The Damnation Fresco

Book 2: Fresco

by S. L. Stockford

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The startling conclusion of Fresco. A man will do anything if he is desperate enough. Returning from his gruesome quest around Europe Matthew discovers his wife Victoria is missing. Wanting to rid them both of the hateful Fresco Victoria has broken into Lord Marr?s Castle and is now held hostage by Father Nicholas. Worse, Matthew is arrested on suspicion of multiple murders, including Victoria's. Matthew's descent into hell accelerates as new sadistic murders force him to finally confront the shocking truth behind the fresco, and the carnage it has caused over centuries.

Release date: January 23, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 181

Sample

Chapter One

Houses are always the same when you return after a break: Black windows. Cold. Empty. Deserted. Not what I was expecting.

I wandered the empty rooms feeling alarm tickle my skin. Vicky would not leave plates covered in breadcrumbs on the sink unit. She is fastidious.

The foreboding increases as I climb the stairs. The house feels abandoned, soulless. With a shiver I realise it reminds me of Edouard Valery’s art deco house before it was reduced to a burnt-out shell.

In the bedroom the suitcases remain unpacked after our Italian trip. They lie on our bed, clothes tumbling from them with a brochure from the Tower of Pisa planted on top. She had been home for two days and the cases are still half-unpacked. This is not Vicky. This is not right; I feel sick.

The sheets are pulled loosely back on her side of the bed. Out of fear of an impromptu visit from the window cleaner, the beds are always immaculately presented.

I catch sight of myself in the wardrobe mirror. My cheeks have hollowed, the eyes darkened by black rings. The burnt area on my cheek and neck looks more bruised than red. I don’t recognise myself.

Every room is checked. Nothing. I stand in my empty home knowing I should never have deserted her. Back to the kitchen to think.

I pour myself a Scotch, down it in a single head-shaking, throat-burning swallow. Then I pour another.

She had still been in contact a day after she had returned. But that was on the mobile, not the landline. She may have only stayed one night. And then? Where did she go? A gnawing unease. Could they have taken her? By “they” I mean the man who called himself Claude and his thuggish pal, the disfigured man.

All because some Irish arsehole called John McAteer paints himself a Rubens cartoon and I make a shit job of the attribution. If only I had checked it with a Rubens expert. Too damned arrogant. So I end up sucking up to Tony, Lord of Marr for work no one should touch with a bargepole.

My skin crawls with fear. I know where this is leading; I just don’t want to acknowledge it. Another swig of the Scotch before I replenish the glass with my shaking hand. Now Vicky is missing. I know she is in trouble. She may even be dead.

I need to get a grip on the alcohol. I top up the Scotch with water and stare through the rear kitchen window. Our back garden is less of a garden and more of a narrow courtyard overlooked by the rising nineteenth-century houses around us. Its centrepiece is a lily pad-strewn pond surrounded by a patio that winds around the little garden beds Vicky loves working on so much.

The shed door is open.

Not like her. A woman so neat and precise, everything has its own set position in her universe. Why leave the shed door open?

Walking down the poorly aligned patio stones I approach the shed slowly, fuelled by a burning fear there is something in it I do not want to see. With my eyes closing against the horrors I dread, I grip the open door and gaze inside.

There is no tortured corpse.

‘Thank God! Thank God. Thank God.’

I rub my sore cheek hard against my knuckles as if punishing myself. As the tears blur my vision I see it. It is stuck on to a nail near the row of spades and rakes. A piece of paper folded with my name written in her hand.

I tear the paper from the nail to read it:

I had to do it.
If I chickened out then you would have
to do it.
Love you always,
Vicky.

My hand is trembling. I look around the orderly, spick-and-span shed. No other notes.

Meandering back to the house, I freeze. The hairs on the back of neck perform an icy dance. Why leave the message out here? So it would take longer for me to discover it? Doesn’t make sense.

I turn and walk back to the shed with growing dismay. I don’t want to know this.

The shed is arranged in a methodical way by Vicky and the twice-a-month gardener. As in God’s world everything has its place. The lawnmower, the secateurs, the brush, the rake … one item is missing. The one I knew would be absent. Maybe I knew it yesterday when I didn’t get an answer from her. Maybe I knew it the day before. I could even have known it before we parted in Italy.

She has taken the sledgehammer. How is my little Vicky going to wield a sledgehammer hard enough to destroy a fresco?

I dart through the house sliding on the kitchen floor tiles. Tearing through the hallway I rip open the front door and in my haste to get out I almost knock him over.

‘Detective Inspector Laughlan.’

Detective Inspector Laughlan is a friendly, self-deprecating cove. ‘Sorry to trouble you like this, sir. It is Mr Pierce, isn’t it?’

Unperturbed at my haste to leave and too polite to comment upon appearance he stands smiling at the top of the steps near my front door. His coat looks a size too big over his crumpled suit and his tie knot is scruffily loose. He flips open a neat brown wallet to reveal his ID card.

‘Just to prove I exist,’ he chuckles.

