Death Comes to Call: An absolutely unputdownable English cozy mystery novel (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 3)

by Clare Chase

  The man shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose that’s true… I wasn’t even going to put it out today. One of the gallery hands was helping me shift stuff and it got mixed up with the other works.’

  ‘It might be fate then,’ Antonia said. It was a good fake. No signature. Based on one of Picasso’s lesser-known paintings – one of the collection his electrician had had squirrelled away in his garage. The man had been accused of stealing them after the works were found in 2015. The treasure trove had been worth an estimated $98 million. Antonia moved the canvas gently so that she could see the back. Rusted nails – deliberately aged no doubt, and a nice touch. A stained label detailing an exhibition date in Paris, completed using an old-style manual typewriter. She caught her breath at the audacity of it. She met the gallery owner’s gaze again. It was clear that Trent had taken her gasp as excitement rather than shock.

  ‘I really shouldn’t let it go,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘What if it’s the genuine article after all?’

  ‘What are you asking for it?’

  ‘It’s not really for sale.’

  She was tempted to play with him – walk away like the other client had done. But she wanted to know what happened next.

  ‘How much would you take to let it go now? I know nothing about art either.’ You’ll wish I didn’t. ‘But it does look interesting, and I like a gamble too. And it will be a gamble. There’s no signature, after all.’

  And even then, the art world was a murky one. Picasso had reportedly knowingly signed a painting that wasn’t his to help out a gallery owner friend, whose wealthy client believed she’d coughed up for the real thing.

  ‘True…’ Trent spun the word out and frowned. Antonia saw his eyes flick for a second to her pearls – real, not cultured. ‘But given what a gamble it would be for me, I don’t think I could let it go for less than eighteen thousand.’

  Antonia must look classier than she’d realised. If only Jonny Trent knew she was on a professor’s salary. She managed to swallow back a laugh.

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  Trent nodded. ‘It is. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to walk away. But I think I’d be a fool to let it go for less.’

  At last, Antonia nodded. ‘I have a feeling I’ll regret this, but it’s not something I’ve ever done before, and what’s life if you never take a risk?’

  Trent smiled with just the right amount of hesitancy. ‘If you’re sure.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Please do come through to my office then, and we can sort out the paperwork.’

  And it was the paperwork that Antonia especially wanted to see. The ledger Trent got out and filled in described the painting as ‘Artist unconfirmed. In the manner of Pablo Picasso.’

  So neat. She noticed that the ledger was new. Was that the only one they had, or was there another, that contained the records of their legitimate sales? Was he keeping this little sideline a secret from his gallery manager? And had the previous post-holder found out the truth?

  Antonia wasn’t given to feeling afraid. She’d dealt with a lot of flak over the years. Her husband had turned abusive before their split, and her views got her endless hate from various male colleagues and critics, but this was something else. Trent was onto a valuable racket here; he had a lot to lose. And he’d told her no lies. He was relying on self-deception and clever psychology. If he got a reputation for this sort of thing, it might not land him in jail but it would certainly mean he’d go out of business. But probably the people he duped were too embarrassed to come back and admit how easily they’d been conned. And they had no way of proving Trent hadn’t sold them the works in good faith.

  ‘I’ll give you a cheque, shall I?’ she said. She could go straight to her bank and cancel it, but she didn’t expect he’d accept that form of payment.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need a bank transfer,’ he said, ‘but you can arrange it now.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘You know what will happen, don’t you? I’ll get one of those wretched security calls they make, and I won’t be able to remember any of my “memorable” details.’ She let out a sharp sigh. ‘If I write you a cheque for a deposit now and leave the painting with you, please will you promise not to sell it to anyone else whilst I go to my bank in the village and get them to sort it all out for me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Trent said, smiling as Antonia wrote a cheque for a thousand pounds.

  Two could play at deception.

  After she’d left, Antonia made two calls. The first was to her bank to stop the cheque. The second was to Garstin, telling him he might like to get straight over to Trent’s gallery, with some backup and a warrant, in case the painting mysteriously went behind the scenes as soon as her back was turned.

