There's a Murder Afoot, page 10
As well as Randy’s, one other booth was shrouded in darkness, and dust cloths covered the jewelry made by the woman who’d thrown wine in Randy’s face. I headed for it, and when we got there, I handed my bag of hats to Jayne. “Oh dear,” I said. “I have a stone in my shoe.” I leaned up against the cloth-draped table, right about where I’d seen the small cash box and receipt book yesterday when I checked out the booth. I kicked off my shoe and shook it with my left hand while I slid my right hand under the cloth. I felt around and soon found what I was after: the little stand propping up her business cards. I plucked a card from the stack, slipped it into my pocket, and put my shoe back on. “Much better,” I said to Jayne.
We walked to the end of the row. My plan was to find the people I’d seen at Randy’s table last night, most of whom were vendors here, and ask them what they’d seen or heard.
Instead I saw something that had me spinning around on my heel. The broad back of DI Sam Morrison as he talked to a man selling his own series of pastiche books. “Maybe not,” I said to Jayne. “Let’s go. We have an appointment.”
“We do? Where?”
“Across town. Mustn’t be late.”
As we crossed the lobby, I spotted something I wanted at the concierge desk, and I made a quick detour. I plucked a street map of London off the top of the display and tucked it into my handbag. I took the receipt for the hats out of the plastic bag and put it into my pocket. I was about to dump the hats into the trash, but then I decided some keen conference-goer might like them, so I placed them on a table. I could see absolutely no reason why I’d want to wear a deerstalker today and I didn’t want to carry them around. It might be nice to disguise my face from CCTV cameras, but wearing a deerstalker would only attract attention to me. I’d give the receipt to Pippa and ask that her “office” reimburse me.
The doorman opened the door for us and we went outside. I stopped on the hotel steps and mentally slapped my forehead.
“What is it?” Jayne said. “You’ve thought of something important. I can tell.”
“In West London I’m so busy trying to avoid letting Ryan and Louise know what I’m doing, I forgot that here I am not entirely without resources.” Detective Louise Estrada was Ryan’s partner.
I sent a text to the number Pippa had given me. CHECK CCTV FOOTAGE. I described the bullet-headed man as best I could, as well as where and when I’d seen him. I did the same for the dreadlocked woman. I didn’t ask Pippa to find Randy’s angry Polish girlfriend. Her business card kindly provided me not only with a name, Arianna Nowacki, but a phone number and London address.
“What’s so funny?” Jayne asked.
“I’m thinking of poor Pippa trying to keep Ryan, Donald, and Grant entertained all day.”
We went to Gloucester Road Tube station and took the District Line train to Westminster, where we changed to the Jubilee Line. We got off at London Bridge station. London Bridge was a long way from where we needed to go, but we were half an hour early, and I didn’t want to be seen hanging around Randy’s building waiting for the appointed time.
“I feel like a latte,” I said to Jayne when we emerged onto the street. Aside from a few tourists, recognizable by the cameras around their necks or phones held in front of their faces, this area, close to the business district called The City, was almost deserted on a Sunday at noon.
“You do? You don’t drink coffee.”
“I can make an exception now and again. We’re early for our appointment.”
“This mysterious appointment you won’t tell me about?”
“The very one.”
I’d spotted a coffee shop and we went inside to be enveloped in the familiar scents of steamed milk and roasted coffee beans. We bought drinks and found seats, which wasn’t difficult, as the place was empty except for one scruffy young man hunched over a laptop in a corner.
Jayne pulled out her phone and read the screen. “Text from Jack. He tried to clear his schedule for the next few days, but couldn’t manage. He’s not going to be able to come.”
“What a disappointment,” I said.
“Probably just as well,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not sure I want to get back together with him. And if he came all this way, I’d …” her voice trailed off, and she sipped her coffee.
“Even if he did come, this will all be over soon, and he’d only have to turn around and fly back with us.”
“Do you think so?”
