Voices were coming from behind her and she could see a few other people looking at the pictures which were in the series of smaller rooms leading off this room It was odd, normally people adopted hushed tones in the gallery, which she never really understood, but these people were talking normally.
She walked towards the voices. In the first room there were several groups of people. The most she’d ever seen in here.
Most of these pictures had red spots on them, denoting they’d been sold. At least she thought they were red spots, although it might just have been her seeing red. Rage surged hot and fast. Ranged along the walls, admittedly displayed to beautiful advantage, were six illustrations of Cuthbert. Cuthbert in a shower cap. Cuthbert running up a curtain in a jester’s hat and Cuthbert dusted in flour with a chef’s hat. Her eyes narrowed and in quick angry strides she crossed to one particular illustration. She stood in front of it, her hands clenched to her sides with shoulders so taut they were in danger of removing her ears.
She studied the lines of the Cavalier’s hat, the brilliant purple plume inked so painstakingly . . . only two weeks ago. White heat burst and spiralled through her. That particular image hadn’t even gone to the publishers yet. Was this the reason for Britta’s unexpected visit? Or had taking this picture been a spur of the moment thing? Without stopping to think, she lifted it from the wall with both hands and held it in front of her. Cuthbert’s cheeky face stared back as if in encouragement.
Next to her a middle-aged woman gasped.
‘I don’t think . . . ’
Ella wheeled around and shot her an incendiary glance which had the woman taking a wide-eyed step back.
She tucked the picture under one arm, wheeled around and marched through the gathered crowd, all of whom stepped out of her grim determined path.
‘Excuse me, you can’t do that,’ called a surprised voice. ‘If you want to buy the picture, you need to let Sandra at the desk know. You can’t just go round removing them from the wall.’
The young man came right up to Ella and put out his arms, but she shook him off, avoiding his touch. Another new member of staff. Ella didn’t recognise him. Where were all the usual staff?
‘It’s OK,’ she snarled and he took a nervous step sideways, letting her go.
Snow White at the desk plastered a customer-friendly smile on her face, now that she thought she was about to make a sale. ‘Can I help you with that?’ She put out her hands to take the picture.
Ella reared back, noting with satisfaction the sudden alarm that flared in her eyes.
‘No!’ She hugged the wooden frame closer. ‘Tell Patrick that Ella was here.’
‘Madam, you can’t just take the picture.’ She jumped up and ran around the desk attempting to bar the way to the door. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll call the police.’
‘You do that.’ Ella raised one eyebrow daring her to. ‘But before you do . . . ’ She turned the painting, still holding it tightly in both hands. ‘See that, Ella Rigden.’ She indicated her name on the white mounting around the picture. ‘That’s me.Mypainting. Go ahead, you call the police.’
‘It might be your painting but . . . you’ve got a contract. You can’t just come and get them. There’s procedures. Paperwork.’ Her head bobbed like an agitated chicken and for a moment Ella almost let guilt get the better of her. ‘How do I know you are her? And even if you are, you can’t just take it.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can if it was stolen from me.’
Inside, another Ella recoiled in horror and shouted at the top of its voice.What are you doing? You never do things like this.
‘Carl,’ the girl shrieked. ‘Do something.’
The young man came racing over.
Still furious, Ella pushed him away hard and as he hit the ground, she heard the loud peel of an alarm. Snow White looked triumphant.
Ella stopped for a moment, feeling the fierce shriek of the alarm vibrating through her. Damn, it was connected to the police station. Horrified, she stared at the girl behind the counter and she froze, her fingers cramping on the edge of the frame.
With a sudden decisive intake of breath, she spun round, pushed hard at the door with her shoulder and legged it down the street as fast as she could.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘It’s a really generous offer, James, and I appreciate it.’ Devon stopped and fiddled with the knife in front of him. Carluccio’s resonated with the noise and vigour of a busy lunchtime crowd. Too reminiscent of life with Marina. Loud, busy with people jockeying for attention. Having his own practice again – what he wouldn’t give for that, but there was no way he could accept the offer. Not while he still had debt up to his eyeballs.
‘I can tell by that stubborn set on your chiselled manly chin, that you’re not even going to consider it.’ James grimaced. ‘Why the hell not? We’re mates. Let me help.’
Devon sighed, sourness churning in his stomach. He could stall. Give James a million excuses and he knew that he’d see through every one of them. The knife slipped through his fingers, falling onto the floor with a metallic clang. Like a bell ringing time.
He looked up. Even though James was his oldest friend, he found it hard to tell him the truth. This was his mess and he was going to work it out. He didn’t want anyone’s help. No one needed to jump to his rescue.
‘I’m not taking your money. I’m OK.’
