Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (13 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Now that they were actually in France, Dylan knew Bev was right. This
was
completely insane. Prue Murphy had been murdered in Dawson’s Clough and that’s where he should be asking questions.

They’d spent all of yesterday in Paris talking to people who’d known Prue—residents of the building where she’d lived, staff at the café where she’d worked, local shopkeepers. Without exception, these people remembered Prue fondly and had been shocked and saddened to learn of her death. Many had received Christmas cards from her. None, however, had heard her mention Jack McIntyre. No one knew of any paintings or anything of value she’d owned.

He’d hoped someone might confirm that she’d been a friend of McIntyre’s. But so what if they had? It meant nothing.

This morning, Dylan was driving along the picturesque coastal road in search of McIntyre’s cottage. Frank, sitting beside him, was too busy admiring the scenery to say much. If the directions they had were correct, all they had to do was keep on this road through the village and carry on for another couple of miles.

It was easier to look for McIntyre’s cottage than think about Bev’s wild theories. Dylan had told her in no uncertain terms that no way on God’s earth did Boris look like him. He just didn’t. She must have drunk more wine than he’d thought. Dylan had spent many years wondering who his father might be, and he still had no idea, but he did know that it wasn’t Boris. It was ridiculous. He pushed the notion from his mind.

The village was small but undeniably pretty with gardens a mass of cheerful colour. Sadly, a sky heavy with grey cloud didn’t do it justice.

“I can’t see us having much of a pub crawl tonight,” Frank said.

They hadn’t had much of one last night either. France, it seemed, closed on Sundays.

“No. I’ve spied two restaurants and one small bar so far.”

“The French have always been more interested in their food than their drink.”

“They’re good with wine. And champagne.” Dylan drove out of the village, and continued along the coast road.

“It’s not what you’d call populated, is it?” Frank said.

The road, more track than road, was deserted. All Dylan could see was countryside to his right and sea to his left. The sea was the same dull colour as the sky.

“That’s what McIntyre wanted,” Dylan said. “He wanted to get away from the public eye. Or so everyone says. I’d never heard of him so I can’t imagine he was beating off the paparazzi at every turn.”

“But you’re a complete numbskull when it comes to art.”

Dylan grinned. “I prefer to believe that people who’ll pay upwards of sixty grand for a three-by-three painting are the numbskulls.”

“There’s a shed.” Frank pointed. “And there’s a cottage. That must be it.”

“Must be. Yes, because here’s the track.” Dylan turned off the road and winced as his Morgan bounced off deep ruts. “Who the hell would want to live here?”

“Someone who wanted to get away from the world.”

The track to the cottage didn’t look as if it had been used since Adam was a lad. It meandered halfway to the beach and then stopped. If McIntyre had owned a car, he would have had a hundred yards to carry his groceries from track to cottage.

“And squatters perhaps,” Frank added.

They abandoned the Morgan and crossed the pebbly foreshore to the tiny cottage. It was so small that the ground floor would have fitted comfortably in Davina McIntyre’s games room.

“Do you think this is it?” Dylan asked.

Frank nodded to a wooden sign by the door. “There can’t be too many cottages called Overlander near the village, can there?”

Dylan peered through a window into a small sitting room. A couple of books lay on a table, patiently waiting for their owner to return. An empty yellow jug sat in the window. An old wooden clock showed the correct time. It was as if the cottage’s owner had simply stepped out to stroll along the shore.

“It’s the perfect home for a painter,” Frank said.

“What makes you say that? In any case, he wasn’t. A painter I mean. He’d quit.”

Frank was looking through another window. “Look at this room. The windows, the light—an ideal studio.”

“But he wasn’t painting,” Dylan said again.

“Once a painter, always a painter.”

This room was larger but empty except for a sofa, a couple of wooden cupboards and a square table. Apart from that and the sitting room, there was a tiny kitchen that looked out to sea. Dylan guessed there would be a bathroom and either one or two bedrooms upstairs.

Fifty yards away was the shed or, more likely, boathouse. Without speaking, they walked over to inspect it. It only had two small windows and a look through those showed them nothing of interest. Apart from a few tools, half a dozen plastic containers and several metres of coiled rope, it was empty.

They stood and gazed out to sea, where gulls circled and tried to deafen them.

“I’d like a place like this,” Frank said.

“It would be a long walk to the pub.”

“A mile and a half? Two miles? That would be a pleasant stroll on a summer’s evening.”

They walked back to the cottage and peered through the windows again. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen so someone had to be keeping an eye on it until the French authorities allowed McIntyre’s estate to be wound up.

The sound of a car’s engine had Dylan looking up. “We’ve got company, Frank.”

A battered beige Citroén parked next to the Morgan and the passenger, a round woman carrying a basket, strode toward them to deliver a torrent of abuse in French.

“I expect that translates as ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’” Frank murmured.

The woman, fresh-faced and pushing sixty, might be harmless enough but her companion currently crossing the ground in long, angry strides was built along the lines of an armoured tank.

“Do you speak English?” Dylan asked him.

“Well enough to tell you you’re trespassing.”

He was English. Up close, he was huge. Beneath a grubby black coat with dozens of zipped pockets, he wore a checked red shirt that strained to cover his massive chest. Thankfully, of the two, the woman looked more eager for a fight.

“Yes, sorry about that,” Dylan said. “We’re from England and—well, it’s a long story but we’re looking for someone who might have known Jack McIntyre.”

“Then you’re in luck. You’ve found two of us.” Even his voice was big, deep and strong.

“And you are?” Frank asked.

“We’re the caretakers. And you’re still trespassing.”

