Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“What time will Dad be home?”

“Luke, you’ve already asked me that. I don’t know.” Bev slammed the fridge door shut. “He said he’d be back in time for the match so any time now, I expect.”

“He usually comes home on a Friday night.” Luke was determined to have a good grumble.

“But last night he had to stay over. It’s no big deal. He’ll be here to take you to the game so stop looking so gloomy. Your face will stick like that.”

Luke let out a long sigh and took up his vigil at the window to wait for the first glimpse of his dad’s car turning into the road.

Bev was furious with Dylan too. Okay, so she’d made noises about hosting a return dinner party, but that was just her manners showing. She’d had no intention of actually going through with it. But now—Christ, she couldn’t believe she’d been talked into hosting a dinner party for six guests. Six at the last count, at any rate. Knowing Dylan, another half dozen people could easily turn up. God, he had a bloody nerve. She wouldn’t have minded so much if she actually liked the guests but the thought of competing with Maddie Chandler—

Not that she could compete. She wouldn’t be employing caterers and the food would be basic. The plates might match and glasses might be suitable, depending on what people wanted to drink, and that would be as good as it got.

With a sigh to match Luke’s, she picked up the phone and hit the button for Dylan’s number. When he answered, she wished she hadn’t bothered. It was virtually impossible to hear anything over the noise of the car.

“Your son’s about to hurl himself from a tall building and I’m thinking of following him,” she said. “You will be home for the match, won’t you?”

“Yes, we’re about an hour away. Everything okay there?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bev. And don’t go to too much trouble, okay?”

“I’m not. It still takes hours to get everything ready though. The house needs cleaning from top to bottom—”

“Does it hell. I mean it, Bev, don’t worry about it. Look, I’d better go. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The connection was cut.
I love you too, sweetheart.
She let out her breath.
Men!

“Right, Luke, your dad will be home in an hour. Meanwhile, you can go and tidy your room, okay?”

“What? But I never tidy my room on match days.”

“There’s a first time for everything. Instead of looking like a wet weekend, you can do something useful. Go on.”

Shaking his head and muttering to himself, he stormed out of the kitchen and thumped up the stairs.

She wasn’t naive enough to believe he’d bother doing anything as constructive as picking up his clothes or hunting out rotting apple cores and empty chocolate wrappers, but at least she wouldn’t have to tolerate his grumbling and sighing while she panicked about the evening ahead.

She opened the fridge again, stared at the vast empty space and began writing her shopping list. So far, it consisted of booze, booze and more booze.

Thank God for her mother-in-law. Vicky had taken Freya out so she could get on, and she’d be taking the children back to her place to spend the night.

She wrote
Sherry
on her list. She wasn’t sure if anyone drank it these days, but she ought to have some just in case. Half a bottle of the stuff she’d put in the Christmas trifle for the last couple of years was at the back of the cupboard, but it had probably gone off. It would be cheap stuff anyway and she could hardly serve that. Red wine, white wine, brandy, gin, mixers—

The first course would be melon. If people didn’t like it, they’d have to sit and suffer. Besides, who didn’t like melon. It was so tasteless there was nothing to like or dislike.

She’d then serve beef bourguignon and, again, people would have to like it. If they didn’t—
Oh, shit. Damn and blast, Dylan.

With such short notice, she’d hoped that no one would be able to make it. They’d all been delighted to attend though. Maddie had probably accepted because she had designs on Dylan. Husband Tim probably went where Maddie told him. Eddie Bryson and his girlfriend, Shaz, had also been pleased to accept. What a nightmare. She couldn’t imagine any of them in the kitchen mucking in.

She’d buy a pavlova or something for dessert. Oh, and she’d better get some decent coffee in. Chocolates, too.

She walked into the dining room and decided it didn’t look too bad. It shouldn’t because they rarely used it. Flowers—she must buy some fresh flowers to cheer it up.

After half an hour of banging around upstairs, Luke emerged, far more cheerful, and decided he’d go outside and mess around with his football. He was wearing his Arsenal shirt and was ready to go to the game.

“Is your room tidy?” she asked him.

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

It didn’t matter. Guests wouldn’t be going into his room. They’d only have cause to go into the bathroom and she’d already scrubbed that until it gleamed.

Dylan and Frank arrived within the hour and when Frank gave her a big hug, she felt her mood soften slightly. He was such a lovely man. He wasn’t very successful at marriage, probably because, like Dylan, he put criminals first in his life, but he was honest, warm and genuine and one of those people who always put you at your ease.

