Paint a Murder Read online

  Published by Magenta Lily Publishing 2019

  London, Great Britain

  Copyright © Magenta Lily Publishing 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-9161062-0-8

  Cover design by Design for Writers

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 1

  The only time Alice Haydon saw Jason Marley in real life, he was floating face down in the River Nare.

  She had taken a shortcut to work along the river path, intending to sneak in the back door and give herself half a chance of making her meeting on time. Haring round the bend, she had nearly slammed into a policeman standing in the centre of the path.

  “Steady now.” He took a step back, his arms stretched out in front of him. “The path is closed this morning, you’ll have to go back to Albany Street.”

  Alice teetered on the balls of her feet, craning her neck over the officer’s shoulder and squinting through the glare. Two men in suits were standing on the river’s edge, peering at a little raft of clothes in the shallows.

  A police launch was pulling up, slapping water against the bank, redefining the clothes into arms and legs. The body shifted on the wash, splaying into a cross, then pulling itself back into an indeterminate heap, as if it was ashamed of being dead. Alice could not take her eyes off it, despite the nausea creeping through her stomach. “Is that a …?”

  The policeman nodded. “Here, I’ll take you back to the road. There’s no need to worry; everything’s in hand.” He cupped her elbow, turned her around and walked her back along the path. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Must have been a bit of a shock.”

  Once on the street, her feet pulled her along the pavement as she stole backward glances. She nearly tripped into a line of protestors handing out leaflets urging her to ‘Support Nature not Profit’. Alice stopped at a green painted door with ‘Gregory’s House Art Gallery’ engraved on a polished brass plate. As she stared, the words morphed into a blurry face, framed with long, messy hair.

  Alice rested her forehead and both hands against the door and closed her eyes for a moment. Clang! St Edmund’s chime reverberated through her head. She shoved the door open, half-ran across the entrance lobby and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, she stumbled across the reception area, putting a hand on the visitors’ sofa to prevent her crashing into the receptionist’s desk. Heading into the open plan office, she threw her bag on the desk, rushed to the window and looked down at the Nare. She was just in time to see the police boat, with the suited men and their deathly companion, chug away.

  “Morning, Alice,” said Tommy Norton, the gallery’s technician, as he rolled his chair back from his desk. “You’re late today. Heavy night?”

  A sly smile lifted his sharp cheekbones.

  “There’s … a dead man. In the river!”

  “I know. Duncan saw him earlier and called the police.”

  “They’ve just taken him away. Poor man.”

  Alice sat down. She put both elbows on the desk and her chin in her hands. She drew a couple of deep breaths, though her heart ignored her and galloped on. Pulling open a drawer, she took out a paper napkin and mopped a mist of sweat from her forehead, gathered her hair into a ponytail, securing it with a scrunchie.

  “Well, a dead man and a late start were not part of my Tuesday schedule. Especially not before my big pitch to Jenna.” Alice scanned the empty desks to her left. “I suppose Control Freak is in the meeting room already.”

  “No.” Tommy peered over his computer screen. “She’s not here.”

  “Why? Where is she?”

  “How should I know, nobody tells me anything? By the way, Duncan wants to see you – you can ask him.”

  Poppy Lee, the receptionist, plopped down a brown envelope with Alice’s name handwritten in capitals. “This came for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She made a circle on the desktop with the palm of one hand, digesting her boss’ absence. One good thing, she had avoided a reprimand for being late. But after a year of trying to convince Jenna Farling that she could curate an exhibition herself, she may have missed the opportunity to present her own ideas. It could be ages before she got another chance; at this rate, she would be assistant curator forever.

  Alice found the chief executive in his corner office, gazing out of the window, throwing a squash ball from one hand to the other.

  “Morning, Duncan. You wanted to see me?” Alice pulled out the plastic bucket chair on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ve spoken to Tommy; that was a terrible thing.”

  “Morning, Alice. Yes, it was a painful incident.”

  “Huh! Death is more than painful, I think.”

  Duncan snatched the ball from the air and stared at her. “Oh no, not him. I mean Jenna.” He rubbed his bald head. “She fell down some stairs last night and they think she has broken her leg and pelvis. She’s in hospital now, waiting for a consultant’s assessment.” He looked over Alice’s head, his brown eyes narrowing. “She’ll probably need surgery, so she’s likely to be away for some time.”

  Duncan seemed to shrink, as though his already lean body had lost mass and part-melted, soaking into the chair. The toes of his polished black-laced shoes protruded from under the desk, one foot balanced atop the other. The effect was of a nervous schoolboy, covertly crossing his feet because it was too obvious to cross his fingers.

