“What are you going to do with it?”
“I suppose I’d better tell the police. It might help them find Emily.”
I pulled out my mobile to call June, then on impulse switched to the camera setting and took a couple of pictures of the painting. And one of the note, for good measure.
June was very interested to hear that we had something from Emily, less pleased that we had opened and handled the evidence.
“You should have called us as soon as you realized it was from her!” she admonished. “Put it down somewhere and don’t touch it again! I’m on my way over.”
I made suitable apologies, and put everything back on the desk. Yvonne and I stood there and regarded the painting from a safe distance.
“Why a gift to you particularly?” Yvonne wondered aloud.
I shrugged, shook my head.
“Is there some connection? You haven’t taken up orchid growing, have you?”
“No. My gardening skills are just as they always were – basic. I can do a bit of weeding or trim a hedge, but nothing fancy.”
“So what’s the connection?”
I shrugged again. I didn’t want to think about it. Something about the picture was disturbing, and I didn’t want to go there.
I turned away and headed back down to the library. “Anyway, we’d better leave it alone until June gets here,” I shouted back over my shoulder. “We’re in enough trouble already!”
“Where do you get ‘we’?” asked Yvonne, chasing after me. “You’re the one who opened it!”
I made a bit of work for myself, putting returned books back into place and making a start on tidying the reception desk. Fortunately, June wasn’t long, and wasn’t alone either – DI Macrae was with her.
“I’m sorry about opening it. I wasn’t thinking.” I got my apology in quickly before June could say anything, but Macrae just waved it off.
“It’s no’ a problem, really. I can’t expect you to be thinking like a police officer, now, can I?”
June said nothing, but gave me a look, which I carefully ignored. “It’s up in the office,” I said, and led the way.
Macrae had put on some disposable gloves, and, after a glance at the painting, picked the note up. “Do you use this sort of Post-it in the library?” he asked.
“Yes. But who doesn’t?”
“A good point,” he acknowledged. “And blue pen?”
“Ah – well, actually, we only have black in the office supplies. I think it goes back to a time when photocopiers didn’t reproduce blue ink very well. Of course, anyone could use their own pen.”
“Oh, certainly. But it inclines me to think that this was written somewhere else and brought here.”
I remembered the faint smell of the envelope, and made a connection. “In a studio! An artist’s studio!”
Macrae raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a smell in the envelope,” I explained. “It reminded me of an artist’s studio that I went to once. I think that they told me it was turpentine and linseed oil.”
“Very good, Mrs Deeson!” Macrae picked up the envelope and had a small sniff himself. “Yes, I think you’re right. But there’s a wee problem here. That sort of smell comes with oil painting – and this is done in acrylics.”
“So the artist works in oils as well? Nothing unusual in that, especially if they like to do mixed media.”
“Indeed, that’s so.” He put the envelope down and looked at the painting itself. “So, why do you think Emily gave this to you?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“It’s not one of her own?”
“No. She only worked in watercolours, as far as I know. And frankly, she was never this good.”
“But she thought that this had a connection with you.”
“Apparently. I don’t know what, though.” I didn’t want to know what. “Perhaps there would be a clue in these other paintings she mentions.”
“Aye, that’s likely. We certainly would like to look at those. Perhaps if we can find this studio, we may find the other pictures.”
He looked at the painting again, scrutinizing it carefully. “Interesting that there’s no signature. You know, I’ve learned recently of another artist who didn’t sign his work. Sir Arthur Templeton.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, aye. He was quite famous – or infamous, perhaps – for that little quirk, amongst others. Apparently he once said, ‘If an artist is any good, their work will be recognized. If they aren’t any good, their signature won’t help it.’”
“Sounds like he had a good opinion of himself,” said Yvonne.
“Arrogant, many people called him. But he had a lot of reason to be, back in the day. He didn’t get that knighthood for nothing, you know. He had commissions from virtually everyone in the British Establishment, it seemed, and many more besides. Back in the eighties, you weren’t anyone unless you had a Templeton painting on your wall.” He shook his head, frowning. “Then he suddenly packed it in, left the country, and wasn’t heard of again for years. He never gave an explanation, so it’s still a bit of a mystery.”
I was impressed by his knowledge. “Do you have an interest in art, DI Macrae?”
He gave me a warm smile. “Oh, David, please. I’m no’ much for formality. And as for the art, and Sir Arthur, it’s just the way I like to approach a case like this. I get together as much information as I can – not just the obvious stuff, you understand, but all the background as well. Then I look for patterns, for the links, the connections. That’s where the answers are often enough.” He retained his smile, but gave me a searching look. “So if there’s any more information you can give us, Sandra – anything at all?”
I shook my head, feeling at once flattered by his familiarity and threatened by his probing questions.
“Sorry, no. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Aye, do that please. June – have a word with CSI, please. While they’re still here, they can get these items photographed, packaged, and off to the lab ASAP.”
“They won’t damage the painting, will they?” I asked.
