Black Valley (24 page)

‘I suppose so.’ Dresler sighed. ‘I must say, this whole thing has really shaken me up. Blake and I weren’t close, but I knew him over a very long period of time. And now
that he’s . . . well, gone . . . I realize how much I relied on him.’

‘Relied on him? In what way?’

‘Well, mostly regarding Morris. Blake could always get in touch with him. I’m not finding it so easy.’

‘But I thought you said Morris wrote to you quite regularly?’

‘He used to. But recently, I haven’t heard from him. And I’ve got no way of contacting him.’

‘Can’t you phone Isobel at the gallery? Isn’t she representing him now?’

‘She’s not returning my calls. Obviously, she’s afraid Morris will want to leave the Powell Gallery. Someone like me could easily hook him up with a new dealer, someone with a
bit more heft. Isobel’s not really a player in this world. She left that side of it to Blake.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. She’s obviously rather preoccupied at present.’ Jess paused. ‘Anyway, is there any pressing need for you to get in touch with
Morris right now?’

‘Yes, of course. You see, I want him to be part of this group exhibition in Berlin. He’d be perfect for it. He’s so much in the tradition of Kiefer. In the past, I could have
just phoned Blake, and he’d have sorted it out at once. Now I’m not quite sure what to do.’

‘Maybe you should try and contact Morris directly. Find out where he is, and go and see him.’

Dresler nodded. ‘I’ve thought of doing that, many times. He’s up in the valleys, I know, but I’ve no idea where.’

‘I’m sure we could trace him.’ Jess sat forward. ‘How did Blake discover Morris, anyway? Did he ever tell you?’

Dresler nodded, somewhat distractedly, as if tearing himself away from his own thoughts. ‘Yes. He often told the story; it was an extraordinary thing. He was at the Cardiff gallery one day
with Isobel. They were going over the accounts. The place had been quiet all day, no one much had been in, and then suddenly, this young man appears. A lad from the valleys, with green hair, a
pierced eyebrow, and sleeve tattoos. Marches in with a big canvas wrapped in brown paper, dumps it against the wall, and marches out.’

Jess was intrigued, as Dresler warmed to his tale.

‘When he left, they unwrapped the canvas and found this marvellous painting. A great expanse of black which, as you experienced, began to mutate before their eyes, into a void, a dirty
pavement, a black hole, a lump of coal. Both of them, Blake and Isobel, were stunned by it. But they had no way of contacting the young man. So they waited.

Eventually, two weeks later, he appeared again, with another canvas. It was different from the first, but equally powerful. Blake and Isobel loved it. And they’d sold the first painting
very well, considering it was by an unknown artist.

This time, he introduced himself as Nathan Evans, Morris’s assistant. Nathan told them that Morris wanted nothing to do with the gallery, or the art world in general. He just wanted to be
paid for the first canvas as soon as it sold. When he was, he’d drop off another.’ Dresler paused. ‘The paintings were extraordinary, and what’s more, they were snapped up
the minute they were put on show in the gallery. They fetched good prices, for a new artist, and there was always demand for more. So Nathan started dropping off the canvasses more frequently.
That’s how it always worked. Each time Blake sold a canvas, he’d pay for it, then Nathan would drop off the next.’

‘Did they suspect that Nathan was actually Hefin Morris?’

‘Yes, of course. Blake asked him directly once, but he flatly denied it. And frankly, if you spent two minutes talking to Nathan, you’d know there was no way on earth he could be
producing work of that sophistication. He’s a nice lad but not much between the ears, you know. Morris is something else, a proper autodidact. He’s always quoting Heidegger or Chomsky
in his letters to me. He’s no ordinary valleys boy, that’s for sure.’

There was a slight note of snobbery in Dresler’s remark but Jess chose to ignore it. ‘So the only person who’s ever been in contact with the mysterious Morris, as far as we
know, is Nathan?’

Dresler nodded.

There was a pause.

Jess remembered Bonetti’s curiosity about Morris. Perhaps, she thought, Dresler could shed some light on the reason for that.

‘You don’t think Morris could have had anything to do with Blake’s suicide, do you?’

Dresler looked taken aback. ‘No. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. It was just something this policewoman was asking me about. She wanted to know if you’d called Morris while we were up at Cwm Du. I told her you hadn’t, of
course.’