“It’s good to see you, lovely lady,” he said. “How are things here?”

“They’ll be a lot better when tonight’s over.” She glared at Dylan.

“But you’re—” Frank broke off and gave Dylan a quizzical look.

“You’re not staying, Bev,” Dylan said. “Once they’ve all got here, you’re going to be called away to a family emergency. You’re staying the night with mum and the kids.”

“What?” Bev couldn’t take it in. “You are kidding.”

“No. I thought I’d mentioned it, but no way are you staying here. Things could easily get nasty.”

Bev wanted to kill him. After all the fuss, she wasn’t even going to be enjoying the food and drink. What was the point though? She hadn’t wanted to endure the evening so she supposed she should be pleased. She would have been a damn sight more pleased if Dylan had thought to mention this tiny detail.

“I’ll help you get everything ready, Bev,” Frank said. “I’m surprisingly domesticated.”

“I would, too,” Dylan put in, “but Luke would never forgive me if I didn’t take him to the game.”

“It’s okay.” Bev spoke grudgingly. “Your mum’s taking charge of Freya for the day so I’ll be able to get to the supermarket and shop unhindered. You could come with me, Frank, and be responsible for choosing the wine. I wouldn’t know good from bad.”

“You can count on me,” Frank said. “It’ll be fine.”

Bev sincerely hoped so. But if she wasn’t going to be there, it hardly mattered. She could blame Dylan if it all went wrong.

“We’d better get busy, Frank,” Dylan said.

“What are you doing?” Bev asked as they began poking around in corners. “Don’t you dare make a mess—I’ve cleaned. What the hell’s going on?”

“You’re better off not knowing,” Dylan said. “Trust me, Bev.”

Chapter Forty

Dylan thought their meal had been surprisingly tasty considering he and Frank had taken orders from Bev on how and when to serve. The ordeal had been unbelievably drawn-out though. Dylan had thought they’d never make it to the coffee stage.

Maddie had flirted with him for the duration but her attentions had had zero effect. The fun-loving girl he’d known twenty years ago was long gone and the thought saddened him.

Tim Chandler and Eddie Bryson were polite and charming. Shaz, Eddie’s bimbo of a girlfriend, talked crap. She was fascinated by celebrities and celebrity gossip. She spoke of famous actresses as if she was on intimate terms with them.

Frank, like Dylan, wanted to get down to business, but Frank was blessed with patience.

So far, no one had mentioned Prue.

“I’ll get the coffee,” Frank said.

Dylan supposed that living alone had taught Frank how to be such an attentive host. He’d taken instructions from Bev and seemed to know the kitchen better than Dylan.

When Frank returned, he had coffee and chocolates that had been put in a sparkling silver bowl that Dylan had never seen before.

“It’s such a shame Bev can’t be here,” Bryson said for about the tenth time. “I bet she was looking forward to having you to herself at last, Dylan, because you haven’t been home a lot lately, have you?”

“No, but I’ve more or less finished now.”

“Oh?” Maddie was instantly alert. “How do you mean? Are you giving up?”

“I mean that I’m confident I know what happened to Prue. Proving it could be tricky but—well, we’ll have to wait and see.”

Seeing Danny Thompson and Prue’s landlord together had given him a sleepless night but, according to Thompson, they’d been having a dispute about one of Windsor’s properties. Thompson had agreed to take on the lease, thinking it would be a cheaper option for his wine bar, and Windsor had allegedly increased the rent. According to Thompson, he’d been telling Windsor where he could shove his lease.

Dylan believed his story.

“Tell us more,” Bryson said. “Of course, you mentioned those paintings of Jack McIntyre’s. Where have you hidden those?”

“There’s no need to worry about those,” Dylan said. “They’re safe enough.”

“I for one will be happy if you’ve come to the end of your investigation,” Chandler said. “I think it’s high time Prue was laid to rest. It’ll be far better for Maddie and her parents too. Perhaps they’ll be able to move on.”

“What about you, Frank?” Bryson was always keen to bring Frank into the conversation. “Are you aware of the case Dylan has been investigating?”

Frank was nibbling on a chocolate. No one else had touched one as yet. “Oh, yes.”

“Didn’t I give Frank his full title?” Dylan asked. “Of course, he’s off-duty right now but this is DCI Frank Willoughby. He’s been a great help in Prue’s case.”

Chandler, Bryson and Maddie all stared at Frank as if he’d suddenly turned green and was wearing a baseball cap with an I’m From Mars slogan printed on the peak.

