She breezed in and reminded him of the Indian subcontinent, colourful and exotic and enigmatic, full of riches and poverty, of strict morals and great wickedness, God’s own country, no less. And as with the country she had come from nowhere and was suddenly a major player, just one of the billion people, give or take, all wanting a piece of the action. Paul passed her on his way out but if she recognized him it didn’t show. Mr Lawrence locked the door behind her. “We won’t be disturbed,” he said.
“You’ve lost your assistants?”
“Paul is on an errand and Laura is asleep. She came in very late.” While he set up his trappings she flitted about the studio, glancing at the covers of huge books that contained prints by David Davis, Corot and Hobbema, peering through the grimy windows at the back of the shop, checking that the back door was unlocked, flicking through a pile of sketches that had been half-concealed by the wall curtain but not really looking at the sketches.
“Where does this lead?”
“The cellars. They housed the electricity meters until they were moved under the stairs. In Victorian times the coal was emptied through the pavement grating. The Victorian coal dust is still down there.”
He moved into the kitchen and pulled a red from the cupboard next to the sink.
“I’ve saved this till last,” he said, bringing out the crystal glasses. “Chianti. It’s one of my favourites. It’s dark and mysterious, like the Vatican itself. Indeed, just like you. If taste can have a past then this is it.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“I’m talking about your looks.”
Glass in hand, she reached the sofa and asked, “Ready?” “Yes. Where shall we begin?”
“How about with Sandra? It’s odd… It’s odd, isn’t it, that Sandra should run away like that?”
“You’ve been listening to the news?”
“Yes, the local news. Your art class was mentioned.”
“People are always running away from something, sometimes themselves.”
“But she had nothing to hide, according to her husband.” “What would he know? Husbands are the last people to know. We’re all hiding something.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“We all have our secrets, my dear.”
“Not all of us. With some of us what you see is what you get.” He pushed in a darker shade around her eyes so that the mystery deepened.
He said, “Do you think I’m hiding something?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Anything in particular?”
“People talk…”
“Indeed they do, but most of what they say is rubbish. I suppose going deaf might have one consolation after all. You wouldn’t have to listen to the rubbish that was spoken.”
“I heard that you were in prison.”
“A long time ago.”
“What did you do?”
“I had a breakdown. It was a childhood thing that came home to roost. Or so the experts said. I hurt some people and they locked me up. I had what they call a personality disorder. It meant pills, lots of pills. I served my time and afterwards, became a voluntary patient for a while.”
“Did it help?”
“No. There was not a couch to be seen. We sat around in groups listening to each other’s problems. I decided I had enough of my own.” “And what now?”
“Now I am fine, just fine, if that’s what you mean. A little more cantankerous as I get older, I suppose, and perhaps a little more impatient, but that is all. I think it was a part of growing up. Some people take to dressing oddly and others to visiting gyms and things. But now? To paint. To go on painting. The finished product is not the objective. It’s the journey that counts. A lot of journeys are like that. Some of them go nowhere. They’re the best kind, I’ve always thought, when you’ve time to enjoy the scenery without worrying about the destination. But the lease on this place runs out soon and, although I have an option, I have not yet made a decision.”
“Where would you go?”
“Who knows?”
“But wouldn’t that be like running away?”
“Ah, we’ve come full circle. All the way back to Sandra.” “It is odd that she should run away like that.”
“Prenatal stress, perhaps.”
“In the first few weeks? I doubt that.”
“They interviewed her husband. He was on the television. Terribly upset, of course. I don’t own a television but I saw it on Paul’s. When it came on he got quite excited and called me in.”
“I’m not surprised he’s upset.”
“Paul wasn’t upset. He was excited.”
“Not Paul. Sandra’s husband. Did the police come here?” “Of course. The art class was one of the last places she was seen.” “Not the last?”
“Obviously not. Someone else must have seen her, unless she fell down the pavement grating. Maybe I should check the cellar. They interviewed my lodger, Paul, but he couldn’t help. Then they asked me lots of questions. They knew about my previous problems. The police make a big thing about previous. Understandable, I suppose. They keep files, you see. Most people inside have been inside before. And more than once at that.”
“Gosh.”
“Yes. But I couldn’t help them either. She left. Simple as that. What more could I say? But I don’t know if they believed me. But I do wonder whether her husband is the father. Could it be she’s run off with the real father?”
“She would have told her sister. Sisters confide.”
“Do they? I haven’t got a sister so I wouldn’t know about that.” “You have a brother?”
“No, but I don’t suppose brothers confide either.”
“So for the moment this was where she was last seen. In here? I’m surprised the TV cameras didn’t come in here.”
“Goodness me. That would have been something. I might have been on the TV. That would have excited Paul even more. Probably a good thing it didn’t happen.”
“There’s still time.”
