Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (11 page)

As he walked down the road to the tube station, Dylan wondered why she’d lied to him. Three times he’d asked if Prue’s name meant anything to her and three times she’d denied all knowledge. She’d lied. Dylan was sure of it.

Chapter Fifteen

After leaving Davina McIntyre, Dylan took the tube to Victoria, passed time with a coffee and a sandwich, and then went to the Blair Gallery to keep his appointment with Martin Collins.

The building was fairly nondescript from the outside. Only a stainless steel plaque by large wooden doors told people that it was in fact an art gallery.

The interior was spacious and airy with tall ceilings. Half a dozen bright canvases adorned the walls and beneath each one was a discreet Price on Application tag. Dylan supposed that if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford them.

He approached a woman sitting behind a curved desk. “I have an appointment with Martin Collins.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here. What name is it?”

“Dylan Scott. Thanks.”

She picked up the phone, announced Dylan’s arrival and, a couple of minutes later, a man of about Dylan’s age strode across the floor. He was about five feet ten, with thinning dark hair and rimless glasses. He wore black jeans and a bright pink shirt. “Dylan Scott?”

“Yes.”

“Good to meet you, Dylan. I’m Martin. And I’m up to my eyes in an installation this morning. Do you mind if I work while we talk? What is it I can do for you? The installation’s this way. We can talk while we walk.”

Christ. Dylan wondered if he’d ever get a word in. Martin Collins was one of those energetic types that made you long to shove a tranquilliser down his throat. Whereas Davina McIntyre had been calm and serene, this bloke was a bundle of nervous energy.

“As I explained on the phone, I’m interested in your association with Jack McIntyre,” Dylan said. “I’m actually a private investigator and—”

“Really?” Collins stopped mid-stride. “And what interest would you have in Jack?”

“My client’s sister was killed and—”

“Oh?” Collins carried on walking but his pace was slower.

“Yes. Now, it could be that she disturbed a burglar. However, when emptying her house, we came across one of McIntyre’s miniatures.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I’m trying to find out how she came to have such a thing.”

“I see.” Collins pushed open a tall wooden door and they entered a space, closed to the public, that could have housed a small aircraft. “This is the new installation. As you can see, there’s plenty of work to be done yet.”

To Dylan, it looked like the makings of a scrap yard. Chunks of metal, mostly car innards, sat in piles. Whether they’d been arranged in those piles, he didn’t know. He did know that what some people called art, he called bullshit.

“But it can wait a few minutes.” Collins added a rueful, “Besides, it looks as if everyone’s decided to take a coffee break. Now, you were saying?”

“The McIntyre miniature. I’m trying to find out how it came to be in my client’s sister’s house.”

“Sorry, but I can’t help. We never had any dealings with his miniatures, you see. They were Jack’s idea of a joke, and they were private. He gave them to friends if and when the mood took him.”

“They’re very valuable jokes,” Dylan said.

“They are now, but, as I said, we had nothing to do with them.” He walked over to a stepladder, picked up a clipboard and ticked off a couple of items before returning his attention to Dylan. “Now, if you’re wanting to sell it, I am in touch with several collectors. Describe it to me.”

“It shows a phone, one of the old-fashioned black ones, and an airmail envelope, but I don’t think my client is looking for a buyer just yet.”

Collins shook his head. “That means nothing to me, but it wouldn’t. As I said, he used to give them away as gifts. That was up to him. People are eager to get their hands on his work, any work. Since his death prices have rocketed.”

“So it seems. I’ve spoken to Mrs. McIntyre and she says the miniatures are messages. Is that right?”

“Messages. Jokes. They’re whatever Jack decided they should be.”

“I see. Tell me, did you know McIntyre well?”

“Fairly well, yes. My father was his friend as well as his agent so they spent a lot of time together. Jack was a regular visitor to our house.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thank you. Life goes on,” Collins said.

“I believe he visited McIntyre on the day of the accident to try and persuade him to take up painting again. Is that right?”

“That’s—” He broke off as three young men and a woman came into the room. “Excuse me, Dylan.”

