Vengeance in Venice by Jones Philip Gwynne

Author:Jones, Philip Gwynne [Jones, Philip Gwynne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2018-04-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Adam was the first to break the silence. ‘I think we’ve spooked him, Ms Pryce.’

She laughed her bell-like little laugh again. ‘I think we have, Mr Grant.’

I stared again at the horrible image on the canvas, then back at Adam and Gwenant. ‘You’ve killed him. Oh my God, you’ve killed him.’ I could barely stammer the words out.

Silence hung in the hot, suffocating air. I tried to gather my thoughts. Gwenant was slightly built and perhaps twenty years older than me. Adam was a big guy but still, in those heels, I could at least outrun him. I inched my way around the wall, making for the door. If he gave the slightest sign of taking his designer wedges off I’d be out of there.

Then, as one, they both burst out laughing. ‘Killed him? Oh Nathan, you are a silly!’

Adam dabbed at his eyes. ‘Aye. Oh, we’d make a right fine pair of murderers, eh Gwen?’

I felt my muscles relax. Just a little. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

‘No. You don’t, do you? Sit down, Nathan, you’re shaking. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. ‘Don’t forget the arsenic, Gwen,’ said Adam. ‘Joke!’ he added, as I started, and I did my best to join in as they both laughed.

My hands shook a little as I took a biscuit from the packet that Gwen proffered. I laid it in the saucer and stirred my tea. ‘Well now,’ I said, ‘it seems you’ve got stories to tell about Lewis Fitzgerald.’

‘Only one story, my dear,’ said Gwen.

‘But it’s the same one,’ finished Adam.

‘Which is?’

‘He’s a chiselling little spiv and a crook,’ said Gwen as Adam nodded.

‘Hmmm. Okay, that doesn’t entirely surprise me. Tell me more.’

‘It was back in the late eighties. I was quite young then, just starting out.’

‘Oh, very young indeed, I would have said.’

‘There’s no need to be faux gallant, Mr Sutherland. Please let me continue.’

‘Sorry.’

‘He had a gallery in London. He can only have been a few years older than me, and he seemed quite glamorous. He was already building a reputation. And he offered to represent me. It was a good deal, I thought. There wasn’t much of a scene in Cardiff at the time.’

‘And then?’

‘Oh, he got me work, I’ll give him that. But then cheques started arriving late. Or not arriving at all. And then I discovered that amongst his many talents is a genius for creative accounting.’

Adam nodded. ‘Same here, Mr Consul. I came out of Glasgow School of Art in the mid-nineties. Gwen and I didn’t know each other then. So I signed up with Mr Fitzgerald. Five years later, I’d had exhibitions in London, Stockholm, Berlin, Paris – you name it – and somehow I had less money than when I was a student. Because that mendacious wee shite had been ripping me off. For years. And we could name a dozen more young artists who found themselves in the same situation.

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