It had been a most satisfying day. The police had surprised him by not requesting his presence at the station again, he had sold six paintings and two Italian vases and the woman was still to come.
Once the police had left Mr Lawrence said, “So, it’s official. Another missing woman.”
Paul, still trembling, said, “I was so nervous. I’m sure they noticed.”
“I doubt it.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We could advertise, I suppose.”
“For Sandra?”
“No, to fill her space. There is now a vacancy.”
“Not that, Mr Lawrence. The plan. Friday! The plan?”
“Oh that. It’s not been easy. They say that love is blind and that might be so, but it is also a primitive, dangerous emotion. It is a time when even your average man crosses the line.”
“I know that. He is dangerous.”
“In this case it is even worse. It has more to do with lust than love, I fear. And lust is a deadly sin that can lead to the breaking of at least half the Commandments in one go. What is more, this passion overrides reason. It cannot be reasonably discussed. So what we have to do…”
Paul edged closed.
“We have to shock him into reason.”
Paul frowned. “That won’t be easy.”
“Difficult things seldom are.”
Paul nodded but his expression remained blank.
“Fear, Paul, that’s the thing.”
“That’s what Powder Pete said. But how are we going to do it?” “Tell him to come here, to the shop.”
“He’ll suspect something.”
“No, he won’t. Tell him that you’re going to run away with him, do a disappearing act just like Sandra. Tell him that you’re going to have my money box away along with a few of the more valuable paintings. He’ll understand that. Tell him to meet you here tonight. That sounds good. By all accounts it’s going to be a dark night. Two o’clock.” “It doesn’t sound good.”
“I know. Clock is an ugly word. I think it’s to do with the cl sound.”
“I didn’t mean that, Mr Lawrence. I didn’t mean the way it sounded.”
“Tell him. Tonight, or rather, two AM tomorrow morning.”
Paul went off to Robot City with shopping bags and list and a whole head of thoughts. Mr Lawrence needed more shoe polish – nothing but Kiwi would do – and Clingfilm and teabags, the Queen Anne blend of Assam and Lapsang Souchon.
The light in the studio was diffused, as close to summer light as you can get. The woman arrived and said, “My God, what’s happened?”
“A scratch, my dear, nothing more than a temperamental guillotine.”
“So many police about,” she said. “Three cars in the road and a dozen policemen. They’re stopping people.”
“A girl has gone missing.”
“Oh,” she mouthed as though it were a common thing, which of course, it was.
“Have you had a good day?”
She pulled an indifferent face.
“Oh dear.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“Well, let’s get started, shall we? I’ve opened a tricky little
Beaujolais. It’s a wine that is very much hit-and-miss. It needs a good year and, according to legend, virginal feet trampling the grape. And they’re in short supply nowadays. The summers, you see. We’ve had a series of wet summers.”
“I thought Helen preferred white wine.”
“Did she? DID SHE? Mrs Harrison never complained. What about you?”
“I like red.”
“It likes you.”
For a while he worked in silence.
Her eyes flicked around the room, searching the shelves and dark places.
At length she said, “The girl in the shop…”
“Laura?”
“She works for you?”
“I wouldn’t call it work, exactly. There must be a better word. Through bad luck, really, nothing more than a mother-daughter’s menstrual cycle coinciding, she’s found herself homeless. Homeless, just like Paul. I’m putting her up for a few days and just occasionally, when the mood takes her and, that isn’t often, she helps out in the shop. In truth, she frightens off more customers than she attracts and those she attracts are not really interested in art.”
“You seem to attract the waifs and strays.”
“They’re good kids, really. They just need a little help, a point in the right direction.”
“Her skirts are very short.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that. But she does have nice legs.”
“Has she modelled for you?”
“No. Landscapes are my thing. I mentioned it before. You must have forgotten.”
“What is it about landscapes?”
“They’re natural. You don’t have to search for honesty.”
“Is that important?”
“It is for an artist. But that’s something you must answer for yourself.”
Her eyes darkened at the veiled criticism.
“Are you a religious man, Mr Lawrence?”
He recalled Laura bringing up the same subject and wondered what it was about him that led people to it. He said, “That’s a very personal question.”
“Yes, but we have become personal.”
“Have we?”
“You are painting me. What can be more personal than that?” “Not too personal, I hope. But to answer your question, I’m not an American bible-belter. I don’t believe the earth was created shortly before the American civil war or that Noah navigated the Mississippi.” “You read the Bible?”
“I have done but not lately. I always thought it needed a good editor. Far too much begetting for my liking. But, my goodness, I hope there is not a God and an afterlife. I wouldn’t like to think that all the people who have gone before and all those who are coming after will know my business.”
“I imagine they’ll be too worried about their own business to worry about yours.”
“Yes, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. But think of this: if the people who died can see how the people who live carry on, they must spend eternity regretting their own propriety or spend it horrified at what they see. Either way, it doesn’t lend itself to a contented hereafter.”
“The painting you did of Helen…?”
“Mrs Harrison.”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Not Helen, in that pose. And she was pregnant. Did you know she was pregnant?”
“Yes. That was the urgency. Getting it finished before she started to…show. It was nonsense, really. I mean, how long did she think it would take?”
“I couldn’t pose like that.”
“Shyness is all about lacking self-confidence and it is only for the moment. If you see your doctor, for instance, you might die of embarrassment the first time, but afterwards it is of no consequence. And in any case, Mrs Harrison was proud of her body. Self-confidence was never an issue. She was posing for herself, I think.”
“How did it happen? Did she just say paint me like this?” “Yes, she told me from the start what she wanted.”
“You must have been shocked.”
“It was an unusual request and I imagine photographers are used to it, but…shocked is not the word I’d use. My only concern was whether I could do it justice. You might not believe it but I have a reputation to consider.”
“What do you suppose happened to her?”
“The police asked me that very question but in such matters I’m no expert. If it were just Mrs Harrison my guess would be that she’d gone off with the devil who’d led her to the club but now these other women have gone missing, it does make you wonder. Perhaps the police should get someone to retrace her steps. I think they call it a reconstruction, to jog the public memory. They can give out one of those special numbers for the public to call. That might do the trick. Of course, whoever took her place would have to dress in the same clothes. They could get an idea of what she looked like from the painting.”
“She wasn’t wearing many clothes in that.”
“I admit the dress didn’t cover much but you could still get an idea of the style and colour.”
“They might have difficulty getting someone to dress quite like that and, the BBC might have a problem in filming it.”
“The watershed. I understand that anything can go out after the nine o’clock news.”
“The nine o’clock finished some time ago.”
“Well, I never. No wonder the country has gone to the dogs.” A little later he said, “One more sitting will do it.”
“Is that all?” There was anxiety in her voice.
Before she left, her mood still subdued, she said, “I’m sorry I’ve been a pain today. I’m afraid I have a lot in common with Helen. You see, this morning my test proved positive too!”
She was clutching at straws, watching his reaction or lack of it. But it was a good move. And devious too.
From Paul’s spyhole in the cracked wall there was a flicker of movement. He was back from the shops, errands complete. He was crouching beneath the stairs again, spying, watching and listening to every word.