He nodded. “There should be no need for that. June, be sure to tell them, chemical treatment on the note, the envelope, and the mount, but visual examination only on the painting itself.”
June nodded and went back down to find the CSIs. David turned back to me.
“Thank you again for bringing this to our attention. I’ll see that you get the painting back in due course.”
I glanced at it again. I wasn’t sure that I wanted it back. It still made me uncomfortable.
“I just hope that it helps.”
“Oh, it’s helped already.” He picked up the note again. “You see this word she uses? This ‘we’ she mentions? In the context of that picture, that’s strong evidence that she was working with this mysterious artist. I’d suspected that, of course, but now we’ve confirmation.”
“And the timing as well!” I repeated my thoughts on when the envelope could have been left.
David nodded in approval. “You see? You know more than you think! I was wondering about that very thing myself, and now you’ve helped me out again.”
June came back in. “I’ve had a word with Alison. She’s just getting some evidence bags from her van, and she’ll be straight up. She’ll get elimination prints from you two as well,” she added with a stern look at Yvonne and myself. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to consider this office part of the crime scene again – so if you don’t mind?” She indicated the door.
David Macrae was sniffing at the envelope again. “You know, Sir Arthur mostly painted in oils. I wonder if he has a studio?”
“He hasn’t painted in years!” said Yvonne.
“He hasn’t exhibited in years,” the DI corrected. “That doesn’t mean that he’s not painting. Perhaps we’ll go and ask him. Thank you again, ladies,” he added, giving us our cue to leave. He and June followed us down the stairs,
and left by the front door.
“Hmm – the DI’s a bit dishy, don’t you think?” Yvonne gave me a little nudge as the doors shut behind them.
“He seems very on the ball,” I answered non-committally. Yvonne watches too many soaps and likes to create her own storylines using the people around her.
“Yes, but he liked you! Didn’t you see that smile he gave you? And ‘David, please’!”
“Don’t be fooled. It’s just his way of putting people at ease so he can get more information out of them. Let’s do some work, shall we? I’ll ask the CSI when she wants to take our elimination prints – you phone the art club chairman, tell him what Carr said about getting the paintings moved. We might get something moving quicker that way.”
It took Alison Kepple a while to get round to taking our fingerprints, since her priority was obviously dealing with the new evidence in the office. So it was getting on for evening when I finally got home, fully expecting a telling-off from Graham for working so long on a Sunday.
Instead, he greeted me with a broad grin.
“Sam’s been in touch!”
My heart leaped. “Sam! Really! He answered my message?”
“Well, I’d left him a message as well. But he’s replied to both of us! Both of us, Sandy!”
I stood there in the doorway, keys still in my hand and tears in my eyes. Sam had barely spoken to me in three years. Not since he’d left home. Not much before then, either. Even his messages to Graham hardly mentioned me.
“What… what does he say? Is it still on the PC? Show me! Show me, please!”
“I’ve printed it off.”
Graham was waving a sheet of paper in my face. I snatched it away from him, and peered at the print, but couldn’t make the words out, my vision was too blurry. I rubbed frantically at my eyes, but the tears were still coming. I thrust it back at him.
“You read it.”
“OK. It starts, ‘Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum.’”
“He said that! He said ‘Hi Mum’?”
“Yes, that’s just as he sent it. Hot off the printer. The message only came in half an hour ago. I was just about to phone you…”
“Yes, yes, but what else does he say?”
We were still standing in the hallway, with the door open, but there was no question of waiting until we’d sat down and got comfortable.
“He says, ‘Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum. Got your messages. Wow, does sound like you had a nasty experience, Mum. Hope you’re getting over it OK. Don’t let it get to you! Seriously, don’t. Watch out for her, Dad, you know how she gets. I’m in Thailand at the moment. Wonderful country, lovely people. Might stay here a while. Take care, Sam.’”
I had him read it again. Then I took the sheet of paper from him, and held it tightly, scanning the words again and again.
He led me gently into the lounge, sat me down, and went to put the kettle on – before thinking better of it and pouring me a large glass of wine.
I sat and held it, taking occasional sips, and not letting go of the paper.
“He spoke to me, Graham! He talked to me!”
“I know, Sandy.” He hugged me, still beaming.
“That’s the first time in…”
“I know.”
We sat together, savouring the moment.
“That’s the longest message we’ve had from him in… I don’t know. Years, maybe?”
“Something like that.”
Graham had had more contact than me. Sam hadn’t had an issue with his dad, except where Graham had supported me. I’d been the problem. It was me who had destroyed our relationship with our son. But now he was talking to me again.
“So he’s left Australia, then.”
Graham chuckled. “If he’s in Thailand, I suppose he must have done.”
“Whereabouts, do you think?”
“Goodness knows. It’s a big place. Probably somewhere remote, knowing Sam.”
“But not too remote to get in touch.”
“The internet covers a lot of places.”
Underneath the euphoria, the relief, a fear was rising. An old enemy. I tried to push it down, but it forced its way out anyway.
