‘The one with the initials RF?’
She emits a small sound of surprise. ‘Yes, that’s right. How do you know?’
‘I found it,’ I say. ‘Do you know who it belongs to? Could it be Rosemary’s?’
Her blue eyes sharpen. ‘It’s definitely not Rosemary’s. She’s never smoked.’
Her throat flushes red and I get the impression she’s lying.
Josh comes over with the plate of pancakes and places them in the middle of the table with a proud look on his face. They look delicious, fat and fluffy.
I take one gratefully but Annette refuses, patting her flat stomach. ‘I’ve already had my breakfast, but thank you.’
‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ I ask and she says she’d love a black coffee. Before I can move, Josh offers to make it.
‘What a lovely young man you’ve got there,’ Annette murmurs.
I feel proud of Josh in that moment, although I do wish he’d leave us alone so I can ask Annette more probing questions about Dorothea. He’s going to guess what I’m up to at this rate.
We fall silent. Josh hands Annette her coffee before taking a seat at the head of the table. She sips it, leaving a pink lipstick mark on the rim. Then she turns the cup around in her hands. ‘This is Dorothea’s?’ That look again. The one that makes me feel as though we are intruders. She glances around the kitchen as though noticing it all for the first time. ‘All her things,’ she says quietly.
‘We … we didn’t know what to do with them,’ I begin. ‘If there is anything you’d like …’
Her eyes water. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. It’s so very sad that all her artwork perished in the fire.’
‘I know, it really is.’ I glance at Josh but he’s stuffing a pancake into his mouth while scrolling through his phone. I lean closer to Annette and lower my voice. ‘Did … um … Dorothea ever talk to you about her new collection?’
Annette doesn’t say anything for a few moments; her attention seems to be taken up by the dresser. I follow her line of sight. She’s staring at a photograph of Dorothea when she was much younger – maybe around my age – standing in front of one of her paintings in what looks like an art gallery. She’s wearing a red headscarf and is half turned towards the painting, her body obscuring a large part of it so that I can only make out a red background and the outline of a prostrate figure.
‘Annette? Is everything okay?’
Josh looks up from his phone and raises an eyebrow at me. I suspect he’s been listening this whole time.
Annette turns to me. ‘Sorry, yes. That photograph. I was there when it was taken. It was at Dorothea’s first ever exhibition. It was where she found her agent. The painting she’s standing in front of was one of Dorothea’s most personal.’ She clears her throat and I make a mental note to look up that painting. ‘Anyway, what were we saying? Oh yes, Dorothea’s new collection. No, she didn’t really talk about her work in progress. I only knew what it was about when I read theSunday Timesfeature. Seven sculptures. A magpie theme.’ She gives a half-smile. ‘To be honest, a lot of her art went over my head.’
‘But aren’t you a trained art therapist?’
‘Well, yes, I have a degree in psychology and I’m proficient enough at art and making things to have passed my master’s in art therapy. But I wouldn’t describe myself as an artist. Not like Dorothea.’ She tuts. ‘I don’t know what the police are doing but I truly hope they do speak to that horrid man, her agent Gabriel Mitchell. He took advantage of Dotty something terrible. Always in debt, that man. Always looking to Dotty to bail him out. A bad egg.’ She shakes her head. ‘A bad egg indeed.’
I’ve already done some digging on Gabe, and from Companies House I could see that he’s set up and then closed down a number of subsidiary companies over the years and is no longer the sole director of his agency. I’ve even tried calling him a few times, but he’s never picked up. ‘And did she help him out?’ I ask.
‘Well, he asked her to become a silent partner a few years back, but she said no in the end. I don’t know how he ended up bailing himself out but his business is still going, so he must have found funding from somewhere else.’
‘What about the other women who founded the art therapy centre – Rosemary and … Maisie, was it?’
Annette nods.
‘Was Dorothea close to them?’
‘Extremely close. All four of us were,’ she says emphatically. ‘Sadly, Maisie has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s …’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Out of the corner of my eye I see Josh place his mobile on the table, face down. ‘Had you suspected that for a while?’
She stiffens. ‘Actually, I had no idea. Aiden hid it from all of us, but he’s known for a few years. Maisie was always a little scatty, so Rosemary, Dot and I didn’t really notice and now, well …’ She touches her clavicle. ‘Dorothea is dead and Rosemary and I don’t see each other as much as we once did. She’s busy with her lost sheep …’
‘Lost sheep?’
‘She likes to help troubled young teens. It’s admirable, but then sometimes they never leave. Like Peter.’
