Revenge on the Rye

by Alice Castle

  Katie was silent for a moment. ‘I hear what you’re saying. For a moment, I’d just forgotten all that stuff, but you’re right. It’s serious. I need to think about this.’

  Just then, Michael called over, ‘Katie, love, any chance of some coffees? And, um, a bit of space on the table would be great, you know? We can hardly move our elbows here.’

  Katie widened her eyes at Beth, and inside Beth hugged herself. Thanks to Michael’s timely display of drone-like laziness, there was more than an outside chance that Katie would actually help her out this time. And they’d be an unstoppable team, they really would.

  ‘Ok then, let’s give it a go,’ said Katie, her sudden smile illuminating her face.

  Beth felt excitement bubbling up, then realised this was not an appropriate reaction to a murder investigation at all. What they were doing would be complicated hard work, and staying out of trouble would probably be the most difficult thing about it. But she couldn’t help it, she was thrilled. Yes, she’d become something of an accidental veteran at these matters over the last few months. But she’d been ploughing a lonely furrow. Harry had never been backward at telling her how much he hated her getting involved. Now, to have not only the support but the active encouragement and participation of her best friend – it was a prize she’d never been expecting to receive. And they were always the best kind.

  ‘You’re on.’ Beth could have said much, much more, but those two words summed up a new accord. All of a sudden, she couldn’t wait to get going. And it looked as though Katie felt the same.

  ‘What’s our first move?’ her friend asked, leaning forward over the worktop in her eagerness.

  Beth thought for a moment. ‘I thought you said you’d remembered someone we should talk to?’

  ‘Oh that,’ said Katie, seeming a bit bashful. ‘Well, now that I think about it, I’m not sure… You’ve got more experience of these things than I have. What do you think we should do next?’

  Beth pondered for a moment. She wasn’t going to let Katie get away with taking a back seat. But she did have her own agenda that she’d been aching to pursue. And having Katie along was going to make it all so much easier. Probably. ‘How are you fixed tomorrow? I think we need to go back to the Rye. See if this doggy can find a bone.’

  ‘A bone?’ Katie wrinkled her brow, then her face cleared. ‘Oh, I see! A clue. Yes, absolutely. Let’s do it.’

  Beth smiled, but inwardly she felt the first twinges of anxiety clutch at her stomach. Maybe she had been overestimating her friend’s potential usefulness? Goodness knew, Katie was not exactly Philip Marlowe material. She wasn’t even as hardcore as Nancy Drew, for heaven’s sake. And this was a serious business. What on earth were they letting themselves in for?

  Chapter Nine

  Magenta wasn’t normally prone to nerves, but rocking up to Andy Kuragin’s gallery that morning at what felt like the crack of dawn, she was a lot less confident than she looked. It was in a nicer part of town than Benson’s, though, which was a good start. Whitechapel might be achingly trendy, but the cobbles there had played havoc with her heels and she was instinctively more at ease in the wide and reassuringly expensive streets of Mayfair. No bearded hipsters here, selling ironic breakfast cereal. They simply couldn’t afford the rents. She wasn’t sure how Kuragin could – and she certainly didn’t want to find out. Like Benson, he rarely sold a canvas, but when he did, it was for big bucks.

  She looked around quickly as she pressed the discreet buzzer. There was a sharp click as the heavy front door released and she pushed it with both hands before stepping elegantly into the vestibule. Maybe Kuragin was expecting a ram raid? She knew they’d happened in Mayfair before – determined thieves would drive their cars through the plate glass windows of jewellers and galleries and make off with whatever they could grab. Or maybe Kuragin was just worried about the Russian Mafia.

