A Painted Doom (13 page)

‘Can I help you, madam?’ she asked formally.

‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’

Trish looked at the woman’s face and decided that her anxiety was genuine. ‘Could you tell me your name, madam?’

‘Sherry Smyth. Why? What’s happened?’

‘And you’re a friend of Mr Shellmer’s?’

‘His girlfriend. Why? Where’s Jonny. What’s happened? Has something happened to him? Is he all right?’ Sherry Smyth was becoming
quite agitated.

Trish wondered what to do for the best. The woman obviously hadn’t heard that Jonny Shellmer was dead. Should she tell her
there and then or should it wait until she was down at the station sitting in an interview room with a nice cup of hot sweet
tea? She decided that it would be kinder in the long run to get it over with. She put on her best sympathetic expression and
broke the news as gently as she could.

Sherry Smyth said she had been staying at a health farm
for the past few days – a place mercifully free of television and newspapers – so she hadn’t been aware of the news coverage.
The shock on her sun-bronzed face was undoubtedly genuine. Trish judged that she needed a cup of tea, if not something stronger,
so she knocked at the cottage next door. She knew she could rely on them to look after Sherry while she called the station.

Twenty minutes later, as Rachel Tracey and Steve Carstairs arrived in the patrol car to question Jonny Shellmer’s girlfriend,
Trish spotted a small blue car draw up a little way down the road. She couldn’t see the driver clearly as he or she was wearing
a hood that disguised both gender and features. It was strange, Trish thought, to wear a hood inside a car, especially on
a bright spring day.

As the car drove off slowly, Trish took her notebook from her pocket and wrote down the registration number. The boss was
always telling them to use their initiative.

‘So what’s she told us so far?’ Gerry Heffernan sat back in the passenger seat while Wesley concentrated on the road ahead.

‘Rachel and Steve have spoken to her and she’s given them chapter and verse on Shellmer’s private life and all his associates,
past and present.’

‘Has Paul Heygarth’s name been mentioned?’

Wesley took his eyes off the road for a split second and glanced at his boss. ‘Not that I’ve heard.’ He paused while he concentrated
on overtaking a tractor. ‘Poor woman,’ he said. ‘Comes down expecting to spend the weekend with her boyfriend and finds he’s
been murdered.’

‘Any chance she might be responsible?’

‘No. She’s been at a health farm in Surrey all week. She’s a dancer and she’s been working in a West End Show, so when she
got the chance of a break she gave herself a week on the carrot juice as a treat. Her story’s been checked out: she’s telling
the truth.’

‘How long has she known Shellmer?’

‘Eighteen months, she says. She couldn’t tell us much about his early life, except that he grew up in Liverpool, so we still
don’t know if he has any local connections. She says he didn’t talk much about his childhood, but he told her that his parents
split up when he was young. He was married when he was still in his teens to a girl named Liz, and they had a son, now grown
up, of course. I found a photo of them in the cottage, apparently the marriage didn’t last long.’

He thought for a moment. ‘He might have come down here on holiday. I found another old snap in his cottage; it was of a group
of kids and it was certainly taken locally. I’m certain that one of the kids was Shellmer but the photo was fuzzy so it wasn’t
easy to tell.’

‘Well, keep digging. We need to track down the ex-wife and son. What about his work, his music? Anything there?’

‘Not really. She said he’s been writing a lot of songs since Rock Boat broke up. He’s made some solo albums and other artists
have recorded his songs. According to her he wasn’t doing too badly. And she’s certain he had no enemies. Her exact words
were “everyone liked Jonny”.’

‘Somebody didn’t. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Jonny told her there was someone very special he wanted her to meet. He said he was going to introduce her to this person
this weekend.’

‘Who was it?’

‘He never said … just someone special.’

‘That woman who was looking through the cottage window? Long-lost illegitimate child?’

‘Anything’s possible.’ Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘If that woman was hanging around here, I’m just wondering if she
was a stalker, some crazed fan who might have followed him the day he was killed. In which case she’d be a vital witness.’

Heffernan grunted. ‘Bit far fetched, isn’t it? The phantom stalker.’

‘A lot of celebrities are stalked. Occupational hazard.’ Wesley grinned. ‘Almost makes you glad you’re a humble copper, doesn’t
it.’ Heffernan grunted again. ‘Anyway, I think it’s worth tracking the woman down and having a word … whoever she is.’