  “Oh no! That sounds horrible – and painful. Send her my best wishes when you speak to her again.”

  Duncan nodded. He placed the ball on the desktop and rolled it beneath his fingertips. “Someone has to do Jenna’s work while she’s away,” he said to the
ball. “So, I need you to look after things until she gets back.”

  “Hold on. What?” Alice lay a hand on her fluttering stomach. A late night curry and two morning shocks were playing havoc with her internal plumbing. “You mean, you want me to do Jenna’s job? I get to be the senior curator?” The words came out loud and shrill, prompting a stony glare from Duncan. She tucked her exhilaration away.

  “The role is temporary; you will only be covering Jenna while she’s away.” He stilled the ball with his palm. “You’ll report to me. Don’t make any decisions until you’ve run them by me first. Is that clear?”

  “Hundred percent. I wouldn’t dream of making an important decision without consulting you first.” She knew she was gushing. “I suppose the centenary is a priority. But we should also plan for the group exhibition after that. I’ve got some ideas for artists.”

  “The centenary exhibition is your only priority, Alice. It’s got to be an outstanding show, with a really good catalogue. We have six weeks to pull it all together and there’s a lot of work to do.” Duncan ran a hand over his unshaven chin. “I’ll sort out items for the shop, but do you think you can manage everything else on your own?”

  “Yes, I can. And I really appreciate you putting your trust in me. I won’t let you down.”

  Duncan picked up a bulging green folder. “Jenna told me that everything you need to know is in here. I keep telling her to put her work on the network, so everyone can access it and save all this paper.”

  Alice took the folder and thumbed through the pages.

  “As you can see, there’s everything on the project, but all you need is the timetable and the list of loans.” Duncan rolled the ball across the desk and into his waiting hand. “I suggest you start by bringing in the artworks as quickly as you can. This is a big show.”

  “So, I see. Eighty pieces.” Gathering up that many pictures would be an admin nightmare, as they would all be on loan from different people. Perhaps agreeing to do it all by herself had been a bit rash.

  “Are any of the paintings here already?”

  “Yep, over there. Arrived this morning from the council.” He pointed to a package wrapped in brown paper, propped up against the wall behind her. ‘Great Wheaton District Council.’ She ran her eye down the lenders’ list in Jenna’s folder. “Here we are. It’s a seascape called Beach. Jenna’s written, ‘Brilliant work, star of the show, never been seen in public before’. Wow, that sounds amazing.”

  Duncan put down the ball. “It’s the best piece on the list. Make sure it’s in the most prominent position when you plan the hang.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “And put it on the front of the catalogue.”

  Alice closed the folder. “About publicity. I think we should do something different to really sell this show. Like produce leaflets and distribute them around the town.”

  “That’s not in the marketing plan and there’s no money for any extras.”

  “But we want the show to be successful. Can’t we run to a few leaflets?”

  “Just concentrate on collecting the artworks and producing the catalogue. Leave the marketing to Rosie.”

  The desk phone rang and Duncan snatched it up. “I’ve got to take this, we’ll talk later.”

  Alice tucked the folder under her arm, took hold of the council’s painting and went back to her desk.

  “I just heard about Jenna’s accident,” said Tommy. “Sounds bad.”

  Alice cleared a space on the desk and put the painting down. “Yes, nasty. I’ll pop out later and buy her a card. Are you allowed to send flowers to hospitals these days?”

  “Perhaps you should send flowers to Duncan – I don’t know how he’ll cope without his prop.”

  “That’s harsh, Tommy.”

  Alice sat down and leant back, her arms dangling at her sides. She swung around and faced the wall. Senior curator! She screamed a silent scream. It was the role she had coveted since the first time she set foot in an art gallery eight years before, the role she had worked so hard for. The last thing she wanted was to get the job at Jenna’s expense – and the centenary exhibition was hardly the one she’d choose by way of introduction – but on with the show!

  Duncan had decided to celebrate the gallery’s one hundredth birthday by inviting local residents to lend an artwork from their own homes. He reckoned that giving people the rare opportunity to display their favourite artworks in a public gallery would attract attention and a bumper crop of visitors.

  Alice heaved Jenna’s folder into her lap and read through the list of proposed works, with accompanying snaps. A boring landscape, a dull flower arrangement, an uninspiring portrait, ditto, ditto.

  Alice grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the binding on the package from the council. Removing several layers of brown paper and bubble wrap, she picked up the painting. A still life of pink flowers.

  “Interesting,” said Tommy from over her shoulder.

