Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Dylan was meeting Jack McIntyre this evening—assuming the chap hadn’t gone into hiding again—but first, he wanted a chat with Prue’s parents. He’d spoken to them at Prue’s funeral, and it had been clear they’d been at a loss to understand their daughter’s death, but he wanted another meeting. He didn’t want to intrude on their grief, but he did want to know all he could about their daughters.

He’d phoned last night, and Andrew Murphy had said they’d look forward to seeing him this morning.

Their home was beautiful. It was the family home— “too big for us now, really”—and had a cosy, welcoming feel to it. It was also worth a fortune. Presumably Maddie alone stood to inherit when the time came.

“It’s good to see you again, Dylan,” Ruth said. “Come into the kitchen, where it’s warm. You don’t mind dogs, do you?”

“I love dogs.” He was greeted by an ageing dog of indeterminate breed who, before the grey had taken over, had been black.

“This is Sam,” Andrew said. “He’s fifteen now so he doesn’t like to move too far from his bed.”

“A bit like me,” Ruth said with a smile.

Having welcomed Dylan, Sam retired to his basket in front of the warm Aga.

Without asking, Ruth made tea—using a teapot rather than teabags—and poured for the four of them. Yes, four. The dog had its own pottery mug bearing its name.

“We know this isn’t a social visit,” Andrew said. “What is it you have to tell us, Dylan?”

“I wish I had something to tell you, but unfortunately, I’m not much further forward.”

“But you don’t agree with the police theory that Prue disturbed a burglar?”

“No, I don’t. The painting, you see—” A brief frown crossed Ruth’s face. “Maddie did tell you about the painting by Jack McIntyre, didn’t she?”

“In passing,” Ruth said.

In passing?

Needless to say, he didn’t have to explain who Jack McIntyre was. Dylan really was the only bloke on the planet who’d never heard of the artist. “It seems that Prue knew McIntyre.”

“Really? Well, it’s possible, I suppose,” Ruth said. “After all, she lived in France for a few years. He lived there too, didn’t he? I think he died there. Wasn’t there some sort of accident?”

“Yes. He and his agent were drowned,” Dylan said.

“That’s it,” Ruth said. “And you think Prue knew him?”

“Yes. She didn’t mention anything?”

“Nothing,” Andrew said. “We’d remember something like that.”

“Ah, well, it was just a long shot,” Dylan said. “I thought I’d ask if she’d mentioned him or the painting at all.”

Despite the welcoming home and the old family dog, the atmosphere in the room felt anything but relaxed. Ruth looked lost and desperately sad, but Andrew was so tense that Dylan expected him to snap in two at any moment. Maybe the strain of coping with his own grief as well as being strong for Ruth was proving too much for him.

The information Dylan really wanted was the sort that came out during a relaxed conversation. It didn’t come from interrogation.

“Have you had Sam since he was a puppy?” He gave the dog a stroke and it promptly curled up and went to sleep with its head on his foot.

“Yes.” Ruth smiled fondly at the dog. “When Maddie and then, later, Prue moved out, the house felt far too big. We’d always wanted a dog but Maddie was never keen. Prue longed for a dog and Maddie hated the very thought of it. Arguments raged so we did nothing. But when they both moved out, we moved Sam in. He’s been such a good friend to us, hasn’t he, Andy?”

“The best. He’s a real character.”

“He’s obviously landed on his feet here. I don’t know too many dogs who have tea with the family,” Dylan said.

“He’s spoiled,” Andrew said, “but it does him no harm at his age. Prue was the worst. She’d bring him all sorts of things. It was nothing for her to turn up with a cake for him, and she always had a bag of treats in her pocket when she visited us.”

“Really? Did she visit often?”

“Oh, yes,” Ruth said.

“It’s funny because Maddie said she didn’t see much of her sister,” Dylan said.

There was only a brief hesitation before Andrew spoke. “They weren’t close because the age gap was too much. Maddie was five years older so it was difficult. When Prue was born, Maddie was starting school. When Prue was starting school, Maddie was off to the grammar school. When Prue was going there, Maddie was getting interested in boys. It’s a big gap.”

Dylan supposed it was. That gap was nothing compared to the one between Luke and Freya, but Luke already adored his sister. He happily played baby games with her and loved to make her laugh.

“Later, when they were grown-ups,” Ruth said, “Maddie was always busy. A model’s life is very demanding. And Maddie’s had problems of her own. Well, you’ll know that she suffers from depression. It’s hard for everyone.”

“Depression is a terrible thing,” Dylan said.

“It is,” Ruth said. “Everyone feels so helpless. It’s terrible to watch your own daughter sink so low. She’s seen good doctors, of course, and I suppose they do their best.”

