“Womanizer?”
“No, not really.”
“Men? Little boys?”
“No, don’t get me wrong. Tom wasn’t that way inclined. He liked women, even had the occasional girlfriend, but nothing lasted. There was only one love for him, and that was art. It was always his art that came first – came even before such mundane matters as punctuality and thoughtfulness, if you see what I mean. And it was such a damn shame that his art wasn’t really worth much to anyone else.”
Banks nodded. Whitaker might as well have been describing a policeman’s lot. He’d forgotten his share of dates and anniversaries because he’d been too involved in a case. That was partly why his marriage had ended. The miracle was, he realized only later, that it had lasted so long in the first place. He had assumed everything was fine because Sandra was an independent spirit and got on with her own life. And so she did – ultimately to the extent of taking up with Sean, dumping Banks and getting pregnant in her mid-forties. And now she was a mother again. “Any particular girlfriends you remember?” he asked.
“Well, he was rather taken by young Heather. Can’t remember her second name. Worked in the artists’ supplies shop down York Road. I can’t say I blame him. She was quite a stunner. Real page-three material. I don’t think she’s there anymore, though the owner might know where she is. Much too young for Tom, of course. He was asking for grief, there.”
“How old was he?”
“It was about five years back, so he’d have been in his late thirties.”
“And Heather?”
“Early twenties.”
“Serious?”
“On his part. He was quite broken up when she traded him in for a more successful artist. That was one of the few times I saw him pissed. I think it really depressed him, you know, feeling all washed-up as an artist, and then his girl chucks him for someone more successful. That was about as low as I ever saw him.”
Well, that would do it, thought Banks. “Who did she leave him for?”
“Jake Harley. Glib bastard, I must say. Up-and-comer at the time, but I’m happy to report that he went nowhere, too. He didn’t have the guts to live with his failure, though. He committed suicide about eighteen months ago down in London. Of course, he’d split with Heather ages before then.”
“And you don’t know where she is now?”
“Sorry. Haven’t clapped eyes on her in about three years. Sam Prescott might know, though. He still runs the shop.”
“You don’t know of any more recent girlfriends?”
Whitaker shook his head.
“Was he ever with anyone when he came in here, male or female?”
“No. He was always alone.”
“Did he ever mention anyone, any names at all?”
“No, not that I can recall. But he was always a bit of a loner, especially after Heather.”
Banks stood up and stretched out his hand. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Whitaker. You’ve been a great help.”
“I can’t see how, but you’re welcome, I’m sure.”
“Can you think of anyone else we might talk to about McMahon?”
Whitaker thought for a moment. “Not really.” He mentioned a couple of artists whose names Banks had already heard from Maria Phillips. It sounded to Banks as if McMahon had shed his earlier life and friends and cut off all contact with the old world, the world that had burned him, had refused to recognize his talent. Whether he had found new friends or adopted the life of a recluse, the way it seemed, remained to be seen. And why had he been buying worthless old books and prints from Leslie Whitaker?
Annie had been around enough artists in her time to recognize the type. Baz Hayward had adopted the persona of the suffering, world-weary, misunderstood, dissolute genius, justifying all his excesses and his total lack of talent and social graces by his devotion to art – right down to the beard, the ragged clothes and the body odor. Whether he really did have any talent or not, she didn’t know. Some of the most obnoxious people she had ever known possessed immense talent, though many of them squandered it.
Hayward bade her wait for a moment while he finished off some essential brushstrokes to a painting he was working on. Smiling to herself over the pathetic arrogance of his need to seem important, Annie wandered over and looked out of the window. She knew she could play the heavy if she wanted, but luckily she was in a good mood because she was going to dinner with Phil tonight, all being well.
Hayward lived in a converted barn on the high road between Lyndgarth and Helmthorpe. It was an isolated spot with a spectacular view down the slope past the stubby ruins of Devraulx Abbey to the drizzle-darkened flagstone roofs of Fortford, where Phil’s cottage was. Smoke from chimneys drifted slowly eastward on the faint breeze, bringing a hint of peat to the air. On the steeply rising slopes of the south daleside, beyond the clustered cottages of Mortsett and Relton, Annie could see the imposing symmetry of Swainsdale Hall.
It was odd to see the hall from this perspective, she realized. Only last summer, she had spent some time there, heading the search for a missing boy. Today, no smoke came from the high chimneys. Annie guessed that ex-footballer Martin Armitage was in Florida or the West Indies with his wife, ex-model Robin Fetherling. Well, good for them. There wasn’t much left for them at Swainsdale Hall now.
Hayward’s loft was chilly and Annie kept her greatcoat on. The cold didn’t seem to bother Hayward himself, though, who was prancing around waving his paintbrush, wearing torn jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. If he’d been at the Turner reception, Annie didn’t remember him.
She had been surprised to hear from Banks that Thomas McMahon had also been there, and when she cast her mind back, she thought she remembered a short, burly fellow with a glass of wine in his hand chatting to some of the center’s committee members. It had been a crowded room, though, and she had been there partly to keep an eye on the painting in the adjoining room, so she could easily have missed both McMahon and Hayward.
Annie had met Phil Keane at the reception. He was there in his professional capacity as an art researcher to help authenticate the find. They hadn’t talked much that evening, but Phil had phoned her a few weeks later and asked her out to dinner. She’d been busy – it wasn’t an excuse – but he had phoned again a week later, as she suggested. That time, she accepted. They had seen each other only four or five times since then, because of the pressures of their work, but each time Annie found herself becoming more and more attracted to his charm, his consideration and his intellect – not to mention his graceful and finely honed body. She was also inordinately pleased to find that Phil had heard of her father’s work.
Finally, she heard Hayward throw down the brush and play himself a brief fanfare. “Finished.”
“It’s a wonderful view,” Annie said, gesturing toward the window.
“What?” Hayward looked confused. “Oh, yes,” he said, catching on, “I suppose it is, if you like that sort of thing. Personally I think landscapes are vastly overrated, and landscape painting died with the invention of the camera. It just hasn’t had the decency to roll over and accept the fact. A good digital camera can do anything the Impressionists ever did.”
“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” said Annie, perching on the edge of the only uncluttered chair. Discarded clothes littered the floor and mold grew in a half-empty coffee cup on the low table. She was glad he didn’t offer her tea or coffee. But it was the walls that disturbed Annie most of all. They were covered with what she could only assume to be Hayward’s own sketches and paintings, all looking like Rorschach tests painted by Francis Bacon on drugs. The whole effect was dizzying and disturbing, and it made her vaguely queasy, though she wasn’t at first sure why. Still, they must sell, she thought, or he wouldn’t be able to afford this place.