Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Torrential rain had the Morgan’s windscreen wipers struggling to cope. Dylan had been driving round Manchester for the past half hour looking for somewhere to park, and the only option seemed to be the ridiculously expensive multi-storey which would earn him a soaking.

He’d had two golfing umbrellas in the car until Bev’s impromptu cleaning session. Why she insisted on cleaning his car, he had no idea, but he wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t wash it, but she often took it upon herself to clean the inside and she always, without fail, removed things he needed. He’d bet his umbrellas were sitting in the garage where they were neither use nor sodding ornament.

Still, at least he had a purpose, which was more than he’d had when he called at Maddie’s yesterday. He’d been able to tell her that Prue and McIntyre had been lovers, but he hadn’t a clue what to do next. Being given the receipt from the art gallery was a godsend. He’d thought he might talk to Martin Collins again, but Collins would only repeat what he’d already told him. Dylan had also toyed with the idea of having another chat with Davina McIntyre, but she would simply insist that she’d loved McIntyre and had never heard of Prue. Both options would be a waste of time. He’d tried to speak to the lawyer dealing with McIntyre’s estate, but he was on holiday.

On seeing that receipt, Dylan had been able to pack his bags, get a good night’s sleep, jump in the Morgan and make for Manchester.

“There’s an exhibition of McIntyre’s paintings there,” Maddie had said as she’d handed over the receipt. “I checked on the internet.”

“Really? That’s interesting.”

Maddie had shrugged at that and he’d had the feeling she was angry about something. She wasn’t angry with him, but something hadn’t been right in her world.

Dylan had always considered himself a good judge of character. He could read people. He could tell from a gesture whether they were lying, nervous, confident, shy, worried or whatever. Yet Maddie was a mystery to him. He couldn’t fathom her at all. Given that they’d once been so close, that surprised him. He supposed they’d been a hell of a lot closer physically than mentally but, even so, he should be able to read her more easily.

“Are you sure she didn’t say anything about a man in her life?” he’d asked her. “She’d been living with McIntyre. She must have said something to you.”

“Nothing. And I find it hard to believe, Dylan. What would a man like McIntyre see in my sister? I mean, come on. It’s laughable.”

“Not really. Prue was young, pretty and knowledgeable about art. McIntyre was sixty-two and I should imagine he was flattered by Prue.”

“Huh.”

Dylan had come to realise that Maddie and Prue really hadn’t known each other at all. They’d been born and raised in the same house to the same parents, and yet they’d lived their adult lives like strangers.

“I’ll go up there and check it out,” Dylan said.

“Fine. But first,” she said, her smile sunny again, “let’s have a glass of wine and you can tell me what my little sister got up to in France.”

She was already taking a bottle of red from the rack. “Do you remember how red wine used to give you a headache?”

“It still does.” He was surprised she remembered. “The first bottle’s okay, and the second isn’t too bad, but the third—you can bet your life I’ll have a headache.”

Laughing, she poured wine into large glasses and handed him one. “Do you remember that camera I had—the Polaroid?”

“No.”

“You must. I took lots of pictures of you—some in Regent’s Park and some—” she licked her lips, “—some in bed.”

Frowning, he shook his head. “I don’t remember that.”

“Dylan, you must. You took some of me in various states of undress. Don’t you remember?”

“No.” All he could remember was that confounded bedroom. In those days, though, like most red-blooded males, his dick had ruled his life.

“Do you remember—?” Whatever she’d been about to say was left unsaid because Chandler arrived.

After going through the social niceties, Dylan had left. He’d spent the night at home, trying not to think of Polaroid images, and travelled to Manchester this morning.

Sod it. He indicated and turned onto the ramp for the multi-storey car park.

By the time he’d driven a spiral to the sixth floor and taken the lift back to ground level, the rain had eased a little. It was good to know someone was smiling down on him.

He went straight to the gallery and the McIntyre display. Six paintings had been given one wall in a vast room displaying paintings by several other artists. McIntyre’s were no better and no worse than the others. They certainly weren’t worth the stupid money people were prepared to pay for them.

A long bench seat was provided and Dylan sat to give the paintings a more leisurely inspection. Nope, they simply weren’t worth the money. They were a varied mix. Two were beach scenes, the colours pale except, on one, a bright red diamond kite and, on the other, two red-and-white striped deckchairs. Another showed a hefty lady, her skirt swirling around chubby knees, eating an ice-cream. His favourite was of a herd of sheep gathered round a red tractor. They were okay, but they weren’t anything special.

He wondered if Prue had sat on this very bench to admire her lover’s work. He’d give a lot to know what she’d been thinking as she’d looked at them. He’d give a lot more to know why she’d called her sister that same day. Had something happened here at the gallery? Something to frighten her?

He had no idea and staring at a bunch of paintings wouldn’t solve the mystery.

He wandered round the rest of the gallery then sat with a coffee in the café. Prue presumably caught the train to Manchester, walked to the gallery, checked out McIntyre’s paintings, sat here with a cappuccino before taking the train back to Dawson’s Clough. The station, the gallery—she must have been captured on CCTV a dozen times or more.

He finished his coffee and went to the main desk. Several people were leaving or arriving but the desk was quiet.

“Can I help?” a young woman asked.

Dylan gave her his best smile. “I hope so. I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of a young woman.”

The woman’s shocked expression increased with each word.

“We know she came here on the day she was killed,” Dylan said, “and it would be an enormous help if I could check your CCTV images for the day in question.”

“Sorry—we can’t let you. We’re not allowed because of the Data Protection Act. You have to apply to—”

“I know, and I will. But this is a matter of some urgency.”

“Sorry.” She folded her arms across her considerable chest as if preparing to do battle.

