Grief Encounters (35 page)

Talking about it gave her strength and direction, and I could almost see her formulate her plan of attack. She said: ‘I thought you were different. I thought I’d finally found a man I could trust. Not another who would manipulate and exploit me, like every other man I’ve met. I don’t even know your proper name.’

I didn’t say anything, just sat there, looking at her, witnessing my feelings for her turn from something out of control into icy indifference. We rode the silence, waiting for the other to speak as if it were a party game, until Teri said: ‘You were special. I was falling in love with you. I should have known you were too good to be true, like all the rest. It couldn’t happen to me. It couldn’t.’

Another silence, until I said: ‘I believe you were formerly known as Angela Ennis. Is that right?’

She twitched and looked at me, saying: ‘Angela died when she was twelve. He killed her.’

‘And your mother,’ I went on. ‘Was she called Magdalena?’

‘She’s dead too, or I hope she is. She wasn’t fit to be anybody’s mother.’

I said: ‘I’ve some bad news for you, Teri. Or at least, what most daughters would regard as bad news. Magdalena Ennis, your mother, was found dead on 7
^th
August. She was murdered, but we haven’t arrested anybody, yet.’

Her mouth fell open and she stared at me. The big eyes had lost their glow and I held them easily for a few seconds until she said: ‘What do you care? I’ll add hypocrite to the other qualities you possess.’

I can only take so much. I said: ‘It’s not all bad news, though. We’ve found your father. He’s just been released after twenty-five years in jail, and he’s looking forward to meeting you. He says you two have some catching up to do.’

So I invented that last bit, but I enjoyed saying it, and her face was a picture.

As I walked past the front desk I was told that Mr Wood wanted to see me. I dived into the CPS office and talked for an hour about what we could do Tristan & co for. They were at least looking at conspiracy and downloading the images – the very crime that they tried to pin on their victims. I liked the sound of that, and blackmail was still a possibility. ‘Mr Wood’s looking for you,’ they chorused as I went in through the big office.

I rang the photographer at the
Gazette
and told him to get himself and his sniper lens down to the court. Once the story broke, Tristan & co would only be seen outside the court with blankets over their heads, but they’d be unprepared for this first visit, and shaming them was all part of the service. I wanted their mugs over all the tabloids, whatever sentences they might be given. He said: ‘Cheers, Chas, I owe you one,’ and dashed off to polish his tripod. 

Brendan was answering the phone. He put it down and made agitated gestures. I poked my head out of the office and was told that the ACC was on his way upstairs. ‘And Mr Wood wants you,’ they added as I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

‘Tell him I’m out,’ I said.

‘Where do we say you are?’

‘Um, interviewing a suspect.’

‘Where?’

‘Oh, anywhere. Make something up. Use that vivid imagination of yours.’

I dived down the back stairs and was in my car heading out of town before the lift deposited the ACC on the top floor for his case review meeting.

I saw him in the street before I reached his house, strolling along with two Morrison’s carrier bags dangling from his hands. I parked nearby and sat on the doorstep, waiting for him. The sun was shining again and his little overgrown garden was alive with bees and hover flies. It was a shame to spoil his day, but it’s what I do.

He juggled with the bags as he let himself into the garden, carefully reset the gate latch and turned to face me. As he saw me sitting there a look of confusion, or perhaps fear, spread across his face.

‘Good morning, Mr Mackintosh,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘I wonder if I could have a word?’ 

He put on his old man act, fumbling for his keys, pretending he didn’t remember me, but I suggested that we could talk at the police station, if he’d prefer it, and eventually found myself in his familiar front room. He didn’t ask me if I’d like a drink.

‘Tell me about conceptual art,’ I said, sitting down without being invited to.

He thought about it, then switched into lecturer mode. ‘Conceptual art,’ he began, ‘is a style of art that challenges the viewer, or participant, to look beyond the physical appearance of the work to the idea that created it. The movement began in the 1920s in a very small way, but blossomed into an accepted art form in the Sixties. It faded but was revived in the Eighties thanks to schools like Leeds.’

