‘It was a huge surprise,’ I say, perching on the edge of an expensive-looking white sheepskin chair, and I find myself hoping the dye from my indigo jeans doesn’t rub off on it. ‘I’m still trying to get my head around it. Did she … um, did she ever mention me?’
‘Of course.’ He throws his hands up in delight. ‘Absolutely. There were no secrets between me and Dot. She was only around your age when we first met and I was five years younger, just starting out. She was my first client that made it big. She had this raw talent, you know, that I recognized straight away. It was me who came up with changing her name to Dorothea Roe.’ Then his smile slips and it’s like all the light has been sucked from the room. ‘I’m still reeling from her death. I can’t believe it. I just wish her last collection hadn’t perished in that fire. It would have been a wonderful memory, a legacy.’
I know enough about art to realize that an artist’s work becomes even more lucrative and sought-after once they’ve died.
Despite what Annette hinted about Gabe’s debts, I can’t believe he was the one who killed her. It would serve no purpose for him to set fire to her art. Unless there was something about it that would expose him.
‘Did you see her last collection?’ I ask.
‘I did … it was great. Some of her best work.’ He gets up from his seat and heads towards a ruby red coffee machine. ‘Coffee?’
‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ve just had one.’
It’s like the kind you get in a café and he’s silent for a moment as he sets about making himself an espresso.
‘You know, there are rumours …’ He returns to his seat.
I sit forward. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘… that one of her sculptures didn’t perish in the fire.’
I try to keep my expression neutral. ‘Who told you that?’
He waves his hand. ‘Oh, just people.’ He peers at me, his eyes lighting up. ‘Do you know anything about that? Have you found anything in her house? Well, your house now, I suppose.’
‘Um. No. No, I haven’t.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Is it my imagination or is there a glint of suspicion in his eyes? Does he know more about the secret sculpture than he’s letting on? If he found it and sold it, he’d make a small fortune. I wonder who told him. Is it the person who’s been watching me? Who broke into the villa? Who rifled through Dorothea’s office? Who locked me and Dennis in the bunker? If Gabe knows anything about the bunker he’s not letting on.
‘Was her artwork always personal?’ I ask.
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, was there always a meaning behind her art?’
He laughs. ‘Of course. She once told me she used art as a way to figure out her feelings. So yes, it was very personal to her. Is that what you wanted to see meabout?’ He peers at me with his sharp eyes and I have to be careful what I say next. I can’t arouse his suspicions further. ‘You came all the way here just to ask me that?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘She told me you were a journalist. She was very proud of your accomplishments.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely to know,’ I say, genuinely touched.
But now there is an edge to his voice when he adds, ‘Are you looking for a story?’
I try and laugh it off. ‘No. Dorothea was a friend of the family. Of course I’d love to find out who killed her. Wouldn’t you?’
He leans back in his chair. ‘Well, of course.’
‘But I’m trying to get to know more about her through her art. I’m not great at interpreting it and so I came to you. After all, you’d know her art the best.’
He rests his hands on his stomach, mollified. ‘Well, yes, that’s true. Which piece of art in particular do you want to know more about?’
‘All of them, I suppose. Did they have a similar overarching theme? Other than birds?’
‘Yes. Inequality. Abuse of power. She was a feminist. She believed very strongly in women’s rights. Most of her artwork is about that in some form or other.’
I picture the hidden sculpture. A woman. Seven magpies. The miniature items.
‘Did she hide clues in her artwork?’
