Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

Macrae shook his head, smiling slightly. “I doubt if they would help our investigation. My apologies. I meant a modern artist that she might have known personally.”

  “No. I don’t recall her mentioning anything like that. But I don’t see…”

  Lightbulb moment. Sudden understanding flooded my brain.

  “The body! You’re thinking that the body might have been this mysterious artist that Carr was talking about!”

  “It’s one of the possibilities that we are considering,” Macrae acknowledged with a poker face.

  Graham had been sitting quietly to one side, not interfering but not missing a word, either. And making connections along the way.

  “You haven’t identified him, then,” he said quietly.

  “Not as yet,” Macrae admitted. “The investigation is ongoing.”

  “And Carr hasn’t said who this artist is?”

  Macrae gave Graham a speculative look, clearly wondering how much to tell him. In my experience, the default police position is to say as little as possible – for good reason, to be sure – but the Scottish detective surprised me.

  “Mr Carr doesn’t know the name. Apparently, Miss Coombe came to him some time ago with the idea to hold the exhibition at the library, and she also hinted that she had contact with a very talented new artist who would be willing to include some of his work. She refused to reveal his name, but did show Carr some examples of his work. He didn’t recognize them, but described them as ‘extraordinary’.”

  “They must have been, to justify reserving the prime spots for his work without even knowing who it was,” I said.

  “Just so. And you’ll understand from that just how important it is that we find Miss Coombe as soon as possible. So if you hear anything from her – or if you remember anything that might be useful – call me directly. At any time.”

  He left a card on the table. Graham showed them both out, while I sat and thought about it all.

  What I thought about mostly was that huge pool of blood spreading out from under the body. Particularly from under his head.

  Graham came back in, having given Brodie his liberty.

  “I know why they haven’t identified the body,” I told him.

  He sat next to me and put his arm round my shoulders. “You shouldn’t have to be thinking about the body,” he said with regret.

  Brodie, not wanting to be left out, came over and put his head on my lap. I scratched behind his ears. “It can’t be avoided. We’ve got to deal with this. And especially if Emily’s involved. I just hope she’s OK.”

  Graham nodded. So did Brodie, though probably because I’d stopped scratching. “So why haven’t they identified him, then?”

  “There was so much blood. It wasn’t a small wound. And it was mostly round his head. His face – he was face down, so I couldn’t see it – but I think that that was where the blood was coming from.”

  “So you’re thinking that his injuries must have made him unrecognizable?”

  “Yes.” I was trying to consider the thought without dwelling on the details. “Of course, they’d have checked DNA and fingerprints, but if he’d never been arrested for anything, he wouldn’t be on the database. And dental records…”

  “Probably not,” Graham jumped in, to cut off that train of thought before I could think about it too much. “And obviously they would have checked his pockets, so we can assume that there was nothing in them to help.”

  “I wonder if he was a smoker?”

  “How does that come into it?”

  I explained about the cigarette end that Mike Newbold had spotted. “If it was his, then it probably doesn’t help much. But if it was someone else’s – it wouldn’t have been any of the staff; I certainly didn’t see any of the art club smoking – I’d have stopped them if I had – so it would have to be the killer’s!”

  “Let’s hope so. They need to get the person responsible, and quickly!”

  “They need to find Emily,” I answered. “I just hope she’s – she’s not…”

  There was no need to finish the sentence. We both knew what I meant.

  *

  I spent the rest of the day mostly on the phone. First, contacting all my staff, reassuring them at length that I was OK, and asking them if they knew anything about Emily. None of them did, and in any case the police had already spoken to them on the subject.

  Then I had a long conversation with my boss at County Hall – Marilyn James, the Area Librarian – with similar reassurances and an edited update on events. She too had been asked about Emily, but beyond confirming what was in the personnel records, had no information to offer.

  Most people would probably put family first on the list, but in our case there’s no point in making it a priority. After a lot of thought, I fired up the PC, went online, and left a message for Sam.

