Local Artist

Paul Trembling

Description

A compelling mystery told with an extraordinary insight into the heights and depths of human nature. Paul Trembling has a gift for making heroes out of ordinary people. Fiona Veitch Smith, author of The Death BeatThe police call came at 4:00 am.A possible burglary that turns out to be a particularly nasty murder. Sandra Deeson, the Librarian who finds the bloodied body, is deeply shaken. Then the nightmares begin- because what the police don't know is that this is not the first time she has found a corpse. One of Sandra's colleagues is missing. The Police investigation starts and then stalls. There may be a clue in the painting someone left for Sandra - but the picture brings back memories she's tried to keep buried. Two unidentified bodies, thirty years apart, and the only connection is Sandra herself. Last time, it cost her dearly. This time the price may be even steeper.

Informations

• Publié par: Lion Hudson
• Date de parution: 17 novembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782642602
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

LOCAL ARTIST
"A compelling mystery told with an extraordinary insight into the heights and depths of human nature. Paul Trembling has a gift for making heroes out of ordinary people."
Fiona Veitch Smith, author of The Death Beat

Text copyright © 2017 Paul Trembling
This edition copyright © 2017 Lion Hudson
The right of Paul Trembling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Lion Fiction an imprint of Lion Hudson IP Ltd Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road Oxford OX2 8DR, England www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 259 6 e-ISBN 978 1 78264 260 2
First edition 2017
Acknowledgments Cover photo © Philip Askew / Trevillion Images A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
For my boys – Tom, Matt, and Andy. Thanks for all the support and encouragement. Each one of you is an artist: you have painted love into my life.
DAY 1: LOLLYGAGGING
A phone call at four in the morning is rarely a good thing. Especially not from the police.
I fumbled through the clutter on my bedside table, found my mobile, and jabbed my finger at the screen, more or less at random, until the noise stopped.
"What?" I muttered.
"Hello? Is that Sandra? Sandra Deeson?"
"Um."
"Sandra, this is June Henshaw. Sergeant Henshaw. From Central Police Station?"
"Um. Yes. June." I knew her slightly.
"Sorry to bother you at this time, but we’ve got your name and number as keyholder for the library on Bromwell Street?"
My brain fog started to clear. "Yes. Yes, that’s right. Has something happened?"
"We’re not sure, but an officer has discovered an insecurity at the library. We need to gain access to find out what’s happened. Would you be able to come down and meet us there?"
"Yes. Of course. I’ll be…" I paused, trying to focus my thoughts. It could take an hour to get to work in rush hour traffic, but at this time the roads should be much quieter. "Half an hour."
"That’s great. Thank you, Sandra. I’ll meet you there."
Graham had rolled over in bed and was peering in my direction. "Who was that?" he muttered.
"June Henshaw."
"Rob’s girlfriend?"
"Yes, but she’s got her police hat on. Helmet on. Whatever. Something’s happened at the library. I need to go and open up for them."
"Want me to come with you?" He was already half out of bed.
"No, love; no need for that. I just need to drive down there and open the doors. And you’re supposed to be avoiding stress, remember?"
"Nothing stressful about a phone call from the police at this time of the morning."
"My call, my stress. Really, love, you don’t need to bother yourself. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back for breakfast."
He gave me a long, if still bleary, look. "OK. If you’re sure. Call me if you need an emergency flask of coffee rushing to the scene, or anything like that."
I nodded. "It’ll be fine."
I fumbled for some clothes, made my way downstairs. The dog raised his head and wagged a hopeful tail.
"You go back to sleep as well, Brodie."
Nevertheless, he got out of his basket and followed me to the shoe cupboard, to make sure I wasn’t sneaking out in walking boots. I slipped on my trainers, and he wandered grumpily back again.
Clear skies, cold night. I wished I’d had time to make a coffee, but I’d just have to manage without. No time to do anything with my hair, either. Being pale blonde disguises the grey quite well, but without grooming, it sticks out at ridiculous angles. I pulled a woolly hat over my head, found my keys, and went out.
Even without the coffee, the sharpness of the night air began to wake me up, and the empty roads gave me opportunity to think. And the first coherent thought that came to me was: "Why didn’t the alarm go off?" If there had been an intruder in the library, I should have been woken up by the company that monitored the alarm, not the police.
I’d locked up myself last night. Hadn’t I? I was sure I was the last one to leave. I’d been helping the art club set up for their exhibition. It was supposed to open this morning… they’d been fussing over their displays, arguing over who got the best positions. Closing time was six, but it had been nearly eight before I’d managed to usher the last of them out.
