CHAPTER 19 #2
Prichard’s canvas was smart, ordered, traditional but with an air of whimsy.
The colonel’s was in the Impressionist style, but this was probably due to his smeared specs rather than a desire to ape art history.
Fiona’s was full of lengthy fronds groaning with fecundity.
Margot’s was imposing and a little cold.
And Dorna’s? It seemed apparent that she was more interested in construction than nature, her great grey obelisk dominating the canvas, rising skyward like a poured concrete insult to the landscape.
Pat couldn’t help but see the painting as an expression of Dorna’s love of empire-building, and secretly admired it.
The art, that was. Not the proposed empire.
‘I think that’s it,’ said the elderly photographer, with a last click of his camera. ‘I believe I’ve more or less captured the moment.’
‘Thank you! Thank you! Thanking you!’ Jacqui walked around the hall with a generous swing of her voluminous skirt, clapping the tips of her fingers together in appreciation.
‘I do honestly think I love you guys so much. This is the best group I have ever had the privilege of working with. You’re all such good artists! ’
‘Is there a prize for the best canvas?’ asked Dorna, zipping up her Patagonia jacket.
‘What’s better than winning?’ asked Pat.
‘Winning with a reward,’ suggested Dorna.
‘Isn’t the winning supposed to be the reward?’ countered Pat.
‘Think of the Olympics!’ chimed in Prichard unhelpfully.
‘They win gold medals that they can flog for a fortune.’ Dorna smiled.
‘The prize,’ said Jacqui, ‘is to be featured on the cover of the parish magazine.’
The village hall door slammed shut. Pat swiftly looked around the room.
Fi had left the building. Dammit, she thought as she picked her own jacket – Gore-Tex – off a peg by the door.
She could kick herself. She had wanted to ask Fi how long her new friend was staying and how useful he had been with her brand.
And if the new flesh-coloured all-in-one outfit was his idea.
She left the hall and started to walk home up the lane, turning left at the church, with Prichard trotting beside her firing off questions and jabbing at his phone like a man on a mission.
She wasn’t really listening, her mind still caught on Fi’s outfit.
Fi was never one to shy away from a bit of stretch fabric, but what she’d worn today had taken things into full Kardashian territory.
Pat half smiled to herself. It was as if Fi had discovered perimenopausal sexual liberation and decided to express it through the medium of Lycra.
‘She’s got form!’ announced Prichard as they reached the top of the hill. His phone had just pinged; he was back online. He’d been frantically googling something and was now flashing the results like a teenager in Pat’s face. He pushed the screen right up against her nose.
‘Prichard!’ she snapped. ‘I can barely read that at the best of times, and if you shove it in my face I can most certainly not see a thing. Anyway, slow down, who’s got form?’
‘Dorna,’ he replied. ‘Someone else died on her watch.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Here.’ He flashed the phone again. ‘It’s in a Scottish local newspaper. I did a search for her and Boho Golf and the Cairngorms.’
‘What does it say?’
‘That someone connected with that development was found dead too.’
Pat stopped walking. ‘At the first Boho Golf he’d certainly seen this chap around. But where, he wasn’t entirely sure.
‘Prichard Knowles!’ Prichard stuck his hand out. ‘Friend of the venerable Dr Phillips.’
Pat glanced across at him. Venerable? ‘Mr Knowles has been helping me crack this case,’ she said.
‘Except there is no case, Dr Phillips,’ PC Footer replied.
‘Pat, please.’
‘Pat, then. There is no case.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Pat.
‘It’s a matter of fact,’ came the clipped tones of DS Stevens, appearing through the door leading to the back office.
‘DS Stevens.’ Pat’s smile was brief. ‘How was Lewes?’
‘Lewes?’ Her pretty nose creased and her left hand, the one with the tight zircon ring, patted the back of her brown bun. ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking, Dr Phillips. I’ve not been to Lewes for a while. Bonfire Night a few years back was probably the last time.’
‘That is strange. I could have sworn I saw you on the platform the other day with a friend in a camel coat.’
The mention of the coat made Stevens’ cheeks pink a little under the heavy contouring. ‘How can we help you, Dr Phillips? We’re rather busy here today.’
