Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (26 page)

Maddie’s phone rang for the third time in five minutes. She ignored it.

“Yours too, Tim. And forensics officers are going through that hire car with their box of tricks. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, Eddie, if they find anything that says Kevin Mills was in that car. It doesn’t take much—a hair, a tiny drop of blood or saliva.”

Bryson lunged at Frank in a bid for escape. Dylan had been ready for anything and he soon had Bryson pinned against the wall. He pushed the bloke’s head against it and there was a satisfying bang.

“You’re reasonably safe for the moment, Bryson.” Dylan spoke in a whisper so that his words wouldn’t be caught by the recording devices planted in the room. “But in the unlikely event of officers being unable to put you away for a very long time, I promise you this. I’ll come after you and I will personally break every bone in your detestable body. And then I will kill you.”

“You won’t prove anything!” Bryson spat in his face.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Maddie’s phone rang yet again and Chandler rounded on her. “Is it so difficult to either answer it or turn the fucking thing off?”

Chandler’s fury silenced the men. Only Maddie’s voice broke the silence as she spoke to her caller.

“I think perhaps I should go,” she said when the call ended. There was something odd about her voice. It was high-pitched and breathy, and it cracked. “I—that was my mother on the phone. My father—my father—he’s dead.”

A dozen questions kicked Dylan in the ribs. None would be asked, or answered, however, because Maddie collapsed to the floor.

Chapter Forty-One

The taxi driver taking Dylan and Maddie to her parents’ home must have realised they weren’t candidates for sparkling conversation. Dylan was keen to talk but Maddie was incapable. Staring ahead, her expression vacant and a little disturbing, she seemed suddenly frighteningly fragile. Her hands trembled in her lap.

Police officers had arrived as they’d been picking her up off the floor. Chandler should be sitting in this taxi holding his wife’s hand and grieving for his father-in-law, but Maddie hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. Besides, he’d been arrested along with Bryson on suspicion of murder, attempted murder and a couple of dozen other charges.

Maddie hadn’t said more than half a dozen words since she’d fainted, so Dylan had no idea if Andrew Murphy was dead courtesy of a heart attack, a car accident or a mugger.

“Which house number do you want, mate?”

Dylan looked at Maddie but she gave no indication of having heard the driver.

“It’s at the far end,” Dylan said. “That’s it—next to those two tall trees.”

The taxi stopped and Dylan handed over a note. “Keep the change.”

“Yeah? Thanks, mate. Have a good evening.”

There wasn’t much hope of that. “Thanks. You too.”

Maddie looked incapable of leaving the vehicle’s warm interior so Dylan took her hand and gave her a gentle tug. Like an automaton, she got out and walked up the driveway to her parents’ house.

“Maddie!” Ruth held the door open for them and reached for her daughter, but Maddie flinched from her touch and walked along the hall and into the sitting room.

She stood in the centre of that room. She was completely still and she seemed to be listening.

“Maddie,” Ruth said again, but Maddie shook her head to ward off the distraction. Dylan was sure she was listening for something.

Then, just as she had back at Dylan’s house, she fainted.

“We need to get her a doctor, Ruth.” Dylan knelt beside Maddie. She was out cold. “No, we’ll get an ambulance.”

Ruth was already speaking to someone on the phone.

“Her own doctor will be here in a few minutes,” she said. “This has happened before, Dylan. She’ll be okay.”

Dylan wasn’t so sure. Ruth was beginning to unnerve him too. Her husband was dead and yet she looked icy calm.

Maddie’s eyes fluttered a couple of times and then opened wide. Her gaze darted from Dylan to her mother. “Is he really dead?”

Dylan picked her up and carried her to the sofa. There was no weight to her.

“The doctor’s on his way,” he said. “Lie still and try to relax, Maddie. Okay? Do you want a glass of water? A brandy?”

“Is he really dead?” she asked again.

Ruth took her daughter’s hand. “He’s dead, Maddie. Trust me, he’s dead.”

Maddie was trembling. And shivering.

