The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) (24 page)

“Anybody can want a glass of wine,” Jamie reassured her. “I’d be worried if you wanted
a whole bottle.”

“Sometimes …”

He had never seen her the worse for alcohol. “I don’t believe you,” he said, handing
her a glass. “And here’s the remedy from New Zealand.”

The wine had a delicious fruitiness. She let it linger in her mouth. “Oh, well,” she
said. “My day.”

Suddenly, and with so little warning that she surprised even herself, she felt tears
well up in her eyes.

Jamie put down the glass he had poured for himself. “Isabel …”

She fought it for a moment or two, but then yielded. “It’s been …”

He took the wine glass from her hand. “It must have been.”

“… horrible.”

“Yes. I know.”

She spoke between sobs, the words jumbled. “Eddie too. Poor Eddie.”

A cloud passed over Jamie’s face. “Bad news?”

She shook her head. “No. Good news.”

He stroked her cheek gently. His hand was wet with her tears. “I’m glad. I thought
it could be different.”

“He asked me. He asked me to speak to … you know,
that girlfriend of his has parents who disapprove of him and he wants to live with
her …”

“You said something about that. But listen, don’t worry about all that.”

“And those people, those people who stole the painting …”

He said nothing.

“It was an attitude of disregard,” Isabel went on. “We were nothing to them.”

“There are plenty of people like that,” said Jamie. “Plenty of people disregard others.
Plenty of people hold others in contempt. Turn on the television and see it.”

She was beginning to compose herself. She reached for her wine glass; he dropped his
hands from her shoulders. “Here’s to those nice New Zealanders,” she said.

“At least there are plenty of those,” said Jamie.

Isabel was thinking. “I’ve been trying to remember the details of what happened. I’ve
been trying to piece it together.”

“Tell me then,” said Jamie. “Describe it exactly as it happened, moment by moment.
That might help you to remember.”

They sat down at the kitchen table. “We were walking in Rutland Square, Duncan and
I.”

“Yes. Then?”

“Then Duncan drew my attention to a van parked nearby. I saw a man in the driver’s
seat. He was watching us, and he put the window down and called us over.”

“What did he say?”

“Something like ‘Come here.’ No, it was ‘Over here.’ Just that.”

“And what did he look like? Picture him.”

“His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He had a thin face.
Earrings. Two rings in one ear. One of the earrings was red. I noticed that and thought
it might be a code of some sort.”

Jamie shrugged. “Piercings mean nothing. They mean you’ve been pierced—that’s all.”

Then Isabel remembered something. It came back to her with clarity. “He called Duncan
‘Pop.’ ”

Jamie looked puzzled. “Is that important?”

She did not answer immediately. She was thinking. Pop. Why would that be significant?
She felt that it was, but she could not work out why this should be so. It was the
sort of thing that somebody like that might call a middle-aged man if he wanted to
show contempt; a casual, sarcastic equivalent of “Granddad.” And then she remembered.
That was what Patrick had called his father; he had said, “Pop is very unworldly.”

She explained this to Jamie and asked him what he thought. He looked doubtful. “Anybody
might call somebody that,” he said. “I don’t think that proves anything.”

“But it could,” Isabel insisted.

“Yes. It could. But that’s not the same as saying that it does. Could and does are
different.”

She conceded that. But now that she thought about it, it was quite possible the painting
had been stolen by Patrick. He had the knowledge and obviously he would have the opportunity.
But what about motive?

“Imagine for a moment that Patrick did it,” she said. “What would his motive have
been?”

Jamie returned the question. “Why does anybody steal anything?”

“Money, usually. Either that, or they want the thing itself.”

He nodded. “Does he need money?”

“According to his sister, yes. She said something about expensive habits.”

Jamie made a gesture that said: Well, there you have it.

“So what do I do?”

Jamie made another gesture. This time it said: Don’t ask me. Then he expanded on the
theme. “I really can’t suggest anything, Isabel. And, frankly, I don’t see what you
can possibly do. If the insurance company wants the painting back, then they’re going
to have to pay. It may stick in their throats, but I can’t see what else they can
do.”

“Unless …,” interjected Isabel.

“Unless what?”

“Unless the person who stole it were to have it made known to him that we know who
he is. We might then give him a chance to return it, failing which …”

“Yes? Failing which?”

“Failing which, the police are informed.”

“On the basis of what evidence? Your hunch?”

He was right. They knew nothing more than they had known a few days ago.

“I think I should see him again,” said Isabel. She was speaking half to herself, half
to Jamie.

“Who?” he asked.

“Patrick.”

Jamie frowned. “And confront him with your suspicions?”

“I shall be more subtle than that,” said Isabel.

Jamie looked away. “I doubt if you’ll achieve anything,” he said.

She suspected that he was right, but she felt that she could still try.

“You know something?” she said. “I sometimes feel that lies are tangible. When they’re
being told, they seem to hang in the air, almost so that you can touch them. It’s
very strange.”

Jamie looked bemused. “I think it depends on the liar,” he said. “A good liar doesn’t
create that impression; a bad one does.”

She knew what he meant. Her metaphor was probably based on no more than a reading
of body language—those small clues that people give to what is in their mind. And
guilt was a powerful creator of such tell-tale signs: the flushed expression, the
avoidance of eye contact, the shifting of limbs; all these revealed inner discomfort
springing from simple guilt. A liar could show these signs just as surely as he could
show any of those physical signs that triggered a response on a polygraph: the heart
rate, respiration, the reactions of the skin. But what if the liar is psychopathic
and feels none of that? What if he feels not in the slightest bit guilty? What if
he is proud of his lie? Patrick might feel that if he had acted out of a sense of
entitlement, or because he believed that he was redistributing what he saw as his
father’s ill-gotten wealth. The children of the rich can feel strongly about that,
Isabel knew; there is no fervour like the fervour of those who have been raised in
the bosom of those they despise.

