Guns in the Gallery

‘When we met him, he expressed the view that artists needn’t be judged by the same moral values as ordinary people.’

Addison Willoughby nearly choked with fury at that. ‘The arrogant little shit!’

‘He also complained that, given how well-heeled you are, you tended to keep him rather short of funds.’

‘He said that, did he? Well, there may have been one or two occasions when that criticism might be justified, but that ignores the many times when I have bailed him out. I’ve just learned by experience that, however much money I give Denzil, he’ll soon be back for more. So I’ve moved towards a policy of not giving him any.’

There was a silence. Jude looked up again at the Piccadilly snowscape. ‘That really is very good,’ she said.

‘Thank you. It also has considerable sentimental value for us.’

‘Oh?’

‘The first time Bonita and I . . . when we re-met after we were both married. We’d had lunch and it was snowing in London. She came back to a flat I had then and the trains were all cancelled because of the snow, so she had to stay . . . Yes, as I say, considerable sentimental value.’

Jude understood why the picture had had pride of place in the Cornelian Gallery. And she wondered whether Bonita Green had enjoyed the irony of a work by Addison Willoughby still hanging there at the Private View surrounded by the efforts of his son.

The advertising executive looked at his watch. ‘Look, I do have other things to do with my day, so may I ask if you have any further questions for me? You’ve already cast a bit of a damper over what should have been one of the happiest days of my life, so, as far as I’m concerned, the sooner this interview ends, the better. Which being the case, is there anything else you wanted to ask me?’

‘Yes,’ Jude replied. ‘How did your wife die?’

THIRTY-ONE

Jude went back to the same coffee shop from which she’d done her earlier surveillance. If the staff thought her apparent addiction to cappuccinos odd, they gave no sign of it. This time, instead of an almond croissant, she ordered a toasted ham and cheese panini. As soon as she had given her order, she used the Ladies, for which her need had become quite urgent.

Her suspicions about the death of Philomena Willoughby had been quickly dashed by the ungrieving widower. His wife had been suffering from cancer for some time. She had spent her last months in a hospice. That explained why Denzil had been so preoccupied with his iPhone the previous Monday. He had been waiting to hear the worst about his mother.

Jude rang through to High Tor, and was relieved when the phone was answered. Of course, she remembered, Carole didn’t even know that she was in London, so Jude didn’t bother to tell her the events of the morning, instead saying, ‘Look, there’s something I want you to check on the laptop. Could you do that for me?’

Carole conceded that she could, and then of course had to go upstairs. The laptop’s portability continued to be ignored.

‘Very well. I’m there and switched on. What do you want to know?’

‘It’s something about St Martin’s College of Art. I’m sure they must have a website. Can you get on to it?’

Carole did as instructed. ‘Yes. So what do you want to know?’

‘If they have lists of their tutors there, can you check and see if there’s one whose first name is “Ingrid”?’

‘I’ll try. What’s all this in aid of, Jude?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Just see if you can find the name.’

A long-suffering sigh from High Tor preceded the clacking of fingers on keyboard. Then, ‘Oh goodness, there are a lot of them. Every course seems to have its own army of tutors. Can you narrow down the search a bit for this Ingrid? What’s she likely to be tutoring in?’

‘Fine Art, maybe? Painting? Drawing? Watercolours? I don’t know.’

‘This could take some time.’

‘Call me back then.’

‘Where are you?’

‘On the mobile.’ Which, to Carole’s mind, was an inadequate answer.

It was about twenty minutes later, when Jude was wiping the cheese grease off her lips, that her neighbour rang back. ‘There’s only one,’ said Carole.

‘Only one Ingrid?’

‘Right.’

‘She’s a tutor in The Foundation Diploma Art and Design Course, and her surname’s Staunton.’

‘Ingrid Staunton.’

‘That’s right. Well, come on, Jude, who is she?’

‘I’m not absolutely certain, but I think she may be Bonita Green’s daughter.’

‘Really? That’s amazing. How have you got on to her?’

‘Long story. I’ll fill you in on the details later.’

‘Look, I didn’t even know where you’re calling from,’ said Carole plaintively.

‘I’m in a coffee shop in Pimlico.’

‘What?’

‘Ooh, one other thing . . . Could you give me the number for St Martin’s College of Art? It’ll be on the website.’

Grudgingly, Carole did as requested. ‘I wish I knew what this was all about.’

‘I’ll phone you back when I’ve got something definite. Promise.’

And the line went dead.

Jude tried the number of the St Martin’s College of Art, but the girl who answered wouldn’t give contact details for the tutors. Which was very right and proper, but not a little frustrating.