Chapter 30 Imogen
Imogen
Revenge. Why would someone attack Dennis for revenge?
I thought he’d been hurt because of Dorothea.
Because of the hidden sculpture. I’d assumed that it was the same guy that drove his motorbike at me, that shoved me in Bristol and, maybe, who I found rummaging through Dorothea’s study.
But what if it’s nothing to do with Dorothea at all?
What if Dennis has been up to no good? Although I find that hard to believe.
I like to think I’m a good judge of character and Dennis strikes me as harmless.
But then I remind myself that, really, I know nothing about him.
I only have his word for it that he was friends with Dorothea. He could be lying about all of it.
Dorothea obviously didn’t trust those around her. Including Dennis. I need to remember that.
Josh’s sullen mood continues for the rest of the weekend.
He leaves to visit his mum on Sunday evening and doesn’t ask me to go with him like he usually would.
I’m happy to stay behind and read more of Dorothea’s biography anyway.
I’m enjoying reading about her upbringing and her passion for art at such a young age, although it’s heartbreaking to read about her father and I notice parallels with my own childhood.
Josh still isn’t home when I get ready for bed at 10 p.m. I look at the Find My app and see that he’s at the Filton flat.
Has he decided to stay the night there instead?
I’m suddenly very aware of being alone at night in this huge house with a security system I don’t even know how to use.
But forty minutes later the sweep of headlights illuminates the bedroom and I jump out of bed and run to the window, relieved to see Josh’s car pulling into the driveway.
I hop back into bed and pretend to be asleep.
I can hear him stepping out of his clothes, the sag of the mattress as he gets in beside me.
He snuggles up to my back, his arm draping over my waist. ‘I’m sorry for being so grumpy, I love you,’ he whispers so softly I wonder if I’ve misheard.
Then he moves to his side of the bed and soon I hear his breathing change and he starts to snore gently.
I’m unable to sleep so I pick up my phone from the nightstand, and I’m about to start scrolling through the photos of the hidden sculpture when I notice a text.
At first I think it’s from Harry and I wonder what he wanted to talk to me about when I bumped into him yesterday.
He had said it was something about Dorothea.
But then I see it’s from Gabe Mitchell’s agency inviting me to visit tomorrow at 11. 30 a.m. at their offices in London.
Gabe’s offices are in trendy Hoxton Square. It doesn’t take me long to navigate my way to Old Street and then I walk through the bustling area, enjoying the sun that has come out. I stop for a coffee at a little place on the corner to kill some time before my appointment.
Eventually I arrive at a large, airy reception area which looks like a gallery with photographs spaced evenly on white walls featuring the artworks of Gabe’s most famous clients.
I can see several of Dorothea’s paintings and her most successful sculpture, Woman in Turmoil, a young Dorothea standing beside it.
The haughty woman behind the desk barely glances at me as she tells me to take a seat.
I must look like another young, wannabe artist hoping for representation.
‘Imogen! Darling! So lovely to meet you!’
I turn to see a rotund man with rosy cheeks, wearing a jade velvet jacket and a silver cravat, bearing down on me.
He must be mid-to-late sixties with still-dark hair and twinkly eyes and a huge smile.
I like him instantly. I stand up and shake his proffered hand and the receptionist glances up with interest, assessing me properly for the first time as Gabe ushers me into his office.
It’s all white walls and blond floorboards and interesting features: a sofa that looks like Dalí’s lips, a glass coffee table with ceramic shoes at the end of slim legs, a spotted sculpture of what could be a giraffe but also may be some kind of dinosaur in the corner.
I can’t stop looking around, picking out different things: the bookends that are fish, the clocks that resemble moustaches, the Jackson Pollock-esque mural on the far wall.
‘So, this is the famous Imogen Cooke. The woman who the lovely Dotty left all her worldly goods to.’ He says it without any type of malice or judgement; in fact, he seems delighted for me.
