Black Valley (20 page)

‘Right next to our room. Was he looking for us, do you think?’

‘Possibly.’

‘But why?’

Dresler shrugged. Once again, Jess had the distinct impression that he knew more than he was telling her.

‘Could his business have been in trouble, do you think?’

‘It’s possible. It’s a volatile market at the best of times. He could have made mistakes, lost clients.’ He paused. ‘And with this recession, the market’s
down at the moment.’

The waitress brought over a tray with two coffee cups, a cafetière, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. They waited a moment, then Jess pressed the filter down and poured out the
coffee.

‘But he’d just sold the Morris painting to the museum, hadn’t he?’ She handed one of the cups to Dresler. ‘That must have been quite lucrative.’

‘Not necessarily. It depends what the deal was.’ Dresler helped himself to milk. ‘There’s a lot of front in this business. It’s possible he may have been having
problems with the bank.’

‘But in the long term, things were looking good for him, weren’t they?’

‘Very good. With Morris just about to break into the big time. And anyway, Blake was a pretty tough operator. I don’t think a few problems with cash flow would have bothered him too
much.’ Dresler put his hand up to his forehead, rubbing it as if his head hurt. Watching him, Jess realized that Blake’s death was not just a shock to him, as a suicide always is to
those acquainted with the victim, but also a personal blow. Whatever the truth about their relationship, they’d clearly been close associates in the art world. Blake had championed Morris,
and Dresler, too, had staked his reputation on having discovered this brilliant young outsider. The pair of them, Blake and Dresler, had been inextricably linked, through Morris. Now Dresler had
lost an ally, and as a result, his credibility – along with Morris’s – would be more difficult to establish.

They sipped their coffees in silence. Jess found it difficult to sit still. She was feeling anxious about Elinor, and beginning to wonder what her role in all this was. She’d been with
Blake right before he’d killed himself, hadn’t she? Surely she’d be able to tell them more about what had gone on. She needed to talk to her.

She took out her mobile and called Elinor’s number. To her surprise, she picked up.

‘Jess? Is that you?’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Jess got up and walked away from the table. ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’

‘OK. Calm down.’

Jess lowered her voice.

‘You really could have got in touch. I’ve been worried sick about you.’

‘Sorry.’ Elinor was placatory. ‘I was going to call you. I just haven’t had a minute. It’s all been so stressful here . . .’

‘So you know about what happened last night, then? After you left?’

‘Yes.’ Elinor’s voice trembled. ‘The police came round last night. Isobel’s staying with me. Now that Bonetti woman is here, asking questions.’

Jess heard voices in the background.

‘Listen, I’ve got to go now.’ Elinor sounded anxious. ‘But I promise I’ll call you back. OK?’

‘OK.’

Jess clicked off the phone, somewhat mollified, and went back to the table.

‘So you got hold of her, then?’

Jess nodded and sat down.

‘She didn’t say much. Bonetti was with her.’

She took a gulp of coffee to steady her nerves.

Dresler picked up his cup. Jess noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.

‘What exactly do you think was going on between Elinor and Blake last night?’ he asked.

‘Well, when she called me for help, she said she was at the tower, and he was there, too.’ Jess paused. ‘She’d probably gone there to find me. She said he was angry with
her. That she was scared of him.’

‘Maybe they had a row or something. Maybe that was why he . . . you know . . .’

‘Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But Elinor told me in therapy that she suspected that Blake had murdered Ursula. I think he may have been angry with her about
that.’

Dresler replaced his cup, spilling a little of the coffee into the saucer.

‘You don’t seriously believe he’d do something like that, do you?’

‘I don’t know. But the policewoman on the case had taken him in for questioning. His alibi with Mia, his business partner—’

‘Yes, I know Mia.’

‘Well, that had collapsed. He was lying about that. And she was investigating further.’

‘So that was it. He was being hounded by the police.’

‘For a reason.’

Dresler shook his head. ‘Jess, I don’t think Blake would kill someone, I really don’t. I mean, he could be a complete shit. But he wasn’t capable of murder.’

‘Well, I didn’t know him, so I can’t say.’ Jess did her best to be fair. ‘But you’d be surprised what people do when they’re cornered. They panic. They
lose perspective.’