“I stayed in Cardiff overnight.” Ruth might have been discussing the weather. “I found him when I got home. He took his own life.”

“He committed suicide?” Dylan said, but no one answered him. No one seemed to even hear him.

“Let me get you a drink of water, darling.” Ruth strode out of the room.

“Are you okay, Maddie?” Dylan could see she wasn’t but he felt the need to say something. Anything.

She didn’t answer.

Dylan paced the room. Had he got everything wrong? On the strength of a half-baked idea, a hazy image from CCTV and three letters, KEV, in a registration plate, he’d had two men arrested. What if he was way off?

Ruth fussed around her daughter, Maddie remained in a state of shock, and Dylan tried to figure out what the hell was going on and why in God’s name Andrew Murphy had chosen today to end his own life.

Prue’s parents had admitted visiting her in France. They went often, they’d said, because they worried about her. They’d denied knowing anything about Jack McIntyre, but so what? Prue could easily have told them. If Andrew Murphy had made the attempt on McIntyre’s life, if Prue had found out—

He stopped his thoughts short. No way had Andrew Murphy killed his own daughter. Murphy hadn’t been spotted on CCTV at the art gallery Prue had visited, he hadn’t hired a car with an eye-catching registration plate. He’d taken his own life because he was a coward. He hadn’t wanted to cope with the loss of his daughter and he hadn’t thought twice about leaving his wife to pick up the pieces. That didn’t sound like the Murphy he’d met, albeit briefly, either.

The doctor arrived wearing a smile and full evening dress. Maddie clearly didn’t have to rely on tired and irritable out-of-hours NHS doctors.

While he and Ruth fussed around Maddie, Dylan kept out of the way. He wandered into the kitchen where Sam, the Murphys’ aged dog, looked as bewildered as Dylan felt.

When the time was right, and God alone knew when that might be, he’d have to talk to Ruth and make sure that it really was suicide. If Murphy was mixed up in Prue’s death, if Bryson was innocent—

He refused to believe it.

Yet Murphy’s behaviour had struck him as odd from the first. The way he’d distanced himself from Maddie at Prue’s funeral hadn’t seemed natural. He’d clearly been on edge when Dylan had called at the house, too.

The minutes turned to an hour and then Maddie was being led out of the house and to a waiting private ambulance.

“I’m coming with you, darling,” Ruth said.

“No. I want to be alone,” Maddie said.

“But, darling—”

“No.” Maddie looked like a zombie, one who would disintegrate before their eyes if they weren’t careful, but her voice was firm.

Dylan and Ruth watched until the ambulance’s red tail lights disappeared from view.

“Thanks for being here, Dylan,” Ruth said. “Do you need to rush off or would you stay for a while? I’m having a drink.”

He’d thought she was quite calm, but he could see now that he’d been wrong. She’d put a brave face on things, that was all.

“I can stay,” he said and they walked back into the house and the warmth of the kitchen. “What happened, Ruth?”

“I stayed overnight with my sister.” She went to a cupboard and found a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “Will you join me?”

“I will. Thank you.”

“I got home around ten this morning.”

That was more than twelve hours ago. Maddie’s father had been dead for over twelve hours and she hadn’t known.

Ruth put two glasses down on the table and poured generous measures of brandy into them. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

Her bottom lip trembled as she raised her glass to her lips and took a healing swallow. “All was quiet when I let myself in. There was no sign of anyone, not even Sam, so I went upstairs. Sam was lying outside the bathroom door.” She took another gulp of brandy. “I went into the bathroom and found Andy. He’d taken a bath, swallowed a lot of pills, mostly my antidepressants, and slit his wrists.”

Before Dylan could offer the usual condolences, she rushed on. “I called the police—I was so shocked I didn’t know who to call. They came, we found a note he’d left, an ambulance came to take him away— As soon as I was alone, I called Maddie. It’s not the sort of news to break over the phone but I knew she’d hang up on me if I asked her to come here or suggested I went there.”

“She was at my place. It was—” He couldn’t describe tonight’s circus as a dinner party. “Tim and Eddie were there too. They’ve been arrested, Ruth.”

