Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (6 page)

“Who exactly is this McIntyre chap?” Dylan asked.

“Dylan,” Maddie scoffed. “Which rock have you been living under? He’s one of the most famous painters alive.”

“Actually,” Marshall said, “he’s dead.”

“Is he?” Maddie wasn’t interested. “Take it. Really, it’s yours if you want it.”

“McIntyre died in a boating accident,” Marshall explained, ignoring Maddie. “A great loss to the art world, of course. But this—” He inspected the miniature painting once more. “This looks to me as if it could be one of his. I’ve only seen that one picture, and no one seems to know how many there are in the world, but if I were you, I’d take good care of it and get it valued by an expert. If it is a McIntyre, you’d be looking at tens of thousands of pounds.”

“What?” Dylan couldn’t believe it. The painting was three by three. Inches. Any half-decent artist could have knocked that out in five minutes.

“Maybe more,” Marshall said.

Maddie was having none of it. All she wanted was this ordeal over. She tossed the painting in one of the bags of clothes. “I’ll get it looked at, but at the moment, I’m more concerned about getting rid of this furniture. The property’s rented, Mr. Marshall, so if you can help, I’ll be very grateful.”

“Of course.” He took a small diary from his pocket and flicked through the pages. “I can send a van round to collect it on Friday morning, if that’s any use to you.”

Maggie’s shoulders sagged in relief. “That would be perfect. Thank you so much.”

Marshall made a few more notes in his book and it was another fifteen minutes before he was at the front door preparing to leave. “Make sure you take good care of the miniature. If I were you, I’d take it to Christie’s or Sotheby’s to have it valued.”

“I will. And thank you again.” Maddie closed the door after him.

They stepped over full bags to get to the kitchen.

“Thank goodness for that,” Maddie said. “If I get the place cleared up, I can go home as soon as he’s collected the furniture on Friday. Mr. Grumpy Landlord can have his keys and that will be that. Let’s have a coffee to celebrate. I think I can manage to find a couple of mugs. Although God knows what Prue’s cheap instant tastes like.”

Dylan followed her to the kitchen. “What about the painting?”

“What about it?” She shook her head, smiling. “In case you haven’t noticed, my sister couldn’t even afford real baked beans. She bought the tasteless own brand junk. You think she’s likely to have a valuable work of art in her house?”

“I think someone came here looking for something.”

Her hand stilled above the kettle and she swung round to face him. “What—you think—?”

“I think a painting worth tens of thousands of pounds would be worth stealing. Some people might find it worth killing for.”

“It’s a nice story, but it can’t have been painted by McIntyre. How the hell would Prue get such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan said. “Maybe she saw it at a car boot sale and, unbeknown to her, picked up a real bargain.”

“In that case, how would anyone know she had it?”

Dylan had been pondering that same question. If the intruder had known she owned it, it would have been taken. Unless he was disturbed before he saw it. “You need to get it valued.”

“You don’t really believe it’s worth anything, do you?”

Dylan looked around him. Everything was secondhand and cheap. There could be few places less likely to house a valuable painting. Assuming Marshall was right and it had been painted by McIntyre, and assuming someone knew she had it—no, it didn’t make sense. Anyone looking for a valuable miniature would look at the walls first. It was bloody odd though.

“I believe she was killed for a reason. And tens of thousands of pounds is one hell of a good reason.”

Chapter Seven

Danny’s Wine Bar was everything Dylan hated. Dazzling white, apart from ridiculously uncomfortable barstools and chairs topped in red leather, it was more suited to dental surgery than comfortable drinking place. Contestants in a talent show were strutting their stuff on a huge screen but, thankfully, the audio was switched off. It was no wonder the place was short on customers.

Two young girls dressed in short skirts and skimpy tops were perched on those stools. Thompson was behind the bar, flirting with them.

“Hey,” he greeted Dylan. “Good to see you. What are you having?”

Dylan ran his gaze slowly over the drinks on offer. No decent beers were on show. No beer at all as far as he could see, except for the non-alcoholic variety, and his brain couldn’t compute that one. He couldn’t understand a world that believed there was a need for alcohol-free beer, caffeine-free coffee and bloody meat-free veggie burgers.

“I’ll have a Scotch, please.” As he opened his wallet, he noticed that Thompson didn’t rely on measures. He simply poured an extremely generous quantity into a chunky glass. It reminded Dylan of a bar he’d been to in Barcelona where the barman had done the same thing. To this day he couldn’t say how he’d got from that bar to his hotel room. Or why he’d woken the next morning, fully clothed, lying on the bathroom floor. “Thanks, Danny.”

