CHAPTER 19
It was the following Wednesday, and Pat was sitting on the steps of the village hall, letting the morning sun dry her hair.
It had been a lovely swim. She had gone earlier than normal, so the beach was nice and quiet.
There were no tourists, and no sign of the running club.
On her walk back, she had passed the Green Lion and waved to Marcus, who was sitting on a bench outside, seemingly waiting for it to open.
Her eyes shut, she pointed her face towards the sky, quietly soaking up the warm, gentle rays.
She had been awake half the night thinking about Derek.
He’d had opportunity and motive, and now that all Henry’s money had disappeared, there were some concrete facts for her to show to the police.
But what she really needed was something that would jolt them into action, something to pull them out of their inertia.
Something that would irrefutably put Derek at the scene, with Henry dangling over the edge of the cliff.
‘Have you been cold-water swimming already?’ It was Dorna, blocking out the sun, peering over a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses, her painted canvas popped neatly under her armpit.
‘No, just swimming,’ replied Pat, squinting up at her.
‘We should go together,’ declared Dorna. ‘I need someone to motivate me, to get me going in the morning, down to the beach, otherwise what’s the point of living so close to the coast?’
‘And the beautiful Downs,’ Pat said flatly, trying to be nice after the pep talk she’d given herself yesterday.
‘I’ve always fancied doing a bit of Wim Hof,’ continued Dorna.
‘I just like the swimming really,’ said Pat. ‘The temperature of the water has little to do with it. Isn’t Wim Hof more an ice-bath sort of a person?’
‘And cold-water swimming,’ said Dorna. ‘He’s king of cold-water swimming.’
‘I’m not sure I trust someone who was almost eviscerated giving himself an enema in a municipal fountain in Amsterdam.’
Dorna frowned. ‘Sorry? What are you talking about?’
‘You’re keen.’ Prichard had suddenly appeared in the parking lot. He walked towards the two women trailing a multicoloured hand-knitted scarf in his wake. ‘I thought I was early. Well, you’re always early.’ He nodded at Pat. ‘Dorna.’ He nodded again. ‘How are you both?’
‘We were just talking about cold-water swimming,’ said Dorna.
‘Or just swimming,’ said Prichard. ‘Is that your canvas? Did you take it home?’
Dorna took the canvas out from under her arm.
The dark grey Scud missile of a war memorial that she had painted the week before had since, somewhat miraculously, turned into a rather good and accurate depiction of the monument in the middle of the green.
Pat was a little surprised. Dorna had even managed to paint in the blades of grass, the yellow and scarlet tulips and the blowsy fronds of wisteria that covered the watchful Bev’s house.
The level of detail and execution was good, very good.
So good that Pat had to squash down a rising suspicion that Dorna might have got someone else to finish it off. Be nice, she told herself.
‘Impressive,’ she declared. ‘What a professional job.’
‘Well,’ said Dorna, wiggling her right hand in front of Pat’s face. ‘Now the RSI has cleared up, I can use my hand so much better than before. It’s such a relief.’
‘Morning!’ Jacqui waved out of the open window of her pale blue Fiat 500 as she swung past. ‘Are we all excited?’ she cried.
‘Bursting with enthusiasm!’ Prichard said.
‘The big day is here!’ Jacqui parked her car and rattled the keys to the village hall in front of her as she strode towards them, exuding a joyful efficiency.
‘So, we have a couple of hours to finish off our works, and then the photographer for the Westlinke parish magazine is coming to take your photograph. After that we’ll hang the paintings, and then at some point our member of Parliament will make time in his busy schedule to judge them, just before we open the show to the public. ’
‘Our member?’ said Fiona, jogging up the steps in a flesh-coloured athleisure onesie that at first glance made her appear stark naked. ‘He came to my local launch.’
‘Is that one of yours?’ asked Pat, taking in the entire bodycon effect.
‘It is!’ Fiona nodded excitedly and did a little pirouette in the porch. ‘Isn’t it great!’
