The art of murder, p.25
The Art of Murder, page 25
Juno remained on her best behaviour, aware of Dennis’s generosity, her mother’s ecstasy and Eric’s encouraging ‘chillax’ smiles. She was too busy eating to play detective.
It came as a shock therefore when Dennis turned to her over coffee, baring his white teeth beneath his chlorinated gaze. ‘So you would like to know how well acquainted I was with Silas Locke, Juno?’
‘Oh, Doobee, you don’t have to say anything!’ Droopy-eyed with good food, wine and love, Judy waved her hand dismissively. ‘This is my perfect day. Pusscat’s claws are back in, aren’t they, Pusscat?’
Juno nodded with a tight-lipped smile and held up her hands, wiggling her fingers.
Dennis’s voice dropped an octave, ecclesiastically sombre. ‘No, Boppa, I need to get this off my chest. Perhaps I haven’t been entirely transparent, you see. Pusscat here’s only been asking questions because she loves you.’
Juno didn’t like Dennis calling her Pusscat one bit, but let it pass, narrowing her eyes at him in cool appraisal.
He narrowed his back, much as one did when looking at a grouchy house cat one wanted to befriend. ‘You are quite right that I knew Si’s father Nigel Locke very well indeed at one time,’ he said smoothly. ‘He was among the most genius creative directors of his era and we worked together often from the seventies to the nineties. I ran a small production company making commercials back then, and I later married his agency’s accounts director, Sandra.’ He looked away sadly. ‘Nigel and his wife Sylvie were close chums. I’m godfather to their daughter.’
Juno realised her mistake. ‘Thea?’
‘The other one.’ He flashed the white smile, making her suspect he couldn’t recall the name. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t know Silas as a child at all. Nigel and I fell out not long after the boy was born. Didn’t speak for years.’
‘Because he called you a fake?’ Juno asked. ‘Or something worse?’ Like murdering poor Sandra.
Dennis laughed, seemingly surprised at her cheek. ‘Amongst other things.’ He glanced at Judy, whose eyes were drooping even more, smile drifting as post-prandial sleepiness engulfed her. ‘We’re boring darling Boppa. Eric, would you keep your grandmother company while your mother and I take a walk round the riverside lawn? They can put a marquee there for wedding discos and I’d value her opinion.’
Behind the Boat House, the lawned area between the canal and river was walled with weeping willows like a verdigris cathedral.
Dennis cleared his throat, leading the way towards its furthest end. ‘You do know how much I love your mother, Pusscat.’
‘Yes, Doobee.’
Smiling at this, he looked down at the water between the trunks. ‘Juno, my past is not entirely squeaky clean, but I assure you it is true that I barely knew Si before he and Oscar got together.’
‘Why did you fall out with Si’s father?’ Juno asked, throwing an arm around a willow trunk in what she hoped was a casually riparian way, but was really an anchor in case he tried to push her in.
‘It was in the nineties. Nigel Locke was a very clever man, a very selfish man, a very vengeful man.’ He glanced across at her, blue eyes narrowed, then away to gaze at the water again. ‘Sandra, my wife, had died some years earlier, on a business trip, a terrible shock to us all. She was on a corporate jolly with the agency team in Mexico when it happened; I’d been stuck in Soho editing a biscuit ad.’
‘You weren’t even in the same country?’ Juno realised.
‘I welcomed her home in a coffin.’ He stared forlornly at the river. ‘I was in a bad head space for a very long time afterwards. I’d been widowed before, you see. My first wife, Maeve – we’d met as teenagers – died in a house fire not long after we’d married. Worst day of my life. I thought my world had ended.’
‘Were you hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘The fire was at her parents’ place in Ireland. I was sitting my finals in Durham. Your mother knows all this, of course. I wanted her to know exactly what she’s taking on, this wretched legacy.’
Juno hugged the tree tighter.
He stepped closer to the water, gazing fixedly into it. ‘My coping mechanism both times was to throw myself into work, in much the same way an incarcerated lunatic throws himself at a wall. The difference was that after Sandra’s death, Nigel was on my case, insisting I get back out there, party, screw around. Casual affairs were an industry perk back then; he saw infidelity as tax deductible. His wife Sylvie tolerated it for the sake of their daughters.