‘It was a huge surprise,’ I say, perching on the edge of an expensive-looking white sheepskin chair, and I find myself hoping the dye from my indigo jeans doesn’t rub off on it. ‘I’m still trying to get my head around it. Did she … um, did she ever mention me?’
‘Of course.’ He throws his hands up in delight.
‘Absolutely. There were no secrets between me and Dot. She was only around your age when we first met and I was five years younger, just starting out. She was my first client that made it big. She had this raw talent, you know, that I recognized straight away. It was me who came up with changing her name to Dorothea Roe.’ Then his smile slips and it’s like all the light has been sucked from the room.
‘I’m still reeling from her death. I can’t believe it.
I just wish her last collection hadn’t perished in that fire.
It would have been a wonderful memory, a legacy. ’
I know enough about art to realize that an artist’s work becomes even more lucrative and sought-after once they’ve died.
Despite what Annette hinted about Gabe’s debts, I can’t believe he was the one who killed her. It would serve no purpose for him to set fire to her art. Unless there was something about it that would expose him.
‘Did you see her last collection?’ I ask.
‘I did … it was great. Some of her best work.’ He gets up from his seat and heads towards a ruby red coffee machine. ‘Coffee?’
‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ve just had one.’
It’s like the kind you get in a café and he’s silent for a moment as he sets about making himself an espresso.
‘You know, there are rumours …’ He returns to his seat.
I sit forward. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘… that one of her sculptures didn’t perish in the fire.’
I try to keep my expression neutral. ‘Who told you that?’
He waves his hand. ‘Oh, just people.’ He peers at me, his eyes lighting up. ‘Do you know anything about that? Have you found anything in her house? Well, your house now, I suppose.’
‘Um. No. No, I haven’t.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Is it my imagination or is there a glint of suspicion in his eyes?
Does he know more about the secret sculpture than he’s letting on?
If he found it and sold it, he’d make a small fortune.
I wonder who told him. Is it the person who’s been watching me?
Who broke into the villa? Who rifled through Dorothea’s office?
Who locked me and Dennis in the bunker? If Gabe knows anything about the bunker he’s not letting on.
‘Was her artwork always personal?’ I ask.
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, was there always a meaning behind her art?’
He laughs. ‘Of course. She once told me she used art as a way to figure out her feelings. So yes, it was very personal to her. Is that what you wanted to see me about?’ He peers at me with his sharp eyes and I have to be careful what I say next.
I can’t arouse his suspicions further. ‘You came all the way here just to ask me that?’ He narrows his eyes.
‘She told me you were a journalist. She was very proud of your accomplishments.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely to know,’ I say, genuinely touched.
But now there is an edge to his voice when he adds, ‘Are you looking for a story?’
I try and laugh it off. ‘No. Dorothea was a friend of the family. Of course I’d love to find out who killed her. Wouldn’t you?’
He leans back in his chair. ‘Well, of course.’
‘But I’m trying to get to know more about her through her art. I’m not great at interpreting it and so I came to you. After all, you’d know her art the best.’
He rests his hands on his stomach, mollified. ‘Well, yes, that’s true. Which piece of art in particular do you want to know more about?’
‘All of them, I suppose. Did they have a similar overarching theme? Other than birds?’
‘Yes. Inequality. Abuse of power. She was a feminist. She believed very strongly in women’s rights. Most of her artwork is about that in some form or other.’
I picture the hidden sculpture. A woman. Seven magpies. The miniature items.
‘Did she hide clues in her artwork?’
He frowns. ‘Clues? I don’t understand. What kind of clues?’
I fidget. ‘Hidden messages.’
‘I’m sure she did.’ He clears his throat. ‘Imogen, darling, are you trying to find this missing sculpture?’ His gaze is challenging. ‘Is that what this is about?’
My cheeks go hot. ‘I don’t know anything about a missing sculpture, do you?’
He sits back in his chair. ‘Like I said, I only hear rumours. But if you do find anything, it would be in your best interests to let me know.’ His voice is steely and a chill ripples over my skin.