The Paintings

By Linda Acaster

When Kristin Jeffries steps into the wrecked apartment of a missing artist to assess a group of paintings, she steps into a surreal environment of deceit and obsession where artworks are hidden and signatures missing. Can she trust the client who admits he's not the owner?

Concentrating on the minutiae of a single brushstroke beneath her camera’s lens, can she recognise the truth stored in its memory before it overtakes them both?
“...the whole subtle sense of something sinister is very well done...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Acaster
• Release date: Mar 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310750717

Linda Acaster

See LINKS to books below. Linda Acaster is an award-winning writer living in Yorkshire, England (UK), and the author of seven novels, a fiction-writer's resource, and over 100 articles & short stories ranging from Horror to Crime to Literary.

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The Paintings

by

Linda Acaster

Copyright © 2015 Linda Acaster

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Linda Acaster asserts the moral right under the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All Rights reserved.

Table of Contents

The Paintings

About the Author

Other Books

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The Paintings

It was supposed to be an afternoon’s appointment to assess a group of paintings.

The client was supposed to be their owner.

The paintings were supposed to be signed.

So why did police tape hang from the apartment’s door?

‘The Paintings’ – a 17,500 word short novella

...the whole subtle sense of something sinister is very well done...

The Paintings

Magnolia House, Tavistock Square was not what I’d expected. The formal gardens out front were there: the usual expanse of muddy grass and bare-limbed trees, all tidied a little too neatly behind an endless run of chipped railings. But where the multi-chimneyed, multi-windowed, Regency terrace should have stood was a 1960s monstrosity of glass and steel.

How its construction had been passed by the planners was beyond comprehension. What the owners of the Regency terraces on either wing thought of it didn’t bear considering. This was, as I’d suspected, going to be a complete waste of my time. No artist worth the name would want to be associated with such a property.

Despite the condensation clinging to the floor-to-ceiling glass of the foyer, I could see a darkened figure prowling inside. Definitely male; doubtless my contact. At least I wouldn’t be kept waiting.

He was turning towards me even as I pushed open the door and walked into warmed damp.

‘Ms Jeffries? How good of you to come out in this dreadful weather. I do appreciate it.’

Thin-faced, thin-shouldered, forty-something Mr Compton sounded as effusively servile as I’d been told he had on the phone, and his smile was no mitigation. We shook hands but I didn’t match him in removing my glove. I trust he got the message.

‘Shall we go up?’ I said.

‘Yes, of course.’

I watched as he did a little side-step to push the button to call the single lift. I hoped it wasn’t tiny. I didn’t want to discover that he had bad breath or personal hygiene problems hiding beneath that overcoat.

‘Em, I apologise for asking,’ he said, his shoulders drooping a little more, ‘but did your company make you fully aware of the unfortunate circumstances of, em... Mr Needsham’s...’

The doors to the lift opened and he seemed relieved to turn away.

‘Mr Needsham’s disappearance?’

‘Em, yes...’ He ushered me inside.

‘The apartment is to be cleared and the paintings are to be valued prior to auction.’

I turned in the small space to find him gazing at me, the doors still open behind him. His eyes seemed to be drooping at their corners, mirroring his stance. I’d been too brusque.

Inclining my head, I said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Compton. I was led to believe you were a... business associate?’

He prodded the console and the closing doors shut us into the small space.

‘That’s how I met him, many years ago.’ He forced a smile. ‘I was his agent for a number of years, and then a friend.’ He looked at me and smiled again but there was no joy in it. ‘Unfortunately I was not as good a friend as I’d believed.’

I wondered what that meant, exactly, but wasn’t going to pry. I wanted a fast in, out, and goodbye.

The upward thrust slowed. There was a muffled clang and the doors opened. We stepped onto a wide corridor, thickly carpeted, which was somewhat unexpected. The paintwork and ornate cornices, which couldn’t have been contemporary with the build, stood white against a tasteful shade of unmarked lemon-washed wall. I noted the thin border of gold flecks running along the cerulean carpeting. Money had been spent on a refurbishment. A lot of money. A pity none of it had gone on the cheap prints adorning the wall.

Mr Compton led the way in silence past items of tasteful furniture masquerading as antiques, and dutifully opened a fire door for me to pass through.

‘It’s at the end,’ he said, ‘on the corner. For the light, you understand.’

I kept walking, passing two pristine white doors, the silence of our footsteps becoming slightly unnerving. Or it could have been the sight of blue and white police tape trailing either side of Needsham’s apartment door. I stood looking at it, sensing my raised heartbeat, as behind me Mr Compton jingled keys for the three sets of locks. As he stepped forward to reach for the top of the door, I couldn’t help myself.

‘What happened here, Mr Compton?’

He turned the first key, removed it, and glanced at me as he chose the second.

‘Here? Nothing