False Picture (9 page)

Oliver's eyes narrowed. ‘You think he was so desperate for money that he stole the picture? And now the police are taking an interest in Lady Farne's death, he's taken off into the blue with it?'

Bea threw up her hands. ‘What other interpretation can we put on it?'

Maggie grimaced. ‘If he's done a runner and is in debt, then what's he going to live on?'

Oliver knew the answer. ‘He'll sell the picture.'

Bea said, ‘Can you see a man they don't know walking into Sotheby's and saying, “Oh, by the way, I've just come by this painting, but no, I can't tell you how I got it, and will you sell it for me?”'

‘They'd call the police as soon as his back was turned,' said Oliver. ‘So—'

‘He'd fence it!' Maggie gave a whoop of joy. ‘I've always wanted to be a policewoman, and say, “You're nicked!”'

‘Yes, dear,' said Bea. ‘But in the meantime, is the spare bedroom fit to receive a guest? I thought I might bring Velma back here for the night if I can tear her away from Sandy's bedside.'

Oliver looked at his watch. ‘Hate to break this up, but I'm due to meet a friend this evening, and Maggie, aren't you supposed to meet someone for supper?'

‘And then on to the party!' Maggie jigged around the kitchen, throwing plates and pans into the dishwasher. ‘I do hope Zander is going to be there. I really rather fancy him, you know.'

They knew. Bea thought a warning might be appropriate. ‘I'd go carefully with Zander, if I were you. We really don't know anything about him, and—'

‘I know everything I need to know,' said Maggie, nose in the air.

Bea told herself to shut up and let the girl make her own mistakes.

Bea felt sluggish after that repast but refused to allow herself to flop into a chair and turn on the telly. As Maggie banged out of the house, Oliver disappeared upstairs. Bea settled herself at her desk to go through some of the paperwork that had accumulated in her absence … what about that tax return? And the solicitor's letter?

Well, there was nothing she could do about any of those things on a Saturday evening when everyone sane would have gone home to their families, or be spending time with their friends. Only Bea was left alone and lonely.

She stopped that thought in its tracks. Yes, she was lonely. Intensely, painfully lonely. Lonely for one special person. Occasionally she coasted through an hour without thinking about Hamilton too much, and then … bam! Something would come up and hit her and she'd be feeling as raw as ever. It was only a short couple of months since he'd died.

She thought of going upstairs to look at his portrait, but didn't. Instead she did what she'd often seen him do. She swivelled round in her chair to look out of the window, across the garden to the sycamore tree at the end, and above that to the spire of the church in the High Street. See a spire, and aspire, Hamilton would say, smiling, appreciating the horror of the pun.

See the spire, and aspire. Bea thought about it, looking up at the spire, wondering how long it took for the agony of grief to subside. She knew he'd often broken off in his work to look at the spire and pray. He said it calmed him, made it clear what he should do in difficult situations.

She took off her reading glasses to look at the spire better, and tried to pray herself.
Dearest Lord God, if you can hear me through all the noise outside … and the noise inside me, as well … would you show me the way through the tangle I'm in? Please? Look after Sandy, be with him and if it is your will that he doesn't
survive, then grant him strength and comfort. And the same for Velma. I'm afraid they're both going to be badly hurt, whatever happens to Philip. As for Philip, only you know the truth about that matter … oh, it's such a miserable mess, and I'm not the right person to deal with it. I suppose what I mean is, show me what I can do to help them, because I haven't
a clue.

She put on her reading glasses and opened the Complaints Folder. Somewhere here there must be the case which had brought the solicitor's letter upon them. No, not this person. Nor that. The words ‘vexatious client' came to mind on the third … a man complaining that his landlady had lost a pair of his socks. There really wasn't much there to worry about.

The house seemed very quiet, with Maggie out. Oliver appeared in the doorway, dressed in good but casual wear. ‘I'm off to the gym, and afterwards I thought I might go to the pub with my friend. Don't worry; we'll only be drinking halves of beer.'

Bea nodded, astonished that all of a sudden this little grub of a schoolboy was turning into a butterfly. As he left, she clutched at her desk, realizing she was going to be left alone in the house. She wanted to call him back, to detain him … how stupid! At her age!

