Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dylan didn’t believe this. He really didn’t believe that he was sitting in a Manchester pub with the not-so-late McIntyre.

He’d had him pinned against that wall for what had seemed an age and they’d both been breathing heavily. “You are Jack Bloody McIntyre, aren’t you?”

“Guilty,” McIntyre had replied. “And you’re Dylan Scott. I’ve admired your car. Very nice indeed.”

If he thought he was getting in Dylan’s good books by complimenting his pride and joy, he had another think coming.

“So what have you been doing at the gallery?” Dylan asked. “Admiring your paintings?”

“No.”

“What have you done? Faked your own death? Killed your old girlfriend?”

“Nothing like that.” He was well spoken and he seemed quite calm. Far calmer than Dylan at any rate.

Dylan didn’t release his grip. No way was he risking losing McIntyre again. “So what’s your story?”

“It’s a long one.” McIntyre pointed to a narrow side street. “There’s a pub down there. It’ll be packed with the scum of the earth who wouldn’t recognise a dead artist or a live private investigator.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“I’ve been watching you and I asked a few questions. I’ll buy you a drink, Dylan. I can just about afford it.”

“Too right you can. I know how much your paintings are worth.”

“They’re worth nothing to me. It’s the devil’s own job getting hold of your money when you’re dead.”

Dylan didn’t want to argue in the street, he needed a drink, several drinks, and the short walk would give him time to get his thoughts in order. The fact that McIntyre might be alive hadn’t crossed his mind and he felt like he’d been conned. He should have considered the possibility, damn it. “Come on then. Let’s have that drink. It’ll give you time to invent a good story.”

“I don’t need to invent anything...”

They’d crossed the road and walked down a narrow, busy street and here they were, in the darkest pub Dylan had ever seen. It was dingy but surprisingly busy.

They’d brought their drinks to this corner where it was unlikely anyone would be able to hear them over the hum of the TV at the other end of the bar. It was also so dark that no one would recognise them.

“So what’s it like being dead?” Dylan asked.

“Damned inconvenient.” McIntyre had bought himself whisky and he took a small sip. “It’s also necessary—for the time being, at least.”

“Why? Is this stunt supposed to increase the value of your paintings?”

“No.” McIntyre smiled at the notion. “Although I gather I’m commanding a high price.”

“Yes, well, they say fools and their money are soon parted.” Dylan had a pint of beer in front of him. He took a big swallow. It tasted flat. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Where shall I start?”

“Try the beginning, why don’t you? From the moment you met Prue Murphy.”

“Right.” McIntyre thought for long moments as if he couldn’t decide where the beginning was. “I met her in France last August when I was attending a friend’s daughter’s wedding. Caterers had been employed and Prue was working for them. There are probably worse waitresses in the world but I’ve never met one.” He smiled as he spoke. “I struck up a conversation with her and we met up the next day. She was fun to be with, we got on well, very well, and she moved in with me in September.”

That was probably a lie. Maddie and Tim had visited Prue in September. Visited her at her flat. “Go on.”

“We were happy. We were in love.” Dylan rolled his eyes, but McIntyre merely smiled. “Did you know Prue?”

“Yes. Sort of. Okay, no, not really. I knew her sister, Maddie. She’s the one who’s asked me to look into Prue’s murder.”

“Ah. And how’s Mad Maddie?”

“Do you know her?”

“Hell, no.” McIntyre grimaced. “I’ve seen photos of her so I know she’s God’s personal gift to the male population, but I never had the pleasure. She was in rehab when I was with Prue.”

“Rehab?” Dylan tried to keep the surprise from his voice, but he was struggling to keep track with the events of the last hour.

“After her nervous breakdown—or whatever it was.” McIntyre looked as puzzled as Dylan felt. “Didn’t you know about that?”

“She hasn’t mentioned it, no.”

