The Trust, page 19
‘Yes, I guess you’re right.’ Astrid sat up. ‘Hey, that photographer mate of yours – Pete. Maybe he caught something on his camera?’
‘Good thinking. I’ll give him a shout and get him to go through his photos.’
‘Thanks, Kath.’ Astrid noticed a family approaching the table. ‘So anyway… what did you think of the icehouse? Any thoughts?’
‘Oh, yeah. It was a bit creepy to be honest.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I agree with you. That railing is too high to fall over – DeVine was definitely pushed. No doubt about it.’
The family were standing near their table. The mother sighed loudly. ‘We’ll just have to wait here in the hot sun until someone’s kind enough to finish up,’ she muttered in their direction.
‘We should probably go, Kath.’
‘Give it a minute – there’s no rush,’ she said, crushing the can in her hand.
Even though it was well into lunchtime, Kath was in no hurry to get back to work. Despite her protests at the English Trust’s ‘stranglehold’ on local cafés, the Shell Beach Café had very relaxed opening hours.
They sat there for another few minutes as the family hovered next to another table. Then they got up and arranged to split up – Kath agreeing to wait by the Mini while Astrid picked up a couple of things from the storeroom.
On the way there Astrid mulled over the recent events, trying one more time to assemble the pieces. So far, there had been two deaths, an attempted murder and the discovery of a fake painting. All these crimes had to be connected.
The forged Constable seemed the most likely starting point. Selling that off as an original would have made someone a few hundred thousand pounds – enough to make them desperate to cover their tracks. But how was that connected with DeVine, Eric and then, most bizarrely, the crossbow incident this morning?
There was a beep from her phone. An ‘urgent’ email had come in from Cressida. So far Cressida had marked all her emails as ‘urgent’, whatever they were about. The message simply said ‘My office. Tomorrow. 10 a.m.’.
It probably wasn’t going to be about keeping quiet about the crossbow ‘accident’ as she would no doubt call it. With a couple of hundred witnesses, all armed with phones, this was bound to make it into the local paper. She’d just have to wait and see.
*
Astrid turned the corner and walked down the path alongside the scallop fountain. It was a large marble structure set in the middle of a circular pond. There was a man sitting on the edge, hunched over his phone. A beige jumper was tied loosely over his shoulders. The sleeves fell over a crisp white linen shirt.
She stopped abruptly. A pair of wire-frame sunglasses were tucked into the V at his neck. They were Ray-Ban Aviators – expensive. And she should know – she’d bought them for him. ‘Simon?’
He slipped the phone in a trouser pocket and crossed his legs. ‘Astrid?’ His eyes swept slowly upwards from her shoes. ‘I hardly recognised you.’ He studied her hair. ‘I mean… are those braids?’
‘Simon?’ So far she had stared at him and said his name twice. Repeating his name as he sat elegantly framed by a giant shell hadn’t been on the list of revenge scenarios she’d planned.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Oh, I have your phone registered on that Find My Phone app. If you ever lost your phone I could locate it for you. Remember?’
‘You’ve known I’ve been down here in Dorset from the start.’
He nodded.
‘Then why didn’t you come down straight away? Or answer my text? You just ghosted me – your own wife.’
‘Honestly?’
‘People say “honestly” when they’re about to tell you a lie.’ She twirled a braid. She liked them even if he didn’t. ‘But go on, Simon, let’s hear it.’
He unclipped his sunglasses from his shirt and carefully put them on, pushing them back with a finger onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Because I had some thinking to do, Astrid. I’ve made the biggest mistake letting you go and I want you back.’
Astrid folded her arms. ‘So why did you cheat on me with Gina?’
‘That’s a question I ask myself every day, every hour. Why? Why, Simon?’ He punched his hand into his palm, as if to punish himself.
Astrid gave him a slow hand clap. ‘Oh, that was terrific, Simon. An award-winning performance.’