‘Why on earth would she ask that?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think she’s convinced that Blake committed suicide, though she didn’t say as much. Perhaps she thinks Morris was involved in some way. I
remember you saying Morris was thinking of staging a political protest about the current situation in the art world. You know, with the hype, and the money men, and so on.’

‘Did I?’

Jess nodded. ‘You said he’d got something up his sleeve. And that we’d soon find out what it was.’

‘What an amazing memory you have.’

‘It’s my job. I listen to people for a living. And parrot back to them what they say.’

Dresler chuckled. ‘Of course. Well, yes, he did mention to me in one of his letters that he was thinking of staging “an intervention”, as he called it.’

‘What kind of intervention?’

‘He didn’t elaborate.’ Dresler looked pensive. ‘Certainly not killing off the person who championed his work. Morris had his doubts about Blake’s dealings in the
world of high finance, of course, but . . . no, that’s ridiculous. Out of the question.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You know, we really must get hold of him, so we can put a stop
to that kind of speculation right away.’ He sighed. ‘I just don’t know where to start looking for him, though. If only bloody Isobel would answer my calls . . .’

Jess thought for a moment. ‘They’re taking down the exhibition at the museum in a few days’ time,’ she said. ‘I noticed when I was there. Presumably when it comes
to the ones that the museum hasn’t bought, Nathan will be taking them back to Morris’s studio, wherever that may be.’

Dresler looked intrigued. ‘Now that’s an idea. Maybe if I followed him – at a distance, of course – I could find out where Morris lives. And then . . . I don’t
know. Find a way of talking to him about what’s going on, now that Blake’s out of the picture.’

‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘I know the area. You don’t. I should be able to follow Nathan without him noticing us.’ Jess wasn’t sure why she was offering, but she knew that she was as curious as
Dresler to find out the truth behind the Morris story – despite the fact that Elinor was no longer her client.

‘OK. Thanks.’ Dresler leaned forward and gave her an affectionate hug. ‘You know, you’re wasted as a shrink. You’d make a good sleuth.’

Jess laughed. ‘Well, what I do
is
sleuthing, of a kind.’

She looked out of the window, and saw that the sun had come out. She could hear the bustle of the streets below.

‘Come on, let’s get going, shall we. I want to look at the fabric shops on Berwick Street. Buy something silly for the girls.’

‘And I want to take you to Bond Street.’ Dresler began to clear the plates off the table. ‘There’s a painting I’m thinking of buying in one of the galleries there.
I’d like you to see it. Later on, we’ll go out to dinner at a nice little Italian place I know. And then home to bed.’

‘Of course.’ Jess got up. She stretched, savouring the prospect of having Dresler to herself, and the West End as their playground, until tomorrow afternoon. ‘Whatever you
like. I’m all yours.’

The weekend had passed all too quickly. After browsing the shops around Berwick Street, they’d gone to the gallery, where in a high, light room they’d seen the
paintings, beautiful images of bare-branched olive trees in charcoal, pastel, mud and charred wood. In the evening, they’d eaten in an old-fashioned Italian trattoria, then wandered down to
the French House for a nightcap. Afterwards, they’d gone to bed, fallen asleep, then woken up in the night and made love. Next day, after breakfast in bed, they’d wandered around
Chinatown, lunched in Dresler’s favourite restaurant there, and then it had been time for Jess to catch the train home.

The journey back had been long and tiresome, as was often the case on Sundays, when trains were shunted around via Gloucester while work was carried out in the Severn Tunnel. By the time she got
home, Jess was exhausted, but she knew she had an evening’s paperwork to catch up on before returning to the office the next day. She also knew that the girls would need her attention,
especially Rose, who had spent most of the weekend with Tegan and the puppy, since Bob had been away at a conference.

When she let herself into the house, she heard Bob’s voice in the kitchen. She put down her case, took off her coat, and walked down the hallway to find him there with Rose. Rose was
sitting on his knee, her arm round his neck. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy. She looked as if she’d been crying.

‘Rosie, darling. What’s the matter?’ Jess hurried over to her, bent down, and gave her a hug. Rose didn’t answer. Instead, she sniffed and turned her head away, towards
Bob’s chest.

Bob gestured as if to say, Don’t worry, we’ll talk about this later.

‘What’s happened?’ Jess demanded. ‘What’s been going on?’

‘Things were a bit difficult over the weekend, that’s all.’ Bob’s tone was placatory. ‘I think there were problems with the puppy, and . . . well, I should have
been there. It was hard for Tegan to cope with it all.’