“According to Prue—and she always referred to her sister as Mad Maddie—family members could spot the signs. Maddie would be fine, although a bit up and down emotionally, and then she’d start going downhill. It’s happened several times in the past and I gather this time was no different. Maddie took to her bed for three days—didn’t eat, drink or talk—and ended up in some place I can’t remember the name of. It’s a private clinic for the, how shall we put it, mentally fragile?”

Dylan didn’t know what to make of that. That the sisters hadn’t got along was becoming clear to him, and he wouldn’t be too surprised to learn that Maddie suffered from depression. Anyway, it wasn’t important. McIntyre’s relationship with Prue was what mattered.

“So why, if you were so in love, didn’t Prue stay with you?” he asked.

“Because she had morals, I suppose. We came from different backgrounds, and Prue—God, she insisted on paying her way in life. If I took her to dinner one night, she had to pay the next time. You would not believe the awful places I’ve eaten in. She also didn’t like being involved with a married man. Nor did she like the fact that I had a reputation for being a bit of a womaniser. On top of that lot, she believed that, one day, I’d return to the spotlight and spend my life at exhibitions and parties. It wasn’t the sort of life she wanted. I had no intention of ever returning to that life, but I couldn’t convince her of that. She decided she needed to make a fresh start for herself, far away from me. She said it was time she grew up. She was heading back to England, she said, and nothing I could say would change her mind. So I let her go. I was fairly confident she’d come back to me...” His words trailed away.

“Okay,” Dylan said, prepared to accept that for now. “So she walked out that day and met a man—who was he?”

“How do you mean, she met a man?” McIntyre’s eyes narrowed to small slits. “Where? When?”

“The day she left you.” Dylan couldn’t decide what to make of McIntyre. He didn’t trust him, but he didn’t trust a lot of people. “According to Coletta—”

“You’ve spoken to Coletta?”

“Of course. I wanted to know how Prue came to have one of your miniatures hanging on her bedroom wall. I thought it possible that she’d known you so I went and checked out your old home. I spoke to Coletta and her husband. Coletta says she saw Prue the morning she left you. Prue was supposed to be walking back to the village but she met someone. Coletta thought he might have been a tourist because Prue looked as if she was giving him directions before they walked toward the village together.”

“Perhaps he
was
a tourist although they’re thin on the ground in November.” McIntyre’s brows were drawn together as he took another sip of whisky. “I didn’t see Prue after she walked out of the cottage. Within the hour, Jeremy had arrived. He’s—was my agent.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been very thorough.”

“Not thorough enough, it seems. Carry on.”

“We were friends, Jeremy and me, but I knew why he was coming. When people start making money from your work, they want you painting every minute of every day. They want a machine.”

“So you’re just a commodity.” Dylan’s heart bled for him.

“More or less, yes. The world thought I’d quit and I was happy to let them believe that, but I’d started painting again. Painting Prue. To say she was beautiful was an understatement. She had such an expressive face. So I was painting what I thought of as the Chaste Collection. I’d sketched her coy, happy, angry, sexy, timid and excited.” He emphasised each word so that Dylan understood why he’d chosen to call the paintings the Chaste Collection. “They were nowhere close to being completed and I wasn’t ready to announce their existence to the world, so I hid the paintings from Jeremy. I had a boathouse—well, you’ve probably seen it.”

Dylan nodded.

“I hid the paintings there,” McIntyre said. “Jeremy turned up and we had lunch. He tried to show me the error of my ways—told me that prices would drop, people would lose interest in my work, the usual stuff. It didn’t take too long for him to realise that I wasn’t going to even talk about painting. Once that was out of the way, we settled down to the enjoy the day. It was a lovely one too. Unseasonably warm. We wrapped up well that evening and took the boat out.”

“In the dark?”

McIntyre laughed at that. “It’s the best time. You can’t beat sailing beneath the stars.”

Yeah, yeah. “And then what happened?”

