charlotte gets bought out of the business, Kristin gets the girl and the money.’
‘Except Peter was draining the coffers. What if Kristin found out?’
‘It’s possible,’ Amanda admitted. ‘But it’s a stretch. And how did she know he would be at the shop?’
‘Charlotte,’ Oliver suggested. ‘And Peter already knew about the affair, at least according to Jean, so it’s no wonder he didn’t react when Kristin told him. But let’s think about it for a minute. Charlotte knows that Kristin told Peter about the affair. She also knows he’s gone to the shop, it’s late, no one else is around. She texts Kristin and tells her he’s all alone. Kristin goes to the shop, finishes her brother off, boom, gets the girl and all the money, and lives happily ever after.’
Did you just say boom?
‘Boom?’ Amanda queried.
‘Okay, that sounded better in my head.’
No, it really didn’t.
‘It’s a theory,’ Amanda said. ‘But not a very good one. Charlotte could just report Peter to the police, divorce him and marry Kristin. There’d be no need for murder.’
‘There’s never a need for murder, but it happens all the time,’ Oliver said.
‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ Amanda replied.
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘There’s multiple, but nothing that makes any more sense.’
Oliver glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, so what now? The clock is ticking and I don’t think Victor will be amenable to giving us another extension.’
She nodded slowly, chewing on the end of her hair. Oliver was disconcerted by the silence, worrying that she was slipping back into the same panicky state of that morning.
There was something.
What?
Something Jean said. I can’t quite remember. Can you replay the conversation again?
Why?
Because it’s like watching a movie when you do that. I can see the images you remember.
Oliver struggled to recall every word said, finding it more difficult as each minute passed.
Stop. There. She said it had John’s name on it. How did she know that if she never saw the painting?
Maybe Peter told her.
It sounds like he didn’t know it was by John until later that night, long after he’d talked to Jean. He did some research at home, then went back to the shop to check if he was right. Think about it – we know she’s lying to us about something. What if she stole the painting to cut Peter out completely?
Oliver thought about her theory. It seemed as full of holes as Reed’s pants, but Jean was hiding something. He relayed the theory to Amanda.
‘There’s one way to see if it’s true,’ she said. Amanda dialled Jean’s number, and it rang through the car speakers.
‘Yeah.’
‘This is Violet.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m running out of time and patience to get my painting back, so I’m offering a reward.’
‘Yeah? How much?’
‘Five thousand dollars, cash.’
There was a long pause and when Jean spoke again her voice was guarded. ‘Why are you telling me?’
‘You were involved with Peter and the shop. I’m not saying you have the painting, but you might be able to get the word out that I’m offering the reward. Maybe the right person hears it.’
Another long pause. ‘I hear the painting is worth a lot more than that. Hypothetically why would someone hand it over for just five grand?’
Amanda glanced at Oliver, her expression mirroring his. That Jean was even discussing it meant she knew something.
‘Because it’s a high-profile piece. The person who stole it won’t be able to sell it for anywhere near it’s true value. And they’d first have to find a collector willing to buy a stolen painting, which won’t be easy to find.’
Silence grew long and heavy. Without the rhythmic sound of breathing on the line, Oliver would have thought she’d disconnected.
‘I’ll call you back. I might know someone who knows someone.’ She hung up.
‘Do you think she knows someone?’ Oliver asked.
‘I think she is someone,’ Amanda replied. ‘Did you hear the pauses, the careful tone in each word? She has the painting, or at the very least knows who does.’
‘Great, so let’s call the police.’
‘Not a chance. First we get the painting back, then we call the police.’
Oliver pressed his fingernails tightly into his palms, and immediately wished he’d cut his nails. ‘Do you even have five thousand dollars?’
&n
bsp; ‘Of course I do.’ Amanda snorted. ‘But she isn’t getting it.’
‘Then how…’
‘Oliver, persuading people to do things they don’t want to do is my job.’ She started the engine.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see someone who’s better at my job than me.’
THIRTY TWO
Oliver was surprised when they left the city and wound upwards into the hills and suburbia. After ten minutes of navigating narrow winding roads originally built for cars half the size, they turned into a tree lined cul de sac. At the end was a large driveway with a discreet sign announcing that visitors were welcome to the Silvermoon Retirement Complex. Halfway up the drive Oliver had decided here was where he wanted to retire. The buildings sat subtly against a backdrop of trees and lawns with impossibly green grass. A couple were playing tennis on one of the three courts, while others were arguing over a game of pétanque.
‘What are we doing here?’ Oliver asked as Amanda pulled up to the entrance of a large brick building. A smartly dressed man scurried down the steps and handed her a valet ticket. Oliver stood open mouthed while their car was driven carefully away.
‘Come on,’ Amanda prompted him from the top step.
Inside the foyer was modern, with leather sofas dotted across the floor. A reception area sat to one side. Amanda approached the desk and exchanged a greeting with the woman behind the counter. From their tone and expressions, it seemed this wasn’t her first visit. She signed a book, picked up a visitor’s pass and handed another one to Oliver. By the time he’d fumblingly attached it to his T-shirt Amanda was waiting outside the lift. As the doors silently slid open Oliver hurried to her side and they stepped in together. He noticed there were no buttons inside the car.
‘She knows where we’re going,’ Amanda gestured to the receptionist.
‘What is this place?’
‘Discreet,’ was all she would say.
They exited into a short hallway with two doors. Amanda knocked three times on the left door, waited, then pushed it open. Oliver followed her through into an apartment that would have rivalled the finest hotel. Everything was modern, and clean, and screamed money.
‘Seriously, what is this place?’ Oliver said in a whisper, as if a normal voice would offend the opulence.
Murder in Paint Page 21
