Unfinished Portrait (2 page)

Rona looked surprised. ‘Why is that?'

‘He reckons some of his activities don't bear scrutiny.'

‘Really? I've never heard that.'

‘Too nebulous to get into the press; they concentrate on his celebrity status – fast cars, loads of money, famous girlfriends. Oh, he's been fined for possession of drugs, drink driving and so on, but it didn't tarnish his image – just made him one of the boys.'

Lindsey smiled at the waiter as he laid a plate of steaming pasta in front of her.

‘If Dominic has such a low opinion of him,' Rona said, ‘why did he accept his invitation?'

‘It wasn't from him, it was from his parents, and he's quite fond of them. Anyway, it was a jolly good do, at the Dorchester.'

‘But you did actually meet Crispin?'

‘Oh yes, and believe me, he's quite something. Charm personified, and extremely good-looking. Photos don't do him justice.'

‘Did you tell Dominic that?' Rona asked blandly, winding spaghetti round her fork.

Lindsey gave a brief laugh. ‘What do you think? Anyway, on the subject of relatives, illustrious or otherwise, have you spoken to the parents recently?'

‘I dropped in on Pops yesterday. I was up that way, and he gave me a cup of tea. He seemed in good form.'

‘More than Mum does, at the moment.'

‘Oh?' Rona looked up.

‘She seemed a bit subdued when I phoned, though she insisted nothing was wrong.'

Their parents had separated at Christmas, and while their father was renting a flat near the woman he hoped to marry, their mother, still in the marital home, had taken in a lodger, a teacher at the nearby primary school.

‘I'll have a word with Max,' Rona said, ‘and perhaps we could invite her over at the weekend. Sunday lunch. Will you be free?'

‘In all likelihood,' Lindsey said gloomily. Then, with a shamefaced smile, ‘Sorry – nothing personal. Thanks; if Mum's up for it, I'd be glad to come.'

Avril Parish, unaware that her daughters were discussing her, looked up at the sound of the front door.

‘That you, Sarah?' she called, realizing too late the fatuity of the question. After all, who else could it be?

‘Yes,' came the reply, as Sarah moved purposefully towards the stairs.

‘Had a good evening?'

Intercepted, she'd no option but to put her head round the door.

‘We went to the cinema. It was OK. I've put the snip down.'

Avril nodded. ‘Thanks. Good night, then.'

‘Good night.' And the door closed behind her.

Avril stared at the television screen, where, since she'd muted it on hearing the door, figures waved their arms about silently. How long, she wondered miserably, could she keep this up? Including the summer break, Sarah had been with her six months, yet Avril knew her no better than on the day she arrived. But in the interval, through a variety of circumstances, she had met her father, Guy Lacey, and an attraction had sprung up between them.

While Sarah and her boyfriend spent a large part of the summer in France – he was a sports master at the school, so shared the long holiday – she and Guy had grown closer, and Avril was happier than she'd been for years. Unsure how the relationship would progress, they'd not as yet mentioned it to their daughters, but Avril knew, with sinking heart, that Guy was planning to tell Sarah when she went home to Stokely for the weekend.

It would have been so much easier, she reflected, if she and Sarah got on well, but Sarah had made it plain from the start that their relationship was a strictly business one. How would she react on learning her father and her landlady had been seeing each other?

With a sigh, Avril switched off the television and went to bed.

By the time Max came home the following evening, Rona had changed her mind a dozen times about whether or not she wanted to embark on a new biography. Would Prue expect an immediate answer to whatever she was proposing? Should Rona phone her agent to tell him about the lunch? Or wait till she knew what Prue had in mind? It was as well, she reflected, that Max would be home, or she'd doubtless have vacillated all evening.

Hearing his key in the door, she went into the hall to greet him, while Gus bounded joyfully about them. Max's face felt cool, and the scent of wood smoke clung to his coat. An illegal bonfire somewhere, no doubt.

He shrugged off his coat and lifted the mail from the hall table, leafing through it as he followed her into the sitting room.

‘An airmail from the Furnesses, I see,' he commented. ‘Why didn't you open it?'

‘I . . . thought I'd leave it for you,' Rona said, not meeting his eyes.

He flicked her a glance. The Furnesses were the owners of the house next door, renting it out to a series of tenants during their residency in Hong Kong. This was their first communication since the tragedy.

Max slit open the flimsy paper, ran his eye rapidly down its contents, then returned to the beginning to read it aloud.

Max looked up, meeting Rona's eyes. ‘So there you have it. It'll be good to see them again; must be at least three years since they were over.'

‘I'm glad they're going to do something to the house,' Rona said. ‘It's hopelessly old-fashioned, especially the kitchen.'

She stopped abruptly, not wanting to remember the kitchen next door.

Max moved to the drinks cabinet and poured two glasses. ‘Get this down you, my love. And don't worry, the ghosts will be well and truly laid.'

His words still reverberated in her head the next morning, as she gazed out of the train window. The ghosts in the house, such as they were, may indeed be banished by refurbishment; it remained to be seen how long they would stay in her head.

With a sigh, she turned to the newspaper she'd bought at the station, glanced at the gloomy headlines, and opened it in search of lighter reading. And at once her eyes fell on a photograph captioned
Crispin Ryder and friend arriving for the world première of the new Bond film
.

