Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (5 page)

Chapter Six

Prue Murphy’s end-terraced house came as no surprise to Dylan. There were hundreds of similar properties in Dawson’s Clough, all built in stone hewn from local quarries. A black Volkswagen was parked on the road in front of the house. He assumed it was Maddie’s. A stone-slabbed path led along the side of the house to the rear. That same path would provide a right of way for anyone wanting to use the back entrances to the rest of the houses in the terrace. Although there was no front garden, several tubs of pansies set on stone slabs offered visitors a burst of warm blues and yellows.

His Morgan looked out of place on the quiet street. Daytona Yellow, like those cheery little pansies, was too vibrant against such a grey, rain-leaden sky.

The street was deserted. Jane Cook might have witnessed his arrival from the warmth of her home, or Doreen might have seen him from her house opposite, but there were no signs of life.

A streetlight stood guard about twenty yards away. Even assuming it wasn’t faulty, it wouldn’t have been strong enough to cast any light on Prue’s house. Trees, despite being almost bare of leaves, would have blocked what little light there was.

He strode up to the front door and rang the bell. Maddie opened it almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting behind the door for him, and clutched at the sleeve of his jacket to pull him inside.

He followed her into a sitting room that looked as if the contents had been dropped from a great height. “Bloody hell.”

“I know. This is how I found it. I’ve no idea if the burglar or the police are responsible. They’ve been through everything.”

Broken pieces of porcelain lay on the carpet. A couple of posters, torn from their frames, had been tossed on the floor. A bookcase had been overturned, its contents left to lie on the carpet.

“I didn’t know where to start, so I’ve done nothing. Christ, I need a cigarette.” Maddie was wearing a knitted dress-cum-sweater thing that almost touched her knees, and she reached into a pocket at the front and took out a pack and a lighter. “Do you want one?” She thrust the pack at him.

“I don’t smoke.” He often envied those who did.

Her hands shook as she lit it. Dark circles surrounded eyes that were a little puffy. Her naturally pale skin was a sickly grey.

“Prue was definitely wearing pyjamas when she was killed?” he asked.

“Sorry? Well, yes, she was. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’m just curious. Did she enjoy music? Might she have gone to bed and listened to an iPod or something through earphones?”

“I wouldn’t think so. She wasn’t really a music person. She might have read, I suppose. She was a great reader. Why do you ask?”

“Is there a phone in her bedroom?”

“No. Why?”

“What about her mobile phone? Where was that?”

“I don’t know. The police returned it to me but I’ve no idea where they found it.”

Dylan walked into the hallway and on to the kitchen. A small window beside the door, a foot square, had been boarded up. Cupboard doors were open. Contents had been knocked to the floor.

“There was sixty pounds on the table apparently,” Maddie said. “I don’t know where that is. I suppose the police have it, checking for fingerprints or something.”

Any burglar happy to steal a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of stuff would have thought his birthday had come as he’d shoved sixty pounds in his pocket.

“What’s it like upstairs?” he asked.

“The same.” She hunted for an ashtray, couldn’t find one and flicked ash into the remains of a broken cup. “Have a look for yourself.”

He walked up the stairs and into the spare bedroom first. A single bed was pushed against the wall but, other than that, it was simply a place to store things. Four brown cardboard boxes had been torn open. They contained books, mainly well-worn paperbacks. A rug was rolled up and stood upright against a window that offered a view of a small back garden.

The bathroom looked untouched. Four leggy plants sat on the windowsill gathering dust and begging for water. Inside a small cabinet with a mirrored door, he found an array of toiletries. A cupboard beneath the washbasin housed white towels.

Another small bedroom had been set up as a workshop. Small hammers, pliers and tweezers sat alongside squares of wood on a table. Boxes and jars of cheap colourful beads were lined up. It looked as if she’d been working on a bracelet—cheap beads strung on leather. There was no evidence of precious jewels or gold and silver, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d looked at her internet shop and most items sold for less than a tenner. She’d specialised in cheap and quirky rather than quality jewellery.