  Thirty-Seven

  Tara felt shut out. Blake and Megan were closeted in an interview room with Jonny Trent, whilst Max had been put in charge of liaising with the art experts and other technical staff who’d got permission to dig into Jonny Trent’s dealings.

  Meanwhile, she’d been asked to speak to Vicky Cope, Matthew and Luke’s half-sister, who stood to inherit Luke’s house. It felt as though she’d been flung a loose end to tie up, to keep her busy whilst the others worked on the important stuff. She’d no intention of being a prima donna about it – the job needed completing – but, deep down, it still rankled.

  She called Vicky Cope’s patent law firm and asked to be put through.

  The woman sounded strained. ‘I’ve actually just arranged to meet my half-brother, Matthew,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got to be back here for a drinks do with some overseas clients after that.’

  Tara wouldn’t be thwarted in completing the one task she’d been given. ‘Where are you meeting him? I wonder if I could join you immediately afterwards. Perhaps accompany you on your journey back to the office to grab a quick word?’ She knew she was being pushy, but it was a murder investigation, even if Jonny Trent seemed the most likely candidate for perpetrator.

  There was a momentary pause and the woman let out a sharp sigh. ‘Oh, all right. I was going to go and grab a coffee with Matthew at Café Foy, by the river.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. I do appreciate it. Tell me when to turn up and I can meet you there.’

  ‘Okay.’ Another sigh. ‘We haven’t seen each other in ages, but I don’t think we’ll need long. Give me an hour.’

  Tara was glad she’d cycled to work: it meant she could whizz over to the river in minutes. She sat at the station completing reports on her visit to Jonny Trent – the contents of which, from his purchase of Luke Cope’s painting to Monique Courville’s promotion, now seemed like old news. After that she wrote up her latest encounter with Professor Cross, but there was nothing in that that she found interesting. An hour… She wondered how long it would really take Vicky Cope to talk to her brother, and what they would say to each other. Not much, from what Ms Cope had said. It wasn’t surprising; talk about an awkward conversation. Hey, I’m so sorry your brother’s dead, and apparently a murderer at that, but let’s talk about the family home I’m about to inherit… Not that she’d probably bring that up at this stage. She’d want to break the ice and express her sympathy, ahead of Luke’s funeral.

  Suddenly, Tara knew she wasn’t going to wait until the appointed hour. Even if she could only watch Matthew Cope and his half-sister for a moment before they spotted her, she was too curious to forgo the opportunity. She couldn’t see why either of them would want Freya dead, but now that she’d had the thought, she couldn’t abandon it. It would be like leaving the job half done.

  She locked her computer, got her fitted woollen coat and did up all the buttons, ready to brave the fog. It tended to be worse by the river.

  Five minutes later, she’d chained her bike to the railings on Quayside, under the noses of the tall office buildings, with food outlets below. Across the river, the imposing dark shape of Magdalene College loomed out of the mist. Anything more than a few feet away was indistinct. Dark sh
apes gradually morphed into people, walking up the boardwalk, their shoulders hunched.

  She approached Café Foy cautiously, peering through the window at an angle.

  It took her a moment to spot Matthew Cope. His upright bearing was now familiar, but even at a distance she could see how tense his shoulders were. He was looking across his table at the woman who must be Vicky. Tara could only see her from behind, but her posture was taut too – she sat leaning well forward. Matthew was talking – the conversation hadn’t run out. He had a cup, clenched in his hand, but he wasn’t remembering to drink. She waited a few minutes, watching Matthew’s face, until they paid the bill.

  After another moment, they appeared outside, and Cope’s eyes lit on Tara. His eyebrows went up before he turned to Vicky. There was some discussion. Tara guessed his half-sister hadn’t explained they were meeting. There was no reason why she should have; she wouldn’t have intended them to interact. Tara was ten minutes early and had taken them both by surprise. It was her old journalist’s tactics coming into play. It was often worth disturbing people’s plans if you wanted to get under their skin.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, striding up to them. ‘I’m a little bit early.’