  With a slight shiver, Magenta looked around her. The vestibule was kitted out with everything you’d expect. A pristine floor, buffed to a shine that made it seem very unlikely that anyone had ever walked over it before. A discreet bank of lifts at the end of the corridor that hinted at more floors just off-stage, as swanky as this one. And right in front of her, a marble console table that would have looked at home in any stately pile, bearing an enormous vase full of aggressively twisted driftwood, interleaved with the comically cheery heads of orange gerberas. Above the arrangement, stage-lit, was a long horizontal canvas.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, it was an early Slope – an interwoven riot of separate strands of aerosol paint. She leaned forward until the tip of her nose was as close as she could get to the signature. It was the famous poodle, but not quite the stylised cottage loaf two-balls-of-scribble-with-a-nose-and-ears that had become so familiar and distinctive. This looked like a cruder, clumsier version. And, although it seemed to be defecating a globe, in the trademark Slope style, the drawing was more tentative than other versions she’d seen. That could just mean it was a really, really early work and thus had tremendous scarcity value. Graffiti juvenilia, after all, was often buried under layers of municipal paint as soon as it was completed, and that was the best-case scenario. Mostly, it was scrubbed off by earnest council workers or reluctant community service teams, reduced to rubble when walls or buildings came down, or bleached, crushed, and whitewashed, if it was on railway land.

  Magenta was just wondering if she could get even closer still without climbing into the artwork, when there was a discreet cough at her elbow. She’d been so intent on the picture that she hadn’t noticed Kuragin, fleet-footed as a cat, creeping down the corridor towards her. Had he come from the lifts, or from the door right at the end? Whichever, she was thoroughly startled, which is no doubt what he intended. Silly of her, really, she realised. He’d known she was here – he, or an underling, must have buzzed her in, and no doubt the place was rigged up with CCTV everywhere. While gallery owners often made a pretence of allowing their clients to wander freely and view their works in lonely splendour, every movement was in fact being tracked. If, as Kuragin did, you only displayed works with a value of over six figures, it was a sensible precaution.

  Magenta tried to cover her discomfiture with an airy smile, revealing her perfect white teeth. ‘Andy,’ she cooed, kissing the dapper figure on both cheeks.

  ‘Always such a pleasure, Miss Magenta. Or should I call you Madge?’

  ‘Naughty! You know you mustn’t,’ she cooed, then walked into the main gallery with just a suspicion of a swing to her hips. She knew that would have him mesmerised.

  Sure enough, he was right behind her and when she turned again to meet his eyes, the speculative look had been replaced with one she knew a lot better – sheer, naked lust. She danced out of reach on her high heels, coming to a stop in front of a Slope canvas that she immediately identified as a later work. Sure enough, the scatological poodle motif was a simplified yet strident flourish here, the crossed eyes of the dog adding the final touch of contemptuous humour. And even better, for her, it was in full view of the enormous glass windows onto the street.

  It was still relatively early. There were few people coming and going outside, but a council street cleaner looked in interest at the tableau the couple made as Kuragin came up behind her. Beauty and the beast, she was willing to bet, was not far from his mind. The man gave her a crooked grin and hefted a mighty brush from his wheeled trolley, and set to on the gutters. Though the council had the money to keep him out on the streets every day, in truth this was one of his quieter patches. Those who strolled in Mayfair tended to be too politely bred to drop much on his pavements, but he still patrolled as slowly as possible. Oxford Street was too much like hard work, and Regent Street? Well, you couldn’t move for tourists. Whereas here, sometimes you could pick up tips looking after someone’s car while the traffic wardens prowled. Or see a story playing out, like in this here gallery.

  Inside, emboldened by her audience, Magenta turned to face Kuragin, and from her sq
uare stance and unflirtatious glance, tried to make it perfectly clear that it was going to be all business from now on.

  Kuragin looked her up and down before he spoke, then shrugged his shoulders and seemed to accept the changed situation. ‘I take it things went well with that idiot, Benson,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Yes, exactly as expected. He does have an early Slope – but not as early as yours.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Kuragin smugly. ‘And did you have any trouble with him?’ Kuragin asked, over his shoulder, as he strode towards a discreet white counter to the side of the gallery.

  ‘Just the usual,’ said Magenta. It was her turn to shrug.

  ‘Nothing you couldn’t handle; I take it?’ Kuragin seemed keen for the details. She wasn’t that surprised, he had a reputation for prurience. Magenta thought back to the little scene that had played out in Whitechapel. In truth, it had all gone too far for her liking, and she somewhat blamed herself for misjudging the situation. But there was no reason why Kuragin should have all the ins and outs.

