Chapter Eighteen #2
She didn’t look great, I remember. There was a glow in her eyes, a gaunt look to her body – but that’s how she’d get sometimes as she ‘purged her demons on to the canvas’ as she described it.
‘It’s like giving birth, Margot,’ she said, her voice grave.
‘Lots of pain, but you make something in the end. Not necessarily something beautiful – but something alive.’
‘I’d like to buy it,’ says Liam, breaking me out of the memory.
‘No,’ I say, my tone coming out aggressive, but I don’t care. ‘I want to buy it.’ I have my emergency credit card with me. It maxes out at ten thousand, but hopefully that’s enough. I need this piece of my friend.
‘I’m afraid it’s not for sale at present,’ says Simon.
My stomach turns. ‘What do you mean? Someone already bought it?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I mean that, considering the ongoing investigation into the whereabouts of the artist, I need to do my legal due diligence.’
‘Sorry if I missed something, but if it wasn’t the artist, who brought the painting here?’ Liam asks, voicing the exact question I’ve been burning with ever since Simon’s message.
‘I don’t know.’ Simon’s brow furrows. ‘I came in Sunday afternoon to catch up on admin. The painting was wrapped in cardboard, leaned up against the back entrance. There were no courier labels. It appears to have been personally delivered.’
‘For free?’ I say, confused. ‘There was no … demand for money?’
‘There was an envelope attached to the painting, with a new bank account and routing number for payment.’ Simon releases a tired sigh. ‘I’m assuming this is fraud. But it’s complicated, since this painting is also under contract. I’ve asked my lawyer about next steps.’
‘After she disappeared, her studio was ransacked,’ I say. It makes sense that the thief would try to sell off anything of value – and why not through the very gallery that was already willing to carry it?
‘So an art thief is likely involved,’ says Liam. ‘Do you have surveillance footage for the alley?’
Simon’s eyes widen. ‘I do. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Mind if we take a look?’ says Liam.
Simon beckons us to follow him through a back door into a cramped office.
For a second, a wild thought enters my head.
What if I’m about to see Zoe? What if she’s on some kind of crazy self-imposed art retreat while she completes her breakout series, and all this murder stuff will just be a hilarious misunderstanding?
As for the new bank account … I’m sure there could be some explanation.
My heartbeat thunders in my head.
‘It’ll just take me a second to pull it up …’ Simon sits behind his desk and jiggles the mouse to wake up his computer. Liam and I position ourselves behind him as he logs in. Soon, three camera views fill the screen – the alley, the front of the shop and the side of the building.
Simon leans closer. ‘Let’s rewind to Sunday …’
He starts the playback at midnight. The minutes count forward. My eyes stay glued to the screen as the sky lightens. A garbage truck rolls through. A couple kids with skateboards. A man stumbling drunk. And then, around nine in the morning, a white van pulls up. C’mon, Zoe … please let it be you …
Simon slows down the playback and pauses on the van. ‘Too fuzzy for a plate number,’ he mutters.
Someone gets out of the van, dressed in bulky, black clothes with a hoodie hiding their face – but I can tell right away it’s definitely not Zoe. It’s a guy with an athletic build. He goes to the back of the van and takes out, with some effort, a big package wrapped in cardboard.
‘The painting,’ breathes Simon.
The guy on the feed hefts it to the back door and leans it up against the wall. Then, he jogs back to the van, climbs in and drives off.
Simon stops the video.
I’m literally sweating.
‘Now what?’ says Simon, sounding suddenly vulnerable.
‘Even without a plate number or a clear view of the guy’s face, it’s still worth turning this over to the police, along with the banking information,’ says Liam firmly.
Simon seems to rally. ‘OK. Yes. I thought my lawyer was a sensible first step, but … I’ll make the call.’
‘Well, thanks for your time,’ says Liam as we all troop out of the office.
‘Do you mind if I snap a picture of her painting before we go?’ I ask.
Simon opens his arms. ‘By all means. However, I would request that you don’t post to social media.’
‘Of course.’ I pull out my phone and take a few pictures as I debate if I should call Barnett. No … I don’t want to have to beg again, just to get stonewalled. Not to mention, Simon is about to report all of this, so the intel should get back to Barnett without my involvement.
Then, I guess there’s nothing further to be done.
I can feel the press of disappointment in my throat.
I came here thinking this could be it. This could be the moment that delivered a lead straight to the guilty party.
Instead, all I have is this haunting image that Zoe made in the last months of her life, and fuzzy video footage of an unidentifiable man who broke into her studio, stole the work of her heart and now that the case has cooled down, intends to profit. Pretty cut and dry.
‘Thanks again,’ Liam says to Simon. ‘Please update us when the painting is released for sale.’
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ Simon promises as he opens the front door, bringing in a gust from outside.
‘You OK?’ says Liam as we exit the gallery. The wind has really picked up, and across the street, a uniformed server is hurriedly taking down a restaurant’s sidewalk patio umbrellas.
‘No,’ I choke out. And set off walking, away from Liam.