Headcase Read online

  HEADCASE

  Peter Helton

  © Peter Helton 2005.

  Peter Helton has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2005 by Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER I

  Detective work is boring. Really, really boring. It’s boring when it goes well and even more boring when it doesn’t. There is only one exception: the monumental, spectacular, energetically pursued and perfectly executed fuck-up. You know the kind I mean, the type that involves a startling amount of dead bodies and lands you on a cold stone floor in a pool of your own blood with even more bodies lying about, some with important bits missing.

  Of course you can’t expect to get up one morning and find it all there, ready for you. It comes at you in a quiet, crablike fashion, so you probably won’t hear it coming. I certainly didn’t, even though I switched off the music when I reached the wooden sign that points drunkenly up the pitted track to my house. Apart from the usual bird-song and the hum of the Citroen’s engine it was near silent.

  For me this silence marks the boundary between the reality of Bath and the quite different realities of my life in the valley, with its gentle morning rhythms, days of bovine slowness, its honeysuckled nights. I like to approach Mill House quietly, gauge its mood in the summery dusk, notice the pitch of the mill stream before it sinks into the background again.

  With my head half outside the open window to sniff the evening air I swung the car on to the hard-baked mud of the yard, slid it beside the battered but eminently practical heap of Annis’s Land Rover and killed the engine. The hydraulics sighed and the DS settled gratefully on to its haunches. Quiet.

  Even though my stomach was growling, I was content for a moment just to stand and breathe in the dusk, listen to the small noises of the countryside. This was a rare summer, the kind that lets people forget their dreams of moving down under and consider cream teas instead; strawberries were selling out every day; street cafes were crowded; the spectre of a hosepipe ban stalked the city. And it was still only June.

  The house and the outbuildings lay dark but a dim light came from the studio on the far side of the meadow — Annis was working late on her canvas, it seemed. With my arms full of shopping I pushed through the front door into the house and straight to the kitchen. The shopping deposited on the table, I prowled through the darkening ground floor, hall, sitting room, dining room, lighting the lamps as I went. The french windows were open and Annis in her painting gear was curled up in the big cane chair on the veranda.

  “Hi, Chris.”

  “Hi. Thought you were working. You left the lights on in the barn,” I said unnecessarily. You can see the studio from the veranda.

  “I know. I was just taking a break. Have some orange juice?” Annis pointed to the glass jug on the table. “Freshly squeezed.”

  She looked tired, had probably put in a twelve-hour day in front of her easel. “I will. Why don’t you call it a day? You can’t see a thing now anyway. And I’m fixing supper soon, I’m starving.”

  Annis followed me into the kitchen carrying the jug. “Need any help?” she offered.

  “You can make the salad, I’ll do the rest.” Then I saw it. She’d cut off half of her strawberry curls, they were now just touching her shoulders. “You cut your hair. I like it,” I lied.

  She screwed up her face and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I had it cut three days ago. For a bloke who’s a painter and a private eye you’re very unobservant sometimes.”

  “Sorry,” I said and busily unpacked the shopping.

  “That’s okay, you’re not my lover. In which case you’d be dead now.” She waggled the big chopping knife at me.

  I let that hang there for the moment. Not many people believe it but there was nothing going on between us. I mean there was lots going on between us but we weren’t sharing a bed. We lived together and sometimes worked together and so far that seemed a good arrangement.

  Annis simply turned up here four years ago when she was still a student. She sniffed around my studio, told some porkies about how she admired my work and asked if I’d take her on as an apprentice, like in the good old days before art colleges. She’d help in the studio, stretch canvases, clean my brushes, all very flattering. Then she showed me her work. She was supremely talented, that was instantly clear. I told her I had nothing to teach her but if she promised not to jack in her course she could work in my studio, it’s a big old barn. Then I kept finding her asleep in front of her easel in the mornings so I gave her a room in the house.

  Soon after that I slithered into detective work and Annis came slithering right behind. She’s an excellent investigator, always gets the best out of people with her poise and her butterscotch voice. And if you saw her painting now you’d immediately assume that I was washing her brushes. She’s nothing short of brilliant.

  “So how did you get on with the Turner thing today?” she asked now, munching away at the cucumber. “That’s what you were doing today, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Nothing suspicious at all. You’re supposed to chop it not chew it.”

  “Rule number one, don’t piss off the girl with the knife, you know that. So what does he get up to when he’s not with Mrs Turner? See? I’m chopping.”

  Mrs Turner had become suspicious of her husband’s absences, his late hours at work, the sudden proliferation of meetings and conferences he had to attend.

  “Nothing interesting so far,” I reported. “I waited for him outside his architecture bureau in Brock Street until he knocked off work at twenty to six. Rang Mrs Turner on my mobile to check. Yes, he was “working late”. I’d parked near his car in the Circus and never lost sight of his bumper across town and out towards Bathampton. Straight into the car park of the George Inn. He took to the towpath with a paper bag in his hand and strolled past the narrow boats for twenty minutes. Didn’t talk to anyone, there were quite a few people out there. Opened the paper bag, fed the ducks with the remains of his last sandwich or whatever, then back to the George. Got himself a pint of lager shandy, the sad deluded man, and drank it sitting on the grass by the canal.”