Ruth had been about to lift her glass to her mouth but she stopped, her eyes wide. “Arrested? For what?”

“I believe Eddie Bryson is responsible for the attempted murder of Jack McIntyre, the murder of a sixteen-year-old, Kevin Mills and—” God, this wasn’t easy. “And Prue.”

“No!”

“I think so.” At least, he had thought so. “They’re being questioned by police. A car Eddie drove is being checked over by forensics experts.”

“No,” Ruth said again. “Not Eddie. And certainly not Tim. Surely, you can’t believe Tim was involved, can you?”

“It’s possible.” Probable.

Ruth crossed the room, glass in hand. She bent to give Sam an absent pat on the head. “I’m sorry, Dylan, but I honestly don’t think I can take much more.”

Dylan didn’t either. She seemed to be shrinking by the minute.

“You said Andrew left a note,” he said.

“Yes. It said—oh, it said nothing really. Just that he was sorry.”

“Have you any idea why he might have taken such drastic action? Why today? Has something happened?”

“I can’t talk about it now.” Ruth refilled their glasses despite the fact that Dylan had hardly touched his. “I can’t even think about any of it right now. First Andy, now Tim—Sorry, but I can’t deal with it.”

“That’s okay.”

They sat in the kitchen, drinking brandy and then coffee, and talking about very little until the first hint of dawn arrived.

Chapter Forty-Two

“Isn’t this fantastic, Dylan?” Bev grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Oh, my God! Look, there’s that chap.”

“Who?” The building was packed and Dylan had no idea who she was talking about.

“Him,” she said. “With the long black hair. He’s really famous. He was on that TV chat show a month or so ago. I’m sure it’s him.”

“He’s so famous you don’t know his name?”

“You must know who I mean.”

Dylan still didn’t have a clue who she was talking about and he wasn’t interested in celebrity guests. He just wished McIntyre would put in an appearance so that they could applaud his talent and go home.

Bev sipped her champagne. “Isn’t this fantastic?” she said again.

At last. A gaggle of press photographers walked into the room—backwards. Cameras flashed in a sudden frenzy of activity. The man those lenses were so determined to capture swept into the room as if he ruled the world. How Jack McIntyre had survived in that French backwater, Dylan would never know because he was lapping up the attention now. His smile broadened with every flashbulb that exploded in his face.

Dylan hated all this showbiz stuff. They’d come to see some paintings, that was all. There was no need for all the whistles and bells.

Some had come under duress. Well, one at least. Dylan wouldn’t have hesitated in turning down the invitation but Bev had already accepted and spent a year’s salary on a new dress.

According to McIntyre, this was to be a private viewing for a few select friends before the exhibition opened tomorrow. A private viewing for friends shouldn’t need half the country’s press in attendance. And not even McIntyre could boast so many friends. Or perhaps he could. Dylan had learned long ago that one’s circle of friends increased with one’s bank balance.

London was sweltering in a mini midsummer heat wave, but Collins’s art gallery managed to stay refreshingly cool. That was the only plus point Dylan had found so far.

He’d been surprised that McIntyre had agreed to have his work shown here. Not so long ago, he’d suspected Martin Collins of killing his father and making an attempt to end his own life. Now, it seemed, everything was forgiven. Perhaps McIntyre felt a loyalty to his late friend, Jeremy. News of McIntyre’s resurrection had rocked the art world—the media had talked of little else for the past couple of months—so he could have shown off his paintings anywhere.

“May I stand with you for the big unveiling?” Ruth Murphy came to stand between him and Bev. “I’m feeling quite nervous. Silly, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Bev said. “I’d feel exactly the same. There are a lot of people here, aren’t there? I was only expecting about twenty or thirty.”

“So was I. As for all the cameras, I shall spend the rest of the day avoiding those.”