She unstuck her hands from the desk and set her files to one side, deciding to make notes of everything she knew about Philip. If he stayed missing, there was no way his disappearance could be kept from the police, and she'd better be prepared to tell them what she knew. While she was about it, she'd better see what she could find out from Philip's phone.

Unfortunately, she hadn't got a manual for this phone, which was the very latest of its kind, and quite impenetrable in its complicated workings to Bea. She pushed buttons and got nowhere. Besides which, it rather looked as if the battery were dead again. She sighed. She'd leave it to Oliver to sort out on the morrow. Meanwhile … she looked up the name of the club which had sent Philip a letter reminding him to pay his debts. She'd never heard of it, and it wasn't in the phone book, but she traced a phone number through the directory.

A suave voice with a slight accent answered the phone. ‘Yes, madam?'

Bea didn't have a good cover story ready. ‘I was given your name by a friend, who said I might need references to join. Is that right?'

‘Certainly. What name do you have, please?'

‘Weston. Mrs Weston.'

‘If you will hold a moment, please.' He put the phone on hold. Bea wondered why on earth she'd given Velma's name. She'd been stupid. She hadn't thought through what she should say. She cradled the phone, only to have it ring again.

She stared at it, worrying that the club might have caller recognition and called her back, had perhaps been checking that this number was not the one registered for Mrs Weston. The ringing stopped. Then her own mobile rang.

It was Piers. Without preamble he said, ‘The thing is, Bea, I went to a private view at a gallery last night. Everyone was talking about the Farne collection, telling stories about Lucky Lucinda and her dirty deeds in the past, and speculating as to who might have inherited the goodies; the odds-on favourites to inherit, by the way, are a home for fallen women and the cats' home. One of the guests had a funny story to tell which might interest you. He said that someone had recently tried to sell him a fake Millais.'

‘I'm all attention,' said Bea.

‘Thought you might be. I got a trickle down my spine when I remembered you mentioned the word Millais because you've never shown any interest in the pre-Raphaelites before. It's been on my mind all day. I called round earlier, but you were out. What have you got yourself into now?'

‘It's a long story.'

‘I've got time, if you have.'

Bea kicked off her shoes, and told him what had been happening, as succinctly as she could. ‘… So the picture might have been a genuine Millais. We know Philip did have it but now he's gone missing and so has the picture. Meanwhile poor old Sandy is at death's door, and I don't know whether to call the police or not. If I do, it will only make matters worse for Sandy. If I don't … I don't know what to do for the best.'

A longish pause. ‘Have you a photo of young Philip? Yes? Right. I'll pick you and the photo up in half an hour.' The phone went dead.

Rage must be kept under control, or who knew where it might lead? The antique dealer six weeks ago – well, he'd got away with that. The old woman hadn't caused him any problems, either. He'd lifted the boxes as easily as walking off with a kid's ice cream. It had never occurred to him that Philip might want to lift something for himself. Why hadn't
he waited till the old woman died? The whole lot would have dropped into his hands then, wouldn't
it?

Or, maybe it wouldn't
.

Maybe Philip had been pressed to settle his debts now and hadn't
been able to wait for his inheritance. Or perhaps the old woman had got wind of his particular weakness and changed her will?

Another, even more scary thought. Had the men with no necks caught up with Philip? But surely they wouldn't
have killed him, knowing he had expectations? He'd boasted of them often enough; his godmother had promised him an inheritance, and he could expect something from his father's second marriage to a wealthy woman, too. One way or another, the club's money was safe.

Rafael was getting a headache. He went over all the places where Philip might have been, but wasn't
.

The father's place in South Kensington was all locked up, milk on the doorstep. A neighbour said he thought the Westons were away but had forgotten to cancel the milk and papers.

Liam said Philip had talked a lot about women but nobody thought he'd really pulled all the girls he boasted about.

The idiot! His disappearance was spoiling a perfectly good set-up. Which reminded him he'd better brief Liam about taking Charlotte to Bruges. At least that plan could go ahead. And the new girl, Maggie? It was a temptation to use her as well. He certainly had enough stuff to get rid of.

