Chapter 28 Imogen
Imogen
‘Are you planning on writing a piece on Dorothea?’ asks Josh as soon as Annette has left. He’s clearing away the plates so I can’t see his expression, but his tone is cold.
My pulse quickens. ‘Why do you ask?’ I take the cup Annette was drinking from and place it in the butler sink.
‘I could tell you were trying to speak to her quietly, but you were interviewing her, weren’t you? I thought you were going to leave it?’
‘I’m just interested, that’s all.’
‘Because of the arson?’ He turns to me and narrows his eyes suspiciously.
There is a part of me that wants to tell him the truth about Dorothea, about the possibility she was pushed down the stairs, the hidden sculpture she left for me to find, but it feels too late.
I’ve kept too much back from him already.
‘Yes, partly, but also because Dorothea was important to me once.’
He laughs cruelly. ‘Like, a million years ago. There’s more to this, Ims. Admit it.’
‘No, there isn’t.’
‘Then why did Harry give me this to pass on to you?’ He reaches under the table and pulls out a dog-eared paperback that must have been on the chair next to him.
He throws it at me. I make a clumsy attempt to catch it but it falls at my feet.
I already know what it is before I’ve had the chance to see the cover.
I bend down to pick it up.
‘Well? It’s her autobiography, isn’t it?’
‘Biography,’ I mumble, unable to meet his eye.
I open my mouth to say something else but he snaps, ‘Save it. I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.’
Before I’ve had the chance to reply, he’s left the room. I race up the kitchen stairs after him, wanting to explain, but I’m just in time to see the front door slam and the roar of a car engine. I pull open the door. Josh is backing his car out of the drive, leaving me stranded here alone.
At least I can read Dorothea’s biography in peace, I think as I settle into one of the sofas, the dogs at my feet. I try and push away the uneasy feeling about my relationship with Josh. Things seem to have taken a turn for the worse since we’ve moved in here.
I open the book and despite my worries I experience a thrill.
There is a short foreword detailing the author’s credentials and some of the biographies he’s published before, mostly on historical figures.
I flick to the back but there is no author photo and the final page just says ‘acknowledgements to come’.
I’ve never read a proof copy of a book before.
Inside the cover it states that the biography will be published in hardback, but this is a soft copy, cheap and flimsier than a regular paperback you would buy in the shops.
I devour the first chapter. Sidney Crane has an easy, accessible way of writing so that I’m immediately transported to Dorothea’s childhood, learning about her growing up as Dorothy Bird in the small textile town of Clayton Rocks.
It has more details about her father’s physical abuse towards her mother which Dorothea had mentioned briefly in the interview with Maria Hensley.
It jogs a memory of that summer, one that I had forgotten until now.
It was a day or so after I first arrived at the villa.
I had been terrified – I’d been so shy at fourteen and suddenly there we were in this big old house with a woman I had only met a handful of times before: usually when I’d been off school or had an inset day and Mum had taken me to work with her.
I’d hidden in my bedroom most of that first day, even though my mum had tried to coax me out, but then, lured in by the most gorgeous cat I’d ever seen, I found my way into Dorothea’s studio.
She was standing by the glass doors in a slant of sunshine that picked out the champagne tones in her blonde hair.
‘Come in,’ she’d said, smiling kindly. She’d noticed my eyes on the cat and she scooped him up into her arms. ‘He’s very gentle.
His name’s Casper. Here, sit on this chair and you can have him on your lap.
He loves a cuddle.’ I did as she said and immediately the warmth and weight of Casper in my lap centred me and I felt my anxieties ebbing away.
The studio was just on the right side of messy with canvases propped up against white walls, and even now I find the warm smell of acrylics soothing.
Dorothea had sat on the chair opposite and told me to think of the place as my home.
And then she reached across and patted my arm and said, ‘I was in your shoes once. I always wished I had somewhere to escape to so I want this to be your sanctuary. A place you can always come when things get tough. Okay?’
My eyes smart at the memory and I experience that familiar ache of regret that we didn’t stay in touch after my mum died.
It’s something I want to ask Alison about, if only we were talking.
