Guns in the Gallery

THIRTY-FOUR

‘I’ll kill anyone,’ Spider went on, ‘who tries to hurt Bonita. I knew about the drowning. Ingrid talked to me about it. She thought she could get me on her side against her mother. She thought I’d believe Bonita’d kill someone. I knew she wouldn’t. And when I heard that girl at the Private View accusing Bonita . . . well, I couldn’t let that go unpunished, could I?’

‘Are you saying, Spider,’ asked his employer, ‘that you killed Fennel Whittaker?’

‘Of course I did. I did it for you, Bonita. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

‘But how on earth did you set it up?’ asked Carole.

‘I hear a lot when I’m in my workshop. People in the gallery forget I’m there. And I work my own hours . . . evenings, sometimes weekends. That’s how I heard Ingrid accusing Bonita of murdering her Dad. Way back, that was. I knew that wasn’t true, and all. Then more recently I heard Giles in here, talking to that new bit of stuff of his, the one with the silly name.’

‘Chervil,’ said Bonita.

‘Right. A Friday it must’ve been, because I know you wasn’t here. And from what they were saying, I think Giles at that stage was still going out with the other sister, Fennel. Anyway, that Chervil was saying her sister was, like, a loony and Giles’d be much better off going out with her. And, like, to prove what a loony Fennel was, she produced this suicide note and told him about how she’d found it.

‘Then she was, like, joking about how, if her sister ever got too much for her, she could use the note to set up, like, Fennel’d committed suicide. And she spelled out how easy it would be, to lace some booze with paracetamol and use a kitchen knife to slash her sister’s wrists. She talked like she’d really thought it through. And Giles said, like, what a devious mind she’d got, and Chervil said she was dangerous, and Giles said that was part of her attraction, and then . . .’ He stopped, embarrassed. ‘Then they, like . . . you know . . . they had sexual intercourse.’

‘In the gallery?’ asked Bonita.

‘Yeah, right here. I didn’t see anything, of course, but I could hear.’

A silence ensued, then Carole asked, ‘How did you know where to find Fennel . . . on that Friday night?’

‘After the party finished . . .’

‘The Private View?’

‘Yes. That Chervil and Giles had an argument. She wanted him to go back with her to Butterwyke House, but he wanted to go and, like, drink with his mate Denzil Willoughby. So she stormed out, but she’d left her mobile here. And I picked it up and put it in my pocket. And later I heard it bleep and, like, a text had come through. And it was Fennel, saying where she was. And I know it was a message.’

‘A text message?’ asked Carole, confused.

‘No, a message to me, telling me what to do.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The message was to Chervil.’

‘The text was from Fennel to Chervil. But the message was to me. Quite often I get messages like that, messages that tell me what to do.’

‘Who from?’ said Carole in a very small voice.’

Spider beamed. ‘Well, Elvis Presley, of course. The King is my guide in everything I do.’

Bonita Green and Carole exchanged looks, the truth dawning on both how completely deranged Spider was.

‘So what did the King tell you to do?’ asked Carole.

‘He told me to reply to the text and tell Fennel to meet in the big hut in an hour’s time.’

‘So she thought she was going to meet her sister?’

‘Yes.’ Spider smiled at his own cleverness. ‘The text came from, like, her sister’s phone. The King was looking after me.’

‘So what did you do with Chervil’s mobile after that?’

‘I took it with me to the place with the huts that night. I left it there with Fennel’s body.’

‘And was her own mobile phone there too?’

‘Yes. I left them both. I thought that was, like, clever. Anyone who, like, found the body would think it was Fennel’s sister who’d fixed to meet her there.’

So, thought Carole, Chervil must have removed two mobile phones from the scene of the crime. And probably thrown both into the sea. That way the note might still make people think Fennel really had committed suicide.

Carole thought of another detail. ‘The knife,’ she said, ‘the knife you used, Spider – did you take that from the Butterwyke House kitchen?’

He looked puzzled by the question. ‘No, it was just one I had in the workshop.’

‘You used it for your framing work?’

‘No, I kept it here in case anyone threatened Bonita. I won’t let anyone hurt Bonita.’ He turned towards Carole, moving forward, looming over her. ‘That includes you, lady. I don’t know that I can make yours look like suicide, but through in the workshop I’ve got my underpinning machine, and I’ve got the guillotine and . . .’

He reached out suddenly and grabbed Carole’s wrist. His grip was like a steel manacle. She tried to resist, but felt herself being pulled ineluctably towards the workshop door.

‘Gulliver!’ she shouted. ‘For God’s sake, Gulliver, do something!’

Gulliver moved towards Spider and licked his free hand.

‘God, you’re useless!’

Carole was in the workshop now. She could smell the paint and glue. She could see the underpinning machine and the guillotine. And she was not strong enough to prevent herself from being dragged towards them.

‘Spider.’

It was Bonita Green’s voice, calm now and authoritative.

Spider stopped in his tracks.

‘Let her go, Spider.’

His moment of irresolution seemed very long to Carole. But then slowly she felt the iron grip on her wrist relax. He let go of her and shambled across to his seat, mumbling, ‘Anything you say, Bonita.’

Gulliver, realizing that the focus of attention had moved away from the gallery, padded into the workshop. He looked around, moved across the room and licked Spider’s hand again.