‘I’m sure it’s going to fly off the shelves,’ said Jacqui, opening the doors to the hall and gesturing for people to go in.
‘Although quite which shelves those are, I have no idea,’ said Margot lugubriously as she sauntered up. Her usual twisted Quality Street turban had been replaced by a pale pink towelling variety, as if she’d just left a spa.
All Pat could think of as she walked to the back of the hall and picked up her nearly completed canvas was how interesting the art club photograph was going to be, with a nearly naked Fi standing next to a disapproving Margot dressed for a facial.
The only person they were missing was Colonel Thomas.
Fortunately, as she turned around, a slow parade of tweed and Viyella walked in through the door.
They all collected up their works, together with easels and chairs, and gathered out in front of the village hall for the finishing touches to their paintings, while Jacqui walked around, pausing at each canvas, giving helpful little hints.
‘Detail, detail, detail. It’s all about the detail, remember, Colonel,’ she said, giving his tweed arm a squeeze.
‘That’s my motto. Don’t forget the flowers, everyone.
Make sure you’ve got all those pretty blossoms and blooms in.
We want our village to look nice and pretty.
Oh, Pat,’ she said, standing behind Pat and looking over her shoulder.
She was unable to hide her disappointment.
‘My car does rather pull focus in the painting, along with the double yellow lines and the large black wheelie bin.’
‘It’s what I’m looking at,’ Pat shrugged. ‘I’m painting vérité.’
‘Was Michelangelo painting the truth when he did the Sistine Chapel?’ Jacqui replied, wrinkling her nose as she walked on.
‘I suspect not. Now, Dorna, that’s come on in leaps and bounds since our last session.
And I’m thrilled that you took my advice on board and have added lots more colour.
No one wants to look at a great grey painting, now do they!
’ She laughed loudly, mainly to herself.
They carried on touching up their creations in silence. They had all naturally taken the same spots as they had done the week before. Dorna was flanked by Pat and Prichard, who kept glancing across at each other.
‘Good week?’ asked Prichard with a little smile.
‘Who? Me?’ asked Dorna.
‘Yes, you.’
Pat was trying to keep a straight face. As cross-examiners went, Prichard was not the most incisive of interlocutors.
‘I’ve been to the Cairngorms,’ said Dorna, holding the thinnest of paintbrushes poised over her work.
‘Ah yes, I think I heard your helicopter land this morning. A Robinson R44 Raven II, I believe,’ said Prichard.
‘I have no idea, it’s just a taxi to me,’ said Dorna.
‘I love the Cairngorms,’ continued Prichard, not to be put off by Dorna’s dismissive tone. ‘Stunning. The birdwatching up there is marvellous.’
‘Sadly, I didn’t do much of that.’
‘Walking?’ Prichard asked.
‘Working,’ Dorna replied. ‘I have a Boho Golf nothing moves if you don’t have good infrastructure, nothing works.
We remain static. It’s essential stuff.’
‘I wasn’t aware that golf was essential.’
‘Oh, Pat!’ Dorna smiled slowly and shook her head with genteel condescension. ‘You’d be surprised. Golf is hugely popular. It’s the fastest-growing sport in the world. For some people it literally is a matter of life or death.’
Prichard froze in his seat, unable to move.
Pat simply stared straight ahead. She was about to announce loudly that she fancied chilli con carne for lunch.
But she could see from Prichard’s reaction that he had heard exactly what she had, and she worried that the mere mention of their safe word would cause him to spontaneously combust.
‘OK, final touches, please, everyone. The photographer is arriving any minute and we don’t want to keep him waiting. He’s got some prize-winning radishes to photograph at the allotments up the road, and he has to do both shoots by lunchtime.’
It took about half an hour of huffing and puffing and shoving for the elderly photographer with an aura of halitosis, flatulence and mothballs to organise the art club into a neat row with their paintings on show, trying not to smudge them, smiling ready for their close-ups.
Jacqui insisted on being in the middle, with the near-naked Fi at her side.
The rest of them were made to snuggle in together, with Pat very much squashed and squeezed in the centre too.