She never replied to my snotty message and I’m still angry at her for going to see our dad in prison.
I force my sister from my mind. Her betrayal still hurts.
I’m reading on about Dorothea’s tough upbringing when my phone rings. Dennis’s name flashes up on screen.
‘Dennis! How are you? Are you home from the hospital?
‘Yes.’ He gives a little cough. ‘I’m all good. I was wondering if you would mind bringing Cady home. It’s so kind of you to have looked after her for me, but I miss the old girl.’
‘Of course. I’ll bring her over now. Do you want me to walk her first for you? Saves you going out?’
‘That would be grand if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. I’ll bring her over in about forty-odd minutes.’
‘Thank you, my dear. You’ve been a life saver. Quite literally.’ He laughs softly. ‘See you in a bit.’
I’ll miss Cady, it’s been lovely company having the dogs with me.
But at least I get to keep Solly. I’ve found a joy I never thought I needed, just tramping over the rough terrain of the fields with the dogs, a kind of calmness despite the biting wind.
It doesn’t stop my racing brain but it at least gives me an outlet for my energy.
As I lead the dogs through the kissing gate that exits the fields and leads to the lane, I spot Harry emerging from the driveway of his parents’ house.
When he sees me his face brightens and he strides towards me.
He bends down to make a fuss of the dogs and then his eyes meet mine. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’m good. How are you? Thank you so much for the book,’ I reply, noting how polite, how slightly awkward we are with each other, no longer friends, exactly, but more than acquaintances.
‘I was hoping to run into you, actually. I wanted to have a chat about Dorothea, but you’ve caught me on my way out, unfortunately. Perhaps we could arrange to meet up some other time?’ He checks his watch. ‘Sorry, I really must be off now. I’m supposed to be viewing a flatshare.’
I experience an unexpected kick of disappointment.
I watch as he gets into his car and then I walk past his house towards Dennis’s.
Cady starts pulling at the lead as soon as we head down Dennis’s garden path, and Dennis is at the front door before I’ve even knocked.
‘Hello, my girl,’ he cries as he carefully bends down and ruffles Cady’s neck. ‘Yes, I know. I know. So lovely to see you too.’ Then he stands up and smiles unapologetically. ‘As you can see, we’ve missed each other. Do you want to come in?’
I hesitate, preferring to get home but sensing Dennis might be lonely. He must miss Dorothea and he also might be able to help me with this sculpture.
I step into his hallway. ‘Both dogs are a bit mucky, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I have wooden floors everywhere. Come into the kitchen and we can towel them dry.’
I follow him down a hallway with dark-green walls and into the square kitchen where I glimpsed him lying in his own blood that day.
He hands me an old towel and I rub down Solly’s muddy legs and paws and then do the same to Cady while Dennis makes the tea.
‘It’s good to be home,’ he says as I perch on a leather sofa that’s seen better days. There are rips in the arms and it smells of wet dog. He hands me a mug. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ He joins me as the dogs loll at our feet.
‘Any more news about Dorothea’s hidden sculpture? I couldn’t stop thinking about it while I was in the hospital. You know, in all the years I knew her she never mentioned working on anything in secret, and we talked about a lot of things.’
I explain how I went back down to the bunker with Rachel and the lighter we found.
Is that a flicker of recognition when I mention the initials?
He doesn’t say anything. He sips his tea and then smacks his lips together.
‘So good to have a decent cuppa. It was weak as piss in the hospital, excuse my French.’ His eyes twinkle and I laugh.
I’m tempted to tell him about the biography but decide against it, wanting to read it first. I’m itching to get back to it.
‘You know, I was always asking Dorothea questions but she didn’t always answer. It depended on her mood. She was very private. But slowly, over the years, she began to open up to me,’ he says. ‘Yet she never told me about the sculpture.’
I reach into my bag and retrieve my phone. I pull up the photos and then pass it over to Dennis. ‘I tried to take some close-up shots of different aspects of the sculpture – look, can you see here the magpies? Some have different trinkets on them. Could they mean something?’
Dennis takes the phone and then slowly scrolls through the photographs with his sausage-like fingers. ‘Hmmm. Hard to say. I’m not an expert but I think Dorothea’s work always spoke of … well, turmoil.’