I interrupted him. ‘I was thinking more about its investment possibilities,’ I said. ‘Was it a good investment?’

Sunlight coming through the bay window was lighting the side of his face and I could see the edge of the scarring on his neck. He jumped up and pulled a curtain across a few inches to make some shadow.

‘As an investment,’ I reminded him.

‘Well,’ he began, ‘these things are subject to the whims of fashion, as you know. Tastes change. What is popular today, regarded as the height of good taste, may be considered hackneyed and
over-exposed
after a while. In the art world we often destroy that which we hold most precious.’

I said: ‘I don’t think the conceptual art movement collapsed through over-exposure, do you?’

He gave a brief smile. ‘You know what they say, Inspector: your investments can go down as well as up.’

‘And past performance is no guarantee of future performance.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Did you explain that point to Magdalena Fischer?’

His demeanour changed. He shrank into himself and began tapping the arm of his chair with a
talon-like
hand. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

I spelt it out for him. ‘When you invested Magdalena’s money. Did you explain that it was a gamble, that the value could go down as well as up?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do. I think you invested Magdalena’s money in so-called works of art that were inflated in price far beyond their worth. We have ways of checking these things, you know. There are records. The banks, the Inland Revenue, auction houses. If you’ve anything to hide you’d better come out with it, because believe me, we’ll find out in the next day or two.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ he protested.

‘So tell me what it was like.’ 

He gathered his senses for another lecture. ‘They were exciting times,’ he began, ‘and we were at the forefront of things. The art world was beating a path to our door. If anything, we were victims of our own success, because everybody started jumping on the bandwagon. We had some great talent at the college, at the leading edge of the movement, but you’re only as good as the critics allow you to be, and it’s a London-centric world, the art world.’

‘And some of them thought it was a case of the emperor having no clothes on,’ I suggested.

‘If you say so.’

‘How much did you invest for her?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘She’d’ve had about
£
300,000.’

‘It was nowhere near that much.’

‘How many pieces did you buy for her?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Who set the prices?’

He was on firmer ground with that one. ‘They were bought at auction. It was all very proper. Thorneycrofts, I believe.’

‘Auctions are easily rigged,’ I said, and he sank in again, up to his knees. I opened my notebook at a blank page. ‘Let’s say you bought three works,’ I continued. ‘That’s 100K each.’

‘It was nothing like that,’ he interrupted.

‘Let me finish. You gave, say
£
5,000 to the artist. He hasn’t eaten for a week and is glad of anything you throw his way. You have somebody bidding against you to take the price up to
£
100,000, which gives the auction house commission of 10K, leaving
£
85,000 to you. Three times. A nice little earner, as they say. Next day it’s in the papers that Kevin Verruca’s collage of stale loaves and hubcaps has gone for a record amount and all the collectors and talentless wanabees clap their hands.’

‘It wasn’t that much,’ he said.

‘I think it was. I think you cleaned her out. What happened to them?’

‘The pieces? They went on show at the Lichfield gallery in London, then came back to Leeds for an exhibition at the Schofield gallery. After that they went into storage. The reviews weren’t good; tastes had changed.’

‘So where are they now?’

‘I don’t know. They were in a lock-up, but the damp got in. Then the lease ran out.’

‘So they were scrapped?’

‘Yes, very probably, but by then I’d lost touch with Magda.’

He shook his head as if to clear his brain, tapped his fingers, stroked the scar on his neck. ‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Did I ought to have a solicitor present?’

‘Probably. Do you want one?’ 

‘No.’

‘When did you last see Magdalena?’

That shook him, but he recovered quickly. ‘I told you before. It was probably about ten years ago.’

‘On the night she died, August 6
^th
–7
^th
, she was seen barely fifty yards away, heading this way. Are you saying she didn’t call to see you?’

‘Well, no, she didn’t call here.’

‘How many times did she telephone you in the last twelve months?’

‘None.’

‘And how many did you ring her?’

‘None.’

