He picks his mug back up and takes a long slurp of tea. I scan his kitchen. The worktops are clean and relatively tidy. There is a stack of old newspapers on top of the microwave, a notepad resting on top of a cabinet by the back door, the kind I always used when I was making extra notes while interviewing someone. When I came in through the front door earlier my eyes had briefly swept the living room on the left, and on the coffee table I’d noticed a glossy book on twentieth-century artists. Is he lying about not knowing much about art?
‘Did the fake delivery man give you a package?’
His hand trembles slightly as he puts down his mug and his eyes cloud over. ‘Yes. Actually. The police found it after I explained to them what had happened.’ He stands up and goes into the hallway. When he comes back he’s carrying a small cardboard box. He hands it to me. ‘It was empty. The police swept it for fingerprints, but nothing. It was obviously just a ruse so the biker could get into my house. Although …’ He looks uneasy. ‘When I got home I found a tiny piece of paper which must have partially slipped through the gap in my floorboards and it got caught on the sole of my shoe.’ He goes over to the microwave and picks it up before returning to me. ‘Look at this.’
I take the slip of paper from him. There’s only one word typed on it in capital letters. VINDICTA. ‘Is this Italian?’
‘It’s Latin. I did it at school and it means something like vindication. Or justice.’ And then he pauses and the energy in the room changes. Dennis looks grey as he adds, ‘And … it could also mean revenge.’
29
Maisie
The room is dark, the shutters closed and there is a loud noise overhead, like a rumble; the sky is on fire. Maisie searches hard for the word, eventually finding it. Thunder. That’s it. She sits up in bed. She’s always in bed these days. Or it seems that way. Although how would Maisie know because her brain hasn’t been working properly lately. Everything is always so hazy, like the worst brain fog. Concerned faces often appear in her room, hovering over her so that when she opens her eyes she is startled, scared. They are strangers, all of them. Even the ones who tell her they are her friends, or her husband. She doesn’t recognize any of them. Today another of these strange people with their strange faces and concerned expressions comes into her room. A man.
‘Hello, my love, how are you feeling?’ he asks. He has bushy eyebrows and a moustache that looks like one of those stick-on ones they used to muck about with on New Year’s Eve.
She stares at him. She doesn’t feel afraid. So maybe she does know him.
‘It’s Aiden. Your husband,’ he explains softly, putting down a cup of something next to her. ‘You need to eat, Maisie, my love. You’re getting too thin. If you don’t eat they’ll put you in a home.’
She swears at him. It’s more of a reflex than anything else. She can’t stop herself doing it these days. She realizes that she must have been the kind of person who never swore because the looks on these strangers’ faces when she lets rip are comical. It always makes her laugh, anyway. But today this man, this Aiden, her husband, isn’t laughing. His large hazel eyes look sad.
He says something else but she’s not sure what he’s talking about. She swears again. She likes the way the word feels on her tongue. She wants to throw the drink he’s just given her in his face and she doesn’t know why. He seems like a kind man. There are photos of them in frames on every surface of her bedroom and in them they look happy. In them they are laughing. He has his arms thrown around her. He is looking at her adoringly, tenderly. There are wedding photos and anniversary photos. He’s not a bad man. She’s sure he’s not. But there had once been a bad man in her life. A man who had hurt her. Oh, but they got their revenge. She remembers those days. With the girls. How they got their revenge on the bad men. How they made sure they got their just desserts.
‘Bad men,’ she manages and this man, this Aiden shrinks in front of her eyes.
‘No, my love. Not me. That was your first husband.’
Her first husband.
‘He went to prison, my love. He died there. You never have to fear him again.’ He clutches her hand tightly. ‘Please drink your hot chocolate.’ He takes his hand from hers and carefully lifts the drink to her lips. It instantly makes her feel calmer, the chocolate sweet and reminiscent of her childhood. He sits there, lifting the mug as she drinks the rest. When she’s finished he looks pleased. He takes her hand again and pats it. ‘Maybe some sleep now?’
