Dead on Your Feet Page 6

  Drake mumbled an acknowledgement. He put the blue folder on the table and started reading its contents. Quickly he realised that his initial judgement of Gloria Patton’s disorganised office didn’t portray the reality. The folder belonged specifically to the assessment she had made of the artwork Norma Buckland had submitted. There was a photograph of the sculpture, the submission form Buckland had completed and another word processed sheet that Gloria had used to record her comments. She had obviously wanted to apply some objective test, Drake concluded. There was a copy of her letter of rejection to Norma Buckland, which seemed innocuous enough to Drake although for a principled, artistic individual the formality of the rejection might be unpalatable.

  The letter from Buckland to Gloria Patton caught his attention. As he read he tried to imagine the thought process going on in Buckland’s mind.

  Gloria

  I don’t know how to start this letter. There was something completely disgusting, preposterous about your letter telling me that you had rejected my submission to the Orme Arts Festival. You obviously had no idea that it had already been exhibited in Vienna and lauded by the critics there. Roger and I feel utterly betrayed by your misguided belief in the artists that you seek to support. And you have the cheek to suggest that my work doesn’t reach the standard you were expecting. This is truly a sign that you have reached into the gutter and become the lowest of the low.

  Yours truly

  Drake walked over to the filing cabinet and found the rest of the submissions. Sara was busy sifting through the paperwork from another filing cabinet.

  ‘Something you should see, sir.’

  Drake turned and noticed Sara fingering the contents of a buff folder.

  ‘This is a file about her will.’

  Drake watched as Sara scanned the document. It did not appear to be lengthy.

  ‘She left everything to Oswald.’

  Drake sat back in his chair. ‘So that gives Hubert Oswald the perfect motive – her money.’

  ‘He’s an artist so he’d know all about Tracey Emin’s My Bed. Surely? It’s a strong link.’

  ‘When we get back to headquarters contact the lawyers and find out what they know about the will. When it was drawn up or if it’s been changed lately. We shall have to see Oswald again. He told us he was at home all night – but he could have driven into Llandudno. We’ll need to requisition traffic surveillance to check.’

  Drake got back to the rest of the paperwork in front of him. Wood and Geraint both had a similar assessment form and another letter of rejection in their folders. Drake wondered whether either of them were capable of murder. He read Gloria Patton’s comments about Ellingham’s work being ‘utterly derivative’ and ‘lacking in imagination’ and as he finished reading the door burst open and Hubert Oswald entered.

  ‘Francine told me you were here,’ Oswald said, sounding more aggressive than Drake had witnessed yesterday. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that Geraint Wood lost his temper with Gloria?’

  ‘She didn’t think it was important.’

  ‘She was threatened, he assaulted her. And now she’s dead. There’s also this letter from Norma Buckland.’ Drake held aloft the blue folder. ‘Sit down, Mr Oswald.’

  Sara stopped what she was doing and sat down near Drake.

  ‘The art world can be a very jealous place, and very competitive.’ The chair Francine had vacated creaked under Oswald’s weight as he sat down.

  ‘I understand Gloria made a will leaving everything to you.’

  Oswald stammered a reply. ‘And I left everything to her.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to the gallery?’ Drake said.

  Oswald frowned. ‘I don’t know … I mean, it’s too early to say.’

  ‘Do you have any debts, Mr Oswald?’

  Oswald swallowed hard. ‘Surely you don’t suspect that as a reason for …?’

  ‘Do you have anyone who could give you an alibi for your whereabouts on the night of Gloria’s death?’

  ‘No. I was at home, of course – where else would I be?’

  Drake stared at Oswald, knowing it was a short drive through the country lanes from their home to Llandudno.

  Sara piped up. ‘We’ve found Gloria’s car in a side street. You’ll need to collect it from headquarters in due course.’

  ‘That will prove difficult, sergeant. I don’t drive.’

