Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  “Sandra?” I heard June call. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m OK, no problems!” I reached for the handle, stopped myself, and pulled at the top of the door, hoping that the intruder hadn’t followed the same thought process.

  The door was stuck. I remembered then that we’d had trouble with this particular door before. Last winter an old lady had been stuck in here for twenty minutes before someone heard her banging. They’d supposedly fixed the problem – but not completely, it seemed. I heaved on it and it came free suddenly; I nearly fell back onto the toilet seat but managed to hold myself upright on the door. I regained my balance and scampered out, nearly running into June.

  “I told you to stay by the door!” she said sharply.

  “Yes, sorry, I was just, er, checking for any damage. I didn’t touch any handles, though.”

  She shook her head. “My CSI colleagues tell me that they rarely get anything useful from handles anyway. Too small, too well used. What did you touch?”

  So much for detective novels. “Just the top of the door.”

  I pointed, and she ran a professional eye over the relevant area. “I’ll mention that to CSI. You’d better come through and have a look in the main library. We haven’t found anyone, but there’s a bit of a mess, and some locked doors we’d like you to check.”

  I followed on, abashed.

  The lights in the main room weren’t on sensors as they were in the newer areas. The coppers had been using their torches, but with a nod from June, I switched everything on, and saw what June had called “a bit of a mess”.

  The main reception desk had been trashed. Every drawer was out, contents emptied over the floor, the files pulled out of the cupboards behind and tossed around, computer screens smashed and hanging from their leads.

  June gave me a moment to take it in, and gently restrained me from stepping too close. “There might be footwear marks on the paper,” she explained. “Was there anything of value kept here?”

  I shook my head. “No, not really. Just paperwork, records, forms – junk, a lot of it. Some of those files are decades old! Pre-computerization – we’ve never got round to archiving everything.”

  “Do you have any cash on the premises?”

  “A bit. Payment for events, and so on… Oh! I just remembered! The art club charge their members to display in the exhibition – just a small amount, but some paid in cash. Might have been a hundred pounds in notes or coins. And the library has a petty cash tin as well. But that’s all kept in a safe in my office.”

  “We’d better check that.”

  I led the way through the aisles to the Children’s Section – the only two-storey part of the building. A door labelled “Staff Only” led up to an office and a staff room. It was securely locked and apparently undamaged. Nevertheless, June inspected it carefully before I unlocked it, and she led the way upstairs.

  “All clear,” she called back down to Mike. No damage, no one lurking in the shadows, safe untouched.

  “Just one more area to check, then.”

  We went back down the stairs and across to the other side of the library.

  At one time there had been a little alcove here, which had been kept free of books to provide space for readings, workshops, and exhibitions. Now there was a rather grand set of sliding doors where the wall had been: pale wood, nicely grained and polished, surmounted by a neat brass plaque announcing it to be “The Laney Grey Memorial Wing”. Very fitting – our famous local poet had been a regular user of the alcove before her tragic death. She would have loved the new room, though she’d have poked fun at the idea of a “memorial wing”.

  “Just finished last month. This art exhibition is the first major event we’ve had here,” I said.

  June nodded, and moved closer to the door. “Was this here before, Sandra?” She pointed to a small mark just above the handle.

  I looked at it and frowned. On closer inspection, the mark was a rounded indentation in the wood. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember seeing it before. Of course, it’s all still quite new…”

  “There’s another one. Two more, in fact.” June indicated two places, one higher up than the first one, the other further down. “Could be tool marks. But they’re only on one side. If someone had pushed a screwdriver in and tried to lever the doors open, you’d expect to see marks on both sides.”

  I shook my head. “I suppose they might have been there before. I just haven’t noticed them. Might have been something done when they were made. A local company donated them free, so we weren’t going to be overly critical.”

  “I’ll have a closer look with the doors open.” June tugged on the handle with her gloved hand. “Still seems secure, so I doubt if anyone got in. Burglars don’t usually lock up behind themselves!”

  “Actually, they wouldn’t have to,” I said. “These doors are on an automatic system. They detect movement in and out. After thirty minutes, if nobody goes through, they close and lock themselves. It’s a security feature, to stop them being left open by accident. Of course, you can lock them open permanently, but you need to put in a different code.”

  June raised an eyebrow. “Very sophisticated!”

  “Yes – a bit over the top for a library, but I think the manufacturers were getting the maximum publicity out of it. They made a big thing about all the features; we’ve been in trade magazines all over the world, apparently.”

  “Who knew the codes?”

  “All the library staff, of course. The manufacturers, I suppose. I can’t think of anyone else who would have had them.”

  PC Newbold spoke up. “Have you seen this, Sarge?” He was pointing his torch into the corner, where the beam highlighted a small, pale object.

  “Cigarette end? Good spot, Mike. You don’t have anyone smoking in here, do you, Sandra?”

  I shook my head firmly. “Of course not!”

  “Good! Could be our burglar, then.” She crouched down for a closer look, and sniffed. “No sign of burning on the carpet, no smell of smoke. But it hasn’t been stubbed out, either. Burned down to the filter. Curious.”