Simon gave her an injured look. ‘It happens to be true… I want you back, Astrid.’
‘What the… want me back?’ She almost coughed the words. ‘That’s never going to happen, Simon.’
‘I just want to start again. No lies this time.’
‘Okay – then if you’re in such a candid mood. Maybe you can answer a few questions.’
‘Sure.’
‘You and Gina. When did it start?’
‘Astrid… there’s no point going over the details.’
‘Oh, I think there is.’ Astrid felt the anger rising. She directed it down to her clenched fists. ‘Are you going to tell me or not?’
He shook his head.
‘Right, then you can get up and go back to London. We’re done.’
‘Actually, I’m staying for a few days.’
‘Why?’
He brushed his hand across the knees of his dark blue jeans. Not his purchase – he never wore jeans. That was probably Gina’s influence. ‘Because I’ve been asked to give a second opinion on the Constable.’
Astrid’s heart skipped a beat. ‘The Constable?’
‘From the movement of your phone I could see you were working at this place. So I got in touch with your boss, Cressida, and she told me all about the Constable. That’s when I offered my expertise.’
‘Because you didn’t think I can do my job?’
‘Not at all. You’re an excellent conservator – I taught you well.’
‘Listen, Simon, you didn’t teach me anything. Except one lesson – never to trust anything that comes out of that thin mouth of yours. You have a dark hard stone for a heart and if I could drown you in that fountain and get away with it I would.’
‘Finished?’
She looked around the perfect gardens. The English Trust – it was almost too polite a setting for an argument. That was probably tucked away in the small print of the membership. No taking plant cuttings. No squabbling. She dropped her voice. ‘I am far from finished, Simon. For some screwed-up reason you’ve come down here to try and ruin my life. But I won’t let you and I’ll never have you back. Get it?’
‘Astrid. You’ve got it all wrong. I can explain everything…’ he held up his hand ‘…but only when you’re less emotional.’
‘Emotional… arrrg!’
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Astrid. Listen, when you’re feeling more composed we should meet up. I’m staying at the Haven Hotel – we can have lunch.’
‘Only if they serve rat poison.’
Simon shook his head and tutted. ‘Really, Astrid, that’s a bit beneath you.’
He’d always been so calm in arguments. In the past she’d admired the way he could coolly pick people apart. Now, it was just infuriating. ‘Let’s try and be more civil tomorrow at the meeting with Cressida.’
‘So that’s what the meeting is about – the Constable.’
‘Yes, I’m going to give my opinion on the painting.’
‘Good – well until then, you can get lost.’
Simon smiled serenely. ‘Oh, Astrid.’ He got up and took a few steps down the path. She called after him. ‘Wait.’
He turned to face her.
‘Is it over?’
‘What?’
‘You and Gina?’
He fixed her with a look between sympathy and pity. ‘Yes, of course it is.’
A gardener appeared down the path with a wheelbarrow. He read the mood and made a slow three-point with the barrow without making eye contact. Astrid waited until he was out of sight. ‘She dumped you, didn’t she?’
He shook his head again, as if he couldn’t believe she’d suggested it. ‘I finished it – I promise.’ Then he wandered off down the path.
She watched him go, not knowing whether to believe it or not. He was wearing burgundy loafers, a flash of bare skin at the ankle. No socks? That was new as well. There he was – her soon-to-be ex-husband right there, a man trying to look ten years younger by not wearing socks.
She waited for her heart rate to drop, then headed towards the car park. When she got there her fury had subsided to around fix or six on the anger scale. She’d been dreading meeting him again, but it hadn’t been too painful. It felt like some of the wounds were starting to heal.
When she got to the car, Kath was leaning against the bonnet, soaking up the sunshine.
‘Right, Kath, let’s go.’
She stared at her, concerned. ‘You okay, Astrid?’
‘Not really. I’ve just seen a ghost.’
