I drag myself away reluctantly; there’s a lot of work still to be done. The master bedroom, guest bedroom, study, second guest room, even the powder room, all have small paintings that need to be added to my growing list. It’s just after five when I finish and I realise I’m starving. It was easy to ignore the hunger pangs while I was concentrating on the job, but all I’ve eaten since breakfast is a Mars Bar and a couple of Tic Tacs. Looking out the window, I see the weather is closing in and rapidly darkening the sky. Cars sweep past with their headlights already on and I grimace at the thought of battling peak-hour traffic. I double-check that I’ve saved the list properly in the laptop, then grab my things and head for the ground floor. There’s a small table facing the bottom of the stairs, weighed down by a large and elaborate bunch of flowers in a Worcester vase, and as I step onto the parquetry of the entrance hall, I catch a glint of light from behind the dense foliage. There is a painting there, something under glass that Tony failed to mention and I failed to notice because, hey, dragon staircase. Tony appears from the back of the house. He must’ve heard me come down and no doubt he and Geoffrey are ready for me to leave.
‘What’s this?’ I move toward the table.
Tony’s eyes widen. ‘Oh my God! I totally forgot about that!’ Suddenly he looks a bit embarrassed. ‘To be honest, the painting gives me the creeps so I do that with the flowers. Geoffrey likes it though. He got it from an old lady years ago and I think it was probably the first painting he bought, which is why he has a soft spot for it, because otherwise … Anyway, neither of us has any idea who the artist is, although apparently the woman who sold it to Geoffrey said he was German.’
I pick up the vase of flowers and lower it carefully to the floor, exposing the painting.
‘Oh.’ I can see why Tony finds this a bit creepy. It shows the ruins of a church, the shattered steeple bathed in moonlight. A few gravestones, tilted at crazy angles, can be seen to one side of the ruin. The sky is filled with leaden clouds, indicative of a fast-approaching storm. In the foreground, the black outline of a horse and rider gallop across the canvas, desperate to be somewhere else. Almost behind the edge of the church, deep in the shadows, a tall figure is just visible, dressed head-to-toe in white, a large cowl obscuring the face. ‘Oh!’ My brain has just made its connection on the thought train. ‘This looks like an Arnold Böcklin.’
‘A what now?’
I lean in close to the painting, but it’s no good – the reflections from the glass plus a bit of bloom on the canvas mean I can’t see any details, let alone a signature. I step back and turn to Tony. ‘Arnold Böcklin, Swiss painter, late nineteenth century, best known for his mythological scenes and his heavy use of symbolism. His most famous painting is Isle of the Dead, but most people have never heard of him. Your painting has a very similar style and feel. I’d need to get the glass off to be sure, though.’
‘How important is he?’ He is staring at the painting with the hint of a smile on his face.
‘Well, he’s represented in most major galleries: New York’s Met, the Musée d’Orsay, National Gallery in London, all of those. But I’d have to make sure the work is his. In any case, as you already know, this sort of work isn’t to everyone’s taste, so auction prices can be difficult to pin down.’
‘Off the top of your head?’ Tony sees my hesitation. ‘Let’s assume it is by Böcklin. For the sake of argument.’
‘Assuming that, probably around $100,000 plus in a European sale. Böcklin’s more of an academic’s artist than a collector’s artist, and you have several far more valuable paintings in your collection.’
‘Yes, but that sort of price should still be enough for Geoffrey to part with it. Shall I call him?’
‘I’d rather you let me confirm the details before we get too carried away.’ I glance at my watch. ‘I can either come back with some tools and take it out from under glass or, if you’d like me to, I can take the painting with me, have a proper look at it and return it to you when I come back with the catalogue and valuation of the collection in about a week’s time.’
‘Take it away. I’ll explain to Geoffrey so hopefully the moment you bring it back, we can get you to crate it up and ship it off to an auction in Switzerland.’ As he’s talking Tony is lifting the painting from its hook and heading for the door.