I wanted to say “No,” but I didn’t.
Jayne was half finished her drink—I hadn’t even touched mine—when I hopped off my stool. “Time to go.”
Back we went to the underground. As Jayne swiped her pass and the turnstile opened, she said, “Is there a reason we’re popping in and out of subway stations and on and off trains?” to which I replied, “Just a precaution in case someone tries to follow us.”
Jayne studied the passersby.
I’d been watching, but I hadn’t seen any signs of being followed. There’s not much one can do if the surveillance is professional and highly coordinated, but if one or two people were watching us, I would have spotted them lurking around the quiet coffee shop.
We caught a Jubilee Line train to Canary Wharf. When we reemerged into the cold air, it was five to one. Timing things down to the second wasn’t proving to be easy, not when we had to rely on public transit.
“Why are we walking so slowly?” Jayne said.
“Aren’t you enjoying the view?”
“I guess.”
The area known as Isle of Dogs is surrounded on three sides by the River Thames. When London was the largest and most important city in the world, the great dockyards sent ships to every corner of the earth, trading in tea, sugar, rum, textiles, and everything else imaginable. As cargo ships got bigger and bigger and their cargo was increasingly carried in containers, which the docks couldn’t handle, the area fell into ruin and decay. Now, however, it’s a dense development of luxury high-rise apartment buildings and exclusive office towers with fabulous views of the river and the city.
“Nice area,” Jayne said.
“It is. Expensive to live here, so close to the business district.”
I know London well, which I should, as I’d lived here most of my life, but I wasn’t all that familiar with the East End. I didn’t want to use my phone and thus leave an electronic trail, so I’d grabbed a paper map off the concierge desk at the hotel. My intention was to stay completely off the police radar. Everything I learned I’d pass on to Pippa and leave it up to her to decide what to do with the information. Hopefully, no one would have reason to check on my activities, but better safe than sorry. London’s full of CCTV cameras, recording just about everywhere in public spaces. Again, I expected no one would have reason to want to track my activities, but I tried to avoid the cameras when I could see them, which I knew wasn’t always the case. A cold east wind was blowing off the river bringing the threat of icy rain or snow, and before stepping out of the underground, I’d pulled my scarf up around my neck and walked with my face down. Jayne had on a black-and-white-plaid wool coat, a heavy gray scarf, and a white beret that did nothing to keep her warm but looked very cute.
We walked for less than five minutes before arriving at the address I’d been given. The streets in this area, close to the City and its giant office towers, were largely empty, it being a winter Sunday, but a few people were braving the weather, walking dogs or children or jogging along the riverside. I checked the time on my phone. Thirteen minutes after one; two minutes to go. I opened the front door and we stepped into the vestibule. I pulled out my street map and consulted it, twisting it every which way as though trying to figure out where I was, where I wanted to go, and how the heck I was going to get there. Jayne read the name plates on the wall. “Are we here to see anyone in particular?”
The sound of the electronic lock disengaging was barely audible. I pulled the handle and the door slid soundlessly open. I hadn’t taken off my gloves. I slipped through, and Jayne followed.
“Did you call someone?” Jayne said. “I didn’t see you doing that.” She began to peel off her gloves.
“Keep those on,” I said. Her blue eyes opened wide. I pushed the lift button and it arrived instantly. Jayne and I stepped inside. We wanted the fifteenth floor.
The lift rose quickly, not stopping at any other floors. The doors whooshed open and we stepped into the corridor. Number 1508 was at the end of the hallway. I walked briskly down it, aware that my time was limited.
We saw no one.
The door of 1508 opened at the slightest twist of the handle, and I stepped in. Jayne followed.
I hadn’t told her what we were doing here. In case things went wrong, plausible deniability would be the best option for her.
“Gemma,” she said, “I think it’s time you told me what’s going on.”
“This is Randy’s flat. I’m going to have a quick look through his things. You stand here and listen at the door. If you hear anyone outside, anyone trying to get in, come and get me.”