  ‘You know me so well.’ It wasn’t quite an answer, but Magenta was banking on Kuragin’s curiosity being rapidly exhausted. Anything that wasn’t strictly related to business could always be relied upon to tire him quickly. And, whatever he might say, he didn’t really care about her at all, she knew that.

  It was one of the many reasons why Magenta was coming to the conclusion that the art world wasn’t for her. Maybe it was time to look into that law conversion course instead? She could pick up plenty of interim work at home to tide her over till term started. There were loads of people she knew who needed little jobs doing. She’d ask around. And the best thing about that, as well as not having to mix with jerks like Benson and Kuragin? She wouldn’t have to wear these bloody high heels ever again.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Look, in the end, Mark didn’t really care about us at all. I’m telling you, Mum.’

  Rebecca Grey turned away from her son. He might be edging towards his forties, but in his voice she sometimes still detected traces of the whiny child he’d once been. Very large traces, today.

  ‘I don’t think we should be here. And we definitely shouldn’t be doing this,’ he said again, coming up to her and holding her arms. They were standing in Mark Smeaton’s four-storey townhouse in Dulwich Village, the sheet glass floor-to-ceiling window forming the fourth side of the drawing room, facing onto the wide grass verges and white picket fences sweeping towards the Picture Gallery, Wyatt’s chapel, and the alms houses that flanked it. The blood-red velvet sofa and the glass and chrome coffee table were strewn with old newspapers, coffee cups, and a pile of junk mail. The bottle green velvet armchairs opposite were similarly laden, and in the small galley kitchen behind them, the sink was full of dirty dishes. Mark might have been the most successful artist of his generation, but he was not immune from the stresses of Dulwich life, and his cleaner had quit the week before. Even in SE21, you just couldn’t get the staff these days.

  ‘Don’t be silly, John,’ said Rebecca, freeing herself from her son’s clammy hands with some difficulty. ‘We’re just here to make sure everything’s in order for poor Mark, before the police get here and go over everything. You know Rosita left last week, you’ve heard me discussing it with Mark on the phone. I know you’re not interested in cleaning, but Mark would have hated leaving everything like this, you know he would. You were as keen as me to come here, so I don’t know why you’re so eager to leave all of a sudden.’

  John looked uncomfortable and just gestured again at the huge canvas on the wall behind them.

  ‘You see? That’s what he thought of us. Of everything we do,’ said John, his voice tinged with that pleading note.

  Rebecca averted her gaze from the mess of angry reds and blacks that screamed across the creamy background. She didn’t pretend to be political; she didn’t even know much about art. But it was true that the massive outline of a dog straining to excrete was not a pleasant sight. How Mark could have lived with it, she really didn’t know. And poor Colin. Though she supposed he wouldn’t have known what he was looking at.

  She much preferred Mark’s other work from his long-ago graduation show. He’d been such a talent, as a boy. She still had a sketch he’d done of her over supper one night after school. He’d picked up a pen and just caught her so brilliantly, effortlessly, inconsequentially almost. Yet those few lines managed to be more telling, more alive, than all the photos of her that had ever been taken. But drawing per se wasn’t enough – he’d had to develop an angle, be political, controversial, to make himself stand out. Well, it had worked. Too well, it seemed.

  She thought back to the early days again. Her John had showed such promise then. He’d really been better than Mark. Well, almost. And of course, poor Simon Bude, who had actually been the best of all three. What had the chances been of having three such talents in one class? There’d been less gifted boys, too, like that lad who’d been so into photography. But John, Mark, and Simon had been amazing. And somehow it had all turned out – like this.

  At least John had kept up with his creativity, branching out into woodwork. A smile flickered briefly into life on her worried face at her accidental joke. Mark could never compete on that front – he’d only excelled in two dimensions.

