Chapter 22
The address they’d been given for Jim Baker was on the outskirts of East Burrington, a large village on the main road between Neston and Dukesbridge.
His new place wasn’t just near Gadson’s Zoo, it was right opposite the entrance in the hinterland between the houses and the fields.
When they got out of the car, they heard a sudden roar that sounded like an angry lion.
If the zoo was home to such fearsome animals, Wesley hoped security was good.
To Wesley’s surprise, Baker’s new address was a modest detached bungalow, one of three set out in a row, its neighbours boasting new double-glazing and neat front gardens.
It was hardly the sort of place they would have expected to find the artist. If it weren’t for the death-metal music blaring out and the overgrown front lawn, they would have suspected the young woman in Morbay had given them the wrong address.
Wesley rang the doorbell and waited, The music fell silent and a middle-aged man opened the door.
He was wearing a paint-stained black T-shirt and jeans.
His heavily tattooed arms were decorated with an array of fantastic beasts, including a fearsome dragon and a winged horse.
His grey-peppered black hair was tied back in a ponytail and there were dark rings under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept for a long time.
‘Mr Baker?’
‘Who’s asking?’
When the two detectives produced their ID, Baker’s expression turned positively hostile. ‘Has that old bitch next door been moaning about my music again?’
‘Best if we talk inside,’ said Gerry as he stepped forward.
The man hesitated before standing aside, his expression morose but resigned.
He made for a room on the right, and Wesley and Gerry followed.
It was a studio smelling of turpentine, oil paints and sweat with an underlying whiff of cannabis.
There was a large easel in the middle of the room and canvases had been stacked up on the bare floorboards. There was nowhere to sit.
‘Wouldn’t have thought this was your sort of house,’ said Gerry. ‘Bit . . . suburban.’
‘My nan died and left it to me. Things were getting a bit heavy with the neighbours in my last place, so I thought I might as well move in here and save on the rent. Nan’s stuff’s still in the other room. Load of crap,’ he added with a snort of derision.
Wesley had the passing thought that if he’d been Baker’s nan, he would have left everything to some animal sanctuary rather than to this ungrateful man.
‘Bloody neighbours are always complaining, though, so I’m thinking of selling.’
‘Might be for the best,’ said Gerry. ‘You’ve had a lot of trouble with neighbours in your last couple of places, so I’ve heard.’
‘Especially a lady called Sue Potter in Belsham,’ Wesley added.
‘That stupid bitch.’
‘Do you keep up with the local news?’
‘No.’
‘So you haven’t heard about her death?’
Baker turned his head away so they couldn’t see his expression. ‘No.’
‘You haven’t asked what happened to her,’ said Wesley.
‘Why would I?’
‘Most people usually show some curiosity about something like that.’
‘I’m not most people.’
Wesley’s gaze wandered to the painting propped up on the easel. It depicted a strange creature that appeared to be a cross between a man and a horse. A centaur in vivid reds and blacks. Nightmare colours in a nightmare landscape.
‘Do you sell many paintings?’ He couldn’t resist the question.
‘Round here they just want chocolate-box crap: seascapes and pretty little harbours. Bloody bourgeois tourists.’ Baker spat out the words with contempt. ‘I’m moving to London as soon as I get rid of this place. They’ll appreciate my work there.’
‘Where do you get the inspiration for your art?’ Wesley asked, suspecting Baker was right about the artistic taste of the local clientele.
This question seemed to be more to Baker’s liking.
He looked Wesley up and down appraisingly before replying.
‘The animals in the zoo next door. The guy who runs it lets me in for free so I can study them. And I get ideas from old legends about weird beasts. Dragons and wisht hounds. Local folklore. They say the devil appeared around these parts in the guise of an animal and the wisht hounds were his dogs.’
‘Can’t really imagine the devil taking his dogs for walkies,’ said Gerry with a grin.
‘Don’t be facetious, Chief Inspector. You have no idea what the devil’s capable of.’
Gerry opened his mouth to make another witty comment, but thought better of it. Baker looked deadly serious.
It was Wesley who asked the next question. ‘Where were you last Friday night?’
‘I was here, working. And you can’t prove otherwise.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘I work alone.’
‘Your former neighbours complained about noise you made. Loud music.’
‘I play music while I’m painting. So what?’
‘Maybe your present neighbours heard your music on Friday night.’
The artist suddenly looked unsure of himself. ‘Dunno. Why?’
‘You argued with Sue Potter.’
‘She kept complaining about my music and going on about petty things like bins. She annoyed me.’
‘She was murdered,’ said Wesley, hoping this might shock the man into a more co-operative mood.
But his efforts failed. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’ Baker turned back to his painting and picked up a brush to add a few strokes to the strange creature’s tail.
‘Did you know a man called Timothy Fontescue-Burns? He died back in 2017.’
Baker’s hand froze. It was obvious the name meant something to him. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘He ran some sort of commune at a house just outside Neston. It’s now called Sycamore House, but I think it used to be known as Casa Mirabilis. Did you ever live there?’
The man shook his head and carried on painting. After a few seconds, he put his brush down and spoke again. ‘I’ve just remembered, Dale came round on Friday while I was working. We had a drink.’
‘Who’s Dale?’
‘Dale Gadson. He owns the zoo. He’s a good bloke.’ Baker grinned, showing a set of stained and uneven teeth. ‘Says his animals like my music. Tells me to turn it up louder.’
‘Ever heard of Dr Aleric Donnal?’
Baker shook his head again, picked up the brush and returned to his painting, Wesley and Gerry exchanged a glance. They knew they wouldn’t get any more out of him that day. But now they knew where he lived, they could find him again any time they wanted.
They decided to check out his alibi while they were there, so they left the car where it was and walked across the lane to the zoo.
It was time to find out whether Jim Baker had been telling the truth. Or, as they suspected, lying through his teeth.