Portrait of a murder, p.1
Portrait of a Murder, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Michael Jecks
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: Out With a Bang
Chapter Two: Party Time
Chapter Three: An Interview
Chapter Four: The Commission
Chapter Five: Meet the Sitter
Chapter Six: First Impressions
Chapter Seven: The Moors
Chapter Eight: Back to the Bar
Chapter Nine: She’d Prefer an Artist
Chapter Ten: Colombia
Chapter Eleven: The Curse of the Pigeon – Seriously
Chapter Twelve: A Figure in the Dark
Chapter Thirteen: Memories Are Made of This
Chapter Fourteen: A Visitor
Chapter Fifteen: Cats and Commissions
Chapter Sixteen: Hawkwood
Chapter Seventeen: Evesham
Chapter Eighteen: Jean Robart
Chapter Nineteen: Taken to Lunch Again
Chapter Twenty: Whose Money?
Chapter Twenty-One: The Stalker
Chapter Twenty-Two: Devon and Court
Chapter Twenty-Three: Elizabeth’s Story
Chapter Twenty-Four: Invited to Watch Another Meal
Chapter Twenty-Five: Champagne and Colombia
Chapter Twenty-Six: Peter’s Club
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Peter’s on His Way
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Breakfast Meeting
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Harry’s Place
Chapter Thirty: Thorogood Shares the Pain
Chapter Thirty-One: Elizabeth’s Friend
Chapter Thirty-Two: Two Whores
Chapter Thirty-Three: Elizabeth’s Story
Chapter Thirty-Four: Russian Return
Chapter Thirty-Five: Ear, Ear
Chapter Thirty-Six: They Pay With Their Souls
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Peter’s Surprise
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Elizabeth’s Confession
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Brandy and a Book
Chapter Forty: Cherchez la Femme
Chapter Forty-One: Russian Justice
Chapter Forty-Two: My Finger
Chapter Forty-Three: Ponzi
Chapter Forty-Four: The Colombians
Chapter Forty-Five: The Garden of Eden
Chapter Forty-Six: Mark
Chapter Forty-Seven: Recovery
Chapter Forty-Eight: Epilogue
Also by Michael Jecks
The Jack Blackjack mysteries
REBELLION’S MESSAGE *
A MURDER TOO SOON *
A MISSED MURDER *
THE DEAD DON’T WAIT *
DEATH COMES HOT *
THE MOORLAND MURDERERS *
THE MERCHANT MURDERERS *
The Templar mysteries
NO LAW IN THE LAND
THE BISHOP MUST DIE
THE OATH
KING’S GOLD
CITY OF FIENDS
TEMPLAR’S ACRE
Vintener trilogy
FIELDS OF GLORY
BLOOD ON THE SAND
BLOOD OF THE INNOCENTS
* available from Severn House
Visit www.michaeljecks.co.uk for a full list of titles
PORTRAIT OF A MURDER
Michael Jecks
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Michael Jecks, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Michael Jecks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1037-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1054-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-10395 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
This book is for my brothers:
Clive and Keith,
and in loving memory of Alan.
With thanks to them and the New Zealand contingent:
Gwynn, Rachelle, Vicki, Chris and Dri.
ONE
Out with a Bang
They tell me you can sense someone’s aura. It’s a coloured haze all around them, from the skin to about five inches out. Not that I’ve ever seen one.
Mine is blue, apparently. Nothing to do with my mood; it’s just the colour I have, according to a friend who’s a shaman – yes, I have a friend who’s a shaman. Get over it. Some folks have deep auras, others have thinner ones, but it’s always there. Mind you, if that’s the case, why can’t we sense each other’s? And since, apparently, the aura will let other people guess your inner nature, why aren’t more people repelled by men like Jason?
Jason’s was red. Just like his blood.
I was once in Kingston-on-Thames when a lorry axle snapped like a cannon’s blast. That was different: that was a strange sound that no one was accustomed to. Every head turned, not in fear necessarily, but with an awareness of the uniqueness of that sudden crack. Hearts accustomed to stories of US shootings were set pounding.
But this was no axle shearing in a rush hour.
I will remember that morning till the day I die. It was just gone nine thirty, and Jason was late again. I was in the studio sketching, waiting for him, when I heard it. A gunshot.