“What I want to know is how we got in.”
I didn’t answer. Whether Randy owned it or rented, this was a mighty expensive flat. The door opened directly onto a vast living space of white walls, blond wood floors, white leather couches and chairs, and a coffee table the size of a small Caribbean island. French doors led onto a veranda with a glass railing, big enough for two lounge chairs, a teak outdoor dining table set, and even an enormous steel barbecue. London stretched into the distance. On a clear summer day, the view must be breathtaking. Contemporary art, all bright colors and slashing brushstrokes, lined the interior walls. A long low gas fireplace was set into a pit in the center of the room.
No wall separated the living space from the kitchen, and it was clearly a kitchen designed for entertaining: high-end appliances, open spaces, glass-fronted cabinets, and barstools gathered around a center island. I opened a small door to see row upon row of nicely stocked wine racks.
I could detect some evidence of the police presence. Either that or Randy wasn’t very neat. Cabinet doors stood open, showing a large selection of dishes and glassware as well as tins and packages of processed food. The fridge contained bottles of beer, one open bottle of white wine, a few condiments, some quietly rotting vegetables, and not much else.
The hallway was carpeted in a thick creamy weave. Five doors led off it, and they were all open. The first was to a small linen cabinet. The sheets and towels had been rummaged through, leaving the stacks in disarray and a couple of fluffy white towels on the floor.
I went into the den. The police had been here before me. The filing cabinets were open, one with signs of the lock being forced. An empty space in the center of the giant steel and glass-topped desk showed where the computer had sat. It was, I assumed, now being searched by the police boffins. Most thoughtless of them. I’d have liked to search the hard drive myself.
Nice of the police to break the lock on the filing cabinet, though. I searched through it quickly, but there wasn’t much to read, and nothing at all personal. Either the police had taken everything away or Randy didn’t keep paper records. In an otherwise empty desk drawer, I found credit card statements for the previous two months in the name of Randolph Denhaugh. There were only a handful of expenses, but the numbers were eye-watering. Thousands of pounds at restaurants, some of the names I recognized as belonging to top celebrity chefs; several hundred pounds at a wine merchant.
My uncle had supposedly been down on his luck. He was, he’d told me, making his living by drawing and selling sketches of the Great Detective at a Sherlock Holmes convention. Judging by this flat, and these bills, he either had a lot more funds than he was letting on, or someone was financing his lifestyle.
I didn’t find any records that would indicate the ownership of the flat and nothing in the way of utility bills or car payments. The police might have taken those. Or the bills might not have been coming directly to Randy.
The room across the hall was a guest bedroom. Nice furniture, king-sized bed. The duvet, pillows, and sheets were crumpled on the floor, the mattress off kilter, showing that the police had been here before me. The closet doors were open, and they were completely empty.
The next room was likely Randy’s bedroom. This bed, even bigger than the other one, had been also been searched. Bedding lay on the floor, the mattress half off the bed. The closet didn’t have many clothes—all of them men’s—but some had fallen on the floor and had not been picked up.
I went through the pockets quickly. The clothes were all of good quality, from good shops, and pretty trendy. Judging by the size, they belonged to Randy.
I thought back to what he’d been wearing at the conference, and why I’d concluded he didn’t have a lot of money. Either he’d been intending to deceive people, or he hadn’t wanted anyone to know what he was up to these days. Or maybe he kept his life neatly divided into two separate compartments.
Two books were on the night table. Simon Schama’s The Embarrassment of Riches, a history of art in the Dutch Golden Age, and Red Notice by Bill Browder, about official corruption in Russia. An interesting contrast in reading material.
The last room I went into was the true eye-opener. It faced south, the far wall a sheet of sparkling glass. Even with the gray winter skies, light poured into the space. A large, heavily scarred wooden table held an array of small pots and paintbrushes, and bare canvases of various sizes were stacked in a corner. An easel with a canvas on it was set up near the window, basking in the light. The painting was in its early stages yet, but it appeared to be a portrait of a stout woman dressed all in black. The little pots held traces of thick oily paint, but there wasn’t a tube of commercially bought paint in the room.