  “Might have been walked in on someone’s shoe?” Mike suggested.

  “Doesn’t look crushed.” June stood up again. “We’ll leave it for CSI to collect and send in for DNA. I’ll try to get them to come as soon as possible, Sandra, to minimize the disruption, but they don’t start until eight, so I’m afraid you’ll probably have to stay closed for the morning at least.”

  “That’ll be a disappointment for the art club, but I’m sure they’ll understand. We can rearrange things, I suppose.”

  “Thanks, that would be helpful. We’d better check the exhibition, just to be thorough. How do we get in?”

  I flipped open a discreet panel next to the doors, revealing a keypad. “This looks OK. Shall I go ahead and open it?”

  “Let me do it.” June stepped over. “I don’t think they can get fingerprints off this surface, but no harm in being careful.” She poised a gloved finger over the numbers. “What’s the code?”

  “Five-three-nine-one.”

  June punched in the numbers as I spoke them. The lock disengaged with a distinct click and the doors slid smoothly open, the lights coming on as they did so.

  PC Newbold swore, softly but distinctly.

  In order to maximize display space, the new wing had been designed without windows. Instead, the curving roof was all toughened glass, to give the biggest possible amount of natural light – with discreet artificial illumination to give the same effect at night.

  The lighting had been another contribution from a local company, and it worked perfectly. Every display stand, every painting and collage and sculpture, was brilliantly illuminated, with no shadows to hide anyone’s work. Even the empty display directly in front of the door was bright and distinct.

  As was the man lying sprawled face down on the floor in a pool of red.

  DAY 2: SPRUNT

  There was a noise.
Not a loud noise. A rhythmic creaking noise that, inexplicably, filled me with dread.

  There was a door. I didn’t want to go through. I didn’t want to know what was making that noise. But my hand was on it, pushing on the door, and the noise was terribly loud, filling my head…

  I woke up with a gasp, a strangled shriek.

  Graham was there, his hands strong and reassuring as he held me. “Sandy? It’s OK, love. It’s OK.”

  I held on to him. “Graham. Graham – it was horrible – this man…”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know. They told me.” He shook his head. “They should never have let you go in there!”

  “They didn’t know. The door was locked and…” I lost my train of thought, dream-door and real-door jumbled together in my head. I took a deep breath, and tried to take a firm grip on myself. “Did I faint? I can’t remember how I got here.”

  “I don’t think you fainted, but you were pretty out of it. Shock. They called an ambulance, but decided you didn’t need the hospital and brought you home. Gave you a sedative.”

  “Yes. I remember the ambulance.”

  There had been blue lights. They took me out in a wheelchair, I thought. And before that, I remembered sitting on the floor in the library. Sobbing and gasping for breath. Mike Newbold had been with me. He took his fleece off and put it round my shoulders and was telling me everything was all right, though he didn’t look good himself. I’d heard June on the radio, calling for an ambulance for me, asking for the Duty DI.

  But the memories were confused. I couldn’t grasp how one thing had led to another, and every thought of the library came back to the doors sliding open, and the terrible thing behind them…

  I gritted my teeth, and focused on the here and now.

  “What time is it?”

  He indicated the digital clock next to the bed. “Just after midnight.”

  “What? I’ve been asleep all day? What sort of sedative did they give me?”

  “Nothing too strong. I think you just needed to sleep.”

  “But there’s things I have to do! The library – I have to tell everyone we’ll be closed – I need to ring Marilyn at County Hall. And the art exhibition!”

  I was sitting up in bed, looking around wildly for my phone, for clothes, but Graham held me again, gently but firmly. “Calm down. It’s all sorted. Everyone who needs to know, knows. The rest can wait. You just need to rest.”

  “Rest? I’ve been resting all day!” But his calmness helped to reassure me, and I settled back.

  “That’s better.” Graham nodded and stood up. “I’ll get you a cup of tea, shall I?”

  He’d been sitting on the bed, but looking round I saw that an armchair had been put in place of the bedside table, and that he was fully dressed under his dressing gown. And very dishevelled. “Graham – you didn’t sleep in that chair, did you?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t want to disturb you. And I didn’t mean to sleep. I was sitting here, watching you, and sort of drifted off.”

  I gripped his hand. “Thanks for being here.”

  “Where else would I be? Now, do you want that tea? Or would you rather go back to sleep for a bit longer?”

  I thought about it. Actually, I did feel tired, but not sleepy tired, more drained of energy. And also in need of the loo.

  “No, no more sleep. Not just yet. My mind’s buzzing. I’m going to get up, I think. I’ll have that cup of tea downstairs. You should get into bed and have some proper sleep yourself.”

  He shook his head. “Later. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

  I joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later. Bright lights, gleaming crockery, warm pine cupboards, and furniture that almost matched. I took comfort from domestic familiarity as Graham bustled around, making his manipulation of kettle, teapot, and two mugs into an episode of MasterChef.