  We don’t have any direct contact with him. No telephone number, no email address, no social media. Just a website where we can leave messages. Sometimes he gets back to us, sometimes not. Sometimes he tells us where he is and what he’s doing. There’s actually more chance that he’ll respond to Graham than to me, but I still keep trying.

  Experience told me to keep it short and to the point. “Hi, Sam. We’ve had some drama here – a murder in the library! Bit of a shock. Hope you’re all well. Love, Mum.”

  Not a fraction of what I wanted to say. “How are you? Where are you? What are you doing? Are you working? Are you with anyone? Do you have friends, a girlfriend?”

  When will you come home?

  Last we heard he’d been backpacking round Australia, but that had been months ago. He could be anywhere by now. With anyone. Or on his own.

  I logged off the website and deleted the train of thought. It couldn’t help.

  There were plenty of other people I needed to talk to. Friends, many of them local, who had heard one version or another of the story and wanted to hear everything else. Catching up with all the messages in various media formats took a surprising amount of time, so it wasn’t until early evening that I finally made the call that I had been wanting to make all day.

  I had June’s personal number in my mobile from some time ago, when she and Rob had been involved in a Laney Grey memorial event. I hadn’t had occasion to use it since, and I was hesitant about it now. It was imposing on a rather casual friendship, I knew, and trying to get information out of a police officer by unofficial channels could even be illegal. But I’d heard nothing from official channels all day, and I couldn’t suppress my worry any longer.

  She answered at once, sounding tired but hopeful.

  “Sandra? Hi. Have you heard from Emily?”

  Which pretty much answered my question.

  “No. Actually, that was what I was going to ask you about. Apologies for bothering you, but I’m getting really worried for her.”

  “Of course. I understand. But no, we haven’t heard anything. Her flat has been searched, but no clues. Don’t spread that around, please.”

  “I won’t. Thanks. I know I shouldn’t be calling you like this.”

  “As long as you understand that there are limits on what I can say. In fact, the DI is very keen on keeping open all possible channels of information, formal or informal. It’s his way of working – not everyone likes it, but you can’t argue with his track record.”

  “A bit of a high-flyer?”

  “Sort of. Not so much in terms of looking for promotion. I understand he could easily have been a DCI by now, if he’d wanted, but he doesn’t want to get sucked into management and taken further away from actually investigating cases. I think that’s probably why he came down here.”

  “After all that happened with Laney?”

  “Yes. The fallout was pretty brutal in local CID – lot of transfers, some early retirements, and so on. They desperately needed someone with a bit of class to come in, restore morale, and generally get their act together for them. And along comes Jimmy Macrae, riding to our rescue like the Seventh Ca
valry. Or the Highland Guards, perhaps? Whatever. He had a really impressive clean-up rate in Edinburgh, and he hasn’t slowed down any since he got here. Trust me, you couldn’t ask for a better copper on this one, and if anyone’s going to find Emily, it’ll be him.”

  “Thanks, June. That’s reassuring. But… Jimmy? Really?”

  “His first name’s actually David. But the day he arrived, while he’s being shown around, some idiot greets him with ‘Hey you, Jimmy!’ in the worst Glaswegian accent you can imagine. A bit of a test, really. But Macrae just turned it round, came back with ‘See you, yer Sassenach.’ Which got him off on the right foot with the lads, but ever since he’s been ‘Jimmy’, at least in the station.”

  We shared a chuckle. “Don’t answer this if it’s out of order, June, but any idea when we’ll get the library back?”

  “I think CSI have pretty much finished. They’ve had a full team on it right through the night. Macrae authorized the overtime himself, said he’d cover it out of his budget if necessary. He really gets things moving! You should be able to go back in sometime tomorrow, though the exhibition room itself might be sealed off a little longer. I’ll call you as soon as I know for definite.”