  Vicky looked cross. To be fair, she’d probably been trying to steer the conversation away from the criminal investigation. She let out one of the sharp sighs that were now becoming familiar, and reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a packet of Marlboro Lights.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning to Matthew. ‘Do you mind? Would you like one?’

  Her half-brother shook his head. ‘No thanks, I don’t smoke, but please go ahead. This is all a massive strain on everybody.’ He gave Tara a look as he uttered the words. ‘I should be going. I’ll let you two get on with your chat.’

  There was an edge to his voice, but he must know the police would be talking to everyone.

  Vicky Cope put back the lighter she’d used to ignite her cigarette and turned to him. ‘I meant what I said you know, about the paintings.’

  He faced her and shook his head. ‘You’re welcome to have as many as you want. I certainly won’t let you pay me for them. After what’s happened I can’t imagine I’ll want them hanging up on my walls.’

  She put her head on one side and gave him a look. ‘That’s crazy. Just because you don’t want them doesn’t make them valueless. I’ll find out for myself.’ She pulled a mobile from her coat pocket with her free hand and began to tap in her PIN.

  Matthew put a hand on hers for a moment, stopping her mid-entry. ‘All right, you win. The large ones go for around four hundred each. Once the police have finished with the house you can come and choose one.’

  She put her phone away and nodded quickly. ‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon then.’ He gave Vicky a brief pat on the shoulder, nodded at Tara with his eyes narrowed, and walked off towards town, disappearing into the fog.

  The woman took a deep drag on her cigarette, its smoke mingling with the water droplets in the air. ‘Shit.’

  ‘A difficult meeting?’

  Vicky Cope raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Clumsy, on my part. I feel so bloody guilty, now I’ve got the business and the townhouse. How must he feel, stuck out at that weird place on the fringes of the city? It’s a pile, but it’s falling down from what I remember. I’ve only been there once. And it’s in a rough area.’

  ‘Is that why you offered to buy one of Luke’s paintings?’

  ‘Great! If it was that obvious to you, I’m sure it will have been to him, too. And four hundred quid’s not exactly going to help.’

  ‘But the house on Trumpington Road was your family home first. And Matthew’s place belonged to his mother’s parents, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘True… but I got the business, too.’ She glanced at Tara, looking up at her from under a thick, dark fringe. ‘And it’s a valuable one. Patent law firms do a lot of trade in Cambridge. People seem to come up with three inventions before breakfast.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Did your father ever explain his thinking, about the provisions he made in his will?’

  Vicky Cope shook her head. ‘I suppose he didn’t get the chance, really. He died relatively young. You knew that? After falling down stairs?’

  Tara nodded.

  ‘He simply told my mother what he’d done. And of course it didn’t seem so uneven when we each had something. Though I always felt that Matthew had drawn the short straw.’

  ‘And you can’t imagine yourself why your father divided things up in the way that he did, and left the houses to the boys in trust? I understand you get Luke’s place outright now?’

  Vicky Cope closed her eyes for a moment and took another drag of her cigarette before opening them again and facing the world. ‘I suppose I got the impression I did a bit better than them academically. I wondered if that was why I got the business.’ She gave a quick bark of a laugh. ‘It was certainly the only bequest that involved serious hard work. And it was clear Luke had a talent for art, from when he was a teenager, so I guess our father wouldn’t have wanted to doom him to life in an office.’

  But that still didn’t explain why Matthew hadn’t got a look-in.

  ‘Did you miss your family home?’

  ‘I did, but it was the idea that I was hankering after, not the reality. I can see that now. My father made my mother miserable – I wasn’t missing some idyllic past. Mum and I never set foot in the place after we left. I went to my father’s funeral, of course, but we didn’t go back for the wake. My mother didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to abandon her.’

  Tara nodded. ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Twenty-four. The boys – Matthew and Luke – were twenty and eighteen. But I was in and out of Cambridge all through my teens. My mother moved us to Suffolk after the split, but I came in to shop and see friends.’ She sighed. ‘I’d go and look at the house sometimes, from the outside. I think, because I’d never been back, it held a sort of fascination for me. Occasionally I’d glimpse some movement through the windows. Once I saw Luke coming outside, smoking, and I heard his mother, telling him off.’

