The Murder Room (33 page)

Michelle Wilkins closed the door to the bedroom then made a gesture which could have been an invitation towards the sofa. Dalgliesh sat, but Kate moved over to the table. Set in its centre was a Moses basket holding a plump, pink-cheeked baby. Kate thought that it must be a girl. She was wearing a short frilled dress in pink cotton with an embroidered bib of daisies and a white knitted cardigan. In contrast to the rest of the room, everything about her was clean. Her head with its moss of milk-white hair rested on a pristine pillow; the blanket, now drawn aside, was spotless, and the dress looked as if it had been recently ironed. It seemed extraordinary that a girl so fragile could have produced this cheerfully robust baby. Two strong legs separated by a bunch of nappy were vigorously kicking. Then the child lay quietly, holding up hands like starfish and focusing on the moving fingers as if gradually realizing that they belonged to her. After a few aborted efforts she managed to insert a thumb into her mouth and quietly began sucking.

Michelle Wilkins moved over to the table, and Kate and she looked down at the baby together. Kate asked, “How old is she?”

“Four months. She's Rebecca, but Davie and I call her Becky.”

Kate said, “I don't know much about babies but she looks very forward for her age.”

“Oh she is, she is. She can arch her back very strongly and she can sit up. If Davie and I hold her upright you can see her trying to stand.”

Kate's thoughts were in a mild emotional confusion. What was she expected to feel? Unhappy awareness of that much-discussed inexorable ticking away of the years, each one after thirty making it less likely that she would ever be a mother? Wasn't that the dilemma facing all successful professional women? So why didn't she feel it? And was this only a temporary reluctance? Would the time come when she would be overcome by a need, physical or psychological, to bear a child, to know that something of herself would survive her death, a craving which might become so imperative and overwhelming that she would be driven to some modern humiliating expedient to get her wish? The thought horrified her. Surely not. Illegitimate, brought up by an elderly grandmother, she had never known her mother. She thought,
I shouldn't know how to begin. I'd be hopeless. You can't give what you've never had.
But what were the responsibilities of her job, even at its most demanding, compared to this: to bring another human being into the world, to be responsible for her until she was eighteen, never to be free of caring and worrying until you died? And yet the girl beside her was happily coping. Kate thought,
There's a world of experience I know nothing about.
Suddenly and with sadness she felt herself diminished.

Dalgliesh said, “Your husband visited the Dupayne Museum fairly regularly, didn't he? We met while I was there ten days ago. We were both looking at the same painting. Did you often go with him?”

The girl bent suddenly over the cot and began fussing with the blanket. Her lank hair fell forward, obscuring her face. She seemed not even to hear. Then she said, “I did go once. That was about three months ago. Davie hadn't a job at the time so he was let in free, but the woman at the desk said I had to pay because I wasn't on job-seekers' allowance. It's £5, so we couldn't afford it. I told Davie to go in on his own, but he wouldn't. Then a man arrived and came over to the desk to ask what was wrong. The woman there called him Dr. Dupayne so he must have been something to do with the museum. He told her she had to let me in. He said, ‘What do you expect this visitor to do, wait outside in the rain with her baby?' Then he told me to leave my bag where the coats are hung, just inside the door, and take Becky in with me.”

Kate said, “I don't suppose that made the woman on the desk very happy.”

Michelle's face brightened. “No it didn't. She went red and looked daggers after Dr. Dupayne. We were glad to get away from her and look at the pictures.”

Dalgliesh said, “One particular picture?”

“Yes. It's one that belonged to Davie's grandad. That's why Davie likes to go and see it.”

It was then that they heard the creak of the gate and the clatter of feet on the steps. Michelle Wilkins vanished silently through the door. They could hear the low mutter of voices in the passage. David Wilkins came in and stood for a moment irresolute in the doorway as if it were he who was the visitor. His wife moved close to him and Kate saw their hands touch and then clasp.

Dalgliesh got up. He said, “I'm Commander Dalgliesh and this is Inspector Miskin from the Metropolitan Police. We're sorry to come without warning. We won't keep you long. Hadn't we all better sit down?”