‘Wow…’ Kath gasped. ‘I saw a ghost once. It was staying in this old pub up in Worth Matravers and in the night I heard this bumping sound…’
‘No, Kath, I meant… you know, it’s just some stuff from my past.’
‘Got it, well…’ Kath put her arm round Astrid’s shoulder. ‘If you want to talk about it, I’m here.’
‘Thanks, Kath.’
‘Angler’s Arms tonight – couple of cheeky beers?’
‘Actually, I’m doing something this evening, and tomorrow. What about Tuesday?’
‘Yeah – I’ve arranged to have a few with Grub. That okay?’
‘Of course. The more the merrier.’
23
On the way back to the boat, Astrid took a detour to the newsagent to buy the evening edition of the local paper. She wanted to see if the incident with the crossbow at Sherborne Hall had made the news. It had – a front page ‘newsflash’. Two paragraphs below a photo of the air ambulance taking off on the front lawn. The piece was rounded off by a quote from Cressida explaining that the chance of this sort of thing happening was ‘incredibly small’ – no kidding – ‘and nobody should be put off visiting Sherborne Hall this summer’.
Astrid got herself a coffee and spent the next ten minutes checking to see if the Trust’s other two deadly incidents, the deaths of DeVine and Eric the forager, had made it in. They hadn’t. But right at the back of the paper in the social section was something that caught her eye. A picture of Stevie Greshingham mingling with guests at, as the caption explained, a ‘drinks party to celebrate the English Trust’s acquisition of the art collection of Lady Sherborne’. Well, well. You do know a bit about fine art then, Stevie?
Now another plan, a mini-plan, was crystallising. Not only was she going to show Simon what a brilliant conservator she was at the meeting tomorrow, she was also going to reveal exactly where the original was – at Stevie Greshingham’s house in Sandbanks. The more she thought about it, the more her theory sounded plausible. He definitely ticked both M’s and the O. He had connections with the Trust. He made a lot of money trading art. And he wasn’t too far from Sherborne Hall. He could have bought the original, got someone to fake it, and swapped it back without anyone noticing. Except her, of course.
She went to the bookcase and ran her finger along the lines of books until she found what she was after – Tide Charts, the latest edition. Greshingham was away for the weekend, that’s what he said – so it had to be now. She’d take the boat over to Sandbanks, tie up in his mooring and have a snoop around. There would be no need to break in – most of the house was surrounded by glass. Would he be stupid enough to hang a stolen masterpiece on the walls? Well, he called Damien Hirst ‘that bloke who pickled the sharks’, so that was entirely possible.
She opened the tide chart book at the table. Each page was set out the same way – a grid for each week of the year showing a series of waves and troughs. There was tiny text underneath – sunset times, local currents… She squinted and put the book down. Maybe she shouldn’t risk it.
Then she noticed the corner of a pink card tucked in between the cover and first page. She teased it out. It was the same card as the note Uncle Henry had left under the carpet. The same pen. This time it said:
Set sail, Astrid – fortune favours the brave. Uncle Henry.
Astrid turned the card over. There was nothing on the back. Now it made more sense. Her uncle was encouraging her, each step of the way. She’d found the first note because she’d decided to clean the boat, right down to turning the carpets over. Now she’d checked tide times because she was going to take the boat out on her own. She’d thought it was strange he’d not left her a letter along with his will. This is what he was doing instead – hiding little notes to keep her going. She smiled – what a clever, tricksy man he was.
She picked up the tide chart again – of course she could work this out. She rifled through to the correct day. The high tide – the tip of the peak of the wave, was about twenty minutes from now. Time to go.
Up on deck she moved quickly down the side rail, unhooked the rope and cast it loosely on the stern. The boat began to drift slightly from the boardwalk so she hurried back to the controls and started the engine.
Swinging the stern round towards the harbour she found the line between the green and red marker buoys and pushed the throttle up. The boat rose in the water and steamed ahead. Past the boatyard – no sign of Cobb, thankfully – and out into the channel.