My first reaction? No fear, to be honest. This was the countryside, after all, and I know about guns. I’d been a keen shooter since the day I joined the local rifle club. Over the years, I’ve used pistols, rifles and shotguns, and I’ve seen what they can do. One thing I was sure of was that the thing should not have gone off so close to the buildings. This was rural, close to fields, and I wasn’t surprised to hear a shotgun nearish, but this sounded very close. It had not been that long since the latest shootings in America, and although I knew logically that a madman running around with a gun would almost certainly be in London, not a small village in Devon, logic doesn’t intrude when you’ve just heard a gunshot.
This wasn’t the US. I was in rural England, with my feet firmly placed on granite flags in a hotel on a cool summer’s morning. I listened, breathing so shallowly that I got quite light-headed, but there was nothing – only a weird expectancy. I kind of expected at any moment to hear bullets crash through the glass of the windows, perhaps feel the agony of metal tearing through my flesh, and when there was nothing, I felt almost desolate. As I said: weird.
How long I stood there, I couldn’t say, but I was sure that there was something wrong. It felt wrong. There was a hot, sweaty feeling all over my body, but I felt frozen to the core, as though I had a fever. I know that for some time I was unable to move, but then I heard an anxious shout, a man’s call, a nervous woman’s voice. I wasn’t the only one on edge.
I shook myself out of it. There were no terrorists here. That wasn’t a high-velocity rifle or a pistol; it was a shotgun. A solid, flat bang. No echo, and a certain dullness to the noise, which made it sound as if it was partially muffled. Not very near, but not far away.
Opening the door, I made my way to the rear yard.
I heard a door slam. Birdsong lilted on the air. High overhead, a buzzard cried mournfully. There were several cars parked in covered bays. A gateway to the right was the one I’d seen Elizabeth take the previous night in the dark with a friend. Opposite was another that gave on to a smaller yard where the logs and gardening equipment were stored.
There was a clattering of plates and cutlery from the kitchens, and a sense of unreality washed through me. There was only mundane, normal life. The maid, Debbie, came through the door behind me and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The petite, dark-haired girl gave me a fleeting nod, a shy smile, and I felt my panic subside.
‘Where are you off to?’ I said.
‘We need logs for the bar. Do you want anything?’
‘No, I’m … Just a coffee. Do you know where Jason is?’ I asked.
‘In the yard, I think,’ she sai
‘Yes. Did you hear a noise a little while ago?’
She made a little moue. ‘What sort of noise?’
‘A loud bang. Were you in the bar?’
‘Yes, I’ve been clearing up after last night,’ she said, frowning.
If the shot had been from the front, she would have heard it; since she hadn’t, it was more likely to have come from out back.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
There was no sound from the log piles. Behind them, there were buildings with workshops and maintenance sheds, well hidden from the public eye. Perhaps someone was shooting rats? But who would be stupid enough to use a twelve-bore on rats in an enclosed area? I crossed the yard with Debbie close behind. The sheds out there were little more than open-fronted barns. There was no door, no front wall, only broad two-storey storage rooms. I walked in, calling, ‘Jason?’
Something fell to the floor, startling me. In my mind, I had visions of bats, perhaps some thick, ancient crud falling from the ceiling.
The rafters and corrugated iron roof held more spatters and flecks. As I stared, another piece fell, and I followed it with my eyes as it dropped into a pool, making lazy ripples. I turned, but too late. Debbie, her eyes wide in horror, was staring, her hands at her mouth as though to trap the squeal of terror before it could leave her. I grabbed her, pulled her from the scene and out to the yard, where I held her tightly as she began to scream, trying to pull away from me, staring at my shoulder like a demented patient seeing a straitjacket.
Jason was in there, slumped at the far wall – well, most of him was. The muck on the ceiling and walls were his blood and bone and brains. His head had been blown off by the shotgun at his feet.
Then I realized what she was staring at. Some of the crud had hit my shoulder. There are many things a man should never see, and of all of them, the leading contender for top prize in the ‘I never want to see that again’ stakes would be that lump of flesh on my shoulder and the bloody tuft of moustache hair on it.
I’ll never forget that sight. I doubt Debbie will either.
TWO
Party Time
I first met Jason Robart at his birthday party in London. I get invited to some parties, you see. Just not many.
This was a big do, in an old tea warehouse off an alley south of the river near Tower Bridge. It was one of those uber-pretentious joints where you could tell how expensive it was by its shabbiness. Tables were upended tea chests; chairs were rare. It was a bar that catered to those with lots of money, who craved the simplicity of the truly impoverished. I wasn’t in the mood for millionaire faux-poverty that evening. I was more keen on the idea of getting outside a large drink while I figured out how to pay the month’s rent.