With their hands still clasped, husband and wife moved to the sofa. Dalgliesh and Kate sat at the table. The baby, who had been gently gurgling, now let out a sudden cry. Michelle rushed to the table and picked her up. Holding her against her shoulder, she moved back to the sofa. Husband and wife gave all their attention to Rebecca.

The boy said, “Is she hungry?”

“You get the bottle, Davie.”

Kate saw that nothing more could be done until Rebecca had been fed. The bottle was produced with extraordinary speed. Michelle Wilkins cradled her child who began lustily munching on the teat. There was no sound but this vigorous feeding. The room had suddenly become domestic and very peaceful. It seemed ludicrous to talk about murder.

Dalgliesh said, “You've probably guessed that we want to talk about the Dupayne Museum. I expect you know that Dr. Neville Dupayne has been murdered.”

The boy nodded but didn't speak. He had huddled close to his wife and both kept their gaze on the child.

Dalgliesh said, “We're talking to as many people as possible who either worked at the Dupayne or visited regularly. I'm sure you understand why. First I have to ask where you were and what you were doing last Friday between, say, five o'clock and seven.”

Michelle Wilkins looked up. She said, “You were at the doctor's, Davie.” She turned to Dalgliesh. “The evening surgery starts at quarter past five and Davie's appointment was for quarter to six. Not that he gets seen then, but he always gets there in good time, don't you, Davie?”

Kate asked, “When were you seen?”

David said, “About twenty past six. I didn't wait long really.”

“Is the surgery close to here?”

“It's in St. Charles Square. Not far really.”

His wife said encouragingly, “You've got your appointment card, haven't you, Davie? Show them the card.”

David fumbled in his trouser pocket, produced it and handed it to Kate. It was crumpled and bore a long list of appointments. Undoubtedly the boy was due at the surgery on the previous Friday evening. It would be a matter of minutes only to verify that he had actually attended. She noted the details and gave back the card.

Michelle said, “Davie gets bad asthma and his heart isn't very strong. That's why he can't always work. Sometimes he's on sick pay and sometimes on job-seekers' allowance. He started a new job last Monday, didn't you, Davie? Now we've got this place everything should be better.”

Dalgliesh said, “Tell me about the picture. You said your grandfather owned it. How did it come to be in the Dupayne Museum?”

Kate wondered why Dalgliesh was going on with the interview. They had got what they wanted. She had never thought David Wilkins a likely suspect, but nor had Dalgliesh, so why not leave now? But so far from resenting the question, the boy seemed eager to talk.

“It belonged to my grandad. He had a little village shop in Cheddington, that's in Suffolk near Halesworth. He did all right until the supermarkets came and then the business fell off. But before that he bought the Nash picture. It was in the sale at a local house and he and my grandma went round to bid for a couple of easy chairs. Grandad took to the picture and got it. There wasn't much local interest because people thought it was so gloomy and there weren't any other paintings in the sale so I don't suppose people knew about it. But Max Dupayne knew about it, only he got there too late. He tried to persuade Grandad to sell it to him but Grandad wouldn't. He said, ‘If ever you want to sell I'll be interested, only you may not get the price I'm offering you now. It's not a valuable picture but I fancy it.' But Grandad fancied it too. You see, his dad—that's my great-grandad—was killed in the 1914–18 war at Passchendaele, and I think he wanted this as a kind of memorial. It hung in their living-room until the shop finally failed and they moved into a house in Lowestoft. Then things got bad for them. Anyway Max Dupayne must have kept in touch, for he arrived one day to ask about the picture and said again that he wanted to buy it. Grandad had got into debt so he had to agree.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Do you know what he paid?”

“He said he'd give Grandad what he'd paid for it, which was just over £300. Of course it was an awful lot to Grandad when he bought the picture. I think he and my gran had a row over it. But now he had to let it go.”

Kate said, “Didn't it occur to him to get someone from one of the London or provincial auction houses to give him a valuation? Sotheby's, Christie's, someone like that?”