Out of the shelter of the mooring the wind was brisk. Chilly even. Astrid noticed an old wax jacket hanging from a peg below the dashboard. She put it on, rolled up the sleeves and tightened the belt at the waist. Up on the headland, the sun was still shining. The shadows of clouds raced over the heath, turning it from purple to grey. Ahead of her were Green and Round Island. Beyond them Brownsea Island was cloaked in a low steely cloud that had pushed in from the sea. Darkness seemed to be seeping into the bay, even though there was still two hours of daylight left.
Twenty minutes later she rounded Brownsea Island and saw the English Trust jetty to her left. To her right, the chain ferry was docking at the tip of the peninsula. All clear – a burst of speed and she was out into the main channel. The boat thumped into bigger waves, sending up a spray that cleared the stern. She slid across the window above the controls and zipped up her jacket.
At the other side of the channel she turned the boat into the current and slowed down. The houses along the shoreline were much larger than she’d realised. Three storeys, most with wrap-around glass balconies. Huge windows on every floor that reflected the bay – and the wealth of the owners. Four million pounds – for starters.
Stevie Greshingham’s was one of the largest. It was a huge block of smoked glass and brushed concrete – textbook Bauhaus – hard to believe he had such good taste. She guessed if you had the money you could buy the architects who did.
She tied the boat up on the pontoon and walked confidently across the lawn, which was made of bright green AstroTurf. At one end were white plastic goal posts. In the middle was a painted circle with a seagull on it – the emblem, no doubt, of his beloved football team.
At the front patio she cupped her hands against the glass and peered in. A white leather sofa sat in front of a large flat-screen TV on the wall. That was the only thing on the walls. Down the side of the house was a glass door that gave another angle on the living room. Again, there was no sign of any paintings. She pulled the jacket sleeve over her hand and tried the handle. It was locked.
A few seconds later there was a beeping sound above her head. She looked up and saw a small yellow box high on the wall. There was an outline of a dog on the side and a tiny red light underneath that was flashing. Time to go.
At the pontoon the rope was now running taut from the post. The tide must have turned. She steered the boat forward to buy some slack then dashed back to the post to untie the rope. Then she hurried back to the controls as the boat scraped alongside the mooring – the red plastic buoys grinding against the beams.
Spinning the wheel through her hands. Fighting the current to get the prow out from the shore. The waves slapped against the side – she’d made it. But the boat was now sliding round too far. She yanked the wheel back and pushed up the throttle as far as it would go. There was a cracking noise from the engine. ‘Noo,’ she breathed. A dark plume of smoke was curling up from the back of the boat.
Throttle down, then up again. Crrunnge – a noise that sounded like a cutlery drawer being pulled out. Then nothing. Except her voice – ‘Damn it!’
On the dashboard the dial hands were settling back to zero. The light was off below the starter key. She turned the key again and again, the panic rising. Already she’d floated back past a couple of houses on the shore. The boat was side-on now, drifting out of control. She could feel the current rocking the hull beneath her feet.
Out in the bay the chain ferry was coursing across the channel. She tracked it for a moment, working out how quickly it was closing the gap. Fast enough to put her on a direct collision course. A couple of boats had held up in the current waiting for the ferry to pass. A man at the wheel of one of them shouted something at her but she couldn’t make it out. The chain ferry, its funnel steaming, carried on. It was halfway across the channel and showing no signs of stopping. She’d slam into the side of it in less than a minute.
On the upper deck of the ferry a few people had gathered at the rail and were pointing towards her. How did you stop a boat in a current? There was no way she could raise the sails in time – wouldn’t know what to do if she did. It would be too deep here for the anchor.
She left the wheel and rushed to the stern. Maybe if the ferry captain saw her? She waved with both arms in front of her. ‘Helppp!’ Her words were lost in the wind. That was it then. ‘Astrid,’ she whispered. ‘What have you done now?’
‘Throw the rope!’