The main bedroom, like the other rooms, was a mess. It overlooked the front of the property and he wondered if Doreen could see him standing at the window. He turned from the window and looked around the room. It was difficult to believe that this chaos had once been Prue’s refuge from the world, the place she lay awake dreaming of the future or slept peacefully with no thought of tomorrow. The bed’s covers, dumped in a pile on the mattress, were pale blue dotted with delicate yellow flowers. A set of fairy lights had been draped along the headboard. A paperback—
Exit Music
by Ian Rankin—was bookmarked at page 83. Sadly, Prue’s own exit music had played too early for her to finish the story. A mirror, its glass cracked, leaned against the wall. T-shirts and sweaters spilled out of a couple of drawers. Dylan looked in a wardrobe that would easily have held twice as many clothes. A quick check of the labels told him she bought her clothes from a supermarket.

He walked out of the room and stood at the top of the stairs looking down at a heavy oak table. Thanks to forensic officers, it was covered in various sorts of powder and gel. He turned round so that he had his back to the stairs. It was possible the killer came out of the spare room and threatened her, causing her to take a step backwards—

No. That didn’t add up. Nothing made sense.

He walked slowly down the stairs, deep in thought. Maddie was throwing broken pieces of china and assorted crap into a black plastic bag. She’d already filled one.

“Well?” she said.

“There’s no TV in her room, no iPod or radio. How do we know they weren’t stolen?”

“The neighbour, Jane Cook. She’d been here a few times and, once, had helped Prue hang curtains in the bedroom. According to her, there was nothing missing.”

“Assuming she’s right then, Prue would have heard someone down here making a racket.” He looked around him. “Our man couldn’t have done this quietly.”

“So?”

“So it’s possible that a lot of the damage was done after she was dead.”

Maddie stopped, half an ashtray in one hand, plastic bag in the other. She looked at him as if he’d become fluent in Martian. “What do you mean?”

“I think our man was looking for something specific. If he’d been looking to steal something and make a few quid, he’d have pocketed the cash. I think he killed her and then had a look round for something.”

She sank onto a wooden chair and delved into her pocket for another cigarette. She didn’t want to believe her sister had been killed by a chance burglar but it seemed she didn’t want to ponder anything more sinister either.

She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. “But she had nothing. Look around you, Dylan. Why would anyone think she had anything worth stealing?”

“I don’t know.”

Maddie was right. There was nothing in the house of any value. Everything, from the supermarket’s own brand food to the cheap dining table, screamed frugal. Prue had worked her way round Europe waiting on tables. She’d returned to England, rented the cheapest house she could find and was trying to sell her own inexpensive jewellery designs. She didn’t have a car, choosing instead to cycle or use public transport. It was ridiculous to think she had anything worth stealing.

“Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity,” Dylan said. “Or perhaps I’m wrong and the police are right. Maybe she died accidentally and our burglar decided he’d have a quick look round before scarpering. Maybe he didn’t notice the cash. Maybe he stole things you don’t know she owned.”

He wasn’t convinced though. A petty thief was unlikely to hang around with a corpse.

“Was her rent paid up to date?” he asked.

“Yes, although I’ve had to pay for another couple of months because it was a six-month lease. The landlord’s a miserable sod too. He wants the place cleared—totally empty—by Friday. Apart from that, his biggest concern is that Prue’s murder might put off prospective tenants.”

“He sounds a real charmer. Is he local?”

“No. He lives up in the Lake District but has a couple of dozen properties in Dawson’s Clough that he lets. When Prue died, he was on holiday in Monaco so I hardly think a month’s rent will affect him one way or the other.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a chap coming at two o’clock to look at the furniture. It’s not worth anything, obviously, but I’m hoping he’ll take it away. I’d better get the wardrobe and drawers emptied.”

Armed with more black plastic bags, they headed for the stairs and Prue’s bedroom.