“Also,” Dylan said, “it was getting to know you again, Maddie, that really helped me solve the riddle of Prue’s murder. That and talking to Clare Finch.”

“Who?” Maddie asked.

“Clare was Prue’s best friend. It was Clare who nudged me in the right direction really. Oh, I had bits and pieces, a theory of sorts, but only when I spoke to her, and she said that you’d be the very last person Prue would call if she had a problem, was I able to piece them together. I know Prue called you that day, probably as soon as she arrived home from the art gallery, but she wasn’t frightened, was she? If she’d been upset, frightened or worried about anything, she would have called her parents, a friend, maybe even Clare in Australia. No. She called you because you were connected with what was on her mind. She may have been confused. She may have been angry. But she wasn’t frightened.”

Maddie was scowling. “I thought she sounded frightened.”

“No.” Dylan picked up his coffee and took a long, slow sip. He was enjoying keeping them dangling. “Let me tell you what I think happened.”

“Please do,” Bryson said with a laugh. “You’re like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat, Dylan.”

Dylan returned his smile. “When Prue was living in France, she had a weekend visit from her sister and brother-in-law and she got drunk. She was embarrassed the next day. She was also concerned that she’d said things she shouldn’t have. She had every right to be concerned because I believe she told her brother-in-law, a man she liked and trusted, that not only was she having an affair with a famous artist but that said famous artist was painting again.”

“Did she?” Maddie demanded of Tim.

“Good God, no, of course she didn’t. I think I would have remembered her saying she knew Jack McIntyre, don’t you?”

“Of course he would, Dylan.” Maddie shook her head at Dylan. “Tim would have told me something like that. I might not have believed him but he would have told me. This is ridiculous.”

Dylan was fairly convinced that Maddie knew nothing about it. Fairly.

“Hear me out. I believe,” he said, “that Tim then told Eddie. So, we have two men with a struggling business—and yes, I’ve checked out your company—who happen to know where there are some extremely valuable paintings whose existence is fairly secret and where security is lacking. So Eddie decides to pay the artist’s home a visit. Coincidentally, he chooses a day when Jack McIntyre’s agent is also visiting. Nothing goes to plan though. When he’s walking down the deserted lane to McIntyre’s cottage, he meets Prue, who’s walking back to the village.”

“Me?” Bryson said. “You think I went to McIntyre’s place? You think I met Prue? I’ve told you, I
never
met Prue. I wouldn’t have known her from Adam.”

“I know,” Dylan said, “and she wouldn’t have known you from Adam, so it would have been easy for you to pretend to be a tourist. So, you pretend to be lost and walk back to the village with her. When you’ve got rid of her, you return to the cottage. By now, though, McIntyre is entertaining his agent. While waiting and thinking what to do, you pay his boat a visit. It’s less than a mile away so it passes time. When you’re poking about on that, looking for anything of value, McIntyre and his agent turn up planning to put to sea for a couple of hours. I suppose you have no choice but to hide on board. But that’s okay because you’re pretty skilled with boats, aren’t you? You used to have one, I gather. Also, I saw photos of you on board a jolly nice boat when I visited your office.”

Bryson was on his feet. “I’m sorry, but this is libellous and I’m leaving.”

“Sit down,” Frank said with the hard voice of authority.

Bryson looked at Frank, looked at the wide-eyed guests at the table and sat down.

“Actually, it’s slanderous,” Dylan said, “but humour me, will you? So you hid on McIntyre’s boat. You had plenty of time to think, didn’t you? The paintings were valuable in their own right. They’d be difficult to sell but I’m sure you have contacts abroad. But then you thought how much more those paintings would be worth, and how much easier it would be to sell them, if McIntyre was dead. What could be better than a boating accident? So, when the time was right, you pounced. Your weapon was a fire extinguisher. You killed Jeremy Collins and then you went for Jack McIntyre and knocked him overboard.”

“Dylan,” Chandler said, aghast, “you can’t possibly come out with stuff like this and accuse Eddie of such things. How can anyone know what happened on McIntyre’s boat? It’s preposterous.”

“I know what happened because I have a witness. Believe it or not, someone was on the boat who saw the whole thing. I’ve invited him to join us for drinks and I’m surprised he isn’t here yet. I’ll send him a text.”

“This is madness,” Bryson said. “I’ve read up on McIntyre. There were only two people on the boat that night and they’re both dead. There’s no embarrassment in admitting you can’t say who killed Prue, Dylan. I imagine the police are right and she disturbed a burglar. Why not let it rest at that?”

Dylan didn’t waste his breath on answering. He was busy sending a text message.