  Chapter 8

  The following morning Sara regretted her decision to offer to drive when Drake turned up his nose as he lowered himself into the passenger seat. She had noticed his fastidiousness yesterday as he stepped awkwardly around puddles in Patton’s yard. Sharing this insight with a colleague had elicited a rolling of eyes and she wondered then if there was more to Drake than she knew about. Drake would doubtless think that the inside of her car was disgusting and badly needed a thorough clean. Did the car smell? She couldn’t remember when it had been vacuumed last so he was probably right. As he buckled his seat belt he even cast a surreptitious glance at her training bag on the rear seat that spilled out the various bits of her running apparel. In the middle of all the activity in the past two days she had completely forgotten to take it home. Her next five-mile run seemed a long way in the future, certainly not later that day.

  She sped along the A55 going west, took the junction off the dual carriageway and crossed the bridge over the Conwy estuary, skirting around the bottom of the fifteenth-century castle dominating the town. She followed the road down the west side of the Conwy Valley but, being unfamiliar with the roads, kept her speed to a minimum. It was off the beaten track, not a route used by the tourists that flooded down the eastern side of the valley with its quaint villages.

  The satnav took them along various narrow lanes until they reached a terrace of six houses at ninety degrees to the main road. Each property had a patch of garden at the front accessed from a weed-strewn path. Sara parked on a gravel layby a little distance away. As they walked back Sara noticed the long allotment-like gardens stretching out at the rear of the six properties.

  ‘Where do they park their cars?’ Sara said.

  Drake stood for a moment. ‘These look like old council houses. They didn’t think about car parking when they were built.’

  Drake led the way, walking gingerly over the muddy path towards the end property. Porches and new PVCu windows were recent additions by two proud owners. Another appeared to be in accelerated decline, garden thick with weeds, a green-and-black wheelie bin upturned.

  The words Trem Eryri had been stencilled into an old piece of wood that hung by the door of the end terrace. Drake checked the name of Ellingham’s property and nodded at Sara. There was no bell so Drake rapped his knuckles on the door, hoping the occupant could hear him.

  No response. Sara peered in through the ground-floor window, over a sink filled with pots and pans and dishes. It looked as though nobody had cleaned inside for weeks. Drake stepped back and looked up at the first-floor windows. The door of the next door property squeaked open.

  An emaciated man appeared, slack-skinned and drawing heavily on the remains of a cigarette, a can of cider in his hand. Sara tried to make out his age but he could have been a decrepit fifty or an unhealthy-looking seventy.

  ‘Are you looking for Jez?’ The man had a strong Welsh accent.

  Sara listened to Drake as he asked the man in Welsh if he knew where Ellingham might be. She knew enough of the language from school and the classes the Wales Police Service offered to understand the exchange.

  After thanking the man Drake turned to Sara. ‘Apparently he’s got a shed at the bottom of the garden.’

  She followed Drake’s laboured progress around the gable as he placed his feet carefully, like a ballerina on a stage littered with broken glass. She had noticed the occasional idiosyncrasy during her first two days – there wasn’t a single sheet of paper out of place on his desk – and she wondered how anyone could manage
such neatness. His careful manoeuvring to dodge the muddy areas of the path didn’t prevent his brogues from getting dirty nor the hem of his trousers from being soiled. Sara dismissed any concerns. They had a job to do, a person to interview. Clothes could always be dry-cleaned.

  Another path crossed the rear of the properties. The gardens that led off it were longer and wider than Sara had expected.

  A path of loose gravel lined one edge of Ellingham’s garden, which bordered vegetable beds with raised banks of potatoes and wigwam stands ready for runner beans. At the far end stood an old shed, its front step worn thin in the middle. The heavy stink of creosote hung in the air. Drake yanked open the door and yelled. ‘Jeremy Ellingham.’

  He didn’t wait for any response and, indicating for Sara to follow him, he entered.

