Pictures of Perfection

CHAPTER FIVE

Kee Scudamore had been sitting by the till when Digweed entered the Gallery.

‘You’re looking very pensive,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you found finance so enthralling.’

‘It’s money that makes the world go round,’ she said. ‘I should have thought last night’s meeting made that quite clear. This windfall Larry hinted at, have you any idea what it might be?’

‘I should have thought you were more likely to be his confidante than I,’ he answered, smiling.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked angrily.

‘Whoops. Sorry. You seem to be fond of his company, that was all I meant. Forgive me if I strayed into an impertinence.’

‘A misconception, certainly,’ she said rather bitterly. ‘I can assure you that it isn’t me he’s got his eyes on.’

‘Ah, you’ve noticed, then?’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’

‘Indeed. Has he said anything?’

‘Not in so many words, or rather, so far I’ve avoided hearing them.’

‘I see. Or rather I don’t. Why should he speak to you rather than Caddy herself? I know you are in some ways in loco parentis, but surely such old-fashioned notions hardly apply in this day and age, not even in clerical circles?’

‘Can’t say. You’ll need to ask Larry.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he said, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘Here’s that deed of his, by the way. Very interesting notion of yours, but as I forecast, far beyond the reach of my own rusty law. I faxed it off to a chum of mine who’s better equipped to pronounce on such things. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear. Of course, Larry might be well ahead of you in all this. Could be that this is what he was getting at last night.’

‘Yes. Perhaps.’ The idea seemed to please her. ‘I think I’ll take this back to him now and drop a hint.’

He said gently, ‘Kee, you will take care.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’m very fond of you, that’s all. Look, sometimes it seems better to plunge in, take risks, get your pain over. But pick your moment. You’ve got to carry on living afterwards, whatever happens.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, Edwin?’ she asked, very controlled.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Finance perhaps. Investment. That’s what makes the world go round, didn’t you say? Is Caddy above?’

‘Yes. You want to see her? You might tell her I’ll be out for a while. Not that it makes the slightest difference!’

‘No. I don’t suppose it does,’ said Digweed.

He ran lightly up the stairs and went straight into the studio without knocking. Caddy was standing in front of her portrait of Wield, studying it critically.

‘Good Lord,’ said Digweed. ‘Is that who I think it is? Of course it is, there can’t be two like that!’

‘Hi, Edwin,’ she said. ‘There’s something missing.’

‘Indeed. And from your Crucifixion still, I see. Have you decided whose face is going to plug that gap?’

‘Whoever fits,’ she said vaguely. ‘Was there something special you wanted?’

‘Just to say, that cover business, it’s all finished now. All loose ends tied up. OK?’

‘If you say so,’ she said indifferently.

‘I do. Caddy, exactly what is it you’re trying to paint here?’

His gaze had moved from the oval blank above the shapely torso to the background. By a trick of compression, Scarletts had been relocated just below the school. Halavant, accompanied by Fop, from whose jaws dangled a scrap of bloodstained cloth, was looking towards the Green where the builder Phil Wallop, previously imaged standing triumphantly next to a cement mixer, had been over-painted to a pale shadow, but his check-trousered legs could now be seen bright and fresh, waving from the mixer’s mouth.

‘What I see,’ she said. ‘Or maybe time. The way one thing takes the place of another, but nothing ever really goes away. Not here anyway. But it’s not right either. It’s so easy to miss things, isn’t it?’

She was back in front of Wield’s portrait.

Digweed said encouragingly, ‘Honestly, it’s fine. Such a strange face. God, I’d not like to play poker with him!’

‘Yes, I think he’s a man who uses silences like you use words …’

She let the sentence hang, then began to laugh.

‘That’s it. Of course. Thank you, Edwin.’

‘For what?’ he asked. Then bewilderment turned to incredulity as he looked from her face to Wield’s and back again.

‘Caddy, if you’re saying what I think, well, that’s absurd …’

‘Of course, but isn’t everything? So that’s all right.’

She picked up her brush and palette and approached the painting. Her foot kicked over a half-full mug of cold coffee but she didn’t notice as she began to attack Wield’s eyes.

Digweed left. There was little point in staying. As he crossed the street he noticed the three policemen gathered outside the Post Office. Perhaps, he thought uncharitably, they’d caught Wylmot fiddling the postal orders.