Both Pat and Prichard paused, ears strained for the sound of activity, the clacking of keyboards, the trilling of telephones. But there was nothing but silence. That busy.
‘Detective Sergeant Stevens, Prichard Knowles.’ Prichard held out his hand.
‘Mr Knowles.’ She nodded. ‘I know who you are.’
‘You do?’ He sounded delighted.
‘I came to your talk on bats in the village hall a couple of years ago.’
‘You did! I didn’t know bats were your thing, Sergeant.’ This time it was Prichard’s cheeks that coloured.
‘They’re not,’ she replied, ‘but my fiancé likes them.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, anyway,’ he inhaled through his back teeth, ‘we’re here to talk to you about another suspect in Henry Clayton’s murder. We’re aware that the police aren’t looking for anyone to help them with their enquiries, but we have some facts that we’re hoping might change your mind.’
‘Is that so? And what facts would those be?’ said Stevens.
Pat was expecting to be led through into the back of the police station to make a statement. But instead DS Stevens stood her ground and moved her weight onto one hip, as if she were bored waiting at the bus stop. She raised her shaped, laminated brows.
‘She’s got form,’ said Prichard.
‘Who?’ DS Stevens replied.
‘Dorna Braddon.’
‘The developer?’
‘She murdered someone else at her last development, in the Cairngorms. Look,’ said Prichard.
Out came the file and the printouts and the articles.
‘They even died in the same way. Here. He was the planner, and he fell off the edge of a quarry. There’s his photo.
’ He licked his thumb and extracted another printout.
‘And here’s the inquest into the accident, and here’s Ms Braddon saying how sad she was at his death. ’
‘Except why would she want to murder her planner?’
‘How do you mean?’ Prichard looked confused.
‘Why would it be in her interest to murder her own planner?’
‘Um, maybe she didn’t like the plans?’ he replied quietly.
‘Except that’s not the point,’ Pat chipped in. ‘One suicide on her watch is bad enough, but two might be more than a coincidence.’
‘Except …’ DS Stevens paused and sighed with exaggerated exasperation, ‘the first one was an accident.’
‘What about her injured hand and her thirty-seven-million-pound-deal and the bats!’ said Prichard. ‘Don’t forget the bats!’
‘Well, the bats are no longer there, so the thirty-seven-million-pound-deal is a permitted development and will bring jobs to the area,’ DS Stevens replied.
‘And her hand?’ Prichard insisted.
‘If I arrested everyone with a hand injury for double murder, we would be very busy indeed.’ DS Stevens gestured around the empty reception area.
‘But it’s illegal to smoke out bats and move them on; they’re a protected species.’ Prichard’s voice was getting weaker and weaker.
‘As are the Downs, surely?’ added Pat.
‘Not with the new government,’ replied Stevens. ‘It’s all up for grabs now, isn’t it?’
‘But surely it’s worth interviewing Dorna Braddon?’ said Prichard.
‘On the grounds of what?’ Stevens was increasingly impatient. ‘Bats?’
‘Where she was on the night of the murder?’
‘Well,’ DS Stevens smiled broadly, her cheeks flushed with triumph, ‘if that’s your only question, I can answer it for you. Dorna Braddon was in Scotland the night Henry Clayton chose to end his own life.’
‘Did you question her?’ asked Prichard.
‘I didn’t need to,’ replied DS Stevens. ‘Because when we were on the beach the following morning, having been alerted to the body of Mr Clayton being washed up on the shore, I personally watched Dorna Braddon’s helicopter land on the cliffs as she arrived back from the Cairngorms. I personally saw her land and I personally spoke to her when she asked me what was going on. ’
‘Right,’ said Prichard.
‘Right,’ agreed DS Stevens. ‘Now, with respect, could you both please leave. PC Footer and I are very busy, and the case of Mr Henry Clayton is closed.’
‘Can I just ask?’ added Prichard. ‘Was her hand bandaged when the helicopter landed? Did you notice if she had a strapped-up hand?’
‘Closed!’ DS Stevens pointed towards the doors. ‘The case is closed!’