The two girls were drinking a blue concoction from bottles. It looked like antifreeze, which, given that a howling gale was blowing outside, probably wouldn’t be a bad thing, but Dylan assumed it was one of the popular vodka-and-fruit drinks. Neither girl looked old enough to drink. He doubted their parents knew they were wearing next to nothing and chatting up a barman while they drank vodka.

Thompson wasn’t complaining. For a bloke who claimed to be gay, he was enjoying their attention far too much. Or perhaps their custom was the attraction.

A blast on a car’s horn had both girls jumping off those stools to land on six-inch heels. Amid giggles, they assured Thompson they’d see him tomorrow, and dashed outside to the waiting taxi.

“You’re still in the Clough then?” Thompson turned his attention to Dylan. “It must be our great weather.”

“Awful, isn’t it? I’ve got friends in the area so I’m up here for a few more days. I thought I’d come and see the famous Danny’s Wine Bar. It looks good.”

“Thanks.”

“Everything looks new. Great decor. It must have cost a few bob.”

“It is new, but I had no choice. There was a fire not so long back. Some idiots thought it would be a good idea to soak some rags in petrol and put them through the letterbox.” He nodded at the door. “God knows what fun they find in that.”

Dylan tutted at people’s stupidity. “Did they do much damage?”

“Enough,” Thompson said. “It was tricky for a while because the insurance company wasn’t keen on paying up. They never are, are they? They’re quick enough to sell you insurance but not so speedy when you need to claim.”

“That’s true.” Dylan’s back was already aching from being perched on the tall stool. He stood up to admire the photos on the walls. They showed different aspects of the wine bar, and weren’t bad at all. “They paid up in the end though, I take it?”

“Yeah, thankfully. Actually, it worked out well for me.” He winked at Dylan. “I needed to upgrade the wiring and sort out the toilets so I got it all done on the insurance.”

“Perfect timing, eh?”

“Well, yes, but it was touch and go. I had a hell of a time getting the money out of the insurance bods. They thought I was conning them. What a crazy idea. Who the hell would set fire to their own premises?”

Someone who couldn’t afford the improvements he’d been ordered to make?

“It certainly looks good now,” Dylan said. “I like these photos.”

“Good, aren’t they? All done by a local photographer. She’s a student, doing media studies or some such thing in Manchester. If ever you need a photographer, let me know and I’ll give you her number.”

“I will. Thanks.”

They chatted about the weather, about recent changes that town planners had made to obstruct the flow of traffic round the town hall, and about how Burnley Football Club’s fortunes had been up and down for years. Thompson was a very talkative host.

The door flew open, letting in a blast of icy air and a woman in her fifties whose long black hair, black coat and pinched face gave her a witchlike appearance.

“It’s brass monkey weather out there,” she said. “Can’t stop, Danny, but I’ve brought you the money. Fifteen quid, wasn’t it?”

“I’ll check.” He searched under the bar and finally held up a brown envelope that had
Eileen £15
scrawled on it in red pen. “Exactly right, love. Here you go.”

He handed her the envelope and she ripped it open. Inside, wrapped in pink tissue paper, were two bracelets. Dylan was no jewellery expert but if those hadn’t been made by Prue Murphy he’d eat his weight in cheap beads.

“Did Prue make those?” he asked.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Eileen said. “There won’t be any more now, though, will there? Such a bloody shame. I don’t suppose they’ve caught the bugger who did for her?” She looked to the two men for an answer.

“Not yet,” Thompson said.

“Did you know her well?” Dylan asked.

“I didn’t know her at all,” Eileen said.

“She thought I might be able to sell a few of her things in here,” Thompson explained. “I bought half a dozen bracelets and a couple of necklaces from her and put them on show behind the bar. This is the last of them. Eileen saw them and fell in love, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

“I did. They’re gorgeous.” She put the jewellery back in the envelope and stuffed that in her handbag. “Sorry, I can’t stop. I’ll have to get home and start cooking his dinner or he’ll skin me alive. Be seeing you!”

Another gust of cold air nipped inside as she vanished into the night.

“Have you sold many of Prue’s things?” Dylan asked.

“That’s the lot. Six bracelets and a couple of necklaces. And that’s taken a couple of months. Mind,” he said, “in view of what’s happened, I’m glad I bought them from Prue. She was happy to leave them here and see if I got any takers, but I didn’t like that idea. It’s the same with Gemma’s photos.” He waved a hand at the pictures on the walls. “I bought a couple of those to sell. They went quite quickly so I’ll see her about getting some more.”

It seemed odd that Prue, who allegedly only visited the wine bar half a dozen times when she didn’t want to get drunk alone, should have business on her mind when she came.