‘Are you sure? Would you like to check with Geoffrey first?’ I don’t want to get caught in the middle of a row. I’ve valued collections for divorcing couples before and it can get very awkward very quickly. ‘I’d hate him to be upset.’
‘Upset about what?’ Geoffrey has appeared while Tony is trying to hustle me out the door with the painting.
‘Alex needs to have a closer look at your spooky painting so she’s going to take it with her.’ Tony’s voice is bright.
‘Entirely up to you,’ I jump in. ‘I can come back and look at it properly another time.’
Geoffrey looks hard at Tony, then shakes his head and sighs. ‘Take it with you. Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.’
Tony is beaming. ‘I’ll tell you everything Alex said about it. It’s really quite exciting.’
‘Well, I should go and let you get on with your evening.’ I gently take the painting from Tony. ‘I’ll be in touch next week so we can organise a time to discuss your collection and the valuation, and of course get this back to you.’ I heft the painting to emphasise my point.
After a flurry of goodbyes and polite-ese, I make it out the front gate and – safely stowing the painting – make my getaway.
***
I crawl along in heavy traffic, radio off so I can at least use the time to go over the Molly Dean thing again. The problem with John’s conspiracy theory is there is absolutely no way to prove or disprove it. Then again, I reason, after seventy years I doubt there’s a way to prove or disprove anything. I debate whether it’s worth trawling through the social pages of 1931 to see if anyone important suddenly left the country, but I’d have no way of connecting an abrupt departure with Molly’s death, particularly if she was just a random victim.
‘Dead end,’ I mutter, as the car in front of me abruptly flashes its tail-lights and I jerk to a stop. But what if it wasn’t random? What if Molly was targeted? But if I discount the jealous lover theory and put Adam Graham aside, why would someone specifically go after Molly? I picture my lists in my head. All the accumulated facts and information about Molly’s life and death. The driver behind me toots his horn and I snap back to the present to see the car in front of me has moved ahead a few metres. Dutifully I roll forward and close the gap.
‘Happy now, dickhead?’ I direct the question to my rear-view mirror. Once again, I decide I have to let the whole thing go. Daphne will be disappointed, John will be content with his fantasies of cover-ups, and if I sell the painting I won’t have a constant reminder of the fact Molly’s killer got away with it. I still have a good story and can make a tidy profit. Perhaps I should give Rob a call and see if his pushy underbidder is still keen.
As I try to convince myself I’m happy with my decision, I stare idly at the cars either side of me. The girl on my left is bopping her head from side to side, singing along to a tune I can’t hear. On my right, a guy has pulled out his newspaper and propped it against the steering wheel. I tilt my head sideways to try to read the headline, but the light isn’t good enough. Naturally, at that moment, with me twisted forward over the wheel and bugging my eyes in the dark, he looks up from the paper and meets my eye. I smile weakly and thump back into my seat, eyes straight ahead. And then it hits me. What if Molly Dean, aspiring writer slash journalist, actually dug up some dirt on someone? What if she was going to write an exposé? I hum a few bars of the X-Files theme.
‘Who’s Mulder now?’ I slide my eyes to the right and, sure enough, newspaper driver is watching me talk to myself. If this really was the X-Files, he’d be a G-man an
d I’d be in deep, deep trouble. Craning my neck, I stretch tall in the seat and shift from left to right, trying to see if the traffic is moving at all, but my view is blocked by the mammoth four-wheel drive in front of me.
I decide to phone John in the morning and tell him my idea, knowing how delighted he’ll be with the new twist. Not that it matters; it still doesn’t bring us any closer to identifying Molly’s murderer. I’ve got to stop messing around and get on with things. Get the portrait cleaned, sort out the frame so the signature is visible and sell. I’ve become so distracted by the story, I haven’t even taken Molly out of her frame to confirm Colin’s signature is there. More evidence I’ve let this thing go too far.