‘But Nigel’s behaviour got far worse when she fell pregnant with Si. Classic midlife crisis. Their girls were teenagers by then and Nigel wanted to ogle their friends, not find himself knee deep in nappies again. He soon had a mistress in every time zone. I was all too often his cover story, and his wingman too.’ Glancing over his shoulder at Juno, the toothpaste smile flashed luminously.
For the first time, Juno saw a glimmer of truth shining through it, but she didn’t trust its motives. ‘Did you and Nigel fall out over a woman?’
‘In a way. One evening in The Union on Greek Street we got into the usual scenario in which I kept a disapproving young lady company while Nigel chatted up her wilder, more willing friend. These two were a pair of ambitious BBC graduate trainees wowed by his industry reputation, both ridiculously young. Nigel was quick to whisk his girl off to the flat above the Soho Square agency. I bought her friend supper and bored her with the plot of the movie I wanted to make, then cried about Sandra. Lucy was as radiantly warm as she was bright. After that, we went to see a late-night showing of Titanic and we both cried.’ He sighed again, smoothing his white marble hair and looking deeper still into the river. ‘A year later, we were married.’
‘Nigel disapproved, I take it?’ Juno doubted it was because of the age gap. Losing a wingman was widowhood to an ageing playboy like Locke.
‘He was furious,’ Dennis nodded. ‘Nigel was very competitive, as I said. He’d had a bob on the nob the night I’d found true love. Apologies for speaking so plainly, dear girl.’
‘Accepted.’ Juno, who thought nob-bobbing sounded like a quaint church fete game, planned to adopt the phrase henceforth. ‘So Nigel was jealous of Lucy?’
‘Lucy was quite brilliant,’ he sighed fondly. ‘Nigel’s harem might have top-shelf bodies but they shared bottom-set minds; he was suffering with sleep deprivation thanks to a new baby; then the agency was almost taken down by an aggressive takeover bid. I think he was terrified of being seen as a has-been.
‘He began an affair with one of the heroin chic girls that worked at his art gallery. Before you knew it, he was hanging out with her ICA crowd, boasting that she was even younger than Lucy and far wilder. He was besotted. Stunning-looking creature, but so intense. This was Class A infidelity after his years of light recreational use – single mother, her ex was a rock star, she came pre-loaded with more self-destruct buttons than a suicide vest, but she was earth-shatteringly Cool Britannia. The day Nigel rode into the agency on a vintage Vespa wearing Galliano was a dark one.’
Despite herself, Juno let out a snort of laughter.
He smiled briefly, but painfully. ‘Lucy encouraged me to tell him he was making a fool of himself. And I did, provoking a monumental argument. Nigel was livid, called me a phoney, said he’d carried me my whole career.’ His face tightened replaying the insult. ‘Then he dropped me without further ado, pulled the plug on all future agency commissions, put the word out that I was faking it. I’d been getting backers together for my first feature film at the time; Nigel was putting up the lion’s share. He’d always encouraged me to follow the likes of Ridley and Alan. Instead, he killed my career like that.’
The sound of Dennis snapping his fingers together noisily made Juno jump back to the here and now.
His eyes were agate hard again, the rictus smile fixed, making it impossible to read how angry he was. But she sensed it, like static, a violent storm about to break.
‘I’m ashamed to say, I rather fell apart for a while after that,’ Dennis went on. ‘Dear little Lucy was a tower of strength. She was working on Antiques Tour by then and somehow persuaded the producers to let me direct one, the darling girl. Turns out I was rather good at it. Factual entertainment was the skin by which these teeth saved me.’ He flashed the chalk-white smile once more.
Juno flashed hers back, still reluctant to trust Dennis no matter how winning the narrative. As far as she could tell, he had just described precisely why he would want to murder Nigel Locke, and quite possibly his son, especially if Si was a chip off the old block. And as for Dennis’s unfortunate wives…
‘What happened to Lucy?’