  “Thanks for that. Just a minute, though – I’m losing track of time. It’s Sunday tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Just another working day for me!”

  “Oh. Well, it shouldn’t be for us. All the same, it would be good if we could get there and start clearing up so that we can open on Monday.”

  “It’s possible, but I’ll let you know. I’ll say goodnight now, if you don’t mind – I’ve had a long day and it’s an early start tomorrow. Jimmy keeps his people busy!”

  DAY 3: POLTROON

  Sunday morning for us usually means church, but I couldn’t face it. It wasn’t the prospect of meeting with God that put me off, but of meeting with God’s people. Some of them would be thrilled by the opportunity to fuss over me, others would want the full story with all the details – “so that we can pray for you”, of course. And their motives would be (mostly) good, but their intense desire to show proper concern would be overwhelming.

  So in a show of cowardice, I sent Graham down on his own. I gave the excuse that I was expecting a phone call from June about lifting the crime scene on the library, a half-truth that added to my guilt without deceiving him in the slightest. Nevertheless, he gave me a hug, a kiss, and a knowing grin before setting off into a gloomy grey drizzle of a morning, while I stayed behind to prepare lunch and contemplate the Word for the Day.

  Which, as it happened, was “Poltroon”. Defined as “a wretched coward, a craven” and apparently one of the favourite insults of the nineteenth century. It didn’t help to know that. However, my guilt was slightly assuaged by the fact that June did indeed call.

  “Yes, you can go back into the main part of the library any time you like. CSI are still working in the Memorial Wing, but I’ve checked with them and you can start sorting out the rest of it.”

  “That’s great! We should be able to open again tomorrow!”

  There was a slight but significant hesitation. “Perhaps it would be best not to be too ambitious on that point, Sandra. The examination process can be a bit, ah, messy. All those powders and chemicals, you see. Perhaps you’d better have a look before you make any plans?”

  “Oh. OK. Well, thanks anyway, June. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Emily?”

  “No. Sorry. I’ll keep you updated as much as I can.”

  She hung up. After some thought on the matter, I phoned Yvonne.

  “Hi. How are you? Have you heard anything about Emily?” She rattled off the questions as soon as she picked up.

  “Hi, fine, and no, not yet,” I answered, and carried on quickly before she could throw any more queries my way. “Are you free this afternoon, Yvonne? Only I’ve been told that we can go back into the library, but that it might need some cleaning up before we can open again. I’m going down to make an assessment – I’d be glad of your company.”

  “Of course. Now? Or later?”

  We agreed on one-thirty. I finished the conversation, and sent up a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanks for friends. Officially, Yvonne was a Leading Library Assistant, and my second in command at Bromwell Street. But we’ve known each other for fifteen years, and she’s never let me or anyone else down in all that time. Reliability on that level is beyond value.

  Graham wasn’t keen on me going back, and would have insisted on coming with me if I hadn’t been able to assure him that Yvonne would be there to hold my hand. I told him to stay at home and recover from his stressful morning at church, where he’d had to explain to everyone that my absence was not due to my being comatose with shock.

  *

  The library looked a lot better in the daylight, especially as the sun had forced its way through the clouds and was busily touching up all the colours. It also helped to see Yvonne waiting to greet me – which she did with a hug as soon as I was out of the car. Yvonne is a big lady, and when she hugs, you notice it. Slightly breathless, I untangled myself and promised her that I was OK, and yes it had been a terrible shock, but I was coping with it, thank you.

  We walked up to the front door together. A PCSO was on scene preservation duty at the front door. With her was a tall woman in a white forensic suit.

  “Afternoon,” she said. “You’ll be from the library? Alison Kepple. CSI. Sergeant Henshaw told me you’d be coming, asked me to show you what we’ve done.”

  I introduced myself and Yvonne, we signed ourselves into the scene with the PCSO, and followed the CSI inside.