‘I’ve called Gabe Mitchell a few times,’ I say. ‘You know, Dorothea’s agent.’
‘Ah yes. And?’
‘He never returns my calls. I’ve left messages.’ I’d need to be careful I don’t reveal there is another sculpture that wasn’t destroyed in the fire, but Gabe, more than anyone, would know how her mind worked when it came to her art.
‘These photos aren’t very clear,’ Dennis says as he reaches for his reading glasses.
‘And I’m finding it quite difficult to recall the sculpture.
I do think we’re right about what we were saying before, you know, about the sculpture being left for you to find.
It’s quite big. And I imagine awkward to carry.
She wouldn’t have worked on it down in that bunker only to then transfer it to her studio.
It would have been too difficult without help.
And we know the others in this series were in her studio because they were destroyed in the fire. I saw them in there myself.’
I’m surprised by this. ‘When?’
He looks up from the phone. ‘Not long before she died and only very briefly – she was quite secretive about this new collection. We’d been walking the dogs and she wanted to give me back a history book she’d borrowed, and I was standing on the lawn while she went into the house through her studio.
Then she pulled back the glass door and I saw them, well, most of them. ’
‘And? What were they like?’
‘I was too far away to see much, but they were life-like and varied in size.’
‘Did you see birds?’
He crosses his ankles, which look scrawny compared to the huge slippers he’s wearing. ‘Yes. I think so. Although I’m not sure if they were magpies, but I assume so. And, like I say, the sculptures varied in size but were all life-like. They were …’ He pulls a face.
‘Macabre?’
‘Yes. And strangely glamorous. A lot of fabric and wigs. I’m sure I spotted some kind of headdress. And one … yes, I remember now because it was kind of strange – one of the sculptures was in a skeleton costume.’
My breath stills. I instantly think of my dad and the costume he’d worn to Rosemary’s fateful Halloween party the night my mum died. They are popular, I know, but this must be a reference to him. If her theme was abuse, had she used my parents as inspiration? The thought sickens me.
‘That was it, really. I didn’t get a closer look.’ He continues to scroll through the photographs, absent-mindedly touching the side of his head. I notice a patch of white hair by his ear which has been shaved, revealing the puckered edge of stitches.
‘Please be careful, Dennis,’ I say, feeling a sudden rush of affection towards him. ‘I’m worried you’ve been targeted because of the bunker. Do the police have any leads?’
He glances up, his shaggy eyebrows drawn in a frown. ‘No. At least, not that I’ve heard.’ He hands me back my mobile. ‘I don’t really get what she’s trying to say in these photographs, if I’m honest, Imogen, dear. I have never really understood art, although I’ve tried.’
He picks his mug back up and takes a long slurp of tea.
I scan his kitchen. The worktops are clean and relatively tidy.
There is a stack of old newspapers on top of the microwave, a notepad resting on top of a cabinet by the back door, the kind I always used when I was making extra notes while interviewing someone.
When I came in through the front door earlier my eyes had briefly swept the living room on the left, and on the coffee table I’d noticed a glossy book on twentieth-century artists.
Is he lying about not knowing much about art?
‘Did the fake delivery man give you a package?’
His hand trembles slightly as he puts down his mug and his eyes cloud over.
‘Yes. Actually. The police found it after I explained to them what had happened.’ He stands up and goes into the hallway.
When he comes back he’s carrying a small cardboard box.
He hands it to me. ‘It was empty. The police swept it for fingerprints, but nothing. It was obviously just a ruse so the biker could get into my house. Although …’ He looks uneasy.
‘When I got home I found a tiny piece of paper which must have partially slipped through the gap in my floorboards and it got caught on the sole of my shoe.’ He goes over to the microwave and picks it up before returning to me. ‘Look at this.’
I take the slip of paper from him. There’s only one word typed on it in capital letters. VINDICTA. ‘Is this Italian?’
‘It’s Latin. I did it at school and it means something like vindication. Or justice.’ And then he pauses and the energy in the room changes. Dennis looks grey as he adds, ‘And … it could also mean revenge.’