“No problem.” He took the photo of Prue from his pocket. He’d meant to have it enlarged, but hadn’t got round to it. “I wonder, would you remember seeing this woman?”

She took the photo from him and studied it closely, so closely that a small ray of hope flared but she soon dashed it. “Sorry. I don’t recognise her. I’ll ask my colleague.”

Half an hour later, several people had seen the photo of Prue but no one had recognised her. Dylan wasn’t too surprised.

He wandered around the gallery, showing the photo to more people, but the result was always the same—a regretful shaking of the head. Prue hadn’t been the type to kick up a fuss in the café by claiming her coffee was cold so no one would have cause to remember her.

He left the gallery and stood by the main entrance to call Frank. He explained that Prue had visited the gallery the day she died. “I need CCTV images, Frank. For the gallery and the train stations. Something made her call Maddie that day. The sisters weren’t close so I think something really bad must have happened either at the gallery, in the city or on the train home.”

“Like what?”

“God knows, but something must have happened. It would be interesting to see if she’s on camera and if she’s with anyone who—” Not ten yards from him was a familiar character. “Got to go.” Dylan snapped his phone shut. The bearded man turned, spotted him and set off at a run.

Dylan followed. “Shit!” Traffic hindered him, pedestrians got in his way, and a yappy terrier almost tripped him. He was gaining on his quarry though.

A car pulled out in front of the bearded bloke, forcing him to stop or risk getting mown down. Those extra seconds helped and Dylan was soon grabbing him by the arm, dragging him across the pavement and slamming him against a wall.

“Right, Sunshine, talk.” He could barely say the words as his out-of-condition lungs struggled to pull in air. “What were you doing at Prue Murphy’s funeral? What are you doing here? What do you know about her murder?”

The chap gazed back at him. He was as breathless as Dylan, but he was totally unfazed.

“Come on, out with it.” Dylan gave him an encouraging shake.

He was tall, about sixty, bearded, blue-grey eyes—

“Bloody hell!” It couldn’t be. Could it? As God was his witness, it bloody well was. He’d seen photos of this man. In those, he’d been clean-shaven and usually wearing a dinner jacket. He’d been smiling for cameras and raising a glass of champagne.

“You’re Jack Bloody McIntyre!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Carlton Amesbury attached the bait to the hook, put his rod in the water and waited for a fish to bite. This was his first day off work in eight and he was determined to enjoy it.

It had rained heavily all morning but, just to prove it really was spring, the sun had decided to put in an appearance this afternoon. He’d gathered rods, boxes and chair, and set off for this small lake on the edge of town.

He had it to himself because few people could be bothered with it, but it was close to home and he couldn’t afford to waste petrol going further afield.

Wendy often said he should quit moaning about the job, that he should be grateful to have it, and perhaps she was right. Uncle Jim, a traffic cop, had bought him a policeman’s helmet for his sixth birthday and Carlton had decided there and then that, one day, he’d wear the uniform himself. When he should have been studying at school, Carlton had mentally plotted his rise in the force. Promotion would follow promotion—

Twenty-four years later, he was sick of the damn uniform. There were more crooks wearing the blue than there were behind bars. What a bloody fool he’d been. He hadn’t realised that promotion depended not on
what
you knew but on
who
you knew. Nor had he realised that if you’d been born black you could forget it. There were the odd few black coppers who climbed high, but they were most likely the ones who could—and would—dish the dirt. Blackmail.

Yeah, blackmail was the only way to get on. If you had the proof and threatened to expose them for the crooks they were, you might progress. There would be hearty slaps on the back, and those at the top would make a big song and dance about your promotion. They’d happily show the world that a black man
could
succeed in the British police force. Of course, they wouldn’t actually utter the word
black.

Carlton had a piece of ammunition but he very much doubted it would work. Frank Willoughby had been—still was—a legend at the station. Everyone thought he was the most honest, trustworthy copper who ever lived. He’d had to retire for health reasons but that didn’t stop him being treated like a hero on his many visits. He was helping a friend out, some ex-copper turned private investigator, and he’d called at the station to get up-to-date information. To Carlton’s mind, that was wrong. Police information shouldn’t leave police walls. It didn’t matter that Willoughby had been the best detective chief inspector to walk the earth. Only the facts mattered, and the facts were that Willoughby had taken a file pertaining to Prue Murphy’s murder from the station.

If he could prove it, and if he kicked up a fuss and threatened to expose those who’d let Willoughby walk out with that file, no one would give a damn if Carlton’s skin was black, white or fucking pink with yellow spots. He
couldn’t
prove it though. They’d all take Willoughby’s side. They’d stand united.

He put down his rod and lit a cigarette. He’d cut down to less than ten a day because he couldn’t really afford the habit. Who could? It meant that he enjoyed every single one.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of electric blue. A kingfisher. He used to come here as a kid and he’d been fascinated by the speed and colour of the bird. The sight still thrilled him.

It was a peaceful spot. There was no one in sight. His car sat alone on the small gravelled area. It was just him and the birds. And, hopefully, the fish.

Perhaps Wendy was right and he should be grateful he had a job. Maybe it wasn’t all bad. Maybe, just maybe, something would happen without him having to expose Willoughby.

He stubbed out his cigarette and put fresh bait on his hook. With luck, he’d catch something big today.

He made a good cast and waited for a fish to bite. He tried to reel in but he’d caught something, all right. He’d bet folk had been dumping rubbish. God knows what was at the bottom—old prams, shopping trolleys, who knew? There was no way he was getting his line free. He’d have to cut it.

He was reaching for his cutters when it moved. It was far too heavy for a fish—

It was no use, he’d have to cut the line. No, it was near the surface. It felt lighter now, so perhaps he could reel it in after all.

“Sweet fucking Jesus!”

He staggered back as an arm broke the surface of the water.