‘So you deny telephoning her at Beverley and leaving a message on her answerphone, telling her you wanted to see her because you had something for her? I have the tape, if you’d like to hear it. We’re currently checking with the phone company to verify the times of your calls.’

‘I…I…’ he stuttered. ‘I…don’t know. She rang me, yes she did. She was a nuisance. It wasn’t about money. She was unhappy, wanted to see me again, get her away from that jailbird she married.’

‘So what did you have for her?’

He looked confused. ‘I did have some money for her, but it was my own. I wanted to help her, wanted her to stop pestering me.’

‘So did you give it to her?’

‘No. She never arrived.’ 

I stared at him for a good minute, then said: ‘I don’t believe you.’

He said: ‘I think I’d like to see a solicitor, now.’

‘That might not be wise,’ I told him.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m looking for the person who murdered Magdalena,’ I explained. ‘Do you remember her daughter, Angela?’

‘No, well, yes. Vaguely.’

‘She remembers you quite vividly. Says you raped her. Is your name Julian?’

It nearly choked him, but he admitted it was.

‘She gave a good description of you.’ I scratched my neck to illustrate my point. ‘Like I said, I’m investigating a murder. Angela assumes you’re dead, isn’t looking for you. She’s moved on, but I could easily talk her into pressing charges. Sometimes, murder is almost excusable, there can be mitigating circumstances, but raping a child…’

I let it hang there and watched the cogs going round as he did the maths. ‘It…wasn’t rape,’ he said.

‘What would you call it?’

‘It was with her consent. She was fourteen years old, and a proper little hussy. Her nickname at school was Winmau.’

‘Winmau?’ I echoed.

‘They manufacture dartboards. It was a rather crude comparison.’ 

‘I see. Go on.’

‘She had a shower, came downstairs with just a towel round her, looking for something or other, she said. Her hairbrush, something like that. She didn’t complain or tell her mother. It wasn’t rape.’

‘She was eleven or twelve,’ I said, ‘not fourteen, and destroying a child’s character is not a good way to influence a jury. You’re going to jail, Mackintosh, either for rape or for murder – the choice is yours. I’m told child abusers have a tough time in prison. Let’s talk about Magdalena. She did call here, didn’t she?’

He didn’t answer, just looked down at the floor.

‘We’ll be swarming over this place and your car like ants over a jam pot. If she’s ever shed a drop of blood in here, or been in your car boot, believe me, we’ll have you. Are you following me?’

He nodded.

‘So how much were you prepared to give her?’

‘A couple of thousand pounds.’

‘That’s not much.’

‘That’s what she said, but it’s all I had. I didn’t owe her a thing. I wanted her to have it for…for…’

‘For old times’ sake?’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘What happened?’

‘She was a big woman. Bigger than me. She grabbed me by the shirt and started shaking me. And threatening. She said her boyfriend once poured petrol over a girl and threatened to set her alight. He’d do the same to me if I didn’t find some more money. I panicked. When I was young…’ His hand came up and rubbed the scars on his neck. ‘We were playing with petrol in a den we’d made. I was in hospital for three months. When she said he’d do that it all came back to me. The pain, the scars and the other school kids laughing at me. I threw her off and grabbed that statue on the mantelpiece. The fertility god. I hit her with it and she fell down. She was dead.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I dragged her out of the back door and put her in the car boot. I just drove. Didn’t know where I was going. When I realised I was near Shibden Park I took her in there and dumped her.’

It was good enough for me. We had him cold, and as soon as it was all down on paper we’d ask him to explain how Magda’s body had over fifty separate wounds on it. He’d gone berserk with her, beaten her to a pulp. The blow with the fertility god may have been the fatal one, but he’d worked her over, well and truly.

‘I’m taking you to the local nick,’ I said. ‘Is there anything here you need to do before we go?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Get your coat, then.’

‘Um, can I go to the toilet first?’ 

‘No, but we’ll only be five minutes. Where are your door keys?’

I handcuffed him and sat him in the front seat of the car. Standing outside it I rang Gilbert. ‘It’s Charlie,’ I said. ‘I understand you’ve been after me.’