He hurried into his shop and up the stairs into the computer room. Hardly had he entered when the bell on the shop door sounded.

‘Damn,’ he said, going out on to the landing and looking down the stairs.

‘’Morning,’ said Wield. ‘No, don’t come down. I’ll come up. I’ve got something for you.’

He mounted the steep stairs two at a time. On the landing he paused and sniffed. There was a pleasantly pungent, rather spicy smell in the air.

‘Not interrupting a meal, am I?’ he said.

‘As you’ve just seen me come in, and as it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning, it’s hardly likely,’ said Digweed with all his old acidity. Then, immediately relenting, he added in a friendlier tone, ‘It’s that tiny kitchen of mine. Cooking smells seem to hang around forever. Come in here.’

He led the way into the computer room and threw open a window.

‘There. Now we can smell the spring. Isn’t it a lovely day? Always is for the Reckoning, of course. Now, how can I help you?’

‘You can confirm that these are yours,’ said Wield, handing over the books.

‘Yes, indeed, these are they. Well done. Where did you find them?’

‘In Jason Toke’s bedroom,’ said Wield.

‘Ah yes. That poor boy. I’d begun to wonder … I’d seen him in here looking at The Warrior and other military books. The Thorburn too … but it was the Renoir catalogue that threw me. Where is it, by the way?’

‘Still in his possession, I’m afraid. It wasn’t for himself. He stole it to give to Caddy Scudamore.’

‘Of course. He’s besotted. The poor child.’

‘Him or her?’

‘Jason, of course. I think on closer acquaintance you’ll find it hardly a description which applies to Caddy. Look, Sergeant, I really don’t want to burden the lad with more trouble than his own mind creates for him. I shall not be pressing charges.’

Wield frowned and said, ‘You may not be doing him a favour. Court appearance could put these obsessions of his in striking distance of a psychiatrist.’

‘You think he needs treatment? For being in love and reckoning that Britain in the ’nineties is a dangerously uncivilized place to live? Tut, man. By those criteria, I suspect fifty per cent of the population are sick!’

‘Fifty per cent of the population aren’t obsessed with guns and survival techniques,’ said Wield. ‘But you must make your own mind up. I doubt if we tie him in with the Post Office job, Mr Wylmot will feel so generous.’

‘Jason and the Post Office? But that’s simply absurd!’ protested Digweed.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Wield.

‘Well, I don’t know, it just seems so. I mean, you didn’t find anything at Intake Cottage to suggest a connection, did you?’

‘No,’ admitted Wield. ‘Same m.o., but. Any road, sir, no need to bother you with that. Oh, by the way, thanks again for last night. The book, the bourbon, the thought. It were right kind. I really enjoyed it.’

‘Me too,’ said Digweed, offering, rather to Wield’s surprise, his hand. Mebbe this was how the middle classes acknowledged you weren’t a yob all the way through. His hand was cool and dry, his grip firm.

‘Sergeant …’

‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps I could call and collect my glasses later?’

‘Sorry, I forgot all about them. Yes, sure. Or I’ll bring them down here.’

He went out on to the landing. The spicy smell seemed stronger than ever. The door into the tiny kitchen was ajar, but the smell didn’t seem to emanate from there. And it was surely more herby than spicy.

Wield’s nose was twitching in a very odd direction, both olfactorily and metaphorically.

He said, ‘OK if I use your lav?’

And without waiting for an answer he went through the half-open door of the bathroom. He knew he was right straight away. This was the source of the herbal smell; more precisely, a tall wall cupboard.

He pulled its door open. It housed the hot water cylinder with a couple of shelves for airing clothes. He pushed aside a pile of underpants.

There it was, hard against the side of the hot tank, the source of the tell-tale aroma, a small parcel bearing a Wimbledon address and almost certainly containing the slice of herb pudding Mrs Hogbin sent to her nephew every week. There was a packet addressed to a mail order firm, that would be Mrs Stacey’s cardigan. And two harder packets clearly containing books. And half a dozen envelopes.

Why should Digweed have turned burglar to retrieve his own books? Then one of the names on the book packets jumped up and hit him in the eye.

Ms Eleanor Pascoe.

He turned with the packages in his hands.

‘I think I’d better see if I can find some more bourbon,’ said Edwin Digweed.