The Backs (2013) (35 page)

‘Hi,’ she said, as she shook his hand. Her manner was refreshingly straightforward. ‘You’re the officer who met with my husband.’

‘He told you, then.’

‘We’ve had a struggle undoubtedly, so the least we could do was be honest with one another.’ She had a very direct gaze and didn’t seem aware that she was scrutinizing him as intently as she appeared to be. ‘Have you discovered something?’

‘There is an ongoing investigation and once that concludes, we will contact you.’

‘That’s not all, I hope.’ Her eyes flickered continually and she seemed to read his expression as closely as she must have read Jackson’s. He therefore thought he would know immediately if the business card meant anything to her. ‘I mean that’s not the only reason you’re here. You said you had something to show me?’

He took his wallet and held it, partly opened, as he spoke. ‘I have a card here. It is similar to one that Rebecca Osborne was given on the day of her death.’ He took it from its pocket and placed it in her hand, all in one move. ‘Please tell me if you recognize it.’

Her fingers jolted as if a shock of electricity had run through them. She nodded slowly a couple of times. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, then continued staring down at it for a few seconds more, with her head bowed. Emotion had flushed her cheeks an even deeper red.

‘Do you understand what this means?’ She shut her eyes. ‘I could never have properly described this card but, now that I’ve seen it, I
know
this is what I saw. This is the answer to seven years . . .’ The words caught in her throat, and silently she began to cry. The tears slipped from her tightly closed eyes, some falling on to her lap, the others on to the grey tabletop. ‘Seven years of feeling doubted . . . of doubting myself.’ Goodhew grabbed a couple of serviettes from the counter behind him, took Becca’s card from her and pressed the tissues into her hand instead.

She looked up for a moment, her face crumpled with anguish, and he cursed the stupidity of arranging to meet her in such a public place. ‘I’m sorry. Maybe we should go somewhere quieter.’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she murmured, and she didn’t seem to care that she’d been sobbing openly. She clutched the ball of damp tissue in her fist. ‘I’ve remembered something. A man’s foot. He stepped closer to my face as I fell forward. Then he went the other way, back into the house. It was never Jackson. He didn’t do it.’

Goodhew held Becca’s card in one hand, turning it over as he explained it to Marks. He had almost phoned the DI from the taxi on his way back, but decided to wait as he wanted to see his expression. Now he was in front of his boss’s desk, and looking straight at him, but was none the wiser. Marks was at his most inscrutable.

‘Sir?’

‘So the evidence
was
tampered with?’

‘Yes, someone took the card.’ Goodhew had said virtually the same thing a few minutes earlier, but now he guessed that Marks had moved on to thinking about the knife that had killed Becca and stabbed Genevieve Barnes. Or, more specifically, whether that had also been interfered with.

But it took another couple of minutes still before Marks was ready to voice his thoughts. ‘That knife
was
deliberately mislabelled for forensics,’ he said finally, ‘and, because of that, we couldn’t prove the chain of evidence. It was therefore disallowed.’ He was speaking almost to himself, but with total certainty.

‘Who would have done that – and why?’

Marks seemed to consider this carefully, but in the end his expression flickered till his gaze fell squarely on Goodhew. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I made a mistake, because I was distracted.’ He double-blinked. ‘Forget the knife for now,’ he urged, seeming oblivious to the fact that he was the only one who had mentioned it.

Goodhew pushed the bank statements back across the desk towards his superior. ‘One thing jumps out, sir,’ he said, and tapped at a few notes he’d written in summary across the front page. ‘Gerry Osborne received some arts funding and some critical recognition but, until the publicity surrounding Becca’s death, he had never earned a penny. He sold some small pieces, it’s true, but never enough to cover his costs. As a result, the accounts steadily dwindled.’

Marks read the summary but then flicked through to the detail and cross-checked several minor points. He stopped when he was satisfied. ‘Go on, then.’

‘If you check the months after Becca’s death hit the headlines, after the press had jumped all over it with that whole
tortured artist
angle, it was only then that the sales and exhibitions start to come in.’

‘Unless he’s just under-reported income for the benefit of his accounts?’