‘We separated after just three years, regrettably; it was all very amicable. We simply had nothing in common at close quarters. Also she wanted children, I never have; she liked romcom films and bands I’d never heard of and she watched Neighbours.’ He shuddered. ‘We were midway through waiting out the two years for a no-blame divorce when she went on holiday to Barcelona with a group of girlfriends and had an awful accident. Fell from a balcony while singing “My Heart Will Go On”. They were all high on something called TVR.’ He wiped away a tear. ‘I thought that was a model of car.’
Juno remembered her own Tequila Vodka Redbull years, suspecting she’d performed much the same drunken karaoke as poor Lucy once, but survived to tell the tale. ‘You weren’t there either, I take it?’
He shook his head. ‘We’d barely seen each other for months. I was filming Antiques Tour in Kent. We’d just shot the episode in which Oscar tells a family from Dungeness that Uncle Fred’s Nymphenburg collection is worth more than their house. I’ve hated German porcelainware ever since.’ He wiped another tear. ‘It was dear Oscar who was with me when the call came; he held me together.’
‘Yes, talk to me about Oscar.’
To her surprise, his eyes filled with more tears. ‘Oscar Davis is a gentleman through and through.’
‘Did you approve of his relationship with Si?’ she asked, switching it up to blindside him.
But Dennis was already ahead of her. ‘There’s no way on God’s earth that dear man killed Si! Oscar utterly adored him. Si was spoiled, funny, charming and they squabbled like mad, but they shared an aesthetic, a passion, a forever friendship, a sexual chemistry. Much like your mother and I, you understand?’
Juno forced another smile. ‘If they were so perfectly matched, why did you lend Si your boat to meet his girlfriends in?’
‘You know about that?’ Dennis looked shocked.
‘It seems a very generous gesture for a man you barely knew? Not to mention a betrayal of the friend you say you adore?’
‘I didn’t know he was meeting anyone on it! He’d traded me a rather lovely fake Damien Hirst for my collection in exchange for use of the boat once a week. I thought he liked river cruising.’
‘What was the picture of?’
‘One of Hirst’s early butterfly paintings. Charming little thing, although could have been done by anyone. No signature, no historic record. I snapped it up – perfect for my YBA bedroom.’
Juno remembered the empty hook. ‘Do you still have it?’
‘I wish!’ His white brows creased together. ‘A few months later, Si asked if he could buy it back again. Got quite stroppy when I said I didn’t want to sell it.’
‘Why not? I thought you were selling everything?’
‘Well… I knew it wasn’t a fake by then.’ The brows cantilevered apart.
‘It’s genuine?’
‘I’d had my little collection looked over by Sotheby’s with a mind to auctioning the lot. One always hoped there might be a hidden gem amongst it all, and it turned out to be the very last piece I’d bought. Their modern art expert spoke to the artist’s team who confirmed it could be part of a butterfly triptych he’d painted while he was still at Goldsmiths.’
‘And you told Si this?’
‘He’d obviously just done his research too. Told me it was painted for an art school contemporary who had just had a baby: one each for mum, dad and child. Their names are even written on the back: Blue, Magenta and Violet.’
It sounded like another noughties cocktail, thought Phoebe. ‘Which was yours?’
‘Blue. I’d assumed the name was the species.’
‘Did you ask Si where he got it from?’
‘In a box in the attic of Nigel’s London house after he died, or so he claimed. Likely story!’
‘So you think he stole it from his father’s collection while he was alive?’
Dennis looked at her sharply, and Juno remembered too late that this rumour had been hushed up.
‘He was an opportunist, I gather?’ She repeated Phoebe’s theory.
‘I wouldn’t know. Either way, I’m quite certain he had the other two butterflies, which was why he was so desperate to reunite the triptych. I said I’d let him have Blue back for £50,000 in cash in the end.’
‘It was worth that much?’
‘Oh, far more. One butterfly, 100K min, my expert told me. All three butterflies, half a million plus. I was being kind selling it back so cheaply.’ Out came the white smile, blue eyes, practised tilt of the head.
Juno smiled too, tilted her head too, feeling her blood rushing. ‘Did the cash Si gave you for it have pink edges?’
‘I wondered about that.’
‘It was the proceeds of a serious crime, Dennis.’
‘Goodness!’ The toothpaste smile stayed put. ‘I had no idea! Well, I never.’
