Resolutions (26 page)

He just needed persuading, and Karen was sure that would not be so hard. She'd made the mistake of allowing herself to be carried away. Put too much pressure on, when the poor kid was, most likely, just getting over their mum's death and Karen having to go away. It was her job to persuade him that she'd not be going away again, not his just to believe her.

Satisfied that all would be well in George-and-Karen world, she went back downstairs, put on the wellington boots she'd left by the kitchen door and went out to weed the rose bed.

Of all strange things, Karen had discovered gardening. George would piss himself laughing at that. His sister – first in the family to have green fingers.

THIRTY-TWO

A
be had been doing some informing of his own, passing on what he'd discovered about the Billy Tigh connection to DI Kendal, who had duly passed it on to Alec with the suggestion that they talk to the brother of prison visitor, Sara Curtis. See who may have talked to Billy Tigh about Curtis and Rains and the abuse of his brother.

He also had a possible lead on the gallery. Igor Vaschinsky had an aunt who ran a small gallery. It was an independent operation, though Igor had invested in it, and the aunt was also an illustrator. She had set up the gallery as an outlet for her own work and also for a group of local artists. It had a very good reputation; she had a knack for recognizing talent and also a real skill when it came to marketing. Now in her sixties, she was talking about retirement and looking for a buyer.

Abe thought it all sounded about right.

The Southern Gallery at West Bay Harbour had a website, and Abe downloaded some pictures of the outside to show George on the off-chance Karen might have told him something useful.

In addition, this now narrowed his search for Karen's house. She'd want, presumably, to be close to the gallery, so all he had to do now was find a house that matched George's slightly sketchy description to one within, say, a twenty-mile radius of Bridport, and that would be that. Easy.

Abe leant back in his chair and thought about it. Fitch had called, telling him about the sudden change of plans, but Abe was glad to hear that Mac and Miriam and Joy would now be out of harm's way. Three less people to look out for. He needed now to talk to the gallery owner, see if Karen had left any leads. No way on earth did he look like someone who might be interested in art.

Rina
, Abe thought. Rina could do the intellectual, arty bit, and he could just hang around and look lost.

He picked up the phone. ‘Rina, it's Abe. I've got a little project for you. Get your glad rags on and try to look affluent. We're going on an art hunt.'

Back in Pinsent, Alec was involved in a major argument with DCI Wildman.

‘You think I leaked that information?' Alec was furious.

‘Some bugger did and it sure as hell wasn't me.'

‘And what reason would I have?'

‘He's your bloody friend. You've undermined me every step of the way, Alec. Like you didn't know McGregor had gone. Like you back him up on the lie he and that bint concocted. He bloody did it, Alec, and you're intent on making us a laughing stock. “Didn't know the cuts were that bad”,' he mimicked.

‘Listen to me,' Alec said slowly. ‘I leaked nothing. I did not know Mac had gone or where. I have no more wish than you do for us to look like fools, but if you go to a press call with a story so full of holes a child could drive a truck through it, never mind a room full of journalists – whose sole mission in life is to sniff out the lies, turn them round and use them against you – then what the frigging hell do you expect? The landlord at the Cross Keys knows that story is full of shit – so do his staff, so does half the village, not to mention any and everyone who's been working the case since. Covert police operation? So covert none of us had managed to turn up? Where had we been hiding out, then? You've seen the size of that village; a chihuahua couldn't pass through without the locals seeing it. And, for the record, I don't believe that Miriam Hastings lied to protect Mac, though, fucking hell, Wildman, who could bloody blame her if she had?'

‘Mac killed Peel. End of story.'

‘And the forensic evidence to back that up? It isn't there. You have nothing, nada. The only blood on Mac's clothes was a smear on his sleeve consistent with him having searched Peel's pockets for the handcuff keys.'