“I suppose that’s another reason the sisters weren’t close,” Dylan said. “It must have been hard for Maddie to see Prue always looking so happy-go-lucky and carefree.”

Ruth left the kitchen for a few moments and came back with a pack of photographs. “Have a look at these, Dylan. These were taken in much happier times.”

Usually, Dylan would rather have his testicles removed without anaesthetic than look at pictures of other people’s children, but these were fascinating. In every photo, Prue was smiling for the camera yet Maddie, who made her living in front of a camera, wasn’t. Her expression was forced and any attempt at a smile failed miserably. In one picture, Prue was cuddling a cat and Maddie was looking at her sister as if she wanted to kill her.

As if she wanted to kill her—

“That was Smoke,” Ruth said with a sigh. “Maddie had nagged and nagged for a cat so, one day, we bought her a kitten. Within a few hours, the kitten had fallen in love with Prue. No matter what Prue did, it wouldn’t leave her side. It slept on her bed—really, it wouldn’t leave her. Poor Maddie was so upset. We wanted to get her another kitten, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She lost all interest in pets.”

“The kitten died a few months later,” Andrew said, “and that caused problems between them. Prue blamed Maddie because it happened when Prue was at school and—oh, let’s just say that life was easier when we were pet-free.”

“Mind you,” Ruth said, a wistful expression on her face, “I’d give anything to hear the two of them fighting again. I miss Prue so much. Every time the phone rings, I expect it to be her. It’s hard, Dylan.”

Andrew gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze and Dylan wished he had words of comfort to offer.

“Maddie will still fight people every inch of the way,” Ruth said, “but I’m determined to get through to her. I think she’s lonely.”

“She has Tim,” Andrew said, still holding her hand. “He’s a good man. Prue liked him, didn’t she?”

Ruth smiled. “She believed he deserved a medal for putting up with Maddie.” She was only half-joking.

“Did you visit Prue when she lived in France?” Dylan asked.

“Quite often,” Ruth said. “We worried she wasn’t earning enough to feed herself properly so we liked to check up on her.”

“She was fine,” Andrew said. “She had a lot of friends. We had no need to worry about her.”

“And she didn’t mention any artistic friend or—?”

“No.” Ruth was certain of that. “We met several of her friends, but they were neighbours or colleagues. None were artists.”

The doorbell rang and Andrew jumped to his feet and strode out of the room.

“It was the postman.” He returned with two brown envelopes and a package that was too big for the letterbox. “More junk for the recycling bin and Sam’s arthritis tablets. The vet sends his tablets out, Dylan. Can you believe that? This dog has better medical care than any of us.”

Dylan smiled, as was expected, but Andrew’s hearty, forced tone was as unnerving as his earlier edginess.

“More tea?” Andrew asked.

“No, thanks. It’s time I was off.”

Knowing he wasn’t going to learn anything here, Dylan left them to their grief. It was time to head north and meet up with the celebrated artist.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dylan almost didn’t recognise Jack McIntyre. The world-famous artist was wearing a long waterproof coat with the high collar around his neck, and a wide-brimmed hat in the same green waxed material. As it had rained for days, his outfit didn’t look out of place.

He was pleasantly surprised to see him waiting outside the church where they’d arranged to meet. It had been McIntyre’s suggestion to meet in Dawson’s Clough, one that had struck Dylan as odd, but he was pleased the artist hadn’t done a runner.

“They’ve promised more April showers,” McIntyre said, “so I suggest we find somewhere warm.”

Dylan didn’t need reminding that March had meandered into April. It would be four weeks tomorrow since Prue had been laid to rest in that cold, wet cemetery.

“I can recommend the Dog and Fox,” he said.

“Sounds good to me.”

They walked quickly until the smell of fish and chips slowed McIntyre. “I’m starving,” he said. “Do you want any?”

“No, I’ve eaten.”

Dylan waited in the cold while McIntyre went inside and bought a huge piece of cod and enough chips to feed the entire town. He soaked the lot in salt and vinegar, then emerged from the shop eating them from the paper.

“You can’t beat fish and chips, can you?” McIntyre sounded wistful.

“No.” The smell was making Dylan’s mouth water and he wished now that he’d bought himself a small portion.

“So what’s new?” McIntyre asked as they walked on to the Dog and Fox. “Have you discovered anything of interest?”

Dylan hated to admit it but— “No, not really. You?”

“I don’t know.” McIntyre concentrated on his fish and chips and was rolling the empty wrapping into a ball as they arrived at the front door to the Dog and Fox. He looked around for a litter bin, spotted one and tossed the paper in from three yards away. It landed inside and he smiled his satisfaction. “Right, let’s get that drink.”