I’m about to rest my head on the steering wheel and re-examine my life choices when the lights in front of me flicker and cars begin to move. It’s slow but at least it’s progress, and it continues without any more major hold-ups all the way home. The day has well and truly gone by the time I pull into the drive, and my house is dark except for the glow from the hall light on its timer switch. I sit in the car for a moment, completely exhausted, and listen to the pop and ping of cooling metal. A night in front of the television is called for. I gather my bits and pieces, and haul myself out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I can hear Hogarth whining basso profundo in the front hall. Two steps up the path I remember the painting on the back seat and with a sigh and dragging feet, turn back, fiddle with the keys and open the door. Then I perform a little dance as I juggle the painting and my other stuff while I lock the car and jam the keys into my front pocket. Hogarth seems to be working himself up to a crescendo.
‘All right, buddy. I know I’m late but I’m coming now.’
As I start up the path for a second time, I hear the slap of leather shoes coming up fast behind me, but before I can fully process the sound I’m shoved hard in the middle of the back. My feet paddle in a cartoonish fashion as I stumble forward on the path, trying to stop myself from face planting while also preventing my client’s painting from becoming a pile of matchsticks and canvas. At the point where a subconscious part of my brain registers that gravity is overcoming equilibrium, preservation instinct kicks in. Not self-preservation, but the preservation of valuable art, triggering muscles to act rather than react. Somehow I fling the painting toward the grass, and a softer landing, just before I hit the path in a twisted heap, one hand bent underneath me and the side of my head making a decidedly coconut-like sound as it bounces none too gently on the concrete.
Hogarth is barking furiously now and there is also a pounding sound coming from the house – or is that my head? My vision is blurred and filled with flashing colour and my right wrist, momentarily stunned, has now begun sending screaming neurological alerts up my arm.
‘Shit, shit, shit, ow, shit.’ It takes a moment for the fog to clear a little and I’m suddenly aware there could be more to come. I roll onto my back and curl my legs, expecting my attacker to be right there, ready to kick what I can. But there is no one standing over me. Instead, a few steps away, a tall figure in a dark hoodie is picking up the painting from my lawn where it has landed facedown. I scrabble to my feet and back up toward the house, where the pounding has resolved itself into the sound of Hogarth throwing himself frantically against the door. I keep one eye on the yard as I fumble for my keys which are miraculously still half in, half out of the front pocket of my jeans.
‘Fuck! Son of a bitch,’ my attacker yells. He has turned the painting around and is staring at the image. ‘Fuck.’
I’m trying to keep one eye on him – the voice confirms the gender – and fumbling for the lock at the same time. Hogarth has a much better chance of dealing with this than I do.
‘Fuck!’ He turns toward me. The hood is pulled well forward, so I catch only a glimpse of chin, but at that moment I feel the lock turn and shove the door open.
‘Hogarth!’ I don’t need to say anything. My hound launches himself through the door, across the verandah and over the two front steps in a single bound.
‘Holy shit.’ Throwing the painting in Hogarth’s direction, the man turns tail and sprints for the street. Hogarth’s momentum slows as he swerves to avoid the flying canvas, which catches him a glancing blow on the shoulder. It gives the escaping figure an extra moment and he gains the street, turning left with Hogarth closing in rapidly. I hear a car engine start and feel sudden fear for Hogarth. If there is a second person waiting in a car they may try to run him down. The engine guns and at the same time I hear a terrified yell.
‘Hogarth!’ I’m frantic. ‘Close to me, Hogarth!’ This is Hogarth’s emergency recall signal. There is casual, everyday recall and then there is this rarely used phrase. It means, stop immediately, no matter what, and come here now. He doesn’t let me down. Within seconds he is here, standing crossways in front of me, pushing me back toward the house. I grab his collar to be sure and we move together. He is staring intently into the darkness pooled between two streetlights and I follow his gaze toward where I can still hear the rev of a car engine. Its lights are off, but at that moment, the door is opened and in the weak glow of the interior light, I see what must be the person who attacked me, left arm at a weird angle, tumble into the passenger seat. The car races off, ignoring the speed humps lining the street.