The card offers a picture of him with a big warm smile on his chubby cheeks. The words: Detective Inspector Laughlan runs beneath it. Laughlan is one of those nervous people who laugh a little too often, leaving those around them uncomfortable, and they in turn become even more nervous.

‘What’s the problem, officer?’ I ask, as if I haven’t been chased across Europe, avoided burying dead bodies, known people to be murdered and been almost killed in an arson attack.

‘Oh! I am sure it’s nothing, really.’ He leans closer, pulling back his mouth as if to apologise. ‘Can we go inside?’

He could be a salesman. You like him immediately, instant trust, dog-like loyal eyes, a handsome but overweight face with a quick but bashful smile.

The sitting room is cold, uninviting. I see Vicky’s plants have died. We stand awkwardly. So what I actually want to say is my wife is trying to destroy a fresco and there are people associated with it who want to kill her. And why do I think this? Ah well, now that would be difficult to share without sounding totally insane.

‘Perhaps we can sit down. Just got a few questions, really.’

He settles on the edge of the sofa beneath my favourite Courbet landscape of Lake Leman with Setting Sun. Unlike Madame Chabrol’s and Lord Marr’s works, mine is a copy. An imitation. A faithful one but nevertheless a copy. My gut heaves. I hope to God it wasn’t painted by that sod McAteer. One day soon I’ll burn the Courbet and all the other reproductions I have.

Laughlan still wears his coat as if he needs permission to remove it. My throat is dry for a drink.

‘Fancy a cold beer?’

‘Oh no, no,’ he chuckles. ‘Well, the answer is yes. But not on duty. Hey, they would slay me for that these days.’

I go to the fridge calling back, ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘I could murder a cup of tea. Milk, a couple of sugars. Thanks.’

I open the cupboard above the cooker. We have a box of Assam tea bags from Marks and Spencer. The last few. I take an unintended step back, steadying myself by hanging on to the doors. That last Scotch was maybe one too many.

‘You’ll be lucky if I have milk.’

‘Not to worry. Is this your wife?’

Through the doorway I see he is on his feet nosing through the photograph frames around the room.

‘Yes.’

‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘Thanks.’ What else am I supposed to say?

‘When will she be home?’

‘Er. She’s away right now.’ He turns to ask me a question. I need to cut him off. ‘Two sugars? And I only have Assam.’

‘Fine. Would I be able to get in touch with her?’

‘Difficult right now. I’ll be with you in a sec.’

I close the kitchen door. Cut him off. As the kettle boils, I think of Madame Chabrol burning in her own fire grate. Jesus! This is such a mess. I slam shut the cupboard door so hard it bounces open.

A few moments later he enthuses about my tea.

‘Wonderful.’ He sips it. ‘This is one of your fancy ones, isn’t it? A bit partial to an Earl Grey meself.’

I have sunk another large Scotch in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil. The stale odour must be wafting through the room so I sip at the hot tea in an attempt to disguise it.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Ah, yes’. He takes a notebook from his pocket. ‘It’s a Missing Persons really. Do you know a Mr Thomas Forester? A solicitor in Surrey?’

Ah, now then. What do I say? The booze floods the mind, drowning all sense. A moment of panic so I say: ‘The name is familiar.’ I think I look calm.

‘Should be.’ He checks his notes. ‘You were at a party with him at Lord Marr’s home on …’

‘Ah yes.’ I cut him off. ‘One of Tony’s friends.’ Be relaxed. Chatty, anything to avoid suspicion. He is quizzical, so I add: ‘Tony. Lord Marr!’

‘Ha!’ he chuckles. ‘I wish I was on first-name terms with lords and ladies.’ He takes in my sitting room. ‘Very nice lifestyle, Mr Pierce. Others at the party remember him being there.’

‘I am afraid I don’t know him that well. Can’t really place him.’

‘No? The thing is, that night was the last time anyone ever saw anything of him.’

‘Really?’ I place my cup of tea on a small table near me. ‘Sorry, I can’t help.’

He nods, looking shyly down at his book.

‘You know, the odd thing is he was flying to New York the next day.’

‘Oh?’ I affect a bored, “you are wasting my time” tone. ‘Really?’

Pulling back my jacket sleeve I affect a long study of my watch, let him know I have better things to do with my time. But New York is intriguing. Was he going to steal the fresco and fly it off to the States? Was the buyer in New York?

‘Yes. And he booked a cargo shipment to follow him.’ He checks his notes. ‘It was classified as “Large and Heavy”. Described as …’ he reads from his book, ‘“Delicate – With Care”. There were instructions about temperature, too.’

Bloody hell! Forester was playing a blinder and no one knew.

‘I’m afraid I hardly spoke to him.’

Laughlan smiles, nodding, inviting me to say more. I soon find myself talking.

‘In fact, I would describe him as a bit cold.’

‘A bit cold,’ he writes it down in his pad, ‘so you do remember him.’

‘Ish.’ I wave a hand to show how fleeting the chat was.

‘But enough to find him a bit cold.’

‘Difficult to remember, really. I’d had a few to drink.’