‘I don’t think so. The amount he charged for individual pieces rose sharply, while before then he wouldn’t have made a living even if he’d sold all of them.’

‘I remember. We looked into the family finances during Becca Osborne’s murder inquiry, and there had been family money inherited from Gerry’s parents.’

Goodhew nodded. ‘But it had shrunk considerably, till a year later, it was down to virtually nothing. He employed his son Dan as the sales started to come in. But by the time he bought back the house from Mary, he was left struggling again.’

‘Sheen always pointed out that Gerry Osborne smashing that work of his,
Singular Fascination
, could be just a publicity stunt. I’ve never agreed, mind you, but maybe it did give his profile a boost just at the right moment.’ Marks picked up his phone and tapped a four-digit extension number. ‘Tom? Would you pop down with anything you have on Gerry Osborne’s sculptures – I mean exhibitions, sales and the like. Pull out everything you can, but we’re especially interested in anything that relates to actual sales of his work.’

He put the phone down. ‘What do you think of his sculptures?’

‘I don’t know what any of it is, or what anyone would do with it.’ Goodhew shrugged. ‘That probably means it’s good in someone else’s eyes.’

‘Apparently it is. And no one could have foreseen the effect of Becca’s death on his sales. I doubt it’s any more sinister than a sad case of any publicity being good publicity, and Dan Osborne being there with the foresight to seize hold of the moment. You could give the audit department a call, see what they think.’

‘What audit department?’ He already knew what audit department, so his actual question should have been
Why have I been wasting my time going through financial statements, when you have a trained auditor already doing so?

‘Fresh eyes and brains that know the people
behind
the figure work,’ Marks said, reading Goodhew’s thoughts with ease. ‘If I’d asked you to do anything apart from looking at financial information, then you’d have been more than happy to go poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.’

A sharp rap on the office door interrupted them. It was Sheen in the unfamiliar surroundings of any office other than his own. ‘Here you go,’ he began. ‘Copies, so you can keep them. I put this note on top. They used the same gallery every time, so I thought you might want to have their details handy.’

Marks glanced at the Post-it note, before passing it over to Goodhew.

Goodhew nodded. ‘I’ll follow it up,’ he said and headed for the door, relieved to be setting his mind on something fresh.

There were five art galleries in King’s Parade, with The Sidgwick Gallery standing in the heart of them. The heat was now bouncing off the pavements and, by the time Goodhew had walked there from Parkside, he could feel the fabric of his shirt sticking to his back. His annoyance had cooled. He wasn’t an auditor or an accountant, but that wasn’t the mindset Marks had expected either he or Kincaide to use. By the time he pushed open the gallery door, he’d promised himself that he would apologize.

One of Gerry Osborne’s works occupied the most prominent position. It was unmistakably his, but less violently angled than any of the other pieces Goodhew had seen. Instead this one curled upwards and drew the focus of his gaze towards the ceiling.

He headed towards the counter and waited for an assistant to waft into the room. In his experience, wafting staff were a sure sign that he was out of his cultural depth. But the man who eventually came through didn’t float in silently, or seem at all offended by Goodhew’s wilted appearance. He was small-statured, in his forties, ponytailed hair and wearing one earring.

Goodhew introduced himself, enquiring, ‘Do you work here?’

‘Yes.’ He shook Goodhew’s hand. ‘I’m Carter, officially the artist in residence.’

‘Painter?’

‘That’s right. The idea is that visitors can see the art while still in progress. It stimulates interest in the artist’s work. Apparently.’

‘Not in your case?’

‘Turns out I can’t stand them all looking over my shoulder, so I work out the back there until someone comes into the gallery. But even so, as an artist, it’s the least isolated working experience I’ve ever had.’

‘Is the manager available?’

‘That’s me, apart from Saturdays. I know the shop intimately, so try me.’

Goodhew pointed to the sculpture. ‘What do you know about that piece?’

‘The latest – and Gerry’s best one, I think. It’s less fractured, more harmonious and
so
saleable.’

‘Who would be a customer for something like this?’

‘It depends. We do have occasions where a visitor will fall for a piece and purchase it spontaneously. Or perhaps return several times first . . . although those are often the ones that don’t go through with it at the last minute. We have a customer base scattered all over the world, often those who have visited us once in person and then continue to view the work via our website and online catalogues. We don’t usually get to see where our items are finally displayed.’

