Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (27 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

“She’s down by the lake, Mr. Scott,” the receptionist said. “Would you like me to send someone to find her?”

“No need, thanks. I’ll wander down there.”

The receptionist nodded and smiled at the bottle and glasses in his hands. “Are you celebrating?”

“I certainly am. And the sun’s shining. That’s a good enough reason.”

“Yes, it makes a pleasant change, doesn’t it? Let me know if you can’t find her.”

“Will do.”

Dylan stepped out of the cool building, walked across lawns so immaculate they could have been trimmed with nail scissors, and on to the lake. It was deserted except for a duck and half a dozen ducklings and, there, sitting on a wooden bench taking advantage of the shade from a willow, Maddie.

“Hey!” She put down the book she’d been reading. “What are you doing here? I thought you were mixing with the great and the good of the art world.”

“I escaped.” He sat beside her. “I bring gifts—so long as you’re not averse to warm champagne.”

“And glasses too. You think of everything.”

“I try. Can I tempt madam with a glass?”

“You certainly can.”

The cork flew out with a satisfying pop and he managed to fill two glasses without spilling too much. He handed her a glass and chinked his against it.

“To your good health,” he said, and she smiled.

“Thank you.” She was wearing a simple white dress, very much like the one worn by Prue in McIntyre’s paintings.

Dylan took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the bench. His tie went in his pocket.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Pretty well, I suppose. There were a couple of hundred people there though so it was a bit of a crush. The press were there too so it wasn’t the quiet affair I was expecting. I think your mother was pretty shocked too.”

“She was here this morning.”

“So she said.”

“We had a long chat about—stuff.”

“Good.” He leaned back against the bench, stretched his legs out in front of him and closed his eyes. A welcome breeze cooled his skin a little. This was far preferable to being cooped up in an art gallery. “I thought she was looking pretty good today.”

“So did I.”

“And she said the same about you. She thinks you’re doing well.”

“I am.”

He smiled at the spirit in her voice.

“I feel as if a huge black cloud has gone from my life,” she said. “I feel lighter. Less weighed down. Does that sound crazy?”

“No.”

“Mum doesn’t talk about him much,” she said. “In fact, she hardly mentions him at all. I think his name slips out when she forgets. That suits me. If I hear his name mentioned once before I die it’ll be once too often.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Maddie?”

“Tell you what?” she asked.

“You know what.”

Dylan had spent hours drinking brandy and then coffee with Ruth on the day Andrew Murphy slit his wrists, and he’d called in the following morning just to make sure she was okay. It was then that she’d told him the full story. Along with a note saying he was sorry and asking for forgiveness, Murphy had left a couple of dozen letters that Maddie had written over the years. In them, Maddie had taunted him for sexually abusing her as a child. She’d sent newspaper clippings detailing cases where men had been sent to prison for several years. She’d reminded him he should be facing the same future. Three letters had been sent since Prue’s death and a fourth had arrived on the morning Murphy ended his life. He hadn’t opened it. He’d simply put it with the others, and left them on the kitchen table with a note saying he was sorry.

Once Ruth had started talking, she hadn’t been able to stop. She’d told him how ten-year-old Maddie had tried to tell her what was happening and how Ruth, unable and unwilling to believe such things of her husband, had slapped her daughter hard and made her promise never to utter such vile lies again.

Maddie hadn’t. She’d been abused for years and she hadn’t told a soul. Instead, she’d poured her hatred and anger into those letters to her father.

“And say what?” she asked. “Oh, by the way, my sister’s dead and my father sexually abused me.” She shuddered. “It was over. It was best forgotten.”

Except she hadn’t been able to forget. She certainly hadn’t been able to forgive. Few women would.

“I didn’t mean then,” he said. “I meant twenty years ago. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“What?” She laughed at that. “When we were in bed? As in ‘By the way, Dylan, you’re far better than my father’?” She knocked back her champagne. “What difference would it have made?”

“A lot.”

“You think so?”

He was certain of it. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would have done but it would have included smashing Andrew Murphy to a pulp.

“We could have talked about it,” he said. “We could have sorted something out.”

“No.” She slipped off her sandals and stretched her feet in the grass. “We were little more than kids then. We didn’t have time for talking. In any case, I wasn’t so bad then. In those days, I believed I could cope with it. I’d left home so I knew he’d never touch me again. I thought I was over it all. I can’t explain the reasoning behind it, but I felt worse about it as I got older.”

Dylan could understand that. Some scars refused to heal. They remained painful.

“There was no real need to tell you back then,” she said. “And if I had, you would have made a sharp exit and ended up in someone else’s bed, someone who didn’t come with a mountain of baggage, someone who wasn’t totally screwed up.”

“Rubbish.”

“Besides, I often thought it was my fault,” she said. “I hated Prue from the moment she was born. I suppose I’d been spoilt and didn’t like someone else stealing my thunder. So when he came to me and told me I was special—that’s how it started. He’d creep into my bed, tell me I was his special daughter—” She shuddered. “As much as I hated him, I did feel as if I was superior to Prue. It didn’t last. I soon realised that I wasn’t special at all.”

“He never touched Prue?”

“God, no. She was far too precious for his disgusting perversions. The more he came to me, the more I hated her. She was the special one. She was the one he couldn’t bring himself to violate.” She gave him a wobbly smile and sipped her champagne. “Let’s forget him. None of it matters now.”