  “Stay on the stepping plates, please.” Square metal panels, about a foot across and raised a few inches off the floor with little legs, marked out a path from the main door. “We’ve finished everything in here, but we’ve used chemicals on the floor to show any blood traces, and it would probably be best not to get it on your shoes or clothing.”

  “I’ve heard that that stuff is carcinogenic,” Yvonne said, staring suspiciously at the carpet. “And it’s left stains!”

  “The hazard sheet says nothing about ‘carcinogenic’,” Kepple told us. “But it can be an irritant, and yes, sorry, there are a few stains.”

  We reached the reception desk. The paperwork and other items that had been scattered over the floor had been moved up off of it and piled onto every available surface, apparently at random.

  “I’m afraid we had to clear the floor,” the CSI explained apologetically. “Some of the items that were there we recovered for lab treatment. Other items and surfaces – here and around that open window in the toilet – have been dusted for fingerprints. Messy, I’m afraid, but that should clean off with some neat detergent. Washing-up liquid’s good.”

  “Is it toxic?” I asked, before Yvonne did.

  “No. Well, you wouldn’t want to breathe the powder, but the building’s been well ventilated, so that shouldn’t be a danger.”

  “What about in there?” Yvonne nodded towards the Memorial Wing.

  “We’ve still got a bit of work to do. The paintings have all been removed – they’re stacked in the Children’s Section – and they can go back to their owners. But inside the room itself we’ve used superglue.”

  “Superglue? Was something broken?”

  Kepple grinned. “No – not by us, anyway! But if you heat superglue the vapour sticks to fingerprints, shows up all sorts of detail that you can’t get with powder.”

  “Found anything?”

  “Oh yes. Fingerprints everywhere. Superglue is sometimes too effective! Everyone who’s ever touched a surface in there has left a mark, probably right back to the original manufacturers. That’s why it takes so long – each one has got to be diagrammed and photographed. We should be finished today, though.”

  “This superglue – how do we get that off?” Yvonne asked suspiciously.

  “Acetone’s good. You get it in nail polish remover.”

 
“For an entire room?” I raised an eyebrow. “And wouldn’t the acetone itself stain things?”

  “Well, perhaps. You may need to do a bit of redecorating.” She unzipped the forensic suit, fumbled inside for a moment, and produced a business card. “Or you could try these people. Specialist cleaning service. They’re very good, I hear.”

  “But pricey, I expect,” said Yvonne. “Shouldn’t the police pay for this?”

  Kepple shook her head. “Sorry. Our budget is for the investigation. We don’t have anything for the cleaning up. The price of crime.”

  “OK. I’ll ring Marilyn in the morning, and if she’s good with it I’ll get a quote. We might have insurance to cover it – she’ll know. In the meantime, I don’t suppose there’s much more we can do here. Sorry to drag you out for no purpose, Yvonne.”

  “No problem. I didn’t have anything else planned! I’ll go and see what state those paintings are in – we can at least get them back to the owners. The art club will want to reschedule their exhibition, though probably not here!”

  She headed off towards the Children’s Section.

  Kepple was zipping up her suit. “Actually, while you’re here, can I ask you about something? If you don’t mind just having a glance through into the Memorial Wing, that is?”

  I took a deep breath. I’d have to do this sooner or later. “Not at all. Do I need to put on a suit?”

  “Technically, you should, but at this stage of the examination there are no cross-contamination issues. If you put on a mask and don’t touch anything it’ll cover the health and safety. You only need to glance through the door, anyway.”

  She handed me a disposable mask and led the way over to the doors, while I forced myself to saunter along behind her as if my heart rate hadn’t shot up and my knees weren’t trying to knock together even while I walked.

  “Don’t be such a poltroon!” I told myself.

  “Pardon?” asked Kepple. My mutterings had fortunately been disguised by the mask.

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” I assured her brightly, not wanting to get into a long explanation about “The Eloquent Word for the Day”.