‘Ah yes,’ the uncomfortable, shy nod, ‘few people did speak to him. Odd, isn’t it? I even spoke to your Lord Marr, or Tony,’ he chuckles, ‘but he hardly had a word to say about him, either. Strange, eh? At a party like that and no one speaks to him.’

‘If you say so.’ I let out a loud sigh hoping he will get the message.

‘Well, considering Lord Marr is his only client …’

‘You spoke to Lord Marr? Went to see him?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that. He is ill, apparently. I got him on the phone. A bit odd, really.’

I shrug.

He continues as if reluctantly, eyes in his notebook; he seems embarrassed for me.

‘I mean odd, considering how the previous day Mr Forester had flown to Madrid with tickets purchased by one of Lord Marr’s companies.’

My gut spins. The Scotch is in the kitchen. I could do with another gulp. I sip the tea.

‘And another thing,’ he eyes me by looking up like a patient, loyal dog, ‘a ticket was also purchased for a Mr Matthew Pierce.’

‘Ah.’ I chew my lip. ‘Shit.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s it. My ticket was purchased by Tony.’

‘Why?’

I swallow, feeling like I am on a stony path leading down a deep pit.

‘Business. Confidential. People in the arts world don’t like others knowing their business when it comes to buying and selling art.’

‘So he was selling something?’

‘Buying.’ Damn! I clench my fists so tightly I feel the nails dig into my palms. Why did I share that detail?

‘What? What were you and Forester purchasing?’

‘Confidential. Now,’ I stand up, ‘if that is it, I am very busy right now.’

For a long, agonising moment he remains sitting on the edge of my sofa, his pad on his knee with no intention of moving. Finally, he smiles.

‘I can see you are in a hurry.’

Feeling relived he has finally got the message, I smile back at him.

‘How was your visit to France?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Paris, I believe. Mrs Laughlan and myself try to have a break there every other year. Such a wonderful city. We do like our food.’

‘It was business,’ I say curtly.

He opens his book to a marker made up of a torn piece of paper. There are further markers of torn paper in his book. I wonder if they are all to do with me.

‘We had a call from the Police Nationale.’ He surprises me by adding an accurate French lilt into his pronunciation. ‘You met a …’ he puts his finger on the page to check his comments, ‘Madame Chabrol?’

‘I really do have an important appointment, Inspector. Perhaps we can arrange another time?’

‘Oh! This won’t take a moment, Mr Pierce.’

Settling back into my seat I assume what I hope is a position of unruffled serenity by resting my hands on the arms of the chair.

‘Well, if you could hurry it up, please.’

‘You met Madame Chabrol?’

‘Yes. She had a Sisley. I wondered if she would consider an offer.’

‘Sissy?’

‘Sisley,’ I emphasise. ‘Alfred Sisley. An Impressionist. A painter.’

‘Ah! I see. And would she?’

‘No.’

‘I see. The French police want to know how she was when you left her.’

Shrugging, I say dismissively, ‘I hardly know her. Fine, I suppose. Didn’t spend much time with her.’

‘And the phone call?’

‘I didn’t phone the police!’

His eyes narrow as his mouth widens in surprise.

‘I didn’t say you did phone the police.’

My mouth dries, leaving my tongue sticking to the roof.

‘Sorry. No.’

‘But you phoned her.’

‘Erm, did I? Yes, maybe. Arrange a meeting.’

‘I see.’ He scrawls a few lines before settling back in his seat as if he has some bad news to give me. ‘I know you are in a hurry, Mr Pierce, and I am sorry to keep you from your next meeting.’ He catches my eye to offer a regretful smile. ‘But I must point out that wasting your time is an irritation but wasting police time is actually a criminal offence. Oh please, you must understand, I appreciate you don’t mean to. So easy to get everything muddled up. Not remembering Thomas Forester even though you took a flight out to Spain with him. Not recalling how you rang Madame Chabrol after you met her …’

‘Ah yes. Afterwards.’ He is referring to my futile attempt to warn her. It is difficult to swallow with such a dry mouth and throat. ‘Ah yes. Yes. Well, that was only when I was on my way to the airport.’ He wants me to continue and I do. ‘Just to ask her if she had changed her mind.’

‘I see.’ For some reason none of my replies are deemed worthy of being added to his precious notebook. His eyes focus into middle distance as if he is thinking. After a moment he asks, ‘And that business about not calling the police?’

‘Well, when you said the French police were in touch, I thought maybe they had thought I had phoned them for some reason.’

Having just uttered the lamest lie of my life I attempt to look like the least guilty man Laughlan has ever encountered.

‘Do you know what happened to her?’

‘Madame Chabrol? Erm, no, no, I don’t.’

‘She died. In a fire.’ Taking me in with his friendly round eyes he writes a rushed few words and closes his book. ‘Come down to the station and we can sort all this out. Just make a statement and you will be only an hour late for your meeting.’

‘A statement? About what?’

‘Well, I need one for this Forester business and our French colleagues will require one for Madame Chabrol’s death. The w. . .