‘You could be right. Did Sherry Smyth say anything else?’

‘Apparently his things didn’t go into storage. He sold his last place fully furnished and had a big clear-out. He wanted to
make a new start, she said. She’s been very helpful in compiling a list of Shellmer’s associates, including the ex-members
of Rock Boat and their manager. She mentioned that the manager’s a keen sailor, so if we need to interview him I’ll leave
it to you, shall I?’ Wesley grinned. ‘She also said that he’s been trying to get the group together again for a tour.’

Gerry Heffernan shook his head. ‘I would have thought they’d be a bit past their sell-by date. Mind you, nostalgia’s big business.
Was Jonny Shellmer keen on the idea?’

‘Sherry says he was quite happy with the way his solo and songwriting career was going and he wanted to lead a quieter life.
The last thing he wanted to do was to start touring again on a regular basis, but she said if it was a one-off reunion tour
he would have considered it. Another thing that might interest you is that, as far as Sherry knows, the ex-wife lives in Liverpool.
The son must be in his thirties now, but she didn’t know much about him. Shellmer hadn’t seen them for years, apparently,
but Sherry doesn’t think there was any ill feeling there – just a teenage marriage that didn’t work out.’

‘They’ll still have to be told.’

‘We can get Merseyside police to track ’em down and break the news – if they haven’t already heard it by now.’

Gerry Heffernan gave an almost imperceptible half-smile which told Wesley that he had other ideas.

When they reached Derenham, Wesley took the road leading to the Old Vicarage. Hoxworthy’s barn loomed up
on their right and he changed gear to turn into the farm drive. ‘I’d like a quick word with the Hoxworthys before we talk
to these people in the Old Vicarage lodge.’

‘Why?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded mildly exasperated.

‘Well, Terry Hoxworthy found the body and …’

‘We know who shot Shellmer. I don’t know why you’re making such heavy weather of this case, Wes, I really don’t.’

Wesley decided to ignore his boss’s last comment. ‘I think young Lewis’s disappearance just after a body’s found near by is
too much of a coincidence.’ He stared at the farmhouse ahead of them in the distance. ‘I reckon you can see the field where
Shellmer’s body was found from the upstairs windows of Hoxworthy’s place. If Lewis’s room happens to overlook …’

‘You think he might have seen something?’ Heffernan latched on quick.

‘It’s possible.’

They left the car near the drive gates. Wesley wanted to walk the half-mile up to the house, to kill two birds with one stone.
This way they had to pass the barn where the painting he’d heard so much about had been found, and Wesley was hoping for a
glimpse of the thing.

The huge barn doors were wide open: now was his chance. Without a word to the boss, he took a detour. Heffernan followed.

‘What is it? What are you looking in here for? Do you think Lewis might be playing hide-and-seek in this old place?’

‘Neil told Pam they’d found some sort of huge medieval painting in the barn. I want to see if it’s still here.’

He walked on ahead, across the straw-covered floor of the great barn. He soon saw what he was looking for. Propped up against
the far wall was a massive semicircular painting, at least fifteen feet high, its figures standing out clearly in the watery
sunlight that streamed through the barn doors. One side heaven and one side hell.

In the centre, the Almighty, bearded and robed in white, sat in judgement on the assembled sinners, aided and abetted by helpful
saints armed with scales and large books, presumably containing records of good and bad deeds. The virtuous to the right wore
smug expressions as they enjoyed an everlasting bliss with sumptuous clouds and soaring angels. But it was the fate of the
damned on the left which caught Wesley’s eye. The artists hadn’t backed off from depicting any torture or depravity, however
horrific. Lewd, leering devils committed serious sexual assaults on naked women and men alike, while their colleagues inflicted
various agonising tortures with hot irons, racks and chains on vulnerable white bodies.

‘Whoever painted that was sick,’ Heffernan stated bluntly.

Wesley stared at it in silence. The thing made him uncomfortable, but somehow he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Then a soft female voice made him turn round. It belonged to a slim woman in her late thirties with an untidy ponytail. ‘It’s
a Doom,’ she said quietly. ‘They used to have them in churches, often over the chancel arch at the front so everyone could
see what was in store for them.’

Wesley nodded. ‘It’s very, er … powerful.’