It did. It probably always would.

Ruth had told no one else about the letters and, after a great deal of thought, she’d burned them on the Aga in her kitchen. They’d given an old dog a little extra warmth.

“Mum and I talked about the miniature, too,” she said. “After a lot of thought, we’ve decided to auction it and donate the proceeds to charity. All we have to do now is agree on which charity will benefit.”

“Really? That’s good.”

“Yeah. Mum said I should keep it but I don’t want it. I don’t want the money either. I mean, the money would come in very useful, but I want a fresh start. We decided that some good may as well come from it. Hark at me. I’ll be turning into Mother Teresa next.”

Dylan smiled at the thought. “There’s not much chance of that.”

“True. So what were the paintings like?” she asked. “Did McIntyre do my sister justice?”

“He did. I was very impressed.” He reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses. “Prue was very beautiful in her own way. Yes, he did her justice. I’ll take you to see them when the fuss has died down.”

“I’d like that. Not,” she rushed on, “that I need taking anywhere. I’m not an invalid, you know.”

He smiled. “I know.”

“It’s funny, but I miss Prue. Crazy, isn’t it? I didn’t see her from one Christmas to the next, and now I miss her.”

“That’s understandable.”

“I only had to look at Prue to know how bad I was being. She was so bloody nice. Really, she never said a bad word about anyone, she’d do anything without a word of complaint—she was unbearably bloody
nice.
”

Before he could agree with that, she said, “What do you
really
think will happen? To Tim, I mean.”

“I don’t know.” Chandler was currently on bail and, even after the trial, Dylan suspected he’d be a free man. It was impossible to prove that he’d been involved in any of it. Gut instinct said he had. Evidence was less sure. “They’re trying to tempt Eddie with promises of a reduced sentence if he dishes the dirt on Tim. Even if he does, though, they’ll still need hard evidence. He’ll probably be a free man.”

“What about Eddie?”

“Eddie’s future features a cramped cell with little or no daylight. He’ll be behind bars for years.”

Officers were gathering evidence on an almost daily basis to make sure the jury found Bryson guilty of all charges. Forensics officers had found hair and fibres that put Kevin Mills in the car Bryson had hired. CCTV put Bryson at the art gallery on the day Prue was murdered and that car in Dawson’s Clough at appropriate times. They could prove he’d been in France when the attempt on McIntyre’s life was made. They were working closely with French officers at the moment.

Frank phoned Dylan every couple of days with updates. There was no way Bryson would walk out of this one.

Frank hadn’t needed a word with Amesbury because the young constable had gone to Frank to apologise. Whether it had been a genuine apology, or whether finding out that he was in line for promotion had persuaded Amesbury not to make enemies, they didn’t know. It didn’t matter. All questions about borrowed files had been forgotten and Frank was once again privy to useful information.

“Is that definite?” she asked. “He won’t get away with it, will he?”

“Never in a million years. Trust me.”

Dylan hoped Bryson never tasted freedom again. Nothing would bring Prue or young Kevin Mills back, and their families would have to learn to live with the loss, but Dylan would feel better knowing that Bryson was paying with his freedom.

“What about you and Tim?” he asked.

“I’ve instructed my solicitor to start divorce proceedings.” She spoke calmly. “I’m leaving here next week—”

“Really?”

“There’s no need to sound so surprised. Yes, I’m out of here next Friday. I’m only here now because I’m enjoying being waited on hand and foot. I considered staying with my mother but—” she pulled a face, “—I can’t stand being in that house.”

“That’s understandable.”

“So my mother and I, get this, are having a fortnight’s holiday in Cornwall. I’m going to buy a house down there. Somewhere quiet. By the sea.”

“Good grief.” He examined the label on the champagne bottle. “Is this stuff going to your head?”

Smiling, she slipped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I need to look at finances,” she said, “and God knows what state they’ll be in by the time Tim’s court case is over, but that’s what I plan to do. My mother will give me a loan to buy my place by the sea, if necessary. I may have to pay money to my agent because I’ve cancelled my contract with her. The work I’ve been getting lately isn’t worth the bother. Besides, I’m sick of modelling. And I’m way too old for it.”

“And what do you plan to do in your little house by the sea?”

“I’m not sure. I love fashion and I’d really like to send my own designs into the world. But that’s the future. Short-term, I’m going to cook.” Laughing, she lifted her face to look at him. “I adore Italian food so I’m going to learn to cook it. And I’m going to relax for a year or so. Just chill out.” She shrugged. “Basically, I’m going to enjoy living on my own. I intend to chill out and get fat.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Yeah.” She drank her champagne. “Will you come and visit me in my home by the sea?”

“I might.”

“Might isn’t good enough, Detective. Will you come and visit? Yes or no?”

“It depends on how well you learn to cook Italian food.”

She laughed. “The food will be superb.”

“In that case, how can I refuse?” He refilled her glass and felt obliged to make another toast. “To your home by the sea, Maddie. May your future be a lot happier than your past...”

* * * * *

Experience the thrill of the mystery!

For further adventures with our stalwart sleuth, check out the first four Dylan Scott mysteries, available now.

Presumed Dead
          
Dead Silent

Silent Witness
          
Dead Calm

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