“I’d like to try,” she said. “I’ll see him and say things that might provoke a reaction—one
way or the other.”

Jamie was curious. “What things?”

She could not answer because she did not know what she was going to say. Sensing her
uncertainty, Jamie laughed. “You’re the most unlikely Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “But
very kissable.”

“Don’t condescend,” she said. “Don’t speak down to me.”

“But I don’t,” he protested. “Everything I say to you is
said from down here to up there. You’re up there. I promise. I promise.”

“Let’s have another glass of wine,” she said.

He reached for the bottle. “A bad day can always end well.”

“Yes.”

He passed her glass. She took it and smiled at him. She had everything. A few years
ago, a day that had brought two men to tears and then had ended with her crying too
would have been irredeemable. Now it could be salvaged. Completely.

They went through to the music room and he played the piano while she sat on the stool
beside him. She put her hand on his knee. He played at random, as he could do for
hours, moving from one melody to another. She thought she recognised something from
Verdi. “
La traviata
?” He nodded. And then a complete change; a shift of mood and style as he suddenly
started to sing “Shoals of Herring,” all about a young man on a fishing boat pursuing
the herring. Isabel closed her eyes. She imagined Jamie as that young man. Or Charlie,
when he was older. Her little boy—a fisherman, battling the North Sea. She thought:
I love all these men. I love the men who went to sea and led that hard life. I love
them. But how strange to think and say that.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
 

Y
OU WANT
my brother’s number?” said Alex Munrowe.

At the other end of the telephone, Isabel detected a note of satisfaction in Alex’s
voice.

“If you don’t mind. I didn’t want to disturb your father.”

“I don’t mind at all,” said Alex quickly. “May I ask … no, perhaps I shouldn’t.”

There was an expectant silence. Isabel felt she had to explain. “I feel I should discuss
the matter with him. That’s why.”

Now satisfaction was replaced with concern. “You won’t mention the conversation we
had the other day, will you?”

Isabel thought: Perhaps you shouldn’t accuse your brother of theft quite so readily
if you don’t want it to get back to him. But she did not say that; instead she reassured
Alex that she would not dream of mentioning it. “I regard what you said to me as confidential.
I promise you that.”

“Good. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so explicit; it’s just that the thought crossed
my mind that if there was anybody who could think of doing something like this, it’s
him.”

“You don’t have a very high opinion of your brother, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Alex laughed. “He has his good points. And he is my brother, after all. I’ve never
forgotten that. And I’m not sure that he would actually stoop to theft. Yet …”

It seemed to Isabel that Alex was blowing hot and cold. If she suspected him of the
theft, then she should state her grounds for doing so.

Isabel changed tack. “May I ask you something? If your father discovered that Patrick
was behind this, what would the effect be?”

“What do you think?” expostulated Alex. “He’d be devastated. He worships my brother.”

Isabel kept her voice level. “Really?”

“Yes. Pop thinks he’s marvellous—he always has.”

Isabel noticed the use of “Pop.” It was natural that siblings would each use the same
name for their father, but it meant that if anything were going to be read into its
use by the thieves, then this would throw suspicion on both Alex and Patrick—not just
on Patrick. But what puzzled Isabel now was the suggestion that relations between
Patrick and his father were good; that was the direct opposite of what Duncan had
said to her. This raised the possibility that Alex simply did not know what her father’s
real feelings were, which could be the case, she decided; children thought they knew
what their parents felt, but they could be wrong about that—sometimes dramatically
so.

She brought the conversation to an end even though she felt that Alex would have liked
to prolong it. There was something irritating about her manner, thought Isabel; it
was as if she enjoyed being mischievous. She may have disliked her brother but to
suggest, as she had, that he was behind the theft carried with it a feeling of sourness.
Disloyalty was like that, Isabel thought: It left a sour taste in the mouth.

By the time she rang off, Isabel had reached a decision. The allegations against Patrick
were meretricious and highly unlikely. She would see him, though, because she felt
that she had to do something to justify her involvement in this matter. She would
talk to him simply to confirm her view that Alex was an idle troublemaker pursuing
some sort of petty squabble with her brother—a squabble that probably had its roots
in the jealousies of childhood. Somebody had enjoyed more parental attention than
somebody else; somebody had been able to run faster or been better at playing the
piano; somebody had won more prizes at school … there were so many reasons why one
sibling might resent another and carry the resentment well into adult life.

She lost no time in dialling the number that Alex had given her. It was a mobile number,
and when it was answered Isabel could hear the sound of voices in the background.
Patrick was in the office, possibly in a meeting.

“Yes,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’m with people. Who is it?”

“Isabel Dalhousie. Sorry to bother you. Could I call back?”

There was a brief silence. The voices in the background seemed to fade. Had a door
been closed?

“No, it’s fine. You can speak now.”

“I wondered if we could meet soon. Not for a long meeting. Half an hour maybe.”

She heard him breathing. “Yes. If you need to. How soon do you want to meet? Today?”

She had not expected that, and had to think quickly of her schedule for the day. Without
Grace, Charlie became more of an issue. Jamie was in, though, and had not said anything
about going out.