He left Dylan and went to issue instructions as to where each piece must go. This involved a lot of pointing at items on the clipboard and a lot of discussion. As he walked back to Dylan, he was shrugging his shoulders as if he was trying to banish tension from his neck muscles.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I need to fetch some plans from my office. Do you mind if we talk while we walk?”

Dylan did, but he had to be grateful for anything. “Of course not.”

“My father—yes, he’d tried several times to convince Jack to paint again but, that time, he was more hopeful. He was ever the optimist. I’d wanted to go with him, but I was at an exhibition and I couldn’t get out of that. I thought that if I went and explained to Jack such basic things like us all needing the income, he might come round. But there, I couldn’t go and—well, it’s all academic now, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

They took a crowded lift to the third floor. When that ejected them, they walked along the corridor to an office at the end.

“This is home to me,” Collins said with a tight smile as he surveyed the cramped conditions. “There.” He prodded a large framed photo on the wall. “That’s me at the Jodi Trench exhibition.” At Dylan’s blank expression, he explained, “It was taken the same evening that my father and Jack took the boat out.”

“Oh, I see.”

But Dylan didn’t see. He was trying to find out if McIntyre, or one of his friends, could have known Prue and given her a miniature. Why would Collins, who looked too busy and stressed to be bothered about anything so trivial as his father’s death, take the time to show him that photo?

“I mean—if it hadn’t been for that exhibition,” Collins said, “I might have gone out on Jack’s boat with him and my father. I could have been drowned too.”

“Ah, yes.”

People seemed willing to talk about McIntyre but no one seemed in the least interested in Prue Murphy. Dylan would have to make them interested.

“To get back to my client,” he said. “Does the name Prue Murphy mean anything to you?”

“It doesn’t, I’m afraid.” Collins was busy gathering up papers.

“So could you tell me how someone might get hold of a McIntyre miniature?”

Collins stopped. He looked taken aback by the question. “I have no idea how your—what was her name?”

Give me strength.
“Prue Murphy.”

“Right, well, I’m afraid I have no idea how she got it. Did she know Jack?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“If she did, he may have given it to her.” He gave a sly smile. “I’m afraid I didn’t know Jack’s lady friends.”

“Oh? Were there many?”

Dark eyebrows shot up. “Just a few.”

“Really? The only person I’ve spoken to who knew Jack McIntyre is his wife. Widow.”

“Davina won’t tell you about them. She was able to close her mind to them. Jack, you’ll learn, changed his women as often as most of us change our shirts. Your friend—Prue Murphy—was she young, pretty, artistic?”

That was almost the same question Davina had asked him.

“She was thirty-four, pretty and—yes, she studied art, and she was designing her own jewellery. She was also broke. She lived in France, and worked at anything. Waiting tables, stuff like that.”

Collins nodded. “She sounds as if she’d have been exactly Jack’s type.”

“I wonder how they could have met though.”

Collins shrugged. “Who knows? And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to the installation.”

“Of course. It’s time I was off anyway.”

They headed back to the lift.

“Your gallery seems to be doing well,” Dylan remarked.

“It’s promising,” Collins said. “I’m just starting to do some work—since Dad died, I mean. He wouldn’t agree with me, but he was a little stuck in his ways and the whole place needed updating. Now that it’s mine, I can crack on and update it. Of course, financially it’s not particularly easy. Lawyers take forever to sort out someone’s estate, don’t they? Still, at least they are sorting it. I suppose Davina told you about Jack’s house in Cornwall?”

“No.”

“She’s adamant that Jack bought it for her, which is feasible because she has family down there, but of course she can’t gain access to it. She’s hopping mad about it but there’s nothing that can be done. It’ll be years before Jack’s estate can be sorted out.”

“Why’s that?”

“French law is involved for a start,” Collins said, “and, of course, without a body, he’s only officially missing. Missing presumed dead.”

“Is she the sole beneficiary?”