Dresler didn’t respond, but he looked shocked.

They sat in silence for a while, then finished their coffees, got up, and left. Outside, the frost had cleared and the sun was shining. They wandered around the town, but it was hard to relax.
Nevertheless, Jess found a second-hand bookshop and managed to come away with a few cheap finds: an old Kate Greenaway birthday book for Rose, a poetry anthology to help Nella with her songwriting,
and, for herself, a book of botanical illustrations. Dresler bought nothing; he seemed quite unable to concentrate, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as he gazed into the shop windows, seeing
nothing.

After a while, they went into a pub, bought some indifferent sandwiches, drank more coffee, and then headed back to the car park for the journey home. It was a shame that the weekend had been
ruined, thought Jess; in normal circumstances, she imagined, Dresler would have liked nothing better than to immerse himself in a bookshop, disappearing among the shelves and emerging with a pile
of obscure volumes to take home. Now he was walking along, hands in his pockets, head bowed in thought. Jess, while shaken, had begun to feel calmer; it was part of her training to carry on going
through the motions in the wake of disaster. Part of her personality, perhaps, too. She’d been profoundly shocked by the sight of Blake’s body, and the knowledge that he’d
apparently taken his own life, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. She was still worried, to some degree, about Elinor. But since there was nothing she could do about the situation, at least for the time
being, she was able to put the memory out of her mind, and concentrate on the present.

Jess had hoped that as they made their way through the Brecon Beacons, Dresler would be impressed by their majesty, excited by the adventure of passing through them, as she was, even today. Mist
hung from the mountain peaks, swirling around them, hovering over the ravines, where waterfalls gushed from the rocks. From time to time, where the road dipped, they could see the fog gather,
looking down on it from above, then driving down into it, as if on some great
Lord of the Rings
big dipper. Rather childishly, Jess always imagined herself to be a hobbit, travelling through
middle earth back to the shire, when she took this route. She’d planned to tell Dresler of her fantasy, hoping he’d find it amusing, but judging by the look on his face, he was in no
mood for playfulness, so she kept quiet and drove on. Besides, the frisson of fear that the mountains provoked in her was too powerful today; when she looked up, she felt genuinely afraid, and
wanted to get home to the safety of her burrow, the sooner the better.

When they reached Cardiff, Jess dropped Dresler off at the station. She parked the car and went into the concourse with him, checking the departure board. His train was on time.

‘I’ll ring you when I get in.’

‘OK.’

He drew her towards him and hugged her. For a moment, they clung to each other, both of them experiencing a kind of subdued panic about going their separate ways.

‘Or you call me.’

She could feel his heart beating. He was thoroughly shaken, she knew. She wondered if and when her own reaction would set in.

‘Thanks for coming down. I’ll come up to you next time.’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘Once things have settled down.’

He nodded, then let her go.

She walked across the concourse, turning to wave as she went, but he didn’t see her. She watched him put his ticket into the machine and pass through the barrier. Then he was lost from
view, his familiar silhouette obscured by the other passengers.

The following evening, Jess was watching TV with Rose. When she’d returned home, all had been well. Rose had enjoyed her stay with Bob and Tegan; Nella and Gareth had
spent their time cooking, but had tidied up the house for her. She hadn’t mentioned the suicide to the girls; it would have upset them, and there seemed to be no point in doing so.
She’d told Mari, but had kept her description brief, knowing what a gossip she was.

As promised, Elinor had phoned, sounding very distressed. On the night of Blake’s death, she’d called Isobel and asked her to come up, because she was worried about Blake. While she
was waiting for Isobel to arrive, she’d called Jess in a panic. Then Isobel had arrived. Blake had been in a terrible state, threatening to kill himself, but they hadn’t believed him
and had driven off without him. He’d phoned again while they were on their way home, but Isobel had had enough, and told him to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. The next day, Bonetti had
interviewed them, asking them a few more questions about Blake’s general state of mind. Isobel had told Bonetti that Blake had been a bit manic, but she’d never expected him to actually
kill himself.