Hogarth and I make our way inside, stopping to pick up the painting. The glass is a web of cracks but I can’t tell if the canvas itself is damaged. Right now I don’t care. We go inside and I lock the door and dump the painting in the study, propping it against the wall. As we walk through the house, I snap the lights on and off in each room we pass. I know Hogarth would not be calmly trailing behind me if there was anyone in here, but the empty gesture offers a modicum of reassurance. In the kitchen I turn on all the lights and pull the blinds. My wrist is swelling up and I’d like to burst into tears, but I ignore my own crap while I make sure Hogarth is okay.
‘Drop, buddy.’
Hogarth folds himself into a sphinx-like posture with no complaint. With my good hand I signal him to roll on his side and he obliges, flopping onto the flank that did not come into contact with the painting.
Kneeling, I run my palm over his shoulder, parting the fur and checking with my fingertips for any trace of blood, but there is no break in the skin. Next I take his leg through a range of motion, gently stretching it forward and out to the side, folding it back and flexing each joint. He doesn’t even lift his head from the floor. Finally, I carefully flex his neck around to the shoulder. There is no stiffness or soreness and all Hogarth does is sigh heavily as I let him go. I lean forward and rest my head on his chest.
‘Thank you little man, thank you.’
When I was under attack, all I could think was that Hogarth would help me, but then the moment that arsehole threw the painting at him I was horrified; I’d exposed my best friend to danger and possible injury. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to Hogarth because of me. Now I know he’s okay, I can feel the tears threatening again and I’m rather pissed off when a couple squeeze their way out and track down my face. Not my style at all.
I haul myself up and over to the fridge where I pull a flexible ice pack out of the freezer. I keep it on the off-chance Hogarth ever strains something. I fold it carefully around my right wrist and even more carefully waggle the fingers. All seem to be moving with only a slight increase in the pain level, so I work on the assumption nothing is broken, torn or requiring the services of a medical professional. Holding the ice pack in place by keeping the arm against my body, I move across to the medicine cupboard where I briefly debate the merits of various painkillers. I rarely take codeine because I get loopy on the smallest amount, but this is definitely one of those times when a bit of a buzz is called for. I dry swallow two tablets then lean back against the kitchen bench. I need to feed Hogarth, have a really, really hot shower and go to bed with the electric blanket on high. At least, that’
s what the organised part of my brain is chanting in endless rote. Another part of my brain is telling me to just stand there because it’s all too hard right now. And way off in some very small but intelligent part of my cerebral cortex is a very insistent voice clamouring for attention.
What the fuck was that all about? Who was that? Why didn’t he take the painting? Oh yes, and what the hell am I going to do now?
#xa0;
After a night spent waking up suddenly every time I roll onto my right side, I greet the dawn with relief. This morning there are a few additional aches in my back and hip, but at least the wrist hasn’t swollen much more, although it is an interesting shade of puce. I take Hogarth for a long walk to make up for yesterday and even though I’m feeling a bit delicate, the exercise seems to loosen things up nicely. Later, when I emerge from the shower, I rub the mist off a corner of the mirror so I can see how my head wound looks. The blow caught me behind the hairline so the rather impressive lump is hidden, but there’s still a bruise extending out to my temple. I press the lump carefully then flex my right hand. All in all I think I’ve been very lucky. I consider whether to report the episode to the police, but nothing was stolen. Besides, I don’t need it getting back to my clients that their paintings might not be safe in my care.
I pull on some leggings and a jumper, then cap off the outfit with a pair of Ugg boots. I’m in no mood to see anyone today and at the moment I’m not feeling particularly well disposed to polite phone conversation either. I start to pull my hair back into a ponytail, but the tension exacerbates the pain of the lump so I opt for scruffing it up a bit with my left hand. It doesn’t look windswept so much as cyclone-blasted. The overall effect of my clothes and hair is probably a guarantee that my mother will drop around unexpectedly.
The Portrait of Molly Dean Page 13