More than two months had passed since Andrew Murphy had committed suicide and every time Dylan had seen Ruth since then, he’d been relieved to see that she looked to be coping. He wasn’t sure she was doing much more than coping, but at least she was managing that. She was stronger than she looked. Having lost a daughter and then a husband in a short space of time, she needed to be. Added to that, she’d seen her daughter taken to a clinic and her son-in-law and his business partner arrested.

“How’s Maddie?” Bev asked her.

“She’s doing well. I don’t want to tempt fate but I believe she may fully recover this time. I spent the morning with her and she was laughing, joking and looking very relaxed.”

“That’s excellent news. I’m so pleased for you, Ruth. Our children are a worry, aren’t they?”

Ruth smiled. “Maddie will soon be forty and I don’t suppose I’ll ever stop worrying about her.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” Martin Collins looked sickeningly pleased with himself as he called the vast room to order. Guests were eager to see the much-talked-about paintings so he didn’t need to ask twice.

An expectant hush fell on the room.

“At last,” Ruth said.

She’d echoed Dylan’s relief but they were both to be disappointed. There was a long and boring speech from Martin Collins that gave McIntyre’s life story. Perhaps a guest had been stranded in darkest Peru for the past forty years and had missed a snippet. Just as Dylan congratulated himself on surviving that, McIntyre made a speech that was almost as long but, thankfully, slightly more amusing.

“And now,” McIntyre said with a flourish, “I give you the Chaste Collection.”

Dark blue curtains were pulled back from three walls and there, gazing down at them, was Prue.

“Oh, my,” Ruth said just as the room erupted in a burst of delighted applause and cheering.

“They’re amazing,” Bev said.

Even Dylan, who hated art with a passion, had to admit that they were exceptionally good. They were bigger than he’d expected, but there was no mistaking the emotions on Prue’s face in the paintings. Wait a minute. There were five paintings. McIntyre had told him there were six. What the hell had he said about them? Chaste—coy, happy, angry, sensual, timid and excited? Dylan couldn’t remember but one was definitely missing. At a guess, he’d say happy was the absent painting.

Experts peered closely and Dylan overheard the ridiculous comments they were coming out with. He was reminded of connoisseurs who insisted on describing whisky as having a full-bodied smoky flavour with a hint of oak. Dylan wanted his whisky to taste of whisky not smoke, wood or any other damn thing.

He realised he was alone. Bev and Ruth had wandered off to inspect the paintings more closely.

Dylan could understand why McIntyre was so pleased with his work. It was as if the very essence of Prue had been captured. Every mood was reflected in her eyes.

“So, Dylan, what do you think?” McIntyre stood by his side, champagne glass in hand.

“They’re not bad at all.”

“Coming from you, I shall take that as an enormous compliment. Thank you.”

“I thought this was to be a private viewing for a few friends,” Dylan said.

“And so it is. The press are only here to raise some enthusiasm for the official opening tomorrow.”

“The paintings aren’t for sale, I gather.”

McIntyre smiled. “Were you looking to buy?”

“What do you think?”

“I think not.” McIntyre gazed up at his work, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “No, they’re not for sale. I’m happy to share them with the world but, for the moment at least, they’re mine.”

“One’s missing. I thought there were supposed to be six.”

“Yes, I’m doing the unthinkable and splitting the collection.”

“Happy is missing, right?”

“Very observant. I’m impressed.” He took a long thoughtful sip of champagne and, off to his right, a flashbulb captured the moment. He didn’t even blink. “That particular painting is to be a gift. I thought Ruth Murphy might like it as a reminder of her daughter in happy times. I haven’t told her yet. I thought I’d see her alone later. It may be that she won’t want it. We’ll see.”

“Really?” Dylan had liked McIntyre from the start. Well, he’d thought him capable of faking his own death and killing his one-time lover, but, apart from that, he’d liked him. “That’s good of you. In fact, you’ve just restored my faith in human nature. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“I like to think so.”

“Is it here? May I see it?”

“Yes. And yes.” He gazed at the throng of guests. “Come with me.”

Dylan followed him to the back of the room and through a door marked Private, No Entry. This led to a narrow hallway. At the end of that, they took a flight of steps down to the basement. Two men sat behind a long desk tapping information into computers.