  “Didn’t meet anyone?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Any chance he clocked you following? Had you on?” I didn’t even answer that, just widened my eyes at her.

  “Okay, of course he didn’t. Perhaps he got stood up,” Annis suggested. “Salad’s done.”

  I lit the grill and opened the wine. “He didn’t look around for anyone, just sat there, looking at the water. Returned the glass to the George like a good boy and drove home.”

  “Then why tell his wife he’s working late? Why not say I’m going for a walk by the Kennet-and-Avon after work, see you at — what?”

  “Eight,” I supplied.

  “At eight. Or was he thinking of chucking himself in? Does he seem depressed?”

  “Thoughtful,” I conceded and shoved the prawn kebabs under the grill. “But why feed the ducks if you’re thinking of feeding yourself to the ducks? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not to you but suicides aren’t always rational.”

  The prawns blushed pink after a couple of minutes so I whipped them on to the plates and tore off some olive bread and helped myself to salad.

  Her eyebrows rose a fraction. “ You can help me with the salad, I�
��ll do the rest? What rest? You bought those kebabs ready-made. You didn’t do a thing!”

  “Exactly. Let Waitrose take the strain. Cheers.”

  You have…four…messages. Called…Wednesday, 10.21 a.m…

  Every time I hear the silly voice I swear I’ll get a decent answering machine but it took me forever to record my message so I always chicken out of that one.

  Aqua Investigations is really an answer-phone and a P.O. Box. There’s an office in the attic of Mill House devoted to it but we never meet clients there. I arrange to meet at a cafe, a pub, a park bench even, but preferably at their own addresses, which usually teaches me more about the client. No one is ever allowed near our haven in the valley.

  With my first coffee of the day steaming away on my desk I began ringing them back. First of the messages was from Simon Paris Fine Art promising good news, so I’d go and see him in person. The first client call turned out to be another unfaithful spouse, or rather her husband, and I turned him down politely. I’d only taken on the present one because the DS needs an MOT, and keeping a classic Citroen on the road is full of surprises, most of them nasty. Philanderers are our bread and butter but they are also boring, utterly predictable and time-consuming and I never enjoy handing over those videos and photographs. It’s usually bad news and ill received. Talk about shooting the messenger.

  Number two sounded quite promising if, naturally, boring. But the DS needed an urgent MOT and it sounded like a doddle. The silent partner of an antiques dealer in Walcot Street suspecting that business couldn’t be quite as bad as he was led to believe. He gave us permission to bug the shop and the office, a job for Tim, so I fixed a meeting between the two.

  Tim Bigwood is the third member of our little team. His primary job is an IT consultancy at Bath University so the easiest way to contact him is via e-mail. He’s online twenty-four hours a day it seems. He even had a laptop built into his niftily modified Audi TT and can conduct Aqua business from there. He’s our wires man. Anything to do with surveillance, pinhole cameras, sound-bugging, door-opening (and closing), and snooping around on other people’s computers is Big-wood country.

  Message number three sounded more promising still. From someone called Virginia Dufossee at Starfall House. Clear, precise voice. She would like to avail herself of my services. A request to turn up today, between twelve and one, at Starfall House, near somewhere called Compton Dando. Detailed instructions on how to get there from Bath. This was obviously someone used to giving instructions. She had also used my name which meant she hadn’t just picked

  Aqua Investigations from the phone book, thinking like so many that a P.O. Box number meant cheap rates. We’re not cheap. In fact we’re barely competitive and we’re choosy to boot. What Mrs Dufossee failed to mention was her reason for calling me. There was no answer when I rang back.

  I had hoped to give our Mr Turner another shot during his lunch hour so I thought I’d better take a fresh cafetiere of coffee with me when I went across to the studio.

  Another cloudless sky roofed the valley. Five weeks without rain had depleted the mill stream but the water still rushed happily through the narrow channel along the house. As I crossed the dewy slope of the meadow the sun on my back confirmed it would be sticky work sitting in a car watching Turner.

  Annis was perched on her stool staring at the six-foot square expanse of canvas she’d been working on for the last two months with the same expression I once saw her use on a bloke who was threatening us with a baseball bat. Needless to say the bloke packed it in. Only paintings never pack it in, they always have the last laugh. My own easel was mercifully empty. I had finished a painting three days earlier and was resting on fresh laurels. When they dry out they get uncomfortable, which would be soon enough.

  “Trouble?” I suggested. “Brought some coffee.” Annis is a hopeless addict.

  “Been nothing but trouble from the start. You’re not in your painting gear and you brought my poison, so spit it out.”

  “I’m meeting an expensive voice at noon.”

  “Hence the Armani shirt. Anything good?”

  “I’ll find out.” I poured a mug and held it out to her.

  “Organic Colombian After Dinner in the morning? What do I have to do to earn it?”

  “Keep an eye on Turner’s lunch hour.”

  She sniffed the coffee again, rabbit fashion, took one sip, just to make absolutely sure. “Done.”