His photos don't do him justice, Lindsey had said, but Rona could see his attraction, even in the poor quality of the newsprint. The photographer must have called out his name, catching him just as he turned with an enquiring smile, one arm loosely round the fur-coated girl at his side. Though in his late forties, he looked lean and boyish, his frilled shirt-front and the jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder proclaiming a confident insouciance that was immediately appealing. So Dominic suspected him of nefarious dealings; doubtless they would only add to his attraction.

London looked its best in the mellow October sunshine, and in Covent Garden buskers were busy, guitarists, jugglers and pavement artists attracting their own crowds. The restaurant Prue had nominated was on the first floor, the street level being given over to a delicatessen. Rona made her way upstairs, and, emerging at the top, immediately caught sight of her.

Prue stood as she approached, her short, curly hair and over-large spectacles making her look, as always, like a precocious child.

‘Good to see you!' she exclaimed, leaning forward to touch cheeks and kiss the air before standing back to survey Rona with her head on one side. ‘Well,' she pronounced, resuming her seat, ‘you look none the worse for your adventures.'

‘I'd say I'm relatively unscathed,' Rona confirmed, sitting opposite her.

‘I can't imagine how you manage to get yourself into those situations.'

‘Nor can I. Max says if he hadn't gone grey in his twenties, he certainly would have by now.'

‘Ah yes, how is that clever husband of yours? Still teaching?'

‘Very much so; evening classes Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, afternoon classes Wednesdays, and the Art School ten till four on Thursdays.'

Prue shook her head wonderingly. ‘And in his spare time, he turns out masterpieces!'

Rona smiled. ‘Not sure about that, but he keeps busy, certainly. He's been commissioned to do several canvases for the boardroom in a prestigious new building in Buckford.'

‘Well, all power to his paintbrush! Now – ' she picked up the menu – ‘what can I tempt you with?'

They spent several minutes discussing their choices, and Prue ordered a bottle of Frascati to go with them.

‘Incidentally,' she said, ‘before we go any further, I should tell you I invited Eddie to join us, but admittedly it was short notice and he had a prior engagement. He sends his best.' Eddie Gold, small, rotund and ebullient, was Rona's agent.

Prue sat back in her chair, her eyes owlish behind their horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Now – tell me – what do you know of Elspeth Wilding?'

The question was so unexpected that for a moment, Rona stared at her blankly. ‘The artist, you mean?'

‘The artist.'

Rona's brows drew together. ‘Is this by any chance why you were quizzing me about Max?'

‘Just answer the question, my dear.'

‘Well, she's one of the big names, isn't she? Pictures in Tate Britain, the Hayward Gallery, Somerset House – you name it.'

‘Anything else?'

Rona thought for a moment, and memory stirred. ‘Didn't she hit the headlines about a year ago? Went missing, or something?'

‘She did indeed,' Prue confirmed portentously, ‘and, despite extensive searches, hasn't been seen since.'

‘Really? I'd no idea; I assumed she must have turned up again.'

‘Unfortunately not. What's Max's opinion of her?'

‘Oh, he thinks she's brilliant, among the greats.'

‘Yet he never wondered if, as you put it, she'd “turned up” again?'

‘Prue,' Rona said slowly, ‘what
is
this?'

She didn't answer directly. ‘Elspeth was a child prodigy – did you know that? Had her first pictures hung at the age of thirteen, and there's hardly a prize she hasn't been awarded. It's an amazing career.'

‘But someone must know where she is, surely?'

‘It seems not.'

Rona straightened suddenly. ‘Oh now look, Prue, I hope you're not suggesting what I think you are.'

Prue leant forward earnestly. ‘Rona, it's an assignment tailor-made for you. Damn it, you're a biographer with a reputation for solving mysteries. What could be better, when it's quite likely a clue might lie in her past? So, you research her life, and, in tracking down her friends, relatives, associates, etc., there's an excellent chance you'll come up with the answer. She could be living incognito somewhere, having lost her memory.'

Not that again! Rona thought involuntarily. She said quickly, ‘So that's what you meant about combining my talents.'

‘Exactly. The only drawback is the biography would have to be classed as unauthorized, even though the family have requested it.'

Rona looked up quickly. ‘The family have?'

‘I was coming to that; I had a phone call from Elspeth's sister. I don't know if you're aware of it, but the family live in Buckfordshire, so she's heard all about your exploits, and, I gather, read your previous work. She also knows your husband's an artist, and hoped that might help influence you. Rona, she literally
begged
me to persuade you; poor woman, she doesn't know if her sister's alive or dead, and it's driving her demented.'

Their food arrived, but, delicious though it was, Rona scarcely tasted it as her mind swung between considering the idea and rejecting it outright.

‘Surely someone's already done her?' she asked suddenly, unwittingly breaking into Prue's conversation.

‘Not, incredibly enough, for ten years. She's a very private person, hates publicity of any sort. Apparently it was a mammoth task to persuade her even to attend functions held in her honour.'

‘Then perhaps she just wanted to escape from it, once and for all. As simple as that.'

Prue held her eye. ‘Then prove it.'