His insurance company hadn’t believed Thompson’s claim for the fire damage was genuine, and Dylan didn’t believe he’d bought those pieces of jewellery from Prue. It hardly mattered now though. Prue wasn’t around to worry about a few pounds in lost sales.

“Are you having another?” Thompson pointed to Dylan’s empty glass.

“Why not? Will you join me?”

Thompson hesitated for a millisecond. “I don’t mind if I do. Thanks, Dylan.”

While Thompson poured extremely generous measures into two glasses, Dylan gazed out at the street. It was raining heavily now and, apart from the fish and chip shop opposite, which was doing a fairly good trade, all was quiet.

“Is Prue’s sister still up here?” Thompson asked. “Or is she back in London?”

“She’s in London.”

Thompson didn’t seem surprised. “There’s nothing for her here now, is there? It’s not as if they got on very well.”

“They didn’t see much of each other, probably because Prue spent so many years living abroad, but they got on all right, didn’t they?” Dylan thought of the cashmere sweater, the gift from Maddie that Prue had never worn.

“Prue said they were chalk and cheese,” Thompson said. “The sister’s a model, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“She’s got the looks for it. Prue was pretty in a different sort of way but I think she was always a bit overshadowed by her sister. Older, isn’t she?”

“Yes, by five years. What makes you think Prue felt overshadowed?”

“She was convinced she wasn’t as pretty or as clever as her big sister. She mentioned something about the sister having married twice. She reckoned both husbands were too good for her.”

“Really? What else did she say?”

“There was a boyfriend once.” Thompson took a swig of whisky and looked set to gossip the evening away. That suited Dylan. “You have to remember that Prue was legless when she told me all this, but she said there was a bloke when she was a teenager that she really liked. I don’t know whether he took one look at her sister and changed sides or whether, as Prue thought, the sister deliberately set out to steal him. I got the impression that, as soon as she’d taken him from Prue, she dumped him.”

“Really? Anything is possible, I suppose. Few men could resist Maddie.” Dylan knew that only too well.

“She’s a looker, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. What else did Prue talk about?”

“She used to make me smile when she talked about her landlord. She was always nicely spoken until she mentioned him. That bastard of a landlord, she used to call him. Mind you, I can’t say I blame her. He sounds like a right money-grabbing sod. According to the contract she signed, she was supposed to have a cooker and a washing machine. Well, she had them all right, but they didn’t work. She kept phoning him and he promised to get them fixed. He never did. When she took out the lease, he said he was going to get new carpets put down, but he didn’t do that either. She bought cheap secondhand furniture and reckoned she spent more time moving it around to hide the stains on the carpet than she did using it.”

“He sounds a joy.” Dylan was meeting him tomorrow so he’d be able to make up his own mind.

“That’s putting it mildly. He used to call in without warning, too, and she didn’t like that. She’d just got out of the bath one day when he arrived.”

“Oh?”

“And there was a time she walked in to find him in her kitchen. She’d told him she was going away for the weekend. Well, whatever she was doing was cancelled so she came home early. She had the shock of her life when she found him in the house. She was furious.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He’s got a real flash place up in the Lake District, so I heard,” Thompson said. “He comes down here quite often, though, because he’s got dozens of houses that he lets. It’s all right for some. Easy money that.”

“It certainly is.” Dylan was pleased to see his host switch off the big screen. Neither of them had been watching it. It had been an annoying distraction. “So when did you last see Prue?”

“She was in here a couple of weeks before it happened,” Thompson said, “and I saw her a couple of days beforehand just to say a quick hello. I was nipping in to the bookies and she was heading for that new supermarket on Drake Street.”

At best, gambling was a mug’s game. For someone like Thompson, whose business wasn’t doing too well, it was a ridiculous idea. Maybe he had debts that he had no hope of paying and was hoping a couple of fast horses or dogs would help him out.

“How did she seem?”

“Fine.” Thompson shrugged. “The same as always. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’m just curious. I hadn’t kept in touch with her. I regret that, and I’m finding it hard to accept she’s gone. I wondered if she was happy and if she had plans.”

“She was fine.”

“I wonder why that burglar chose to break in,” Dylan said. “The police reckon he always targets empty properties. He must have thought Prue would be away somewhere. She didn’t say anything to you, did she?”

“Nothing. Like I said, she was her usual self. She didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary.”

A taxi pulled up outside and disgorged four young men, all in their late twenties. They swept inside the wine bar and sounded as if they’d already had more to drink than was good for them.

Their arrival convinced Dylan it was time to call it a night.