  ‘Do you still visit the house at all, just to look?’ She wondered if Vicky could possibly know about Luke’s hideaway at the mill. If she’d loitered round outside and followed him, it wasn’t impossible.

  ‘Oh good lord, no! I gave up that malarkey with acne and bad boyfriends.’ She laughed now, but Tara wondered. There was something deliberate about the action – and if you’d been compulsively spying on a place throughout your childhood, wouldn’t you be tempted to do it again, just once in a while? It wasn’t as though she’d have to go out of her way. She worked in Cambridge, after all.

  ‘Did you ever see your half-brothers as you were growing up? Socially I mean?’

  ‘Once in a very blue moon. My mother and father thought it would be good for us to meet. But it was always very stilted.’

  ‘What were your impressions of them?’

  ‘Luke was rebellious. He didn’t think the meet-ups were a good idea and he wasn’t afraid to let it show. I agreed with him, so I wasn’t offended. In fact, I felt he was a bit of a kindred spirit, only we were each so busy being stand-offish that we never formed a real bond.’

  ‘What about Matthew?’

  ‘He was more reserved, and that’s true to this day.’ She shook her head. ‘I was cross when I saw you’d turned up. I didn’t feel we’d said everything.’ The woman fixed her with her gaze.

  Tara waited, and at last Vicky sighed.

  ‘I was hoping to round off our talk in private, but I don’t suppose I’d feel any better about things if I had.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess I just want absolution – to know he doesn’t hate me. But that’s a bit childish really.’

  Tara could relate to that. Half the feelings she had about her family would be quite at home in a five-year-old’s head.

  After Vicky Cope had faded into the fog, Tara checked her email
s and messages. No one seemed to be telling her anything. If there was nothing for her to do, she decided she’d please herself. Whatever Jonny Trent’s game was, Luke had been involved. If she returned to his house, she might find something fundamental that proved to be important. And deep down, she knew she was indulging her journalist’s instinct too. The Cope family set-up was more than odd. If she’d still been a writer, she’d have dug into it for all she was worth.

  Twenty minutes later, Luke’s house loomed into view, tall and sombre in the saturated air. The police hadn’t released it back to the artist’s executors yet. Barry, the PC who’d been first on the scene when Freya’s body had been found, was stationed on the door. Like Tara, his coat and hair were covered with tiny water droplets.

  ‘Wotcha,’ he said, clapping his gloved hands together and rubbing them. ‘How’s it going at the station?’

  ‘I haven’t heard the latest.’ She didn’t want to admit that she had no clue.

  ‘You after going back inside? Max and some techs came to pick up a couple of paintings earlier, but there’s no one in there at the moment.’

  She nodded. ‘I feel as though I’ve missed something. I’ll be around for a bit if you want to go off and grab a coffee.’

  His smile, already wide, broadened. ‘That sounds good. I’ve got my thermals on, but this fog eats into your bones.’

  ‘Go for it then. I can give you a call if you’re not back by the time I need to go.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He gave her the key and walked off up the road, his cheerful, tuneless whistle fading as the dark day swallowed his retreating figure.

  Tara unlocked the house. Once she’d entered and closed the door behind her, it was almost dark. Little of what daylight there was filtered into the interior. She stood for a second, looking through the doorway to the front room, with its heavy William Morris curtains.

  But it was only a moment before she turned to make her way back through the house to the eerie chaos of Luke Cope’s studio. She spent some time there – switching on the stark lighting and searching all over again – but it didn’t tell her anything new. She gave up and went from room to room, imagining what it must have been like growing up there. There was something oppressive about the stately grandeur that was still apparent in most of the house. She assumed Luke must have let it out furnished, after his mother had died. It would have been a hell of a job to put all that Chippendale-style polished wood into storage. He must have trusted his tenants to take care of it – or just not been bothered about its fate.