“No, I don't think so. He didn't know about auction houses. He said Mr. Dupayne told him he'd never get the same amount selling it that way, that they took a big commission and the tax man would be after him. Something about paying capital gains tax.”

Kate said, “Well he wouldn't. He didn't make any capital gain anyway, did he?”

“I know, but I think Mr. Dupayne muddled him up, and in the end he sold. After Grandad died Dad told me about it. When I found out where it was, I went to see it.”

Dalgliesh said, “Did you hope somehow to get it back?”

There was a silence. In the last few minutes David had forgotten he was speaking to a police officer. Now he looked at his wife. She shifted the baby on her lap and said, “Better tell him, Davie. Tell him about the masked man. You never did nothing wrong.”

Dalgliesh waited. He had always, thought Kate, known when to wait. After a minute the boy said, “OK, I did think I might steal it. I knew I couldn't buy it back. I'd read about thefts from galleries, how the picture is cut out of its frame and rolled up and taken off. It wasn't real, I just liked thinking about it. I knew there would be some kind of alarm on the door but I thought I might break in through the window and grab the picture before anyone came. I thought the police couldn't get there in under ten minutes if someone did ring them, and there wasn't anyone close enough to hear the alarm anyway. It was a stupid idea, I know that now, but I used to brood about it and think about it, how it might be done.”

His wife said, “But you didn't do it, Davie. You only thought about it. You said yourself it wasn't real. You can't be had up for planning something you didn't do. That's the law.”

Well not precisely, thought Kate. But Wilkins hadn't after all been in a conspiracy to cause an explosion.

Dalgliesh said, “But in the end you didn't try?”

“I went there one night thinking I might. But then someone arrived. That was on February the fourteenth. I went by bike and hid it in the bushes along the drive and I'd taken a large black plastic bag, one of those big rubbish bags, to wrap the picture in. I don't know whether I'd actually have tried the robbery. When I got there I realized I hadn't anything strong enough to break the ground-floor window and that the window was higher from the ground than I'd thought. I hadn't really planned it properly. And then I heard a car. I hid in the bushes and watched. It was a powerful car and the driver drove into the car-park behind the laurels. I watched when he got out and then I crept off. I was scared. My bike was a bit further down the drive and I made my way to it through the bushes. I know he didn't see me.”

Kate said, “But you saw him.”

“Not to recognize him again. I didn't see his face. When he got out of the car he was wearing a mask.”

Dalgliesh asked, “What kind of a mask?”

“Not the kind you see in crime programmes on TV. Not the stocking pulled over the face. This just covered the eyes and the hair. The sort of thing you see in pictures of people at carnivals.”

Dalgliesh said, “So you cycled home and gave up the idea of stealing the picture?”

“I don't think it was ever serious. I mean, I thought it was serious at the time, but it was more in my imagination. If it had been real I would have taken more trouble.”

Kate said, “But if you had managed to get it you wouldn't have been able to sell it. It may not have been recognized as valuable when your grandad bought it, but it would be now.”

“I didn't want to sell it. I wanted to put it on the wall here. I wanted it in this room. I wanted it because Grandad had loved it and because it reminded him of Great-Grandad. I wanted it because of the past.”

Suddenly the pale face contorted and Kate saw two tears rolling down his cheeks. He put up a fist like a child and scrubbed them away. As if in a gesture of comfort, his wife handed him the baby. He cradled the child and nuzzled his lips in her hair.

Dalgliesh said, “You did nothing wrong and we are grateful to you for helping us. Perhaps we'll see each other again when you come back to look at the picture. A lot of people enjoy it. I know I did. If it hadn't been for your grandfather it wouldn't be in the Dupayne Museum and perhaps we wouldn't have a chance of seeing it.”

As if she too had forgotten that they were police officers and were thinking of them as guests, Michelle Wilkins said, “Would you like some tea? I'm sorry I didn't think of offering. Or there's some Nescafé.”

Dalgliesh said, “That's very kind but I think we'd better not wait. Thank you again, Mr. Wilkins, for being so co-operative, and if there's anything else that occurs to you, you can reach us at New Scotland Yard. The number's on this card.”