Once they were inside and making the most of the pub’s warmth, McIntyre removed his hat. His beard was as long and straggly as ever so it was unlikely anyone would recognise him.

They’d just sat with their drinks when a group of four people who’d been gathered round the log fire picked up their coats and left. Dylan and McIntyre leapt into those seats before anyone else could take them.

Before either of them could speak, Dylan’s phone trilled out. Frank was calling and Dylan hoped it was good news.

“Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you, Dylan, but it’s finally sorted. You can see CCTV at the art gallery tomorrow morning. Any good to you?”

“Perfect. Thanks, Frank. You coming along?”

“Count me in.”

“I’ll pick you up around eight-thirty then.”

Dylan ended the call and hoped that, finally, he’d get a lead. It was a long shot, but he might get some clue as to what Prue had done on the final day of her life.

“So,” Dylan said, turning his attention to McIntyre, “you sound as if you’ve heard something?”

McIntyre rubbed his beard. “I know a couple of dodgy dealers. They don’t trust me and I don’t trust them. They don’t know who I am, of course. They believe I’m just some drunk who thinks he knows all there is to know about art. I was talking to them and asking them if they knew anything about what McIntyre was working on when he died. One reminded me that McIntyre had stopped painting. The other, older, wiser and far more shady, said someone else had been asking that same question, shortly after I—McIntyre lost his life. The chap in question was apparently quite sure he’d heard I was working on something new.”

“Who was that? Could they give you a description? Anything?”

“No. They thought he was a dealer though and they described him as upmarket.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so. It does make you wonder if someone knew I was painting again though.”

“Think hard. Who did know?” Dylan asked.

McIntyre shrugged. “Only Coletta and Elliott Tolman, and I’d trust them with my life. And Prue, of course.”

McIntyre might trust the Tolmans but they worked for him. It was natural that they would be subservient, and would pander to his needs and his ego. It would be easy enough for them to work out a plot to kill him. Coletta was in the house all the time and would know his movements. Tolman lived by the sea so was sure to know how to handle McIntyre’s boat. They could easily have plotted McIntyre’s demise.

“Did the Tolmans know you hid your paintings in the boathouse?” Dylan asked.

“They didn’t know they were in the boathouse, but I told Coletta I was putting them out of sight and that she wasn’t to mention them to Jeremy. Why do you ask?” Realisation dawned and, smiling, McIntyre shook his head. “As I said, I’d trust them with my life. Literally.”

“They could have told someone,” Dylan said. “Perhaps they enjoyed working for the local celebrity and being in his confidence. They might have boasted about just how far in your confidence they were. A word or two about your paintings would have impressed a lot of people.”

“No.” McIntyre refused to believe such a thing.

“That leaves Prue then.” Dylan took a long swallow of beer. “If the Tolmans didn’t tell people you were painting again, Prue must have.”

“No.” McIntyre certainly wouldn’t believe that.

“Why not? She was young, she no doubt worshipped you and admired your work, and she must have thought her luck was in the day she hooked you.”

“I was the lucky one, Dylan.” McIntyre’s voice had chilled several degrees.

“Her sister visited her in France a couple of months before you hit the water.”

McIntyre frowned at him. “So?”

“So the sisters didn’t get along,” Dylan said. “So I’d stake my life on words being said. Maddie believed Prue was throwing her life away waiting on tables in France and would have wasted no time in telling her so. I’ll bet she was embarrassed by Prue’s situation. Perhaps Prue hurled a few words back. Maybe she told her sister that she was with a man who was richer than Maddie’s wildest dreams.”

“That’s not like Prue.”

“Maddie is a force to be reckoned with. Who knows how far she’d push someone?”

Dylan had expected a smile, or an agreement, but McIntyre merely fingered his shaggy beard.

“I remember the weekend they visited,” he said. “It was out of the blue. Long overdue, but out of the blue. I suggested they stay at the cottage and we let them know we were a couple, but Prue wouldn’t hear of it. She returned to her flat and pretended she was still living there.”

“She didn’t give up her flat when she moved in with you?”

“No. She was so anti our relationship that she was only ever staying for the weekend, then a week, then a fortnight. The only possessions she brought to the cottage were things she could pack in a rucksack and take with her. She went back to her flat and spent the weekend there with them.”

“What did she say about the visit?” Dylan asked.

“Nothing really. She said it went okay and that was all. Thinking back though, she was quieter than usual afterwards. I asked if she was okay, if anything had happened, but she said she wanted to forget all about her sister. We never spoke of it again.”