“Could I borrow the key for a minute?” McIntyre asked.

“Yes. Of course.” Realising the great artist was in their midst, one of the men jumped to his feet and, from somewhere beneath the desk, produced a key. He handed it to McIntyre. “Do you want to sign for it?”

“No need. We’ll only be a minute. Thanks.”

The door was directly opposite the desk. McIntyre opened it and a light came on automatically. The room was dingy and cluttered, a storeroom.

“Over here.” McIntyre strode to the back where several paintings stood. He pulled back a big white sheet to reveal his work of art. “This is Prue. The beautiful young woman I fell in love with. The woman who should be here today.”

The painting was amazing. In Dylan’s view, it was the best of the collection. Prue’s head was thrown back and she was laughing as she danced through the surf in bare feet. She was wearing a simple white dress that swirled around her legs. It was the body of a young woman with the face of a five-year-old at Christmas.

“It’s good,” Dylan said. “Really good. It’s also a very generous gift.”

McIntyre shrugged that off. “A painting is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it, Dylan.”

True, but a lot of people would pay a disgusting amount of money to own it.

“Does Ruth even know it exists?” Dylan asked.

“Not yet. I’ve simply told her I’d like a word with her this afternoon.” He took a step back to admire his work. “I hope she’ll approve.”

“I’m sure she will.”

McIntyre dangled the key from his fingers. “I’d better get back before they send out a search party.”

“Yes. I’ll be leaving in a couple of minutes, things to do, but I’m glad I came.” Surprisingly, it was true.

“So am I, Dylan. Don’t be a stranger, will you?”

“I won’t. It’s your turn to buy the drinks, I believe.”

McIntyre smiled. “I believe it is.”

They returned the key to the desk and went back to the party. The editor of some glossy magazine or other soon grabbed McIntyre for an interview. An interview he seemed delighted to give.

Dylan’s phone, switched to Silent for the afternoon, vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the display and hit the button to answer it.

“Mr. Scott, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you.” Ms. Johnson from the lab sounded bright and chirpy.

“That’s okay.” It wasn’t okay. Their inefficiency had cost him several sleepless nights. He couldn’t believe that, when he’d chased them up about the test he’d booked, they’d had to admit to losing the results. He’d wanted to kill each and every person responsible. “Have you managed to do another test?”

“There’s no need,” she said. “We found the original test results. For some reason, they’d been cross-filed.”

What the hell did “cross-filed” mean? He didn’t know and he didn’t really care. All he wanted was the verdict. He swallowed hard. He wasn’t even sure he wanted that. In fact, at the moment, he was damn sure he didn’t want it.

“Our tests were thorough and complete,” she said. “We can tell you that there is no genetic relationship between the two samples you provided.”

No genetic relationship. No genetic relationship—

“You’re sure?” he said. “There’s no doubt?”

“None at all, Mr. Scott.”

“Thank you.” The relief was immense. Not that he’d been really worried that Boris was his father. He’d known from the start that Bev was talking nonsense.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “We’ll be mailing our report to you later today.”

“Thank you,” he said again. He ended the call and stood for a few moments to let the good news sink in. Boris was not his father. Thank God for that.

This called for a celebration. He went in search of Bev and found her busy gossiping to Ruth.

“I’m nipping out for a bit,” he said. “I may pop back later but you can get a cab home, can’t you?”

Bev rolled her eyes at him. “Typical. On the rare occasions you actually take me anywhere, you abandon me to find my own way home.”

“
You
brought
me,
” he reminded her.

“So where are you going?”

“I need to see someone.”

“Okay. I’ll stay on here with Ruth.”

Dylan gave her a quick kiss, said his goodbyes to Ruth and headed toward the exit. On a small table in the corner of the room were a couple of unopened bottles of champagne. Deciding McIntyre could afford it, he grabbed one. McIntyre had said it was his turn to fund the drinks anyway.

Finding a couple of glasses was much easier and, with those pocketed, he left the building.