  “There you are. Do you want anything to eat with it?” He put the mugs down on the table and went looking for the biscuit tin.

  “Not for me, thanks.” Thinking of food made my stomach churn. Reaction to the sedative, I decided. “Thanks for the tea.” I sipped gently, appreciating the warmth.

  “No problem.” He settled down with his mug and a handful of bourbons. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  He nodded, and dunked a biscuit.

  “How much did they tell you?” I asked.

  “Just that it was a murder. And a nasty one.”

  “Yes. Very.” I sipped some more. Not wanting to think about it. Not able to avoid it. “There was so much blood…”

  He reached out and gripped my hand. “Oh, no! That bad? And you walked into it without warning? No wonder you were in shock.”

  “Yes. And I’d just been thinking what a pain it was to have a burglary, especially just before our first major exhibition in the new wing, and then… and then…”

  He came round the table, hugged me. “OK. OK. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  But having started, I found it hard to stop.

  “The doors slid open and he was just lying there… I knew he was dead. Well, I didn’t check his pulse or anything, but with all the blood – this huge pool of it, and he was lying face down in the thickest part of it…”

  The image filled my mind, I couldn’t get away from it. Graham held me tight. “OK. It’s OK now.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just difficult to think about anything else. Have you heard anything on the news? Did they identify the… body yet?”

  “Very little on the news at all.” He went back to his side of the table, and stirred his tea with another bourbon. “Just a bare-bones statement – police called to an incident at the library, body of a man discovered, investigations ongoing, etc. I made a few calls, talked to Gary Easton, and to Ray at The Echo, but they don’t know any more than that. They’ve promised not to send anyone round, as long as I keep them informed. Usual quid pro quo.”

  “Good thing you’ve kept in touch.”

  “Well, thirty years as a local hack isn’t something you just walk away from entirely, is it? Of course, if the nationals get interested I won’t be able to do much about that – or even local TV. I hear they had a camera down at the library this morning, so they’ve got some good contacts!”

  I picked up a biscuit myself, nibbled absent-mindedly, put it down, drank some more tea. “I expect they’ll be wanting to talk to me at some point. The police, that is. Or did they do that already? I can’t remember giving a statement or anything like that.”

  “I don’t think you did. Someone rang up while you were asleep – Detective Inspector Macrae, I think he said. Asking how you were, and no rush but please let him know if you would be able to answer a few questions. Usual stuff, but at least he was polite about it. I told him you’d talk to him when you were ready and not before.”

  “I’ll have to deal with it sooner or later, Graham. Can’t hide from these things, you know. It only makes them worse.”

  “I know.” He gave me a wary glance. “But I’ve been thinking – this might bring back memories from that other incident…”

  “It’s nothing like that at all!” I snapped.

  “OK. Sorry to mention it,” he said, giving my hand a placatory pat. But the vehemence of my response had obviously surprised him. It had surprised me, for that matter.

  “Well, I suppose there are similarities,” I admitted. “But this was different. Very different.” I decided not to mention the dream.

  “All right, then.”

  We sat in silence for a while. My mind was racing, going over every detail of the events: Graham’s, on the other hand, was obviously slowing down. His eyelids were drooping and he was struggling not to yawn.

  “Go to bed,” I ordered.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “And I don’t want you getting exhausted. You’re still recovering from serious heart disease, remember? You only had the stents in last month.
Getting any chest pains?”

  He tried to hide a guilty look. “Not really pains; just a little tightness.”

  “Well, get yourself off to bed. I know you’re worried about me, but I don’t need to be worrying about you as well! And I need a bit of time to get my head round things. I think I’ll start writing a statement. It’ll help later on when this Macrae man comes to talk.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  I nodded, and smiled. “Sure. I’m going into the office, anyway, and I don’t need you hovering around distracting me. So you might as well go to bed. Before you finish off all the biscuits.”

  “Oh, all right then. But you will get me if you need me, won’t you?”

  Suitably reassured, Graham finally took himself off, and I went into the converted garage that we’d made into an office and study area. I switched on the laptop, and focused on getting myself in the right mindset.

  A long time ago, when I was trying out a career in journalism, I learned the trick of detaching myself from my emotions and focusing on the facts. I had an editor who was very strong on that. “I don’t want to know about how you feel,” he used to say. “I want to know what happened, whom it happened to, and how they feel. But you are not part of the story. Keep yourself out of it.”

  It’s not a bad skill to learn. Especially useful now. I didn’t suppress or deny my shock and horror, but I put them firmly to one side and concentrated on what had happened. From the time when June had called me, to the discovery of the body.

  I edited out the extraneous details. The DI wouldn’t be interested in lollygagging, for example. Nor did he need vivid descriptions. Just the bare facts.

  Writing it down helped, as I had known it would. Words do that for me. Putting things into clear, well-ordered text brings them under control, puts them into perspective. I can deal with words.

  Someone once said to me, when they found out that I was a librarian, “You must love books then.” It’s not quite true. I love some books, especially poetry. I like many books; there are a few that I’ve hated.