That’s it. I’m off.”
“Hey, hey, hey—cool it! Don’t blame me for your very own Freudian slip!”
“Okay, I’ll give you one last chance to shape up.” I felt like a mother struggling with a child determined to misbehave.
Scrabbling in my bag I produced the keys, but when I rang the buzzer to make sure the flat was empty I was suddenly aware of an extreme reluctance to enter the building. Belatedly I asked myself what had happened to my common sense. Perhaps I had been too absorbed by Gavin’s proximity to have the obvious streetwise thoughts, but whatever the reason for my mental sluggishness I now realised I was about to give a sex-fixated scumbag the opportunity to assault me.
I was still clutching the keys, still asking myself how I could have been such a fool, when Gavin said behind me: “You still worrying about me nicking things? Because you needn’t. I wouldn’t do anything which would have upset Richard. Promise.”
With enormous relief I thought: he sees himself as Richard’s friend. He may come on strong but he won’t harm me. After all, I was Richard’s friend too.
Giving him a brief smile I stepped forward to open the front door of the building.
III
When we reached the flat Gavin was at once fascinated by the contrast between Richard’s weird taste in modern art and Moira’s preference for conventional furnishings. I could remember Moira telling me which decorator she had used, but Richard had obviously hated the result and imposed his pictures on the place as if with a clenched fist.
“He wanted to take me to exhibitions,” Gavin said, gazing at the nearest painting. “This makes me wish I’d gone.”
“You mean you like that mess?”
“It’s not a mess! The blue-green squares and the yellow triangles are arranged with mathematical precision, but mathematics is a language which doesn’t deal with emotions so the colours say everything the shapes leave unsaid. What you have here is the essence of rational, well-ordered Richard infused with all the colourful emotions he had to keep hidden.”
Despite myself I was impressed by this smarty-pants exposition which suggested Mr. Gavin Blake was rather more than just a pretty face, but all I said was a sceptical: “How can you be sure?”
“Lady, I’m not laying down the law, I’m just suggesting why the painting spoke to him . . . Oh my God, look at this bedroom! Moira’s run riot in here to compensate for losing the hall to modern art!”
I was careful not to cross the bedroom threshold, but one glance from the doorway was enough to repel me. In the big pink flouncy room beyond, the decorator’s 1980s dream had become 1992’s nightmare; we were in recession now, not wallowing in conspicuous consumption, and all the coordinating fabrics which swathed the bed and windows seemed stifling.
On the other side of the hall we found Richard’s study, designed by the decorator as if for a simple squire hankering for an old-fashioned country life, but Richard had fought back against all the red leather and mahogany by hanging more of his weird paintings.
“This room has to be the one we want,” I said, and Gavin agreed, but the photos still proved difficult to locate. Gavin searched the desk and found nothing. He then checked the chest of drawers and moved the sofabed to make sure nothing was hidden beneath it, but only fluffballs from the thick carpet emerged. At that point I abandoned my role of supervisor and decided to search alongside him.
“What exactly are we looking for?” I demanded. “How big are these pictures? Would they be in a folder or an album?”
“Probably not an album—too difficult to hide. There are three sets of ten-by-eights, thirty-six photos in all, and each set was in a plain brown envelope when I handed it to him. I’d guess he kept them in those envelopes.”
“But how sure are you that the photos are here and not at Compton Beeches?”
“One hundred per cent. He told me he kept them
“Hey, hey, hey—cool it! Don’t blame me for your very own Freudian slip!”
“Okay, I’ll give you one last chance to shape up.” I felt like a mother struggling with a child determined to misbehave.
Scrabbling in my bag I produced the keys, but when I rang the buzzer to make sure the flat was empty I was suddenly aware of an extreme reluctance to enter the building. Belatedly I asked myself what had happened to my common sense. Perhaps I had been too absorbed by Gavin’s proximity to have the obvious streetwise thoughts, but whatever the reason for my mental sluggishness I now realised I was about to give a sex-fixated scumbag the opportunity to assault me.
I was still clutching the keys, still asking myself how I could have been such a fool, when Gavin said behind me: “You still worrying about me nicking things? Because you needn’t. I wouldn’t do anything which would have upset Richard. Promise.”
With enormous relief I thought: he sees himself as Richard’s friend. He may come on strong but he won’t harm me. After all, I was Richard’s friend too.
Giving him a brief smile I stepped forward to open the front door of the building.
III
When we reached the flat Gavin was at once fascinated by the contrast between Richard’s weird taste in modern art and Moira’s preference for conventional furnishings. I could remember Moira telling me which decorator she had used, but Richard had obviously hated the result and imposed his pictures on the place as if with a clenched fist.
“He wanted to take me to exhibitions,” Gavin said, gazing at the nearest painting. “This makes me wish I’d gone.”
“You mean you like that mess?”
“It’s not a mess! The blue-green squares and the yellow triangles are arranged with mathematical precision, but mathematics is a language which doesn’t deal with emotions so the colours say everything the shapes leave unsaid. What you have here is the essence of rational, well-ordered Richard infused with all the colourful emotions he had to keep hidden.”
Despite myself I was impressed by this smarty-pants exposition which suggested Mr. Gavin Blake was rather more than just a pretty face, but all I said was a sceptical: “How can you be sure?”
“Lady, I’m not laying down the law, I’m just suggesting why the painting spoke to him . . . Oh my God, look at this bedroom! Moira’s run riot in here to compensate for losing the hall to modern art!”
I was careful not to cross the bedroom threshold, but one glance from the doorway was enough to repel me. In the big pink flouncy room beyond, the decorator’s 1980s dream had become 1992’s nightmare; we were in recession now, not wallowing in conspicuous consumption, and all the coordinating fabrics which swathed the bed and windows seemed stifling.
On the other side of the hall we found Richard’s study, designed by the decorator as if for a simple squire hankering for an old-fashioned country life, but Richard had fought back against all the red leather and mahogany by hanging more of his weird paintings.
“This room has to be the one we want,” I said, and Gavin agreed, but the photos still proved difficult to locate. Gavin searched the desk and found nothing. He then checked the chest of drawers and moved the sofabed to make sure nothing was hidden beneath it, but only fluffballs from the thick carpet emerged. At that point I abandoned my role of supervisor and decided to search alongside him.
“What exactly are we looking for?” I demanded. “How big are these pictures? Would they be in a folder or an album?”
“Probably not an album—too difficult to hide. There are three sets of ten-by-eights, thirty-six photos in all, and each set was in a plain brown envelope when I handed it to him. I’d guess he kept them in those envelopes.”
“But how sure are you that the photos are here and not at Compton Beeches?”
“One hundred per cent. He told me he kept them
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