I didn’t see anyone I knew, and was still standing at the door, gazing at the throng, when he appeared at my side, an aggressive presence with a smile like a Rottweiler trapping a postman.
‘Hello. I’m Jason.’
‘Good to meet you,’ I said. ‘I’m Nick.’
He shook hands the way a fighter would. His hand scythed forward and grasped mine. OK, he didn’t squeeze too tightly like some Donald Trump sort, trying to prove they’re top dog and all that, but he did grip just a little too hard. It was a subtle form of intimidation, telling me that, if he wanted to, he could crush my hand.
And from his build, he could have, too. Broad-shouldered, like a man used to carrying a hod all his life, he had the slim waist of a boxer. His hands were large but soft-fleshed, and I got the impression of a man used more to an office and a gym than genuine hard work in the open air. He was strong enough, though, and there was a look in his eye that told me he would not be a good enemy. He had blue eyes: very dark, almost indigo, with ultramarine flecks. And over his upper lip, a ludicrous anomaly: a drooping Viva Zapata moustache.
That moustache spoke to me. He was a larger-than-life character, it said. This guy is powerful; this guy is important.
Or, rather, this gorilla has an over-inflated opinion of himself.
And he could speak, too. ‘I wanted to introduce myself because this is my party. And I don’t remember inviting you, Nick.’
‘Hardly surprising: you didn’t.’
‘Well, since this is a private party, people are expected to have an invitation. No invitation, as they say, no party.’
You know those guys who carry a ‘Sod you’ look with them all day long? He was one. After delivering his little speech, he planted himself in front of me. It would have been easier to shove aside an oak.
‘So, since you appear to have gatecrashed my party, what do you want before you leave?’
‘I was hoping for a drink.’
He peered at me. ‘At least that’s honest! Why should I buy you a drink? You could be a mafioso or a pickpocket.’
I had the impression he wouldn’t be surprised if I was. There was a strange undercurrent of tension, as though he really thought I could be an assassin. Yes – it had seemed laughable then. Less so now.
‘Off the top of my head, because you’re already paying a fortune for this place and one more glass here or there won’t make a blind bit of difference.’
‘Cheeky bastard! Well, you’ve got balls, coming in here and demanding a drink!’ He gave a sudden laugh, and his face eased. The grimness and suspicion left him, and he grinned like a burglar who’s just recognized a fellow. ‘All right, then, you thieving git. What do you want?’
‘A glass of red would be good, thanks.’
‘Coming up.’
That was how I met the man who would soon be dead.
His friend was there.
Peter Thorogood was slim and dapper, and he wore a dark blue suit that must have cost well north of a thousand pounds. It looked good on him. Then again, that suit was worth more than I would spend on food in a year. It should look good.
He caught my eye and strode over to welcome me. A shortish woman, maybe five two or three, walked at his side. She had honey-gold hair cut into a sensible bob, and beneath it she was built like a fine yacht: all smooth, flowing lines and hellishly expensive.
But it was her eyes that got me. I remember, years ago, my Gran seeing Steve McQueen on TV, and saying, ‘Doesn’t this television bring out blue eyes?’ None of us had the courage to say they were probably tinted contact lenses. With this woman, I was convinced that they were genuine, a brilliant violet-blue that entranced me. I’d love to have caught them on paper.
‘Mr Morris! I’m glad to see you. You got my invitation, then? Excellent!’
Peter Thorogood had a triangular face, rather like an alien from a fifties B movie, but his eyes missed little. They were curiously reptilian. The whole of the iris was visible, and he didn’t blink. I don’t mean he didn’t blink much; I mean he just didn’t blink at all that I noticed. It was off-putting.
She, on the other hand, was glorious. And it wasn’t only my opinion. Men all over the room had their eyes fixed on parts of her anatomy. One had his chin grabbed by his partner and pulled back to face her, a pair at the bar stopped talking to leer, and two Italian mafia-types couldn’t take their eyes off her.
‘No, I only got here a short time ago.’
‘This is Elizabeth. She’s Jason’s partner. Let me get you a drink. What’ll you have?’
He waved a hand at Elizabeth, and I noticed she took the opportunity to sidle a short distance from him. I got the distinct feeling that he had tried his luck with her and failed. She had better taste than that, clearly. Maybe she’d prefer an artist?
‘Thanks, but birthday boy is getting me one.’