‘On his
sleeve
. Consistent with him stabbing Peel in the side. He'd have been protected from the spatter by the man's body so—'

‘On his
right
sleeve. His
right sleeve
. The angle of thrust is consistent with Miriam and Mac's story. The killer came in from behind Peel, stabbed him in the left side and, from the angle of entry, with their left hand. They'd have had to stand at the side of him and thrust in and up to do it with the right, and I seriously think Peel might have moved out of the way if he'd seen anyone standing next to him and then come at him with a knife. And, if Mac stabbed him with his right hand – in the side, as you suggest – then no, Peel's body would not have protected him from the spray. There'd have been blood all across the front of his coat, all over the sleeve, not just a smear on the frigging cuff.'

Wildman was not about to give up. ‘So, it was unexpected. Mac made a run at him, took a chance. He took every other bloody risk he could. You're not telling me he wouldn't have done anything imaginable not to have a repeat of what happened to Cara Evans. He didn't want to get another one killed. So he took a chance. I don't know, maybe Peel got distracted and McGregor was able to take him. Split second, that's all it would have taken. Peel looks away, Mac gets him.' Wildman took a deep breath, tried for conciliation. ‘Look, any way you look at it, there was provocation; I'll give you that.'

‘Generous of you.'

‘A sympathetic jury, good lawyer . . . But he bloody did it. I know he bloody did it.'

‘No,' Alec said quietly, ‘you wish
you
had. That's what this is about, isn't it? Twice, Mac left you out of the loop. You think if you'd been there that night, then Cara Evans would still be here. You believe you'd have taken Peel down. You can't accept the fact that
you
might have failed, just like Mac failed. And then he goes and does the same thing all over again. More than you can take, isn't it? Knowing that Mac didn't trust you, didn't trust any of us, with Miriam's life.'

‘This isn't about me.'

‘Isn't it? I was there, remember. I saw the look on your face when Mac was brought into the hospital with that little girl. I saw the look on your face that night and you couldn't forgive him. The rest of us – well, we all thanked God it hadn't been us put to the test like that; all you could think was that you wished it had been you. Wished you'd been there because, in your own fucked-up little head, you could see yourself playing the hero, taking out the killer and rescuing the kid. Well, it wasn't like that, was it? Not so neat and clean as all that? Truth is, Wildman, I don't think anyone could have stopped Thomas Peel from killing Cara Evans, because he got off on it; he relished it, enjoyed every minute. If he could have arranged for someone to film it for him, then I don't doubt he would have done it. He liked the buzz and he liked to be reminded how good it felt, and that's why he set Mac up with Miriam: he wanted to capture the moment all over again.'

He looked away from Wildman, something echoing, something deep in his memory.

Wildman noted the change. ‘What?' he said.

‘It was a clear night. The night Cara Evans died. Bright, clear, you could see for miles.'

‘So?'

Alec shook his head. ‘I don't know. Just . . . Rains, he took pictures. Peel knew Rains was employed to take pictures.

‘So what?' Wildman scoffed. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Back to talk to Billy Tigh. Oh, and you should organize an interview with Sara Curtis, the prison visitor who went to see Rains.
Her
brother abused Tigh's.'

‘How the hell do you know that?'

‘Information received,' Alec said and left before Wildman could say more.

The coast road was clear this time of year and the drive pleasant, Rina thought. Bare trees and hedges thinned of their summer growth meant that it was possible to look across the fields and see the sea for a good deal of the journey, only the section of road near Abbotsbury being sufficiently inland and the road between high enough walls for the open view to be blocked.

She and Abe talked, running through what they knew so far, and Abe finally told Rina just how deep Karen had buried herself in what had been her father's world. Knowing that because she had warned Karen and given her time to run, others had died, depressed Rina thoroughly.

Abe was more sanguine. ‘If not Karen, then someone else,' he said. ‘The life they led would have ended in violence one way or another.'

‘I don't find that comforting,' Rina said tartly. ‘Abe, my world has not been one that featured a great deal of violence until fairly recently and, frankly, I am heartily sick of it. I'm not cut out for this kind of thing at all. No, don't you dare laugh; I mean it.'