Now though – and at this point Elinor began to sound distinctly panicky – something else had happened, something that explained it all, only she couldn’t tell Jess what. She
added that it would probably be on the news soon. Jess couldn’t make much sense of what she was saying, but she was concerned about Elinor’s wellbeing; judging by her tone of voice, she
seemed to be very unstable. Jess suggested a session the following week, but Elinor seemed too indecisive to commit to anything and soon rang off.

Jess headed for the living room where Rose was half watching TV and half browsing on the iPad, looking for a new spring coat. Jess was happy to help her, glad to be back in the domestic routine
after the horrors of the weekend. Rose was very specific about what she wanted: plain khaki, with fur around the hood, and not too many dangling bits of string around the hem.

‘Oh, look.’

For a moment, Jess thought she might have found one she liked. But Rose was staring at the TV, transfixed.

Jess glanced up and saw that Tegan was reading the news. She was seated in front of a photo of the Bay at night. Her hair was expertly coiffed, and she was dressed in a pale grey jacket and a
white camisole top. Around her neck was a small heart-shaped pendant.

‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’ Rose sighed in admiration.

If you like industrial-strength hair lacquer and soppy jewellery, thought Jess, but she didn’t say so.

Tegan’s voice was well modulated as she spoke, with just the hint of the Swansea accent that’s generally accepted as the Welsh equivalent of RP. ‘There has been a sensational
new development in the case of Ursula Powell, killed in October last year in the course of a robbery in which a valuable painting by one of Wales’ foremost artists, Gwen John, was stolen . .
.’

‘Tegan’s getting a puppy.’ Rose continued to gaze at the screen. ‘A chocolate-brown Labrador—’

‘Hush a moment,’ Jess interrupted her. ‘I want to listen to this.’

‘Mrs Powell’s daughter, Isobel Powell, reported yesterday that the painting has been found among the possessions of Blake Thomas, her late husband,’ Tegan continued.

A picture of Blake flashed up on the screen. It had evidently been taken recently, at the private view, since he was standing by one of the Morris paintings. He looked handsome and impeccably
dressed, but there was something unconvincing about his brilliant smile.

‘Mr Thomas, an art consultant, fell and died last Saturday night, while staying in the remote area of Cwm Du.’ Tegan paused, her eyes flickering on the autocue. ‘It is now
believed that Mr Thomas was responsible for the theft of the painting. It has been suggested that he was in financial trouble at the time. His wife, who runs the well-known Frederick Powell Gallery
in Cardiff, refused to make any further comment in response to suggestions that this new revelation might provide the motive for her husband’s apparent suicide.’

Jess’s mind was racing. So it was Blake who’d stolen the painting, killing Ursula in the process – presumably because she’d got in his way. Elinor’s suspicions had
been well founded, after all. That was why he’d seemed so nervous at the launch, afraid that what he’d done was about to be discovered. He’d been hiding the theft, and
Ursula’s murder, from his wife and his sister-in-law. Despite all the bravado at the launch, he’d also been in deep financial trouble. And eventually the lying, and the guilt about what
he’d done, had overcome him; he’d gone up to Cwm Du and ended it all. Jess imagined him standing on the parapet, looking down on the ruined arches below, dizzy with fear and remorse,
and jumping. It would be easy enough to do. The view there, as she knew, was mesmeric. You could lose yourself in it, become one with the sky, and the deep cut of the valley, fly down to meet it .
. .

‘She’s going to call it Monty.’ Jess realized Rose was talking to her. ‘And she says I can help her walk it.’ Rose paused. ‘Mum, are you listening to
me?’

The news item finished, and Tegan began to report on local protests against the badger cull.

‘Sorry, darling.’ Jess turned the TV down, curtailed her private thoughts, and attended to Rose. ‘Well, that sounds nice. A little Labrador puppy. Lovely.’ There was a
brightness to her tone that wasn’t altogether natural.

Rose sighed. ‘I wish we could get a dog.’

‘I don’t think so, love, not at the moment.’ Jess focussed her mind on what Rose was saying, relieved that the mystery had now, apparently, been resolved. ‘It isn’t
kind to leave a young dog alone for hours on end, stuck in the house. They’re like babies. They need company.’