  Compton Dando turned out to be an affluent village sleeping roughly halfway between Bath and Bristol. Its high hedges and double garages speak of commuting lifestyles and early retirement of highly paid professionals, though the odd tractor can still clog up the hectic rat-run lanes between the two cities, bringing the excitement of squealing brakes and festering impatience to the early morning racers trying to beat the crawling misery of the A4. The river Chew cuts through its northern half, another ten miles to go before it spends itself into the lake.

  Turning left after the bridge I started following the instructions Mrs Dufossee had provided, up and out of the village past two farms then right into a small wooded dell. “You can’t miss Starfall from there.” She was right, I couldn’t.

  Whether modest manor or immodest villa, Starfall House was a solid piece of Georgian masonry shielded by a sentry of trees from the well-maintained private road that led down to it. A tiny yellow Lotus looked lonely in the oval of raked gravel. I gave it a wide berth and parked close to the ivy-choked front of the house. From what I could see of the gardens Mrs Dufossee was also used to giving instructions to more than one gardener. The swishing of unseen lawn sprinklers was the only sound I heard until I tried the old-fashioned black bell-pull. It responded with a fading knell deep inside the building.

  I had expected a maid at the very least but the woman who opened the door and immediately turned her back on me had Lotus driver written all over her. Grey slacks, a silk top in a matching shimmer and pale grey heels that echoed across the cool chessboard floor of the hall.

  When I caught up with her she was already smoking on a flowery two-seater by the fireplace in a reception room to the left of the hall. Very black, very short hair, high cheekbones and superb complexion. Her eyes were too blue to be true, coloured contacts sprang to mind. Now I could see the lawn sprinklers through the closed windows behind her but couldn’t hear them. She pointed to an armchair a quarter of a mile away and frowned.

  “How old are you, Mr Honeysett?” Surprisingly, clients rarely ask for my credentials. More rarely still for my birth date. I judged us to be of similar age.

  “Mrs Dufossee — ”

  “Miss…Virginia Dufossee.”

  “Any particular reason for asking?”

  “Yes. I would like to know.”

  This could go on forever so I told her.

  She blew out smoke. “You don’t look it. Must be all that hair.”

  “Is looking my age in any way relevant to your problem?”

  “No, but acting your age might be.” She dismissed it with a wave of her cigarette. “I have responsibilities and I need responsible help. Let’s get on with it. Follow me.” She dropped her depleted cigarette into the ashtray without dirtying her fingernails by stubbing it out, picked up a thick plastic folder from the coffee table and led the way. Across the hall and through double doors into an even larger drawing room, sporting a black baby grand piano and more furniture that didn’t go with the Lotus.

  “One.” Virginia pointed to a faint empty square on the cream wallpaper. She wheeled around and pointed over my shoulder to a similar patch beside the door. “Two.”

  We continued our tour upstairs along a gallery, literally.

  “Three.” Another bald patch.

  I had made up my mind but this was too good to miss. Already she had wafted us past a drawing by Francesco Guardi, a small Constable watercolour and several Turner studies, glowing in their frames like jewellery. Into an impersonal bedroom at the end of the long corridor, probably a guest r
oom.

  “Four, five, six and seven. Smaller ones. Coffee?” She was off again.

  Only reluctantly did I turn away from a small Pissarro in the hall. We descended to ground level and passed under the stairs into the Essential Country Kitchen, scrubbed oak table, Aga, copper-bottomed everything and dried bundles of herbs, purely for show, I decided.

  She presented me with her folder and turned to the kettle. “I assume they mean something to you? I hired you because you’re also a painter. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Half of it was right, only no one had been hired yet.

  “I marked the missing ones. Milk, sugar?” I fended off any such suggestions.

  The list made impressive reading but something immediately bugged me about the stolen paintings, quite apart from the fact that they were missing, which bugged me a lot. People who steal paintings deserve to be shot. Not dead. Just shot, a lot. The coffee was instant and lousy. I wondered how you married a John Sims longcase clock in the front with Gold Blend in the back. Or perhaps they brought this stuff out for the hired help? I doubted it, since Virginia seemed quite happy to swill it down with her next cigarette. Maybe she had fried her taste buds with nicotine.

  The paintings explained why she had picked on me. Any self-respecting PI would have turned her down but she was hoping I’d do it for art’s sake. For art’s sake I turned her down.

  “Three Spencer Gores, two Harold Gilmans and a couple of Sickerts go astray from your house and you call me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No, that’s why you’re here.”

  “If you really want them back then you’ll go to the police. When did you discover the paintings were gone?”

  “Yesterday. So I rang you.”

  In my consternation I took another sip of imitation coffee. It didn’t improve my mood. “Only the police have the resources to recover stolen paintings, Miss Dufossee, and even they find it difficult. They’ve got specialist units for art theft, databases, the lot. Within hours the pictures will appear on the computer screens of every force in the country. Customs will keep their eyes open. The way the crime was carried out might point to who was involved. Not to speak of forensic evidence which might be deteriorating as we speak.”