Randy had been making his own paint.
No one today was buying paintings like this one. Not new paintings, anyway.
My Uncle Randolph was back in the art forgery business. I was surprised the police hadn’t taken all this away. Perhaps they’d sent someone around who didn’t recognize what this meant and didn’t know Randy’s history. If this was a forgery of an old master, and I was certain it must be, he had to have been working from photographs of the original, but I didn’t see anything like that lying around. The police might have taken them.
I leapt out of my skin as a voice from the doorway said, “My mom paints sometimes. She’d kill for a studio like this one.”
I put my hand to my heart. “Did you have to creep up on me?”
“I wasn’t creeping. That carpet’s thick. Forget what I said about killing for a studio. Bad choice of words. Did you find what you’re looking for?”
“Considering I don’t know what I’m looking for, I can’t say. But this is all extremely interesting. I thought you were guarding the door.”
“I got bored.”
“Give me another five minutes, and we’ll be out of here.”
“Okay.”
I stood in the center of the room and studied the studio. The police hadn’t done much searching in here, probably thinking dabbling in art was the guy’s hobby and of no interest to them. A long low table filled the back wall. The drawers were all closed. I opened them. I took a stack of pencil drawings out and flicked quickly through them. These appeared to be the preliminary sketches for the Holmes pen-and-ink art he’d been selling at the conference. Even these rough ideas, unfinished, were very good. He had a genuine talent. Too bad … I glanced at the painting on the easel and then continued to search. The next drawer contained the tools of Randy’s legitimate trade. Pencils, pots of ink, pens, unused drawing paper. Another drawer had several books on the art of sketching. One of them was by Randolph Denhaugh himself. Simply because I was curious, I picked it up and flipped through it. It was intended to be a step-by-step beginner’s guide for the amateur artist.
A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up.
It was a business card from Gallery Lambert, located on the South Bank near the Tate Modern. Judging by the heavy cream paper, the ornate inlaid gold script, and the tiny logo of the gallery, this place didn’t sell tubes of paint to students or mass-produced art to tourists.
I memorized the address and put the card back.
I’d once seen a sign in a public park that said, TAKE NOTHING BUT PICTURES AND LEAVE NOTHING BUT FOOTPRINTS.
I intended to leave no footprints, and I wouldn’t take any pictures that might be incriminating if my phone was searched. But I was taking plenty of impressions and the memory of the name and address of that art gallery.
I walked quickly back to the entrance, checking behind me as I went to ensure I was leaving nothing, not even a depression in the carpet, behind me.
“Let’s blow this pop stand,” I said to Jayne.
“Happy to. Find anything?”
“I think I did. I need to check in with Pippa.”
I listened at the doorway. I could hear nothing, and so I slowly opened the door. I peeked up and down the hallway, saw no one, and we left the flat as silently as we had entered.
Chapter Eight
“You need some new jewelry,” I said to Jayne.
“Always, but why now?”
“Because I know just the place to go.”
We were in a restaurant not far from the Tower of London. Before Jayne and I talked about what I’d discovered or I called Pippa, I wanted to get far away from Randy’s neighborhood, so we’d taken the Docklands Light Railway to Tower Gateway. We wandered through the narrow winding streets near the Tower of London and eventually chose a promising-looking pub by the name of The Crutched Friar.
Even in January, the place was packed with tourists, speaking in all manner of accents and languages, but we managed to find a table for two in a comfortable alcove. Jayne ordered a beer, but I asked for tea.
“My dear long-lost Uncle Randolph appears to be back in the art forgery business,” I said to Jayne when our drinks were served and the waiter had taken our lunch orders. I didn’t worry about keeping my voice down. Even in this corner, I could hardly hear Jayne, sitting directly across the table from me.
