guffawed. ‘Nope. It’s the garden where they found that chap. What’s it called – the River Something Hotel?’
‘Streamside.’ Adam considered. ‘So it is. I should have recognised it; I’ve tried to paint it myself. Any idea whose work it is?’
Henry shook his head. ‘I picked it up for pennies, just for the canvas.’
‘To sell on and make a killing out of saps like me…’ Adam twisted his head to one side until he understood the angles. He squinted at the signature, but it was smudged and almost unreadable. ‘Is that an F?’ It was dated 1975. ‘Painted a while ago. The place looks different, now.’
‘There’s another like it, in the back. Give me a minute…’ Henry wandered away, puffing and panting out of sight. ‘Got it,’ he called, emerging with a red face and a smaller painting. ‘This isn’t oils. It’s a watercolour, by the same chap, whoever he is. I took it on years ago, from another gallery.’ He named a price, holding the painting out as Adam nodded. ‘Mind you,’ he mused, ‘maybe I should hang on to it. The value’s about to go through the roof, now the hotel’s notorious.’
‘Too late,’ Adam grabbed it from his friend’s hands. ‘It’s mine.’
This canvas was small and square, and seemed unfinished. The artist had sketched in the geometry of the garden, but focused, with vivid, lively brushstrokes, on the central flowerbed.
‘Nice little work, a bit Monet in feel,’ Henry said. ‘Pity the artist never finished it.’
‘Any more like this?’
Henry grunted. ‘No. I’d forgotten about this one, to be honest.’ He glanced at Adam’s face and grumbled. ‘Can’t believe I’m letting you have it at that price. More fool me.’
10
Orchid
Adam struggled from the car, arms full of canvases, and turned his key in the lock. An ear splitting salvo of barking assaulted his ears. He’d forgotten his four legged companion – even getting used to the doggy smell in the car.
Warily, he pushed the door open and the animal leapt up, drooling, paws on Adam’s chest, as excited as though his new owner had been away for a week.
Devastation met Adam’s eyes. Scratches raked the wood panel of the door to the bar. Its handle bent at an angle, but the door had held.
Adam hardly knew where to begin. A nearby cushion, chewed to a mush, had sent its feathers flying across the carpet. A vase lay nearby, water seeping from it in a brown rivulet. Bare stalks had been tossed aside, and several flower heads had disappeared. ‘Hope roses aren’t bad for dogs.’
The dog’s feeding bowl lay upside down, licked clean.
‘How did you do all that so fast?’ Adam demanded.
The dog lifted one paw.
‘You think that’ll get you out of trouble?’
Adam mopped and tidied as best he could, stood back and considered the dog.
‘I suppose you were bored. Sorry, old chap. My fault.’
He attached the lead, an overpriced purchase from the vet, and gripped it securely.
‘We’ll show my new paintings to our neighbour.’
Panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, the dog trotted beside Adam as he staggered across the road to The Streamside Hotel.
Imogen looked thinner, her face more lined, but she greeted the dog with pleasure. ‘Hello, lovely. Is he treating you well?’
‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ Adam confessed. ‘He’s adopted me, and he’s a friendly fellow, but he’s wrecked my sitting room.’
‘Did you take him for a run this morning?’
‘No.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘I was planning to take him to the shop, later…’
‘That’s not enough. Mrs Topsham’s is only just around the corner. He needs proper exercise. Look at him, he can’t stand still – he’s bursting with energy.’
She looked a fraction less tense than last time Adam saw her, but he knew better than to make guesses about her real feelings. In his experience, the worst killers often pretended to be devastated, while innocent family members could be too shocked to show emotion.
‘He can run around the garden here,’ she offered. ‘There are gates and fences round the grounds, so he shouldn’t get out. Unless he can open gates?’
‘Wouldn’t put it past him,’ Adam muttered.
‘My father kept dogs here, but the last one died a few years ago.’ She led the way through the hotel lounge, and out of the French doors. ‘What’s his name?’
‘He doesn’t have one.’
‘That’s terrible. You’ll have to think of one.’
‘Trouble? Wrecker?’
Laughing, Imogen stooped to let the dog off his lead. ‘Wow, look at him run…’ The animal shot across the field towards the stream. ‘He’s going to need long walks. Twice a day.’
Adam changed the subject. ‘The police have left, then?’
‘They took down the tape this morning, while I was out. We can use the garden again, which is a relief, and I’ve reopened the hotel for bookings. The guests who were here then – you know, that night – they’ve all left. Couldn’t wait to spread the gossip, I imagine. I’m dreading reading the online reviews.’
‘I think you’ll find business booms. Nothing more exciting than a hotel where someone died.’
‘That’s a bit morbid.’
‘Sorry.’ Adam winced. He’d been careless. Imogen’s husband was dead. OK, she was a determined lady, in control of herself, and she hadn’t collapsed in a heap at his death, that was admirable, but no matter how she tried to play down her feelings, those extra lines on Imogen’s face told their own tale of shock and loss.
The police had allowed the crime scene to be closed. They must be sure there was no more evidence to be found there. No more fingertip searches, then. Was DCI Andrews jumping to conclusions? No need to suggest that to Imogen. She was under enough strain.
She broke into his thoughts. ‘What were those paintings you brought?’
‘They came from a mate of mine – a gallery owner. I thought you’d be interested in the subject. It looks like the hotel garden. I’ve left the paintings behind the reception desk. The very attractive young lady with multicoloured nails offered to look after them for me. Shall I set them up in the lounge? I think you’ll be interested, and we can keep an eye on Wrecker while we look at them. Otherwise,