“Then let me make introductions,” Dylan said. “This is DCI Frank Willoughby—”

Dylan had no intention of mentioning that Frank was retired and had only come along for the pub crawl, but Frank went one better. He reached into his pocket and pulled out ID that was inspected.

“I’m Dylan Scott. And you’re—?”

“I’m Elliott Tolman. This is my wife, Coletta. Like I said, we’re caretakers. Coletta used to keep house for Jack and I did a few odd jobs. Now, we both keep an eye on the place.”

Dylan put out his hand and it was reluctantly shaken.

Tolman clearly wasn’t impressed by being in the presence of a DCI. He seemed slightly happier with the situation than his wife but still looked as if he wanted to break every bone in their bodies. Twice.

Those grey clouds had turned an angry black, and a few plump raindrops landed on them.

“We spoke to Davina, Mr. McIntyre’s widow, and she gave us this address,” Dylan said. Davina
had
given him the address of this cottage, but only because he’d made a mental note when looking at the photos and newspaper clipping she’d shown him.

Tolman spoke to his wife in French. She looked at Dylan and Frank, then began stomping across the pebbles to the cottage. They all followed. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket and opened the door to the cottage. They trooped inside.

With four of them in the minuscule kitchen, it was difficult to breathe. Somehow, someone had crammed a cooker, a small fridge-freezer and a washing machine into the room. The walls were covered not with paintings as one might have expected but with framed black-and-white photographs of beach scenes.

“The case we’re working on—” Dylan began. “Amongst a woman’s possessions, we found one of Mr. McIntyre’s paintings. A miniature. We’re trying to find out if the woman in question knew him.”

“You talk to Mrs. Davina?” Coletta asked.

“Yes,” Dylan said.

“That’s why we’re here.” Frank gave her his most reassuring smile.

Dylan took the dog-eared photo of Prue from his pocket and held it out. “We need to know if this woman knew Jack McIntyre.”

Tolman took it from him and seemed to flinch. Without saying a word, he handed it to his wife.

“Prue!” Coletta squinted at Dylan. “Why you want to know about Prue?”

“You know her?” Frank asked.

“Of course.” Coletta looked to her husband and clearly regretted admitting as much. He simply shrugged.

“She was a friend of Mr. McIntyre’s?” Dylan asked.

Coletta looked at Tolman again and received another shrug. “Of course,” she said.

“Why do you want to know?” Tolman asked.

Dylan thought about suggesting they move to another room, one where they could swing a cat if they chose to, but he wasn’t going to push his luck. Tolman still looked anything but friendly.

“I’m afraid Prue is dead,” Dylan said.

Coletta’s English wasn’t good, but she understood that. A hand flew to her mouth as if she needed to stop herself crying out.

“Dead?” Her voice was a shocked whisper. “But how? She was so young. Always so healthy.”

Her English was a lot better than Dylan had realised. And certainly a lot better than his French.

“There’s a possibility that she disturbed a burglar in her home,” Dylan said. “She was killed, I’m afraid.”

Coletta dug in the pocket of her trousers for a handkerchief. She dabbed at suddenly damp eyes and then blew her nose. “Wicked.”

“When was this?” Tolman still looked suspicious.

“She was buried just over a week ago,” Dylan said. “I’m an old friend of Prue’s—and of Maddie, her sister. Although everything points to Prue disturbing a burglar, we feel we need to look into it. You see, she phoned her sister the night it happened and she sounded worried. Frightened even. She was planning to visit her sister the next day but, of course, she never turned up.”

“Wicked,” Coletta said again.

“You need to sit down. You’ve had a shock.” Frank took Coletta by the arm and led her out of the kitchen. Dylan and Tolman followed them to the sitting room where, finally, they had space to breathe.

“We found one of Mr. McIntyre’s paintings when we were sorting out her possessions,” Dylan explained.

“She didn’t speak of him?” Coletta asked.

“No.” Not to her parents or her sister. Not to anyone else that Dylan knew of. Except Danny Thompson perhaps. During a drunken session at his wine bar, she’d given Thompson the impression that there had been a man she couldn’t have. Married or gay. Presumably McIntyre only came under the former heading.

“Did she come here?” Frank asked.

Coletta spouted a long speech in French for Tolman. The only parts Dylan managed to catch were
both dead
and
nothing matters now.

“Yes,” she said. “She was here for about two months.”

“Living here?” Dylan asked.

“Yes.”

Prue Murphy, who’d rented the cheapest property she could find and who bought her clothes from charity shops and supermarkets, had lived with the renowned—and wealthy—artist Jack McIntyre? And no one had known about it?

Surely she would have told her sister. Dylan wasn’t convinced that Maddie and Prue had been the best of friends, but surely Prue would have mentioned McIntyre. She may have been reluctant to tell her parents in case they disapproved of their daughter having a relationship with a married man, especially one old enough to be her father, but she must have told someone.

“They were—?”

“Lovers.” Coletta dabbed at her eyes again. “They were happy here. So happy.”

“You’re police?” Tolman asked, distrust in every syllable.

“Lancashire CID,” Frank said, and he flashed his ID again.

Tolman seemed to accept this. “Sit down.”

Coletta was already sitting in an armchair. There were two other chairs and Tolman indicated that Dylan and Frank should take those. He was happy to tower over them.

“Most people round here didn’t have a clue who Jack was,” Tolman said, “because he didn’t want journalists finding him. He’d given up painting—he’d lost the inclination. He was tired of living in the public eye.”

“I see.” Dylan waited for more but Mr. and Mrs. Tolman were clearly shocked by the news and didn’t know what to say.

“When did you last see Prue?” he asked them.