Maddie was scowling at Dylan, presumably because she believed he’d wasted her money. Chandler looked furious, although it was impossible to tell who bore the brunt of his anger. Bryson, not surprisingly as he was the centre of attention, was blustering. He was blowing hot and cold, intrigued and angry, his face red one minute and a sickly white the next.

“I expect our guest of honour will be here in a minute,” Dylan said. “Meanwhile, let me continue. To recap, Prue had said in her drunken state that Jack McIntyre was painting again and that those paintings were in his tiny cottage on the coast. Easy, yes? Except, having arranged a very convincing boating accident and then returning to the cottage, there was no sign of any paintings, was there?”

“I refuse to—”

The doorbell silenced Bryson. He alternated between fear and confidence.

“I’ll go.” Frank was already halfway out of the room.

“This will be my witness,” Dylan said, smiling to the shocked gathering.

Dylan almost didn’t recognise the man who followed Frank into the room. He was clean-shaven and wearing a dinner jacket and looked like the artist Dylan had seen smiling for cameras at exhibitions, rather than the scruffy bearded man Dylan had taken a liking to.

Bryson leapt to his feet so suddenly that his chair crashed back onto the floor. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at but I’m not staying. This—this charade has become too childish for words. Don’t expect me to believe that this is really—I mean, any fool knows it’s some two-bit actor you’ve hired for your little game. I’m not staying.”

Frank was at the door, barring Bryson’s exit. “Sit down.”

“Who is this?” Chandler said, his face ashen.

“I’m Jack McIntyre.” McIntyre gave the guests a broad smile. “As you can see, news of my death has been greatly exaggerated.”

“You expect us to believe that this is really McIntyre?” Bryson’s tone was scoffing now. He’d finished his coffee and he reached for the wine bottle to refill his glass. “This is laughable. It’s like one of those tedious mystery weekends people pay to go on. All second-rate actors and clichés.”

“I agree that it’s all a bit clichéd,” Dylan said, “but let me continue. Having assumed that McIntyre and his agent were dead—lost at sea in a freak boating accident—you searched his cottage. You found nothing because, despite what Prue had said in her drunken state, there was nothing to find. You thought maybe Prue had the paintings, so one or both of you broke into her home and searched it. That’s probably when you lost that button, Tim.”

“Oh, no. You’re not pinning anything on me.” Chandler, usually so smooth and calm, was furious. “Okay, I’ll admit that Prue told me about the paintings and I told Eddie. And that—you have my word on this—was the last I had to do with any of it.”

“Shut up, Tim.” Bryson’s voice was becoming slurred. He’d clearly had more wine than Dylan had thought.

At least they knew that Prue had told Chandler.

“You went to Manchester and the art gallery,” Dylan addressed Bryson, “probably to see if you could find out something about those paintings. Or perhaps, as you claim, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Either way, you saw Prue. Sadly, for her, she saw you. She recognised the man who’d pretended to be a tourist on the day she left France, the day that Jack was involved in that boating accident. You made a call to Tim from the cafeteria there. Perhaps she heard you and discovered who you were. Perhaps she was about to make herself known, to tell you that she was Tim’s sister-in-law, when she realised you were the same man she’d met in France that day. I don’t know. We’ll probably never know. We do know, however, that she recognised you. You panicked and decided she had to be silenced. You broke into her home—again—and this time you killed her.”

“No!” Bryson banged a furious fist on the table, making glasses jump.

“As you left her home, in your hire car, a young boy spotted you. He was more interested in your car’s registration plate than he was in you. I couldn’t understand that until I checked and double-checked the car you were given by the hire company. The car was ordinary enough. The registration plate, however, spelled his name. KEV.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chandler muttered.

“You had a witness,” Dylan went on, “and so you went back to Dawson’s Clough to look for him. Unfortunately for him, you found him. Just like Prue, Kevin Mills had to be silenced.”

“I know nothing about any of this,” Chandler said. “Nothing at all.”

“Nor does he.” Bryson was on his feet again. “It’s a great theory, Dylan, but it’s pure fiction. Even if it was true, you wouldn’t have a hope in hell of proving any of it. Not a hope in hell. So if your little game is over, I for one am leaving. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure—”

“You’re going nowhere,” Frank told him. “There are a few detectives who want a nice long chat with you.”

“You can’t—”

“Ah, but we can,” Dylan said. “You might be right in that I won’t be able to prove any of this. However, while you’ve been eating and drinking and listening to my theory, police officers have been searching your homes—”

“Mine too?” Chandler was horrified.