The woman looked pleasantly surprised. ‘You’re interested in medieval art?’

‘I’m no expert but I suppose I know the basics.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Peterson and this is DCI Heffernan.
Tradmouth CID.’

The woman shook his hand firmly. ‘I’m Emma Fawley from the county museum. You’re not the Wesley Peterson Neil Watson was telling
me about? The one who was at university with him and worked in the Arts and Antique squad at the Met?’

Wesley shuffled his feet modestly. ‘That’s me.’

‘It was Neil who discovered the Doom when he was examining the barn. I’m really pleased to meet you. I
suppose you’re here because of that murder. Terrible business. Some ageing rock star, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ Wesley replied quickly, anxious to change the subject. ‘Have you any idea yet where the Doom came from?’ At
that moment he felt more inclined to discuss art than Jonny Shellmer’s death. He glanced round at Heffernan and saw that he
was still staring at the painting, his mouth gaping open.

‘It must have come from one of the churches around here. I’d guess at Derenham; probably rescued from destruction in the Reformation.
You’d hardly move a thing that size very far. Have you been up to see Neil’s dig yet? At the other side of the village near
the church.’

‘I went there when a skull was found by builders digging the foundations for the new village hall, but I’ve not been since
Neil began work there,’ he said with genuine regret.

‘It’s possible that the manor house they’ve discovered had connections with a family called Merrivale who owned most of this
land in the Middle Ages. They’d probably have been major benefactors of the church – maybe even had this Doom painted. I’m
told that some Victorian vicar of Derenham found a pile of well-preserved medieval letters relating to the Merrivales and
published them. Neil’s hoping to track down an edition – there’s always a chance the letters might tell us something about
the origins of the Doom.’

‘What happened to the original letters? Are they in some museum or archive?’

‘Nobody knows what became of them. The church sold the Old Vicarage to private buyers back in the early sixties. If they were
still there they might have been lost or sold off in some job lot at an auction of the contents. Shame.’

Gerry Heffernan nudged Wesley’s arm. Wesley could sense the boss was anxious to be away.

‘I’m sorry, Emma, we’d better get a move on. It was very good to meet you.’

‘I hope we’ll see you around here again.’

Wesley stood for a moment, staring at the great painting, reluctant to move. ‘It seems to be in very good condition,’ he said.

‘Yes, it is … considering.’

‘Where will it end up?’

‘I’ve really no idea. We’ll have to discover a bit about its history first. I’ve been contacted by a Maggie Flowers, who’s
organising a history evening at Derenham church. She asked if it could be put on display there and I said it seemed like a
good idea. That’s where it probably came from, after all.’

Maggie Flowers, the woman photographed in the
Tradmouth Echo
with Jonny Shellmer. She was another person Wesley wanted to talk to. He made a mental note to pay her a visit at the first
opportunity.

Heffernan nudged Wesley. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said to Emma. ‘I’ll have to drag him away. Much as I’ve enjoyed our little art
appreciation class, we’ve got a murder to investigate, you know.’

Wesley smiled at Emma apologetically and said goodbye. ‘I wouldn’t put that thing in a church,’ Heffernan mumbled as they
walked down the track to the farmhouse. ‘It’s obscene. All those naked bodies and them devils doing, er, whatever it is they
were doing.’

‘I suppose it was to illustrate the consequences of sin,’ Wesley answered, trying not to smile.

Gerry Heffernan grunted. ‘Perhaps we should ask the Chief Constable to put one up outside every nick – that should cut our
crime figures.’

The two men walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in silence. Wesley stared in the direction of the church tower that
peeped through the budding trees. The church – and Neil’s dig – seemed far away at the moment. But perhaps that was for the
best. The last thing he needed now was a distraction.

Jill Hoxworthy answered the door. She looked as though she hadn’t slept, which, Wesley thought, was hardly
surprising. She watched their faces keenly, hopefully, as though she expected them to be bearing news of Lewis, and Wesley
felt guilty that he had nothing to tell her which would put her mind at rest. She stood aside to let them in, then she led
them into the living room and sank down on the sofa – an ancient construction in dark red moquette inherited from her parents
shortly after her marriage and never replaced – before pulling a tissue from a box on the floor. She dabbed her eyes with
it and screwed it up in her hand absent-mindedly.