  “It’s…” She turned the painting over and read the back of the canvas. “Peonies by Jane Kenton Hills, whoever she is. But it’s supposed to be Beach.”

  Alice patted the abandoned wrapping paper, lifting it up and looking underneath.

  “Hang on, I’ll just check my drawer and see if it’s in there.” Tommy laughed, spilling coffee onto the floor. “To be honest, it’s not my sort of thing. But it’s not bad as floral paintings go.”

  The arrangement itself was unremarkable. A bunch of pink peonies, placed casually in a plain white jug on top of a polished hardwood table. Blushing spheres fought for space with green shoots of rosemary in the packed receptacle. One stem, fatigued with the weight of its flower, bowed deeply, discarding a couple of petals on the shiny surface.

  “The flowers are exquisite, but it’s supposed to be a beach.”

  Alice searched Jenna’s folder for the council’s contact details and dialled the number for the cabinet support officer, Helen Yardley. When she reached Helen’s voicemail, Alice explained that there was a mix-up with the paintings.

  “Tommy.” Alice gathered up the painting. “I’m just popping round to the town hall to swap this.”

  “You can’t take it like that. Here, let me wrap it properly.”

  While Alice waited for Tommy, her eye fell on the envelope Poppy had given her. She picked it up and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper, one side jagged and a rip down the middle. In scrawly handwriting a note read:

  ‘We need to talk about Beach. Meet me on the bridge – tonight at 10.30. JM’

  Alice read it again. She had no idea who JM was, or why they could not talk to her at a more sociable time of day.

  Tommy returned with the painting, now beautifully wrapped, and Alice folded the note and slid it into her jeans pocket.

  She was still thinking about the dead body and the strange letter as she left the office and made for the staircase. She hummed an upbeat tune as she started down the stairs, but the song’s pep failed to break an unfriendly and strangely foreboding silence. When a floorboard creaked behind her, her skin pricked and she was filled with a sudden and unaccountable feeling of unease.

  Chapter 2

  The town hall’s high ceiling and thick stone walls should have kept the building cool, but the sweltering air that swept across the lobby wilted flower arrangements and doorman alike. Alice wiped her forehead with her shirt cuff and pushed both sleeves up her arms as she sat on a faded wooden bench.

  An elfin woman with thick brown spectacles appeared, introducing herself as Helen Yardley. She marched Alice along a corridor lined with austere portraits of former council leaders who glowered at each other as they passed.

  In her office, Helen stood behind a tidy desk and pointed to a chair piled with folders and loose papers. “You can sit there. Just plonk all that stuff on the floor.”

  “I really appreciate y
ou seeing me at such short notice.” Alice shifted the pile and sat down. “So, you’re the lucky person who looks after the council’s art collection.” She took a notebook from her bag and felt around for a pen.

  “No, someone else does that on a day-to-day basis. I look after Councillor Vivien Taylor and her portfolio includes culture – and your gallery among others. I was just given a painting and asked to send it to you.” Hands on hips, she fixed Alice a defensive stare. “Though you say it’s not the right one?”

  “No, it isn’t. I’d like to swap you the flowers for the sea.”

  Helen tucked a stray russet curl behind her ear.

  “Where is the collection kept?” said Alice. “Is it here in the building?”

  “Most of it is stored down in the basement, but we lend artworks to local residents and businesses, so some of the pieces are scattered around the district.”

  “You lend the paintings out? Like a library?”

  “Yes, sort of. The collection belongs to the taxpayer and the councillors thought it only right they get some benefit. And people do borrow them, even the councillors.”

  “Lending an artwork to a company I can understand, but people, councillors?”

  “Why not?” Helen sat down and rolled her chair towards the desk. “Councillors, at least, are responsible people and this way the paintings get to be seen by a wider audience. Otherwise they would just stay in the storeroom.”

  Alice spied some pens in an organiser, but as she leant across the desk she knocked over a framed photo, sending it tumbling to the floor. She reached down for it and a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and soft hazel eyes looked up at her.

  “I’m sorry.” She wiped the glass with her sleeve. “I’m so clumsy.” Alice placed the frame back on the desk, fiddling until it was in its original position. “Your husband? Partner?”

  Helen glared at Alice, unconsciously caressing the ringless third finger of her left hand.

  “Councillor Taylor.” Alice bent over her pad to test the pen, but mostly to hide her flaming cheeks. “Does she have a personal interest in art?”

  “Yes, she has a fine collection, or so I’m told, I haven’t seen it myself.” Helen swung around to face a computer screen on the desk extension to her right. “Councillor Taylor will be here in a minute, she can tell you more.”