“I couldn’t say. She’s the
main
beneficiary, I know that.” The lift deposited them on the ground floor. “Right, I must crack on. Good to meet you, Dylan, and if you decide to sell that miniature, you know where I am.”

“I do. Thanks for your time, Martin. I appreciate it.”

Chapter Sixteen

Kevin had never known time to drag by so slowly. Since walking home from school with Carly yesterday, it was as if each minute had lasted an hour and each day a week. He’d only seen her in school a couple of times today and hadn’t managed to say anything to her other than “See you tonight.”

“Don’t be late,” she’d said, her smile teasing.

He
would
be late if he didn’t get a move on. No matter how fast he shoved sausage and chips in his mouth, his plate remained half-full. His mum ate as slowly as usual and his dad, elbows on the table, was more interested in reading the paper. He ate with one hand and turned pages with the other. It was rare for his dad to put in an appearance this early, especially on a Friday, and Kevin wished he hadn’t.

“I’ve got to go in a minute,” Kevin said.

“Go? Go where?” his dad asked.

“I told you. I’ve got football practice.” He hadn’t mentioned anything about the nonexistent football practice before, but he hoped his dad would assume he’d been too drunk to remember. “I need to be there by six.”

“Up at the school?” his mum asked.

“Of course. And if I’m not there by six, I’ll be in trouble.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it, Ron? Good that the school want him in the team.”

“So long as you don’t expect me to fork out for new boots and kit every other fortnight,” his dad said.

“What I’ve got is fine.” That part at least was true. His old boots might pinch his feet but he could still squeeze into them. He swallowed the last of his chips. “Can I go now then?”

“Of course you can, love,” his mum said. “We don’t want you in trouble with the school, do we? What time will you be back?”

“It might be late.” Kevin was getting good at thinking on his feet. “After we’ve finished, they want us to sort some stuff out in the gym. The practice will finish at about nine or half-past. It could be half-past ten by the time we’ve finished in the gym. I expect I’ll be back by eleven. You said that was okay when I don’t have school the next day.”

“Make sure you come straight home,” his dad said.

“I will.”

Kevin grabbed the bag that was stuffed with his football kit and walked out the house. His shoulders sagged in relief with every step. A quick glance at his watch told him that if he cut though the cemetery, he’d easily be at the Raven by six.

The cemetery was dark and spooky. He was grateful to people who put small lanterns on the graves of their loved ones, as any small light helped dispel the creepiness. He dropped his bag behind a gravestone, made a mental note to come back this way to collect it, and ran down the bank into the town centre.

He was breathless by the time he arrived but at least he was warm. There was supposed to be snow coming any day, but Kevin would believe that when he saw it. He loved snow. He still had his sledge in the garage and he wasn’t too old to enjoy racing down the hills on it. The snow that fell in March was always rubbish though. They never had enough to stick at this time of the year.

He stamped his feet as he stood outside the Raven. The pub was busy and he tried not to look the customers in the eye as they came and went. It wouldn’t be good for his health if one of his dad’s drinking pals spotted him hanging around outside.

Minutes ticked by and the warmth he’d generated by running deserted him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wished he’d worn his thick coat. Another look at his watch. It was six-twenty.

Perhaps she wasn’t coming. Maybe this was her idea of a joke. Why would she be interested in him? She’d been Lennon’s girl and Kevin couldn’t complete with Lennon in any way. Lennon was taller, better looking, good at sport and his parents were loaded.

“Hey, it’s freezing. I hope you’re going to keep me warm, Kevin Mills.”

He swung round, glad the darkness hid the red blush that he could feel spreading across his face. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

She tucked her arm through his and Kevin
really
hoped his dad’s drinking pals didn’t see him. “What do you fancy doing?” she asked.

Kevin hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t mind.”

“We could get a couple of cans from Ali’s and drink them down by the bridge.”

“What? Beer?”

She hooted with laughter. “Unless you want a lemonade, Joker. Come on.”

He didn’t mind the buying beer part, he could just about afford a couple of cans, but going down to the bridge wasn’t very appealing. Everyone went there and he’d wanted to be alone with her. Still, he wasn’t going to complain. This was their first date, after all. Hopefully, there would be others.