She does feel tired suddenly. Very tired. Her eyelids are heavy. She lies back against the pillow and then she hears him leave the room, hears the click of the door as he pulls it closed. She feels safe. She feels warm. And she sinks into a big black hole of nothingness.
30
Imogen
Revenge. Why would someone attack Dennis for revenge? I thought he’d been hurt because of Dorothea. Because of the hidden sculpture. I’d assumed that it was the same guy that drove his motorbike at me, that shoved me in Bristol and, maybe, who I found rummaging through Dorothea’s study. But what if it’s nothing to do with Dorothea at all? What if Dennis has been up to no good? Although I find that hard to believe. I like to think I’m a good judge of character and Dennis strikes me as harmless. But then I remind myself that, really, I know nothing about him. I only have his word for it that he was friends with Dorothea. He could be lying about all of it.
Dorothea obviously didn’t trust those around her. Including Dennis. I need to remember that.
Josh’s sullen mood continues for the rest of the weekend. He leaves to visit his mum on Sunday evening and doesn’t ask me to go with him like he usually would. I’m happy to stay behind and read more of Dorothea’s biography anyway. I’m enjoying reading about her upbringingand her passion for art at such a young age, although it’s heartbreaking to read about her father and I notice parallels with my own childhood.
Josh still isn’t home when I get ready for bed at 10 p.m. I look at the Find My app and see that he’s at the Filton flat. Has he decided to stay the night there instead? I’m suddenly very aware of being alone at night in this huge house with a security system I don’t even know how to use. But forty minutes later the sweep of headlights illuminates the bedroom and I jump out of bed and run to the window, relieved to see Josh’s car pulling into the driveway. I hop back into bed and pretend to be asleep. I can hear him stepping out of his clothes, the sag of the mattress as he gets in beside me. He snuggles up to my back, his arm draping over my waist. ‘I’m sorry for being so grumpy, I love you,’ he whispers so softly I wonder if I’ve misheard. Then he moves to his side of the bed and soon I hear his breathing change and he starts to snore gently.
I’m unable to sleep so I pick up my phone from the nightstand, and I’m about to start scrolling through the photos of the hidden sculpture when I notice a text. At first I think it’s from Harry and I wonder what he wanted to talk to me about when I bumped into him yesterday. He had said it was something about Dorothea. But then I see it’s from Gabe Mitchell’s agency inviting me to visit tomorrow at 11.30 a.m. at their offices in London.
Gabe’s offices are in trendy Hoxton Square. It doesn’t take me long to navigate my way to Old Street and then Iwalk through the bustling area, enjoying the sun that has come out. I stop for a coffee at a little place on the corner to kill some time before my appointment.
Eventually I arrive at a large, airy reception area which looks like a gallery with photographs spaced evenly on white walls featuring the artworks of Gabe’s most famous clients. I can see several of Dorothea’s paintings and her most successful sculpture,Woman in Turmoil, a young Dorothea standing beside it. The haughty woman behind the desk barely glances at me as she tells me to take a seat. I must look like another young, wannabe artist hoping for representation.
‘Imogen! Darling! So lovely to meet you!’
I turn to see a rotund man with rosy cheeks, wearing a jade velvet jacket and a silver cravat, bearing down on me. He must be mid-to-late sixties with still-dark hair and twinkly eyes and a huge smile. I like him instantly. I stand up and shake his proffered hand and the receptionist glances up with interest, assessing me properly for the first time as Gabe ushers me into his office. It’s all white walls and blond floorboards and interesting features: a sofa that looks like Dalí’s lips, a glass coffee table with ceramic shoes at the end of slim legs, a spotted sculpture of what could be a giraffe but also may be some kind of dinosaur in the corner. I can’t stop looking around, picking out different things: the bookends that are fish, the clocks that resemble moustaches, the Jackson Pollock-esque mural on the far wall.
‘So, this is the famous Imogen Cooke. The woman who the lovely Dotty left all her worldly goods to.’ Hesays it without any type of malice or judgement; in fact, he seems delighted for me.