“I have a feeling there isn’t. But anyway, someone must have seen her leave. It’s early days yet. One of these cameras they’ve put up to spy on us and keep us safe will have caught her. She’ll turn up, a few pounds lighter, perhaps, but I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“I don’t know. With all that’s going on today, women being attacked in the street, the other missing women, Helen included, it’s all a bit of a coincidence.”
“Maybe.”
“The painting of Helen?”
“Mrs Harrison?”
“Yes, Mrs Helen Harrison. Did she just come right out with it? I’m pregnant, I want you to paint me? Did she throw off her clothes and say ‘like this’? That doesn’t seem like Helen at all.”
“I seem to recall covering this ground with you before. It wasn’t like that at all.”
“What then? Tell me? If there’s going to be a reconstruction I’ll have to know?”
“But, my goodness, you don’t look a bit like Mrs Harrison. You’re the wrong colour for a start. She was a blonde and very pale.” “I’m sure you could manage. You have every colour in the universe in those tubes.”
“You’ve seen the picture yourself. She was sitting more or less where you are. And she was thrilled with the idea, I have no doubt about that. I’m convinced it was a performance and she was loving every minute. I’ll go further. I think she’d rehearsed it. It seems ludicrous I know, but there you are. I remember it well, the dress around her waist baring her breasts. That’s how I would have chosen to paint her. Just like that.”
“So she was braless when she arrived?”
“That’s right, she was.” He wagged a paintbrush. “But don’t read anything into that. I had noticed before, when she came in to make the booking, that she often left off her…”
“Bra?”
“Right.”
“Can you tell that I’m not wearing a bra?”
“I hadn’t noticed. But today I’ve been concentrating on your face. But now you mention it I would have a problem because you are rather…slim, that’s the word.”
“Small is better. I have small breasts.”
“Yes, that’s it. Mrs Harrison was rather generous in that area.” “What then?”
“Then? Then she hitched up her dress and we got on with it.” “If I wanted you to paint me that way…?”
“I would think you were joking.”
“And if I wasn’t?”
“Then we would start again.”
“What is it about the nude?”
“The experts will tell you it has to do with the timeless universal quality of art. To wrap a figure in clothes immediately dates the painting. You’re restless, getting uncomfortable. Shall we take a break? I’m nearly through in any case. I’ll pour us some more wine.
That one is wearing off. I like the way it brings the colour to your face.”
“I’m fine. More than one glass will go to my head. I’m not used to it at all. Do you think Paul could have something to do with Sandra’s disappearance?”
“Could he be the father? I doubt it. I think he only saw her the once.”
“And no one’s seen her since?”
Mr Lawrence shrugged. “Someone must have done.”
“Is it possible that Paul met Helen?”
“Mrs Harrison? It’s possible. This is his hunting ground, after all, and she came here. Tell me what you’re getting at?”
“OK,” she said. “Let me play detective.” A smile fluttered about her lips. She continued, “We have a number of missing women. None of them took their personal possessions.”
“Didn’t they? I didn’t know that.”
“It was in the paper, I think. Anyway, that means that they didn’t run off. Some of the women were involved with you, one through your art class, another through the painting. They were married, one of them happily – ”
“Who knows whether they were happy?”
“Granted.”
“What else?”
“They were expecting. Did you use Sandra as a model?”
“For the class?”
“Personally.”
“No, not for the class or personally.”
“It’s a fascinating idea.”
“Yes, I can see that. And certainly I’ll agree with you that I am a common factor.”
“And their pregnancies, and the fact that they are local.”
“Right, they have all that in common.”
“Did Helen ever visit The British?”
“I never saw Mrs Harrison there. It’s not really her kind of place.”
“What about local restaurants? We know that Paul met Sandra.
Maybe he met Helen too. Maybe, after finishing a session with you, Helen went for a drink or a meal in one of the local restaurants, and there she bumped into Paul.”
“Let me stop you there. Mrs Harrison sharing a drink with young Paul Knight could not happen in a thousand years. Mrs Harrison would die sooner than acknowledge the existence of a youngster like Paul
Knight. I’m not for one moment suggesting that she is choosy with her company, simply that, for her, the Paul Knights of the world don’t exist. In any case, at the time of Mrs Harrison’s disappearance, Paul was being entertained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Hold it just there!”
“Well, he is a bit odd.”
“I mean keep still. I’m dealing with your eyes. They seem to have narrowed slightly.”
“Sorry. I was getting carried away. I can’t get Helen’s disappearance out of my head. Perhaps it’s an unhealthy interest. She was my friend.”
“I hope she still is.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve noticed during this session that the hem of your dress has moved up a little. It is undoing my composition.”
She moved one long leg against the other and said, “It must be the wine. I feel quite giddy. It’s just that… I was just wondering about that reconstruction you mentioned. Whether it would jog a memory, something that you missed, something important.”
“My goodness, I was wondering about that too.”