Ali’s shop was enjoying a brisk trade. It usually was because it was rarely closed and Ali made sure it stocked everything that anyone might need. It was almost impossible to find that one thing you needed, but it was sure to be there. Tall shelves were piled high.

“Shall we get a pack of six?” Carly asked. “I’ll go halves and it’s only fifty pence more than the four.”

“Okay.”

They grabbed the tins and took them to the counter where Ali’s wife stood guard over the till. Kevin wondered what she looked like behind the burka she wore. Ali was a chatty man with a sense of humour but his wife never said anything other than what you owed her. Still, at least she didn’t demand proof of age ID.

They left the shop and walked on down to the bridge with the cans safely tucked under Kevin’s arm.

“Have you seen that bloke again?” Carly asked. “You know, the bloke who came out of that dead woman’s house?”

“No. Well, I don’t think so. How would I know? I told you, I wouldn’t recognise him.”

It started to rain, and they quickened their pace until they reached the bridge. As Kevin had guessed, there were half a dozen other kids there. There weren’t many places to go in Dawson’s Clough if you wanted a drink. The pubs were strict on underage drinking, and coppers kept an eye on the town centre and made sure everyone remembered it was an alcohol-free zone. People gathered under the bridge where it was dry and protected from the wind. The river was only about ten feet across and the paths on either side had big stones that made fairly comfortable seats.

Kevin knew the others. Four were in his year at school. They were drinking and smoking and generally larking around. He was glad he’d come, especially when Carly put her arms round him for warmth. He felt good showing everyone that she was his girl.

The others drifted off soon after ten o’clock.

“I’d better be going soon,” Carly said when they were alone. “Let’s finish this last can and then go, yeah?”

“Right.” He tugged on the ring pull, took a swig from the can and handed it to her.

“Thanks.”

Now that they were alone, Kevin couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His mind was a blank. He made a fuss of lighting a cigarette and smoking that.

“We’d better go,” Carly said when the can was empty. “I’ll be in all sorts of trouble if I’m late in.”

“Come on then.” Secretly, he was pleased he wouldn’t be late. He didn’t relish walking through the cemetery at this hour but he mustn’t forget his football kit.

She tucked her arm through his as they walked through the town centre. People were coming out of the pubs and calling at the fish and chip shop or the kebab shop for their suppers. A couple of police cars crawled along looking for signs of trouble.

It seemed no time at all before they were standing, awkwardly in Kevin’s case, outside Carly’s house.

“That was good fun, wasn’t it?” she said.

“We’ll do it again sometime, shall we?” he asked.

She put her arms round his waist and lifted her face. “Tomorrow too soon for you?”

“Er, no.”

“Good.”

Afterwards, walking home, he tried to remember if he’d kissed her first or if she’d kissed him. He was pretty sure she’d kissed him. Either way, it had been the best thing ever. Ever.

He broke into a run with an enormous smile on his face.

He had to go back into the town centre to get home, but he didn’t care. There were still quite a few people around. A lot were happy after a night in the pub. Perhaps Dawson’s Clough wasn’t such a bad place after all.

He was walking past the square when he saw the car. He wouldn’t have recognised it if it hadn’t been for the registration plate. It was dark blue. And it was empty.

Kevin crossed the road for a better look. A couple of yards away, a man was talking into his phone. Kevin had told Carly he wouldn’t recognise the man who’d been outside the Murphy woman’s house that night, but he did.

The chap recognised him too. He snapped his phone shut. “Well, well, well. We meet again.”

Beer sloshed around in Kevin’s gut making him want to throw up. He took a step back.

“Ah, so you do recognise me,” the man said. “That’s a pity.”

“Why? I haven’t told anyone. I won’t tell anyone. A mate said I should go to the police, but I haven’t. I won’t.” Realising he’d contradicted himself, he gulped in a terrified breath of cold night air. “I don’t care what you were doing at her house. Truly. You can trust me.”