Page 34 of The Chapel of Bones

It seemed a strange question to ask. But Neil could tell the possibility was making her anxious. ‘Why would you think that?’

She shook her head. ‘No reason.’

22

The address they’d been given for Jim Baker was on the outskirts of East Burrington, a large village on the main road between Neston and Dukesbridge. His new place wasn’t just near Gadson’s Zoo, it was right opposite the entrance in the hinterland between the houses and the fields. When they got out of the car, they heard a sudden roar that sounded like an angry lion. If the zoo was home to such fearsome animals, Wesley hoped security was good.

To Wesley’s surprise, Baker’s new address was a modest detached bungalow, one of three set out in a row, its neighbours boasting new double-glazing and neat front gardens. It was hardly the sort of place they would have expected to find the artist. If it weren’t for the death-metal music blaring out and the overgrown front lawn, they would have suspected the young woman in Morbay had given them the wrong address.

Wesley rang the doorbell and waited, The music fell silent and a middle-aged man opened the door. He was wearing a paint-stained black T-shirt and jeans. His heavily tattooed arms were decorated with an array of fantastic beasts, including a fearsome dragon and a winged horse. His grey-peppered black hair was tied back in a ponytail and there were dark rings under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept for a long time.

‘Mr Baker?’

‘Who’s asking?’

When the two detectives produced their ID, Baker’s expression turned positively hostile. ‘Has that old bitch next door been moaning about my music again?’

‘Best if we talk inside,’ said Gerry as he stepped forward.

The man hesitated before standing aside, his expression morose but resigned. He made for a room on the right, and Wesley and Gerry followed. It was a studio smelling of turpentine, oil paints and sweat with an underlying whiff of cannabis. There was a large easel in the middle of the room and canvases had been stacked up on the bare floorboards. There was nowhere to sit.

‘Wouldn’t have thought this was your sort of house,’ said Gerry. ‘Bit . . . suburban.’

‘My nan died and left it to me. Things were getting a bit heavy with the neighbours in my last place, so I thought I might as well move in here and save on the rent. Nan’s stuff’s still in the other room. Load of crap,’ he added with a snort of derision.

Wesley had the passing thought that if he’d been Baker’s nan, he would have left everything to some animal sanctuary rather than to this ungrateful man.

‘Bloody neighbours are always complaining, though, so I’m thinking of selling.’

‘Might be for the best,’ said Gerry. ‘You’ve had a lot of trouble with neighbours in your last couple of places, so I’ve heard.’

‘Especially a lady called Sue Potter in Belsham,’ Wesley added.

‘That stupid bitch.’

‘Do you keep up with the local news?’

‘No.’

‘So you haven’t heard about her death?’

Baker turned his head away so they couldn’t see his expression. ‘No.’

‘You haven’t asked what happened to her,’ said Wesley.

‘Why would I?’

‘Most people usually show some curiosity about something like that.’

‘I’m not most people.’

Wesley’s gaze wandered to the painting propped up on the easel. It depicted a strange creature that appeared to be a cross between a man and a horse. A centaur in vivid reds and blacks. Nightmare colours in a nightmare landscape.

‘Do you sell many paintings?’ He couldn’t resist the question.

‘Round here they just want chocolate-box crap: seascapes and pretty little harbours. Bloody bourgeois tourists.’ Baker spat out the words with contempt. ‘I’m moving to London as soon as I get rid of this place. They’ll appreciate my work there.’

‘Where do you get the inspiration for your art?’ Wesley asked, suspecting Baker was right about the artistic taste of the local clientele.