‘And Gerry Osborne has such a following, I take it?’

‘Absolutely. And I know he’s also received commissions for several high-concept commercial projects. Experienced collectors will understand how that strengthens an artist’s portfolio, and ultimately makes their investment more secure.’

Goodhew fought to stop his eyes glazing over. He glanced at the other exhibits. ‘Is this the only one he has with you at the moment?’

‘Probably until his next show.’

‘Will you normally contact his customers to invite them to attend an event like that?’

‘We contact all names on our mailing list for every such event. And these days we provide a virtual tour of every exhibition for those living further afield. Sales of Gerry’s work rarely come via that route, though. In fact, I don’t even know the names of the main collectors of his art.’

Goodhew frowned. ‘You mean they’re anonymous? Surely you must know who takes delivery?’

Carter shook his head. ‘The bulk of Gerry Osborne’s sales come from his own contacts. The actual sale is made through this gallery, but his son Dan deals with the dispatch.’ Carter must have spotted the look of query on Goodhew’s face, and he continued. ‘That’s not so unusual. Some artists prefer to sell through a third party, while collectors may feel that purchase through a reputable studio adds kudos.’

Goodhew frowned. ‘So they choose to insert an extra link into the sales chain? Isn’t that just what everyone else in business is trying to avoid?’

‘Artists, eh?’ A small smile touched the man’s lips. Carter then touched Goodhew’s arm, directing him back towards the sales desk. ‘This is just my personal opinion, but I sometimes think he buys the pieces himself.’

‘Why?’

‘Look at this.’ He guided Goodhew to the doorway leading into the back room, where there were as many as twenty paintings hanging on the walls. ‘These are mine and the best of them will appear in my next show. Also the best of them will hopefully sell. I can’t afford to carry on if they don’t, and I can’t ever have them back if they do. The pieces in which I feel greatest pride are, sadly, the ones I may never get to see again. Damien Hirst repurchased much of his output.’

‘Gerry Osborne’s hardly in that league?’

‘No, no, that’s very true.’ Carter suddenly seemed crestfallen, as though he’d instantly lost faith in his theory. ‘The only money Gerry has comes from his sales, therefore he wouldn’t be able to afford to – any more than I would.’

‘So what made you suggest it?’

Carter gazed across at his current canvas, a view of the spiral stairs at Great St Mary’s. Solid steps, crisp brickwork, and all of it bathed in sunshine. ‘Probably because I dream of buying my own work back all the time,’ he replied.

‘So you assume the same thing about other artists, too?’

‘Actually, no.’ Carter’s expression brightened a little. ‘Maybe it isn’t quite so far-fetched, then.’

‘Then why suspect it of Osborne?’

Carter didn’t seem to give any real thought to that question. Instead he just shrugged, and replied, ‘I really have no idea.’

Goodhew doubted that Carter and Gerry Osborne approached art with the same mindset in any way at all. Goodhew’s impression of Gerry was a man who loathed most things most of the time, and would therefore be happy to see his pieces go.

No, Carter’s logic wouldn’t apply easily to Gerry.

And yet.

And yet.

Goodhew went back to the new sculpture, labelled:
Rejoice, by Gerry Osborne
and Carter followed him into the shop.

‘Were you here the night he smashed that other one?’ Goodhew asked.

‘Singular Fascination?
Yes, people were circulating the main room, and I noticed Gerry standing there, looking distracted. He was just staring at it but his eyes looked glazed. The next moment, he attacked it. It was as if he was possessed, trying to haul it through here and away from the guests. He apologized to the Gallery the next day, and said it was no longer for sale.’

‘So he kept it?’ Goodhew asked, even though he thought he already knew the answer.

Carter straightened up and brightened again. ‘No, he thought we still had it, but Dan had picked it up weeks before and stored it somewhere else, so his dad couldn’t get hold of it.’ He frowned suddenly.
‘That’s
why.’ He stepped through into the back room again and picked up the phone. He paused, poised to dial a number. ‘This is all legitimate, isn’t it?’ he asked.