Saturday evening

B
ea made haste slowly, to be ready in time for Piers. A quick wash. One of her caramel silk T-shirts would be best, over slightly darker, well-cut trousers. A swipe with the hairbrush, a dab or two of make-up, no time for eye make-up but surely that didn't matter with such an old friend as Piers. Reading glasses, a smaller handbag, a light jacket, shoes with a heel.

Piers rang the front doorbell as she made it to the hall, and at the same moment the phone rang. She let it ring, and went out to find her ex-husband waiting to hand her into a taxi.

‘Piers, where are we going?'

‘South Kensington. I've rung ahead and they know we're coming. This Velma; is it the same girl who used to spend hours on the phone to you when we were married, twenty or so years ago? A school friend?'

‘I'm surprised you remembered.'

He huffed out a laugh. ‘I remember all right. She slapped my face once. Nice girl, bit of a prude. Married a tightwad.'

‘Did you make a pass at her? Oh, Piers.' She couldn't help laughing. Of course he'd made a pass at Velma. But Velma had never said.

He laughed, too. ‘Her husband – that would be her first, right? – wanted me to paint him, a couple of years back. I said I might consider doing a double portrait of him and his wife together, but he wasn't interested. Perhaps my reputation with the ladies told against me.'

Bea had no kindly feelings towards Velma's first, having disliked him from the start. ‘More likely he didn't want attention drawn away from himself.'

Piers tapped the glass and said, ‘Anywhere here, cabbie.' He paid and they got out in front of a small shop front with an exclusive air and grilles over the window and door. It was well after seven o'clock and the shop looked closed, but Piers spoke into an entry phone, the grille over the door slid back and the door fell open.

Inside was a showroom full of minor but worthy eighteenth- and nineteenth-century paintings, with the promise of further delights in other dimly-lit rooms beyond. Bea looked for the cameras and security sensors which she was sure must be there, but they were too well concealed for her to spot.

A man in a good suit came forward to greet them. He was forty-ish pretending to be late thirties, as neat as a plastic model of a bridegroom on the top of a wedding cake. He had thinning curly blond hair, his teeth were blindingly white, his eyes crinkled at the corners and Bea distrusted him on sight.

Piers introduced them – ‘Crispin; an old friend, Bea Abbot. She's interested in your visitor with the fake Millais' – before wandering off to view the pictures.

‘What a palaver, my dears.' Was Crispin gay? He waved Bea to a divan and sat beside her. ‘You are interested in the pre-Raphaelites?'

‘A family picture has gone astray,' said Bea, picking her words with care. ‘Could you bear to tell me about your visitor?'

Crispin was happy to oblige. ‘He came in on the heels of a good client or I wouldn't have let him in the door. One does get a sense of when someone is not a customer, you know? I was anxious to look after our client, so got rid of him as soon as I could. I know it's the fashion to have a slight shadow – so macho, and can be attractive – but this was simple neglect, and there was a certain body odour, if I may put it that way …?'

Bea nodded, thinking this tied in with what she knew of Philip.

‘He was carrying a medium-sized picture which he'd wrapped in a bed sheet, would you believe? He pulled the sheet off and the frame was, I grant you, very nice. The picture itself could hardly be seen for grime. “It's a genuine Millais,” he says. “How much is it worth, and will you buy it?” I look at him with alarm bells zinging through my head and I try not to shudder, because if there is one thing I've learned in all my years in the trade, it's that a person of this kind does not own a genuine Millais.

‘So I say, “I'm afraid we're rather busy this morning and anyway, we don't deal in copies, however good.” He says it's not a copy but the real thing, and I almost laughed in his face. I mean … how stupid! Then he says he's desperate, and I'm looking at the frame and thinking it might set off one of our Victorian landscapes nicely, and I say we might be interested in that alone. My dear, he almost bursts into tears! He wraps the picture up again, telling me he's going to find someone who knows a good thing when he sees it, and I say bon voyage, but that if he wants to sell the frame any time, he can drop back with it.'