The ring road was a fifty-mile-an-hour limit, but I felt no guilt at doing sixty. Maybe sixty-five, but I was responding to a police emergency, wasn’t I? And in any case, there was no other traffic to speak of. One set of headlights passed on the other side of the dual carriageway, some huge artic lumbering through the night, but I had the rest of the road to myself.
I was sure I’d set the alarm. It made a horrendous high-pitched warbling sound when you did, to let you know you had ten seconds to get out of the building. Since the panel was right next to the exit, that wasn’t a problem, but it still made me panic slightly. And it was impossible to forget to do it.
Wasn’t it? If I’d failed to set the alarm and there had been a break-in…
Worrying about that, I nearly failed to stop at the red lights as I came off the ring road. Not a residential area, fortunately, or the screech of rubber on road might have woken someone. Why were the lights red at that time? There was nothing else moving.
Having enjoyed their little joke with me, the lights reluctantly allowed me to go on my way. Down through the industrial estate and out onto Lock Road.
No, I must have set the alarm. So that meant nobody had actually got in, then. Perhaps just some drunk causing damage to the door or a window. Years ago, when we were more lax about security, someone had left a fire escape door open. We’d come in next morning and found an inebriated gentleman sleeping it off in the reference section. He was very apologetic when he woke up and realized where he was. Didn’t remember how he’d got there.
That must be it , I thought. No actual burglary. Panic over.
All the same, it still made my stomach churn when I finally turned onto Bromwell Street and saw two police cars pulled up in front of the library.
As I parked behind them, a police officer got out and walked towards me. I wouldn’t have recognized June if I hadn’t been expecting her: in fleece and stab vest she looked stocky, and the blonde hair which normally framed her face was pulled back into a ponytail.
"No blue lights?" I asked.
"On the off chance that someone is still inside, we didn’t want to alert them. Of course, they’re probably long gone, if anyone was there at all. Still, we need to be sure, so thanks for coming out, Sandra."
"Well, I didn’t want you kicking the door in!" I meant it as a joke, but tiredness made it come out sharper than I intended. I forced a smile. "Not that you would, of course."
"We try to avoid it wherever possible." June showed no sign of offence, but of course she was used to dealing with much worse than grumpy middle-aged librarians. "In this case, we’re not even sure that there has been any illegal entry, so we weren’t about to cause any unnecessary damage."
The word "damage" drew my eyes to the library itself, wondering just what harm might have been done.
About a hundred and fifty years ago, a local businessman had been inspired to build a great edifice of learning and enlightenment. And self-importance; it was to be named the Arthur Diogenes Bromwell Institute of Culture. However, his lofty vision came into conflict with his natural inclination to save a bob or two wherever he could. The result was a single-storey red-brick building, high windows facing the street, blank walls along the back, and a massively oversized front entrance, all columns, brass plaques, and Latin inscriptions. The double doors were ten feet high, oak and stained glass. In short it was a fine example of Victorian Monstrosity. Various mismatched additions accumulated over the years as needs dictated and funds enabled, improving functionality but doing nothing for appearance.
It was hard to see details in the dim street lighting, but everything looked as solid, secure, and ugly as normal. I raised an eyebrow in June’s direction.
"It’s round the back," she explained, and led the way. "We got a call from a member of the public about an hour ago, telling us something was happening here. PC Newbold" – she indicated the young copper who had joined her – "came to have a look round, and he found an open window."
We came to the narrow alley between the library on one side and a block of flats on the other. June shone a torch down it. "Mike, you stay and watch the front, just in case someone tries to do a runner. Are you OK with this, Sandra?"
"Of course. I doubt if anyone’s actually got in, or the alarm would have been activated."
"You’re probably right, and if anyone was here I expect they made off when Mike showed up. But there might be somebody lurking around at the back, so stay behind me and if anything kicks off, don’t get involved, OK?"
We walked down the alley, the only illumination coming from June’s torch. I told myself to stop feeling so nervous. I’d come this way every working day for twenty years, after all. Just not at night with the police.
The red Victorian brickwork gave way to the grey blocks of the Children’s Section, a 1950s addition. "Was it someone from the flats who reported it?" I asked.
"We don’t know. Anonymous call from the TK down the road. Telephone kiosk, that is. Long gone by the time we got here. But I’m not sure how much of the library you can see from the flats; there are no windows directly overlooking it."
We came to the end of the Ch