‘Tegan was nasty to me,’ Rose piped up. ‘She called me a stupid little brat.’

Bob looked embarrassed. ‘The puppy kept pissing and shitting everywhere—’

‘Weeing and pooing,’ Rose corrected him.

‘And Tegan got flustered—’

‘No, she shouted at me,’ Rose interjected.

‘Let Rose tell the story.’ Jess sat down at the table and took Rose’s hand, even though it meant sitting uncomfortably near Bob. ‘Now, what happened?’

Rose sniffed. ‘Well, Monty kept weeing on the carpet. It’s cream, a hundred per cent wool. It’s an absolute nightmare to get the stains out.’ That was Tegan talking,
thought Jess. ‘He kept gnawing the legs of the coffee table. Then he nipped at the cover of the sofa. It’s suede, it cost three thousand pounds.’ Rose paused. ‘We took him
out for a walk on the lead, but he just sat on his bottom so you had to pull him along. Then he ate a dog poo. And when we gave him his dinner, he just tipped the bowl over with his nose and walked
off.’

Rose gave a wobbly smile. Jess squeezed her hand encouragingly.

‘Anyway, Tegan got more and more annoyed. So then I had a brainwave. I thought, why don’t we bring him over here? You wouldn’t mind so much about the sofa and the carpets.
It’s more scruffy here, isn’t it?’

Thanks a bunch, Jess thought.

‘And Monty could run around the garden, we wouldn’t have to put him on the lead.’ Rose paused. ‘So I told her my idea, and she just shouted at me. You stupid little brat,
she said.’

‘She didn’t mean it, Rose.’ Bob spoke quietly. ‘She was just upset about the dog.’

‘Yes, she did.’ Rose’s voice rose in righteous indignation. ‘Because when I started crying, she told me to shut up.’

Jess looked up at Bob, wondering whether Rose was telling the truth. From the embarrassed look on his face, it was clear that she was.

‘Dad’s right, Rose.’ Jess squeezed her hand again. ‘Everyone gets cross and says things they don’t mean.’

‘I don’t care. I hate her.’ There was a finality to Rose’s tone. She was a determined child, and once she’d made her mind up about something, it was hard to get her
to change it. The crush on Tegan was well and truly over, it seemed.

Jess felt sad for her daughter. To be sure, she’d found Rose’s adoration of Tegan somewhat trying, but it was painful to see Rose let down by her idol, and Jess wished it
hadn’t happened. By the look on his face, so did Bob.

There was a noise in the hall, and then Nella and Gareth walked into the kitchen. Rose immediately got off Bob’s knee. When she saw Bob, Nella nodded her head in greeting, but she
didn’t go over to kiss him. Gareth, on the other hand, came over and shook his hand. They began to talk about rugby.

Jess busied herself in the kitchen making tea. Nella came over and lolled her head on her shoulder. She seemed to do a lot of lolling these days. Jess wondered whether it was because she was in
love or, God forbid, she’d been taking drugs.

‘What’s the matter with Rose?’ Nella stepped back, and began pulling at her T-shirt. That was another peculiar habit she was developing, Jess thought. She prayed she
wasn’t pregnant. She realized she must f ind a moment to talk to her about it, and soon. Of course, it might simply be that she was putting on weight with all this cooking, and was feeling
self-conscious about it.

‘She just got a bit homesick, that’s all.’ Jess saw no need to fan the flames of Nella’s resentment towards her father. ‘Is Gareth staying tonight?’

‘No. He’s off in a minute.’

‘Well, maybe you could watch telly with Rose while I make supper. Keep her company. She misses her big sis, you know. Especially now that . . .’ Jess moved her head in the direction
of Bob, who was talking animatedly to Gareth.

‘Of course.’ Nella stopped lolling, adopting a serious, responsible look instead.

The kettle boiled, and Jess poured it into the teapot. She’d used loose tea that she’d bought in Soho instead of bags. She felt in need of a proper brew.

Nella did as she was asked, and took Rose off into the sitting room to watch TV. Once the topic of rugby was exhausted, Gareth followed suit, leaving Jess and Bob alone together.

‘I’m really sorry about all this, Jess.’ Bob sounded genuinely remorseful.

Jess poured out two cups of tea, added milk and sugar for Bob, and brought them over to the table.