Abe's attempt to control his humour ended in a choking fit, and Rina seriously worried they might crash as the car veered across the road and dangerously close to a dry stone wall. ‘Rina,' he said at last. ‘Given the choice, I'd have you watch my back any time.'

‘You're laughing at me again.'

‘No,' Abe said seriously. ‘No, I'm not. I mean every word.'

Bridport confused them for a while, West Bay Harbour being on the other side of the river from where they'd expected it to be. ‘Should have used the satnav,' Abe said. ‘I'm sure this was just called the quayside last time I came.'

The gallery was small, tucked back in the middle of a row of little shops and cafés, looking rather upmarket for its location, but also friendly and welcoming with its array of pretty Christmas decorations featured in the window, all made by local artists. Rina paused to admire the glass stars and little wooden ornaments, quilted baubles and plump ceramic choirboys. Through the window she caught the glimpse of an avant-garde Christmas tree, a twiggy affair hung with what looked like gold medallions and stained glass. She was less keen on that.

An exhibition by a local printmaker faced them as they entered. Woodblock prints created in the Japanese manner, intricate and multicoloured. Rina moved closer to examine a street scene. Streetlights giving way to stars in a rich blue sky, hurrying crowds intricately described.

‘Beautiful, isn't it?'

Rina turned to the woman who had spoken. Adrienne Kossof, the gallery owner, sat behind a wooden desk on which was set a cash register, card reader and a stack of pastel-shaded tissue paper and another of tiny, oriental boxes. She was about Rina's age, but very slender and willowy and with grey hair in an elfin cut that suited her delicate features. She wore jeans and a heavy sweater and still managed to look chic and neat. Rina had given up on jeans years and years ago; she had never been that keen.

‘Very beautiful,' Rina said, glancing back at the print. ‘It just seems so sad that the block is completely destroyed in the making, doesn't it?'

The woman raised an eyebrow and smiled warmly. ‘It does, rather. Of course, in Japan, in the heyday of printmaking, the artist would hand the work over and a whole troop of makers would create each colour block from the original. Richard, the artist here, he does the whole process himself. This exhibition – twelve prints – that's two years' work.'

‘Well worth it,' Rina said and really meant it. She looked at the price of the street scene and inwardly flinched, but that didn't stop her from wanting it. There was a vibrancy about the scene that really appealed. Anyway, she rarely treated herself and, also anyway, it seemed like a good way of breaking the ice. Look affluent, Abe had said.

‘I'd like that, please,' Rina said. The woman looked first shocked and then pleased.

‘Wonderful! I'll mark it sold. Richard is due to take down this weekend. Will it be all right to send it on then? Unless you'd like to collect it, or, of course, if you want to take it now?'

‘No, the weekend is fine,' Rina said. ‘It seems a shame to disturb the exhibition, and we're only just along the coast.'

‘Oh, it's mostly locals this time of year,' the woman nodded. ‘Really, I wanted to feature Richard in the summer, but it just didn't happen. But he's picked up a bit of pre-Christmas trade. We go entirely over to the Christmas display from next week.' She smiled confidingly. ‘To be honest, some of the Christmas stuff is just well-made tat, but it sells and this time of year that really matters.' She glanced from Rina to Abe, noticing him for the first time. Her look was curious, as though she tried to work out what their relationship might be. Abe might be young enough to be Rina's son – had she started a family very early – but they looked nothing alike and he was clearly younger than Rina was, so . . .

‘The window display is very pretty, though,' Rina nodded sympathetically. ‘I heard you might be selling the gallery?' she added.

Raised eyebrows from Adrienne Kossof. ‘How do you know that?' she asked. ‘I've told very few people yet. I don't want to give the wrong impression, you understand. I'm retiring through choice, not because the business isn't doing well.'

‘Oh, no,' Rina said. ‘That's what I heard. No, a young friend of mine is interested in taking over. She wants me to think about being a sleeping partner in the business.' Rina smiled as she handed over her credit card. ‘You see, Karen is very young; having a, shall we say, older financial partner gives her a lot more credibility.'