  Immediately the smell of cannabis tickled her nose. Windows on each wall and on the rear gable allowed light to pour in. Towards the back a man was pinning various pieces of newspaper cuttings to a board on an easel. Sara tuned into the only sound, the man’s voice humming along to the music playing through his earphones, the cables dangling around his neck.

  Drake shouted his name again.

  The man turned, startled, leant over to a stereo system and pulled out the earphone plugs. The sound of crashing cymbals and what sounded like a cash register filled the air.

  Drake tilted his head, obviously appreciating the music. ‘Pink Floyd.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Warrant cards produced, Ellingham stood waiting.

  ‘We are investigating the murder of Gloria Patton.’

  Ellingham nodded and now leant over and switched off the music.

  ‘She was the curator of the Orme Arts Festival.’

  ‘I know who she was.’

  Drake gave Ellingham a quizzical look. ‘She rejected your entry. And—’

  ‘Do you think that would give me a motive to kill her? I’m an established artist. I have exhibitions all over the world.’

  Drake paused. ‘What sort of art do you produce?’

  ‘Produce? My practice, Inspector, is multidisciplinary. I work in different media. I’m not constrained by one particular discipline.’

  ‘Do you paint?’ Sara asked.

  He gave a brief snort. ‘Painting is dead. It’s the visual arts that are the future.’

  Just like the unmade bed that surrounded Gloria Patton, Sara thought.

  Drake persevered. ‘So what sort of work did you submit to the festival?’

  Ellingham frowned at Drake, as though to answer was beneath him. ‘I can’t explain it to you. I’m an artist. You’ll have to experience it for yourself.’

  Sara glanced around the old shed wondering if it really was the studio of an internationally renowned artist. Garden implements stood upright in an oil drum in one corner. Tools were scattered over workbenches, bits of old plant pots and polystyrene piled in various boxes.

  ‘When did you see Gloria Patton last?’ Drake said.

  Sara noticed the white of Ellingham’s eyes, which seemed to bulge as he rolled them in exasperation. She imagined an artist being much older than the man standing before them. She guessed he was about five foot seven; the T-shirt with a large bicycle printed on its front flapped around his thin frame. His clean-shaven jawline and broad cheeks made him look younger than he probably was, and less eccentric, although his replies were distinctly strange.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Drake folded his arm and took a couple of steps towards Ellingham. Sara sensed his impatience. ‘Ok, where were you the night before last?’

  Ellingham squinted at Drake.

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’

  ‘My girlfriend. I’ll get her to contact you.’

  Both men kept staring at each other and for a moment Sara wasn’t certain if she should say something. Drake eventually broke the silence. ‘Good, we’ll need full details of your girlfriend and her address.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sara jotted down the details in her pocketbook.

  They left and walked back up the gravel path, leaving Ellingham standing on the threshold.

  As they approached the car, Sara turned to Drake. ‘What did you make of him, boss?’ She had a clear opinion of Ellingham but as she was new to working with Drake she decided to keep it to herself.

  ‘He was an obnoxious little runt.’

  ‘But he has an alibi.’

  ‘We’ll check it out. In fact, we can do that now.’

  Drake turned on his heels. Sara followed behind him. He hammered on the front door of Ellingham’s neighbour’s house. The same man emerged still drawing on a thin cigarette at his lips. Drake used more charm than he had with Ellingham. Sara understood most of the conversation and she heard the word ‘cariad’ which she knew could mean girlfriend and Drake referred to Ellingham a couple of times.

  After a few minutes Sara recognised ‘diolch’ for thank you and they retraced their steps back to the car. ‘He’s seen a girl there regularly. He saw her arriving there on the night of Patton’s death.’

  ‘We’ll need to interview her.’

  Drake nodded. Sara got in and started the engine, a niggle in her mind that something was odd about Ellingham. ‘It’s difficult to get a straight answer from these arty types.’

  ‘Let’s hope the next one will be more helpful.’

