‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ He stirs the pasta more vigorously.
‘I forgot about it. It wasn’t until the man broke in and I realized he was looking for something that I remembered about the key.’
‘Right.’ A loaded pause. ‘And what was down there?’
‘Just … some art supplies.’
If I tell him about the sculpture he’ll only worry. And he’ll know I won’t be able to resist trying to figure out what it means.
‘Look, about Dennis’s offer,’ I say to change the subject. ‘I know you’re not a fan of dogs, but I’d feel more comfortable …’
Conflicting emotions pass over his face.
‘I don’t know. A dog is a big responsibility.’
‘If we continue to live here we need a dog. For security.’
‘A Golden Retriever is hardly a bloody guard dog.’
‘He saved my life today.’
Josh dishes out the pasta without speaking. The sky is darkening outside and I push away the unease that grows in the pit of my stomach. Is someone prowling around our grounds right now? Killing magpies and thinking up new ways to threaten me?
‘Right, fine,’ announces Josh as we sit down. ‘We can take Solly. But he’ll be your dog. Your responsibility.’
‘Yes, thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I cry, jumping up and kissing him. ‘You won’t regret this.’
‘I better not.’
The next morning, while Josh is busy showing the security firm where he wants the cameras to go, I head over to Dennis’s house to get Solly. A forensic van turned up at 8 a.m. and the officers are currently in Dorothea’s study dusting for prints.
It rained in the night and as a result the air is clear and fresh, the lane muddy. I’m wearing an old pair of Dorothea’s wellies and one of her quilted jackets that was hanging on the coat stand and it still smells faintly of her perfume, which takes me right back to the summer of 2008. As I head down the lane, splashing through puddles, I pass Mick and Sue’s house and think fondly of Harry, wondering how he is. Their house is similar to Dorothea’s but much smaller and with less land. I slow down to glance through their wrought-iron gates. The driveway is empty. I might call in on them in a day or two, when Josh is out at work. He doesn’t know about Harry and I’m not going to tell him, as it would only make him jealous. He likes to believe he’s my first boyfriend.
Plato House, where Dennis lives, is the other side of Mick and Sue’s. It’s a pretty, semi-detached Georgian cottage with ivy growing up the Bath stone walls and the name of the house pressed into the gatepost. The front door is on the side of the house, surrounded by a stone porch. I push open the wooden gates to the drive where an old Skoda sits. Rubber dog toys are scattered on the gravel.
I knock on the door and instantly there is the sound of dogs barking. I wait, expecting to hear Dennis calling tothem or maybe his footsteps. But there’s nothing. Maybe he’s out, although he said himself he leads a small kind of life these days. Unless he’s visiting his daughter. He mentioned yesterday that he often goes and stays with her. But I heard him say to DI Shirley yesterday that he’d be in today if she needed to ask him more questions, and there is no way he’d leave the dogs alone in the house to visit his daughter all the way in Liverpool. And his car is in the driveway. The first stirrings of anxiety ripple through me as my second knock goes unanswered. I remember how he clutched his chest yesterday while we were locked in the bunker, and I hurry around the side and into his back garden.
I press my nose to the glass plane in the back door, which has a view of the kitchen. The dogs rush to the door barking wildly, jumping all over each other in their eagerness, and then Cady starts to whine. I cup my face with my hands and then my heart stops.
Lying on the tiled floor, a halo of blood around his head, is Dennis.
17
Dorothea
Two Years Before
‘Can you be persuaded to come out of retirement and do one last collection?’
Dorothea’s heart sank at Gabe’s question. She could almost hear him holding his breath on the other end of the line. She glanced around her studio at the half-finished paintings and sculptures. At one time you couldn’t move in here for all the canvases and the art paraphernalia, but these days the studio was mostly used as a garden room, somewhere she sat with a cup of tea and the wireless radio that Rosemary had given her for her birthday, looking out over the garden with Solly at her feet. Her fingers weren’t as supple as they used to be, despite all the cod liver oil tablets she washed down her throat.
But more than that, she had nothing left to say.
‘I don’t know, Gabe …’ The truth was she didn’t need the money and she enjoyed her quiet way of life. She still saw the girls – they were always the girls, despite beingin their seventies – their bond could never be broken. And she enjoyed pottering in her garden, going for walks with Dennis and the dogs. It was a life she felt lucky to have. In her heyday she’d made Gabe a lot of money, and he still benefitted from her royalties, but she knew she remained his biggest client. Of course he’d want her to continue working, and he knew a brand-new collection could fetch a great price.
He’d become her agent when she was about thirty and noise had begun to surround her creations. He’d visited the gallery in London where some of Dorothea’s work was being exhibited and had given her his card. He’d been up and coming himself back then, five years her junior but hungry for success. They’d risen through the art world together and as a result they’d formed a close working relationship. She thought of Gabe as the younger brother she never had. He had been the one who had suggested the name change all those years ago; it had come at just the right time.
‘It would be amazing. A new collection after all these years. Just imagine how surprised and pleased your fans would be.’