“Thailand… it’s not a safe place, is it? I mean, there’ve been stories.”
I felt Graham go tense. “Sam’s good at looking after himself, Sandy. He’s been knocking around the world for three years now, and he was always pretty streetwise. He’s fine.”
“Yes. Of course. He is.” I tried to force myself to relax. “Does he know anyone there, do you suppose? I mean, does he have any friends?”
“Of course he has friends. Sam’s great at making friends – you know that. Five minutes on a bus or in a bar, and he’s everyone’s best friend ever.”
“Yes. He’s like that, isn’t he?”
There was a pause.
“But – he can’t have been there long, that’s all. I mean, we know he was in Australia not long ago, and he’s been travelling, so he won’t know people well…”
“Sandy…”
“It’s just that if something happened to him – and no one knew him – does he have identification? Would they know who to contact?”
My breathing had become shallow and rapid. Graham held my hands, spoke urgently. “Of course he has identification. He’s got a passport, remember? And probably other documents.”
“But they could be stolen! And if he was mugged, if he was injured or killed and left in some place where he wasn’t found, not found for weeks or months, so he couldn’t be identified…”
“Sandy! Don’t do this, please! Not now! Just leave it!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Graham – but I can’t leave it!” I was starting to shout. “You don’t understand, you never understand. Something might happen to him and no one would know who he was and his body would never be claimed; it would just be left there, left swinging…”
I stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing what I’d said, suddenly seeing the tears in Graham’s eyes.
“I knew this would happen,” he said, and sounded so broken and despondent that I began to cry again myself. Not from joy this time. From guilt, because I had done this. “I knew this thing at the library would bring it all back again. How couldn’t it? Coming across a body like that, and an unidentified one at that.”
I closed my eyes and nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t want to admit it. Especially not to myself. But… I had that dream again last night. The noise… And the picture…”
“What picture?”
“The picture… Oh! Of course, the picture!” I began a frantic search through my pockets for my phone.
“I don’t understand, Sandy. What picture are you talking about?”
“The one at the library!” I tried to explain. I couldn’t find my phone in any of my pockets. Had I left it behind? I started searching again. “Emily left me a picture – a painting! I only found it today.”
The phone wasn’t in a pocket. I’d put it in my handbag. I pressed buttons, my fingers shaking so much that I kept pressing the wrong ones. “Incorrect Password,” the screen told me.
“What does the picture have to do with it?” Graham was struggling to stay calm himself, but my agitation was scaring him. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then started again, taking care to press each key properly.
“I’ll show you.” The password was accepted and the phone opened up its secrets. I went into the photo albums, opened up the most recent pictures. The first one that came up – the last one I’d taken – was Emily’s note. “Look, this was with the picture.”
Graham squinted to read it. “OK. So – the painting?”
“Here.” I scrolled across to the image I’d recorded. Even on the small screen, the brilliant colours of the flower in the sunbeam stood out.
“Flowers? I don’t get it, Sandy. What is it about a painting of flowers?”
“No, not the flowers!” The words tumbled out of me. I was understanding more even as I spoke. “That’s what I
was looking at first, the flowers, but I knew there was something else there, only I couldn’t see it, I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to be reminded, but my subconscious knew all along!”
Graham, more perplexed than ever, could only stare at the picture and then back at me.
“It’s the background, Graham! The place where the flowers are!”
“You can hardly see the background. It’s all in shadows.”
“Yes! Yes, exactly! That’s just how it was! All shadows, and dark old beams and peeling paint – it was just like that, even the boarded window, though there wasn’t a hole in it then!”
I reached over and grabbed his hand, desperate to make him understand. “I know that place, Graham! I’ve been there! That was where I found the body – thirty years ago!”
DAY 4: SCINTILLA
Of course, I should have told David Macrae. Or June. But in all honesty, it didn’t even occur to me until the following morning. That evening Graham and I had talked it over, trying to work out the implications. What was the connection? How could Emily have a picture of that place, of all places? Clearly, it was no coincidence that she had left it for me. But the meaning behind it escaped us.
I went to bed early, exhausted by the emotion of the day. Even so, I’d been reluctant to sleep for fear of the dream. That soft and terrible creaking noise had haunted me for years, coming back in times of stress or worry. But I’d thought it long over and gone. It was a huge relief when I woke up and realized that I’d slept through without any dreams at all – or none that I remembered.
Graham was up early. He was supposed to be out that day: though officially retired, he still did a bit of freelance work, and had arranged to interview an ex-England rugby player about a new youth team that he was sponsoring. He was all for cancelling it and staying with me, but I wouldn’t hear of it.
“There’s no need,” I assured him. “I’m feeling a lot better now it’s all out.”
That was the truth. Recognizing the location of the painting had had a cathartic effect, draining off a huge amount of excess emotion and leaving me with a clearer head. I could even contemplate the thought of Sam being out in Thailand with only a faint trace of worry – no more than any mother would feel, I told myself.
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