  Chapter 9

  Drake sat next to Sara on an old sofa in a cramped room of Wood’s cottage. The warmth of the spring sunshine had little effect inside the house. An open fire filled the room with a sweet smell and a natural energy. Wood chose an old chair that sank under his weight; his position propelled his strong legs in front of him and Drake could imagine how his physique might intimidate Gloria Patton. His neatly trimmed hair contrasted with the stained pair of ratting trousers he wore.

  ‘Sergeant Morgan doesn’t speak Welsh.’ Drake forced a friendly tone.

  He wasn’t certain how much of his initial exchange with Geraint Wood Sara had understood. Many officers in Northern Division lacked the confidence in speaking Welsh but could follow a rudimentary conversation.

  Geraint gave Sara a look that turned from sympathy to hostility. ‘But I’m sure there’s a lot she understands.’

  Drake ignored him. ‘We’re investigating the death of Gloria Patton.’

  Wood nodded.

  ‘We’ve had details of an argument you had with Gloria after she rejected work you submitted to the Orme Arts Festival.’

  ‘The woman was a racist. She went out of her way to reject the work of Welsh artists, favouring her English friends and then only those she thought might attract publicity. The sort of artists that would help her make a name for herself.’

  ‘How did you feel when she rejected your work?’

  Wood clasped his hands together into a tight, strong fist. ‘I hated how I’d been treated.’

  ‘So you threatened her.’

  Wood guffawed. ‘I didn’t threaten. I might have raised my voice, shouted even. But I didn’t threaten. I wanted her to see sense.’

  Big men who were bullies never realise the effect they have on people, Drake thought.

  ‘The staff at Gloria’s gallery told us about your visit.’

  ‘Gallery? You must be joking. It’s a pathetic little shop where she sold trinkets and touristy crap. And some paintings, occasionally. But you can’t call it a gallery.’

  ‘But she was curator of the Orme Arts Festival.’

  ‘She wouldn’t know how to curate the paintings of a group of five-year-olds.’

  Sara butted in. ‘Why was she in charge of such an event then, if she was so poorly qualified?’

  Wood seemed to relax; he stretched out his hands, showing open palms. ‘It would have nothing of course to do with the fact she slept with everybody of any importance.’

  Even if Wood’s comments were no more than petty jealousy they would have to investigate. ‘So who was she hav
ing a relationship with?’ Drake said.

  ‘There were two men in the council responsible for supporting the Orme Arts Festival. The whole thing couldn’t survive without grants. She had been able to persuade them to part with tens of thousands of pounds and in the end she did nothing to support local artists.’

  ‘Do you know their names?’

  ‘One was a guy called Maxwell… something; the other one is called Jackson. I can’t remember his first name.’

  ‘How do you know about these men?’

  ‘Everyone knows everybody else’s business round here.’ Wood smiled.

  ‘What sort of art do you specialise in?’ After his encounter with Norma Buckland and Jeremy Ellingham, Drake expected an evasive, patronising reply. ‘I make video installations.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Dead simple really. I make videos people can watch.’

  Sara piped up. ‘Where do you exhibit?’

  ‘I am represented by a gallery in Liverpool.’ Sara scribbled down the name and the address.

  ‘Can you account for your movements the night before last when Gloria Patton was killed?’

  ‘Of course I can. I was here in bed, all night.’ Wood paused. ‘And before you ask, I was alone. So nobody can give me an alibi. Does that make me a suspect?’

  * * *

  It was the end of the afternoon when Drake and Sara arrived back at headquarters. Heavy traffic from tourists heading down the Conwy Valley for the weekend had snarled their progress. Sara found a parking space and after locking the car, they headed for the entrance.

  ‘Do we make both Ellingham and Wood formal suspects, sir?’

  ‘All we’ve learnt is that both men had a motive and that the art world is a fickle place where emotions run deep.’

  ‘There was something odd about Ellingham,’ Sara said. ‘I couldn’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘Female intuition?’

  Sara nodded. Drake continued. ‘Geraint Wood made clear he hated Gloria Patton. But for now I think we have to concentrate on the Bucklands.’