“I’ll put everything in bags and take it home to sort out,” Maddie said. “Mum’s given me strict instructions that anything of value, no matter how small, has to go to the charity shop. She says she can only bear this if something good comes from it.”

Dylan supposed it was an admirable sentiment.

They worked in silence. Maddie, Dylan guessed, was finding the task too difficult to do anything but keep her lips pressed tightly together. He simply found it sad. And wrong. So very wrong.

“Look.” Maddie held out a pink cashmere sweater still in its bag. “I bought her this for Christmas. She said it was too nice to wear but I had the feeling at the time that she didn’t like it. Why didn’t she say so? I could have changed it.”

“Perhaps she really believed it was too nice to wear. It’s cashmere, Maddie. It’s worth more than the entire contents of her wardrobe.”

Maddie pushed it inside one of the bags. “It’s a sweater, that’s all. A stupid bloody sweater.”

Dylan thought she was about to lose it, and he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had, but she merely gritted her teeth and grabbed two full bags. “I’ll go and put these in the car. It’ll give us more space to move.”

After the wardrobe and drawers, there was a desk in Prue’s workroom to empty. It was crammed with papers. “I’ll take it all home and sort through it some other time,” Maddie said.

By the time John Marshall arrived at two o’clock, they’d made good progress. Marshall was in his seventies, Dylan guessed, yet he was sprightly. He wore a suit that was a little old-fashioned perhaps, but well cared for. Shoes were highly polished.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He sounded sincere as he shook Maddie’s hand.

He inspected the few items of furniture and made pencil notes in a small book as he went from room to room.

“I don’t want any money for it,” Maddie said. “I know it’s not worth anything. I’d be grateful if you could take it away though.”

“I’ll give you a fair price,” he said.

Maddie shook her head. “If you want to pay, I’d rather you gave the money to charity. Oxfam, Save the Children, Cancer Research—just pick one.”

“Of course.” He nodded his understanding. “I can do that. I’ll make sure you get a receipt.”

They were in Prue’s bedroom when he stopped in front of a tiny item on the wall. Dylan had paid it no attention but now he saw that it was a painting. The walls had been dotted with photos and colourful prints, but most had been torn down and thrown on the carpet. Presumably the intruder hadn’t noticed this one. Or he’d grown tired of tossing stuff to the floor. About three inches by three, it depicted an old-fashioned black phone and an airmail envelope. When you looked closely, you could see that the background was a fountain pen’s gold nib.

Marshall took it from the wall, carried it to the window for the extra light and studied it closely.

“This is interesting,” he said.

“It’s yours if you want it,” Maddie said.

“Oh, I couldn’t take this.” He studied it some more. “I’m only an amateur when it comes to modern art. My enthusiasm far outweighs my knowledge, I’m afraid. However, this—oh, my, this is very exciting.”

“In what way?” Dylan asked.

“Well, unless I’m very much mistaken—” his eyes sparkled with excitement as he looked at Dylan, “—I think there’s a possibility that this was painted by Jack McIntyre.”

The name meant nothing to Dylan.

“
The
Jack McIntyre?” Maddie asked and, when he nodded, she laughed. It was a despairing sound. “Mr. Marshall, my sister was more likely to book a ticket to the moon than she was to own anything by McIntyre.”

“Perhaps I’m wrong,” Marshall said.

“You are,” Maddie said. “I’ve seen McIntyre’s paintings and they’re huge.”

“Indeed they are.” Marshall didn’t look upset by her scornful tone. “He has dabbled in miniatures though. I’ve seen a picture of one and it’s very similar to this. Miniatures are fascinating, aren’t they? Some say it’s a dying art. Indeed, art historians say it’s already dead, that it died when we got the camera. It’s nonsense, of course. We’ve always had some wonderful artists who concentrate on the miniature. I find them really exciting. I know McIntyre isn’t noted for miniatures, but I also know he’s produced several and that collectors value them highly. I’d love to believe this is one of his.”