  She sighed sadly, looking around. She supposed Mark’s little sketch of her would be worth a fortune now. As would all these other works. And who would it go to? They’d had a desultory look for a will but found nothing. Mark’s parents were long gone and, like her John, he’d never managed to keep a girlfriend for long. But she hadn’t come to pick through his affairs. She’d just wanted the place to be tidy. Mark had been snatched away so suddenly. He had no-one else to look out for him, poor boy. What if the police had got here and found the place a tip? He was so proud. He’d have been mortified. And this was the least she could do for him.

  He’d been part of their family for years now. Since that day, how long ago was it? When all three of them had slipped away in the night. She’d always been such a light sleeper. If only she’d stirred that night. But no. That had been the one time when she’d heard nothing. Well, never again. For years now, she’d woken at the slightest noise. It wasn’t surprising.

  She remembered the call she’d got. Three, or four, was it, in the morning? From some police station or other. Saying that John had been arrested. Arrested! Her boy. And with him was Mark.

  ‘A serious matter,’ they’d said. Down at Loughborough Junction. There must be some mistake, she’d told them. Her boy had no business down there in the middle of the night. What on earth could all this be about? She’d woken her husband, who’d blustered and thundered and then finally done something useful for once in his life and called their solicitor.

  It had all come out, gradually, in one of those grim interview rooms. She’d had no idea. None. Oh, she’d known the three of them – her John, Mark Smeaton, and Simon Bude – were inseparable; had been since day one at Wyatt’s. They’d had so much promise. John had loved to draw – superheroes, dinosaurs, when he was little. Mark had that brilliant knack of capturing faces. And Simon was possibly the most talented of the three, creating whole comic books of characters. So funny, and so satirical. That one based on his pets had been hilarious. He’d had something special. But she’d known nothing of their other ventures. She blamed Simon, she did. Though he’d paid the price.

  She’d always understood that Mark’s signature on his anonymous art had been that little dog. Rather sweet, as a tribute to his long-dead friend. And cute, as long as you didn’t look at the world at its back legs and realise where that had come from. But this massive version really wasn’t to her taste at all. And a poodle! Their dogs. They’d always bred them. She did sympathise with John. It was hard not to be cross. But her son had always been sensitive. He shouldn’t take things to heart the way he did. She adopted the conciliatory tone she often – too often – used with John.

  ‘I’m not sure what M
ark was trying to say with this picture, and I understand that you weren’t a fan, but you can’t take it as an attack, John. Don’t be silly. Mark loved you. Loved us, and everything we do. Look, he’s got one of your bookcases here, hasn’t he?’ she said, gesturing towards the hulking shelves John had made his friend.

  Carpentry had always been his special thing, and it was wonderful how he made a living out of it, even though he produced so few pieces. He was such a craftsman; she was proud of her son. Always would be, whatever anyone said. Even his father, who was always so hard on him, had a soft spot for John’s ‘bits and pieces’, as he called them. They only put them in the garage because there was so little space in the house.

  She took a last quick look at the shelves and the picture, then turned back to John, who had a hand stuffed in his pocket and was looking a little edgy. For a second, she scrutinised him through half-closed lids. It was the expression he’d had as a child when he’d pulled one of the dogs’ tails or trodden on a paw. Malice, and guilt. Then the sight of all the papers and cups distracted her, and she started to tidy up in earnest. ‘Come on, John. The sooner you give me a hand, the sooner we can be out of here, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? Don’t worry about that picture any more. I’m not. It’s just a symbol, love.’

  ‘Symbol my arse. That dog’s arse,’ John muttered sourly, staring at the poodle’s fathomless black eyes as it arched its curly back forever. ‘Haven’t you realised yet? Mark always knew exactly what he was doing.’

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Day One of their joint investigation and Beth was feeling optimistic – until she saw Katie’s outfit. Gone was the ‘I’m not with this puppy’ hoody, gone too was her usual yoga-guru Sweaty Betty ensemble. In its place, Katie was wearing – apparently without any sort of irony – a raincoat with a turned-up collar, despite the cloudless day. If she’d started talking out of the corner of her mouth about ‘broads’ and demanding hard liquor, Beth wouldn’t have been surprised.