‘You used laundered money to buy Mum’s engagement ring!’
He refused to be deflated. ‘Your mother loves that ring.’
‘It didn’t occur you that Si’s death might be connected with the painting and the cash? That he was murdered because of them?’
The smile dropped instantly.
‘You don’t really think so, do you?’ He seemed scandalised at the thought.
‘He used your boat to hide out in when he was staging a scam burglary for insurance, Dennis!’
‘Was that why he kept her overnight? I was jolly annoyed about that. Gave him a proper ticking off and told him it was the last time I would ever let him borrow her.’
‘A day later, he was dead. The police now think he was drugged when he fell in the river, which means it was murder. That’s why they’re questioning Oscar under caution.’
‘Utter flannel!’ He made a good show of shocked disbelief. ‘If he was bumped off, Oscar certainly had nothing to do with it. His biggest vice is a Naked Wines subscription. That young chap of his was a libertine.’
Juno looked at him for a long time, at the sculpted marble hair and furniture stain tan, the impish watery blue eyes and over-smiley porcelain teeth. With his primary-coloured clothes and unending jollity, he reminded her of a children’s television presenter. She’d always assumed he was the big I am ego, all thwarted ambition brooding with resentment, but perhaps he was just a cheerful enabler, born to soothe temper tantrums and smooth troubled waters. The perfect foil for her mother.
‘Dennis, if you’re so convinced Oscar didn’t murder Si in a crime passionnel then his death has to be connected to the painting, the cash and the fake theft, doesn’t it?’
He looked blank. ‘To be honest, I’m still trying to get my head around the notion that he didn’t just get drunk and fall in. You’re much savvier than me, Juno. Who do you think did it?’
She glanced round nervously. ‘My best guess is still you, Dennis.’
He started to laugh, great whoops of mirth. ‘Oh, that is funny, hilarious! You are so witty. Your mother will love this! Me? Really? I suppose I should be flattered. Gosh. Is that why you were a bit off with me?’ The tears were back in force, gleeful this time, and he seemed to have a stitch. ‘I couldn’t be more tickled pink, really I couldn’t!’ He whipped out a big silk spotted handkerchief to mop his eyes.
It wasn’t quite the reaction she’d anticipated. Nor was being offered a hand to shake.
‘I would adore to be friends, Juno.’ He sandwiched her palms with his own. ‘I am determined we will be. I can see exactly where you get your vivacity from. Your mother means the world to me. She’s made me the happiest I’ve ever been. It’s why I’ve been so honest with you about all this. Boppa quite simply is the love of my life and the person I want to share what’s left of it with.’
Her own tears predictably pricking at this, Juno felt an involuntary wellspring of affection for romance, eternally grateful for love and for her mother’s endless faith in it.
Dennis’s fingers squeezed hers. ‘I promise you I’ll never harm a hair on her beautiful head, Pusscat.’
‘Don’t call me Pusscat, Doobee.’ She shook his hand on the deal, then let out a squeak of alarm as he pulled her closer, just for a moment panicking that he was about to manhandle her into the water.
But he just hugged her into a cloud of Acqua di Parma and well-pressed Oxford shirt. ‘I hope you’ll call me Papa one day.’
‘Not a chance, Dennis.’ The hug was already feeling overlong.
But when she made to pull away, they found that one of his shirt buttons had got stuck in into the ‘O’ of Juno’s name necklace, her gift from Jay for her forty-fifth.
‘Don’t break it!’ she cried as they twisted to separate the two.
‘Let me undo your chain.’ He felt around the nape of her neck for the clasp.
‘It can be a bit awkward.’ She reached for it too.
A figure came sprinting across the lawn. ‘Don’t you touch my mother, you murderer!’
Before Juno could cry out in protest, Eric had launched himself at Dennis, both men propelled into the water.
Later, cosy beneath warm towels and blankets supplied by the Marsh Easton Estate team, drinking restorative hot chocolates, Juno sat shoulder to shoulder with Dennis and Eric, all three watching Judy chat up the Boathouse chef to be on her new television show. ‘I will make you into a TV star! Nigella’s already on board.’
