A mother and her young son died last night when their house on Park View caught fire in the early hours of the morning. Neighbors were alerted to the fire when flames broke out of the second-story window and the fire brigade was called.
Carol Goodwin, 36, and her six-year-old son Peter, died in the inferno which did no damage to the surrounding buildings. Police are investigating, but foul play is not suspected. Pictures on page 7.
Felicia turned to a photograph of the post-fire scene. There was almost nothing left, just a small pile of bricks, and slates from the roof. The editor had found an old picture of the house when it was built two years previously for comparison, and a neighbor had helpfully supplied a picture of Carol and her son Peter taken in Plymouth the previous year.
“Tragic.” Her mother spoke only when the radio changed to business news. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
“It’s just a fire, Mum. House fires happen all the time. Did you know them?”
“Park View?” Her mother sneered. “As if I would. They’re all council houses down there.”
“I’m sure they were lovely people, Mum.” Felicia closed the paper and looked at her watch. “Is there anything you need? I’ll have to go to work in a minute.”
“I don’t think so, darling, thank you.”
“Okay then.” She washed up her empty coffee cup and set it on the draining board.
Her mother clicked her tongue. “Don’t leave it there, Felicia. It makes the place look untidy.”
“Sorry.” She dried it with a tea towel and put it away in the cupboard.
“You said you’d been to visit your sister.”
Felicia was surprised. This was the first time her mother had brought up the subject of her younger daughter in years. “That’s right. She’s doing very well, actually.”
“She’s still at St. Pity’s then?” Patricia tried to appear disinterested, but Felicia could tell she had a point to make.
“That’s right. We sat in the rose garden until it started to go dark. Why?”
Her mother picked up the paper and began to leaf through it. “Have you got an insurance policy on her? One that’s about to mature?”
Felicia sat again. “No, Mum. She’s still there under a section. There’s no policy that would touch her.” She frowned. “What’s all this about?”
“There was a man here earlier looking for her.” Patricia pulled a card out of the kitchen drawer. “He told me a policy on Julie had matured. She was listed as being at St. Marples, though, so he wanted to verify where she was.”
“That’s odd. Is that his card? I’ll chase it up.”
“Yes.” Patricia handed it over.
Felicia looked at it, flipping it once to see if anything was written on the back. “Was he a tall chap in a trilby?” she asked. “I met him yesterday.”
“That’s right. Did he ask you about her?”
“No.” Felicia frowned. “He didn’t mention it. He just bought some paintings from the current show.”
“That’s odd.” Patricia put the paper down again. “Fancy him coming to see me as well. I told him you deal with everything to do with her.”
“Julie, mum. Her name’s Julie.”
“I know.” Patricia managed to sound hurt. “She is my daughter, remember. All the hardships I had to go through with her. Especially when she went blind.”
“You didn’t do anything, Mum. Dad always dealt with Julie and I took over when he died. It’s only the mention of money that’s got your attention. Well, there isn’t any. I’ve been Julie’s legal advocate for five years. I’d know if there was a policy. This Raffles bloke is a scam artist.”
Chapter 4
A perk of both the job Felicia did and the lifestyle she led was to choose how to spend her evenings. In contrast to her early closing the day before, she stayed late at the gallery, surprised by the increased number of art lovers who dropped in because the lights were on. After selling an expensive ceramic and two watercolors in less than an hour, she made a mental note to adjust the gallery’s opening hours to allow businessmen to stop in after work. She spent until seven catching up on the paperwork and searching on the internet for information on the mysterious Raffles.
It was after seven when she finally left, and she headed to a private viewing at London’s Progression Gallery, leaving her car between two Beamers in the reserved parking area. Her passing acquaintance with the security guard was enough to get her in through the back door, and she walked through a storage area full of canvases stored in vertical racks. The murmured echoes of conversation filtering from the gallery ahead interspersed with the chink of wine glasses and muted Chopin. She breathed the heady scent of pine and linseed oil.
There were between forty and fifty art lovers present, mainly comprised of the collectors and agents on the gallery mailing list but punctuated with a few students out for free booze and the inevitable sycophants clustered around the artist.
She picked up a glass of red from the front desk, helped herself to three cocktail sticks worth of cheese and pineapple, and walked slowly around the exhibition. It was pretentious rubbish and about as avant-garde as a seven o’clock soap opera. She was reminded of Emily’s word, retrogarde, and smiled. As a gallery owner, however, she did her best to look interested and admiring–standing close to a painting to begin with then backing away to see each piece in relation to the rest. Not far enough. Three miles away is probably the optimum viewing distance.
“Ah, Felicia. I’m so glad you could make it.” Joseph Klein, the gallery owner, caught her arm as she passed. “May I introduce you to Michael Paington, the artist?” He pulled her round to face an olive-skinned man in his thirties, whose smile never reached his eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Felicia held out her hand. “You have a unique perception.”
He took her hand, his own surprisingly cool and dry, his grip firm but not overpowering. “That’s kind of you to say so, Miss–”
“Turling. Felicia Turling. Your paintings echo a retrospective philosophy of the late sixties avant-garde combined with an ironic perception of the industrial movement of the early nineties.” She smiled. Seven years of gallery management on top of an MA in art history had given her a sufficient grounding in art theory to charm any aspiring artist.
Michael smiled back, white teeth stark against a canvas of designer stubble and turpentine skin. “Do you really think so? I think it’s a load of pretentious bollocks, personally. These are old paintings. My new body of work is far more interesting.”
Felicia raised her eyebrows and half smiled as Joseph flustered. “Keep it down, Michael, would you? How can you expect me to sell these if the artist himself is disparaging of them?”
Michael did not reply but continued to focus on Felicia. “You must come to my studio and have a look. I think you’d like them.”
“Perhaps I shall.” Felicia was non-committal. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, though, I’m neglecting my networking. I make my living selling paintings and this is a business opportunity to me.”
“So was my proposal.” Michael gave her an easy smile and took out his wallet. “My card. Call me anytime. Day or night. I’m sure we could think of something to our mutual benefit.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Felicia nodded to both men and walked across to a well-dressed woman who owned a gallery–Neal Street. She kept, “If I ever sink that low,” to herself.
*