Guns in the Gallery

THIRTY-TWO

Jude had considered various subterfuges before she rang Ingrid Staunton’s mobile number. She knew that a good way of getting through to an artist was to pretend to be interested in commissioning a work from them. That would generally get them listening and even agreeing to meet.

But she would have felt rather shabby, raising someone’s expectations of paid work and letting them down, so in fact when her call was answered, she just said, ‘Hello, my name’s Jude. You don’t know me, but I believe you used to tutor Fennel Whittaker.’

‘Yes, I did.’ The voice was cultured and intelligent, but also anxious. ‘Why, has something happened to her?’

‘I’m afraid it has.’

‘Suicide?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Jude, choosing her words carefully.

Ingrid Staunton sounded genuinely shocked by the news. Jude gave very little of the background, just the fact that the death had occurred at the Whittakers’ home, and the woman needed no urging to agree to meet. She had a class to teach at two o’clock that afternoon, but would be free by three thirty. She suggested a wine bar in Theobald’s Road as a rendezvous.

Before the art teacher arrived Jude was already ensconced with a large Chilean Chardonnay in front of her. She had switched off her mobile. The imminent encounter was important, and she didn’t want any interruptions.

There was something in the trim build and manner of the woman who entered the wine bar that was reminiscent of Bonita Green. Her eyes were brown but the hair was short spiky blonde. On the other hand, Bonita’s hair had been dyed black for so long that perhaps it once, too, had been fair.

Ingrid Staunton was probably late forties, which would have put her about the right age to be Giles Green’s sister. And she wore a wedding ring, which might explain the change of surname.

But Jude was not going to start with the woman’s family history. Nor, had that been her plan, would she have been allowed to. Having checked she was talking to the right person, Ingrid Staunton immediately said, ‘I’ve been thinking about Fennel ever since I got your call. She was such a talented girl. This is really tragic news. Has it only just happened?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘I’m surprised I haven’t seen anything in the press.’

‘Her parents have worked quite hard to keep the news quiet.’

‘Oh yes, I remember the Whittakers. They’re good at that.’

‘They certainly are. Let me get you a drink.’

‘Something white, please. What’s that you’ve got?’

‘Chilean Chardonnay.’

‘Sounds good.’

Once they’d both got drinks, Jude gave Ingrid an edited version of events surrounding Fennel’s death. She noticed a definite reaction when she mentioned the Cornelian Gallery, but didn’t pick up on it. Ingrid also recognized the name of Denzil Willoughby.

‘I taught him for a while. Very talented, but a distinct attitude problem. More concerned about his image than the art he produces. Denzil has more natural talent for drawing and painting than anyone I’ve taught. But that wasn’t the way he wanted to go, he took the route into conceptual art, which I think is a bit of a cul-de-sac.’

‘For everyone?’

‘No, for some of them it’s good. For Denzil, though, I’m sure it’s the wrong direction. With his conceptual stuff he’s never going to be in the first rank, whereas with his drawing and painting he could be. Maybe he’ll see the light at some point, start following his instincts as an artist rather than just leaping on to the latest bandwagon.’ Ingrid Staunton sighed. ‘But I’m desperately sorry about Fennel. She had a breakdown, I know, and didn’t finish her course at St Martin’s, and I did hear a rumour that she’d made a suicide attempt back then, but I rather hoped she’d been cured. Depression is a wretched illness.’

‘Yes.’ Jude judged the moment was right for a change of tack. ‘There has been some suggestion that Fennel’s death might not have been all it seemed.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘There’s a strong feeling among some people – and I’m one of them – that she might have been murdered.’

Ingrid’s hand was instantly at her mouth. ‘Oh my God! What evidence do you have?’

Jude retold the story of the suicide note and the missing mobile phone. ‘I’m not sure that either of those is proof that would stand up in a court of law, but it’s enough to convince me.’

‘Me too.’ Ingrid Staunton took a thoughtful sip of Chilean Chardonnay. ‘You say Fennel made a scene at the Denzil Willoughby Private View. What exactly did she say?’

Jude recapped the outburst as accurately as she could and watched the other woman’s reaction.

‘She did actually use the words “causing someone’s death”, did she?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you say that Fennel had also had a relationship with my brother?’

Jude managed to look more shocked by this lapse than she actually was. Ingrid Staunton immediately realized what she’d said. ‘Ah, that was silly of me. But I can’t deny it now, can I? Yes, I am in fact Bonita Green’s daughter.’

‘I was hoping you were,’ said Jude with a smile.

‘Why?’

‘Because I thought you might be able to provide a missing link in this investigation.’

‘I’m rather afraid I may be able to. I don’t know if you know, but I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother for over twenty years.’

‘I had heard something of that, yes.’

‘You might think that’s a rather extreme reaction to a family row.’

Jude shrugged. ‘These things happen. Particularly between mothers and daughters. The relationship can be pretty volatile during the teenage years.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t just me being a moody adolescent. There was more to it than that. I couldn’t stay living in the same house as her. I walked out when I was sixteen. Went to London, got any kind of job – bar work mostly – and saved up enough to put myself through St Martin’s. I didn’t bother changing my name, because I knew my mother would never come looking for me. Then in my early twenties I got married, so I got a different name, anyway.’

‘Are you still married?’

Ingrid Staunton smiled a rather girlish smile. ‘Yes. To my considerable surprise, I’m still very happily married. Which is amazing, coming out the family that I did.’

‘Have you had any contact with your brother over the years?’

‘Virtually none. I wanted to cut all ties. I had nothing specifically against Giles, but the important thing was that I got away from that woman. And I certainly don’t miss either of them. I’ve got my own set-up. Work I love, husband and two children I adore. I don’t need to dig over past history.’

‘But I wouldn’t mind if you did dig over a bit,’ said Jude gently, ‘just to help me out.’

‘Mm. I know what you mean.’ Ingrid Staunton ran her fingers through her spiky blonde hair. ‘Right. You want to know why I couldn’t stand living with my mother any longer, don’t you?’

‘If you think that’ll help my investigation into Fennel Whittaker’s death, then yes, I do.’

‘I’m afraid it probably will. You said that at the Private View Fennel spoke of “causing someone’s death” and her attack seemed to be aimed at Denzil Willoughby. But of course there were other people there for whom her words might have had some relevance. My brother . . . my mother . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Jude quietly, not wishing to break the confidential atmosphere.

‘I don’t know if you know anything about my father . . .’

‘As of today I know more about him than I did.’

‘He was a very strong, very handsome man . . . I remember him like that.’ The woman spoke wistfully. ‘Then he had a terrible motorcycle accident. I suppose I was about nine when that happened.’

‘I heard about it. I also heard about how he drowned on a family holiday in Corfu. He fell out of a rubber dinghy when it capsized.’

‘Yes. That was the official story.’

Jude didn’t provide any prompt, she just waited breathlessly for what Ingrid Staunton would say next.

‘I didn’t go out in the boat with them. I stayed on the beach, reading – and watching. It was very hot, like it always was in Corfu. Mum was paddling the boat and she seemed to be going out much further than we usually did. Normally with the boat we just mucked about in the waves at the water’s edge. Not this time. Mum paddled out to where I knew she must be way out of her depth. And then . . .’

Jude couldn’t resist saying, ‘Yes?’

‘She deliberately capsized the boat. She grabbed hold of Giles, who had his armbands on, anyway, so he would have kept afloat.’

Ingrid Staunton was silent for a moment, swallowing down a reflux of emotion. Then she said, ‘But my mother made no attempt to save my father.’