Dylan wondered if Prue had mentioned McIntyre to her sister, but it seemed unlikely. Maddie had heard of him—who hadn’t?—but she’d struggled to believe that Prue had known him. Maddie had taken that miniature and thrown it in a bag with a load of rubbish. If she’d known Prue had been involved with McIntyre, she would have assumed it was indeed one of his paintings. She would have taken much better care of it.

Maybe the man sitting opposite him right now had been so determined to retain his anonymous lifestyle that he hadn’t wanted anyone telling the world he was painting again. Perhaps, believing Prue would tell all and sundry, he’d decided to silence her.

Dylan hunted through his jacket pockets until he found the photograph he was looking for. He showed it to McIntyre. “Do you recognise this person?”

“Yes.” McIntyre looked from the photo to Dylan and back again. “I don’t remember his name—Mills, I think—but I know his body was found in a lake in Dawson’s Clough. I’ve seen that photo in all the newspapers. What does he have to do with anything?”

“I believe he saw Prue’s killer.”

“What?” McIntyre visibly reeled at the knowledge. “You think that’s why he was killed? You think Prue’s killer—”

“I do.” And it was quite possible that Dylan was enjoying a drink in his favourite pub with that killer. “Have you seen any unusual cars around? Sporty, expensive, out of the ordinary in some way?”

“Only yours. Why?”

“It’s possible that the killer was driving a car that caught Kevin Mills’s attention. He was sixteen so I’m trying to think of the type of car that might interest him. I’m not sure my Morgan would. He’d think that too old, I imagine.”

McIntyre considered that, a finger stroking his beard. “You’re thinking along the lines of a top-of-the-range Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche perhaps? Then again, it could have been an old wreck that lacked a silencer and had go-faster stripes plastered all over it.”

“I think it was unusual in some way, but yes, you could be right. A lot of kids have poor taste in cars.”

“I’ll get us another drink,” McIntyre said and Dylan nodded his thanks.

It was motive that was bugging Dylan. Assuming McIntyre’s story was true
(assume nothing),
it was safe to guess that his killer was driven by greed. He’d wanted to get his hands on McIntyre’s paintings, or he had paintings to sell—either way, the motive was tied up with McIntyre’s work.

The killer had needed to silence Kevin Mills. Again, the motive was fairly simple to see. Kevin had seen Prue’s killer and that killer had to make sure he didn’t tell the world.

But Prue? Only McIntyre, as far as he could tell, had a motive to kill her. If he’d believed she was on the brink of exposing him and his work, perhaps he’d decided to silence her for good. Maybe, despite his claims to the contrary, there had been plenty of contact between the two over the months.

Maddie kept popping into his head only to be dismissed. At the age of ten, eleven or twelve, she’d been photographed while looking as if she wanted to kill her sister. So what? Plenty of siblings struggled to get along. It meant nothing.

“Here we are.” McIntyre put their drinks on the table and sat down.

“Thanks.” Dylan took a swig of beer. They kept the best pint in the country in this pub, which made visits to the godforsaken north much easier. “What would have happened if Prue had left France, returned to England and told the world you were painting again?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“How do you know?”

McIntyre smiled at that. “I knew her. I trusted her.”

“But if she had, what would have happened?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Dylan. I suppose the media would have hounded me, wanting to see my new work. I would have shown them the Chaste Collection—the paintings of Prue.”

“How would you have felt?”

McIntyre shrugged. “Betrayed, I suppose. But the Chaste Collection is my best work. Truly, I’ve never created anything like it. Probably never will again. I couldn’t have kept quiet about it. As soon as they were finished to my satisfaction, I would have exhibited those paintings.”

“Where are they now?”

“In a bank. They’re quite safe.”

Dylan was getting nowhere. His phone rang. He took it from his pocket, saw that Maddie was calling, and hit Answer.

“Hi, Maddie. What can I do for you?” He always felt the need to speak in a businesslike fashion to her. It helped keep images of blue bedrooms and smiley faces from his mind.

“Where are you?” she asked and he could hear a pout in her voice.

“In Dawson’s Clough. I’ll be here for the next couple of days. Why?”

There was a pause. “I need to come up there. I’ve booked myself in at the spa and—I’ll drive up tomorrow. Shall we have lunch?”

He needed to talk to her. He had to know exactly what had happened during that weekend they spent with Prue in France.

“I can’t do lunch,” he said. “But how about dinner?”

“Even better. And then, after dinner, I’m sure we’ll find some way to pass the time.” Her voice was a purr.

“I’m sure we will, Maddie.” Dylan ended the call and looked at McIntyre. “I appear to have a date with Maddie tomorrow.”

McIntyre nodded, but didn’t comment. Dylan wondered if McIntyre and Maddie knew each other. They both claimed ignorance of the other but it was an interesting theory.