“We’d been out for about an hour, maybe even less than that, and I’d gone below to get more wine. When I returned to the deck—” He paused briefly. “It happened so quickly. A man raised a fire extinguisher and whacked Jeremy in the face, knocking him overboard. And no, I can’t say what he looked like. The deck was lit up like Oxford Street at Christmas, but he had some sort of black mask over his head. Even if I’d had time to look, I wouldn’t have come up with a description, but I didn’t have time because he came at me with the fire extinguisher. How the hell he got on the boat or managed to stay hidden for so long, I have no idea. He meant business though. He wasn’t planning on giving me a warning tap. I managed to duck so, instead of slamming the extinguisher into my head, he only caught my shoulder. That was painful enough, believe me. It also had the desired effect of knocking me off balance and into the water. I stayed under for as long as I could, but it wasn’t many seconds before my boat was speeding off to the shore.”

Dylan was no longer sure what to believe, but McIntyre’s story was intriguing. “Go on.”

“My shoulder was killing me—almost literally. It was dislocated so I couldn’t move properly in the water. I swam around as best I could looking for Jeremy but there was no sign of him. I guessed he was dead. I swam for what seemed like hours until I reached the shore. I could see lights from the village so I aimed for those. I crawled ashore and crept back to my cottage. I don’t know what I expected to find but there was no sign of anyone. My paintings were still there—I’d hidden them well—so I grabbed those, and took some cash from the cottage. I walked and I hitched lifts. When I reached Rouen, I checked in to the hospital under a false name and got my shoulder fixed. Then I went into hiding. I was determined to find out who wanted me—and Jeremy—dead.”

His story told, McIntyre leaned back in his seat and took a large swallow of whisky.

It was some story, one Dylan didn’t know whether to believe or not. He was still reeling from the shock of realising McIntyre was alive and he was likely to believe anything right now.

“So assuming you’re telling the truth—”
never assume,
an inner voice mocked Dylan, “—why did you go into hiding? Surely, if you’d told the police what had happened, they would have stood more chance of finding the killer?”

“You think so? Then you have more faith than I have.” McIntyre emptied his glass. “Another?”

“It’s my round, I believe.” Dylan stood up and went to the bar for refills. The pub was still crowded. Most of the customers looked young and healthy enough to put in a full day’s work. Perhaps Dylan was being too harsh. Given the state of the country, getting work wasn’t easy. A dozen or so young men gathered round a TV screen to watch the racing from Chepstow. Their benefit cheques were probably resting on the backs of those nags.

He could see McIntyre thanks to a large mirror above the bar. Dylan kept watching him. He didn’t want to have to chase him twice in one day. McIntyre, however, looked suddenly weary and drained.

Dylan wasn’t necessarily falling for his story. He’d think about it long and hard and he’d remember his ABC. Accept nothing. Believe nothing. Check everything. If he’d paid more attention to that, the possibility of McIntyre being alive might have crossed his mind.

He returned to their table, set their drinks down and sat opposite McIntyre.

“Thanks.” McIntyre chinked his glass against Dylan’s. “Cheers. May the wind be on your back.”

Dylan wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. All he could do was try to process the fact that McIntyre was alive. He didn’t know what that meant, but he did know that it changed everything. “After you grabbed your paintings and left your home, what did you do? Where have you been all this time?”

“I’ve been in Paris mostly. I sold my watch for food, and earned enough money painting pictures for the tourists to get by.” He smiled at that. “There are some valuable caricatures in Paris, all unsigned of course. I’ve been mingling among the lowest of the low, trying to find out what the word is on the street. My work tripled in value the moment I hit the water, and I want to know who stands to benefit most from that.”

“How far have you got?”

“I’ve drawn a blank. Suspects, but no proof. My chief suspect lived in London,” McIntyre went on, “so I came over here. I was watching TV when I saw the news that Prue had been killed. I came north, to Dawson’s Clough and, when I saw you were involved, I knew that the police had lied about a burglar. I guessed that her death was connected to me in some way.”