Papercuts 3: Mr Turner's Prize

By Colin Bateman

Through world wars and civil strife, the Bangor Express has never missed an issue, but now it is losing money hand-over-fist and Rob Cullen, fresh off the plane from his London news desk, has absolutely no idea that he's the man to save it. Lured back to Northern Ireland for the first time in 20 years by the demise of his one-time mentor, the Bangor Express makes Rob an offer he can't refuse and the Guardian reporter can't resist sticking around. After all, it has been a long time since Rob had a real story to get his teeth in to... and with the Bangor Express, that's just what he's going to get.

When local artist and Turner prize nominee Richard Turner returns to Bangor to open a retrospective at a small gallery, not everyone is happy to welcome him home. As Richard takes to the stage to make a speech, he is greeted by violent heckling from his former teacher Pat Hadley. Alix resolves to get to the bottom of the story behind this hostility and uncovers a deep-rooted personal grudge: it's not just a matter of stolen art, but a matter of a stolen heart...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781784973728

Colin Bateman

Colin Bateman is an author, screenwriter and playwright. He is the creator of the BBC series Murphy's Law and was listed by the Daily Telegraph as one of the Top 50 crime writers of all time. Find out more at colinbateman.com

Book preview

cover.jpgimg1.jpg

Start Reading

About Papercuts #3: Mr Turner’s Prize

About Colin Bateman

Reviews

About Papercuts

Also by Colin Bateman

Table of Contents

img2.jpg

www.headofzeus.com

To read this book as the author intended – and for a fuller reading experience – turn on ‘original’ or ‘publisher’s font’ in your text display options.

For Matthew and Isaac

Johnny Cash shot a man in Reno,

just to watch him die.

Rob Cullen bought curly kale in Tesco’s,

just to watch it wither.

CONTENTS

Cover

Welcome Page

Display Options Notice

Dedication

Epigraph

Mr Turner’s Prize

About Papercuts #3: Mr Turner’s Prize

Reviews

About Colin Bateman

About Papercuts

Also by Colin Bateman

An Invitation from the Publisher

Copyright

His name was too good not to win the Turner Prize. It was a headline waiting to happen. He was, of course, already an acclaimed artist, but because he was called Richard Turner the critics and cynics, often one and the same thing, considered and concluded that he was halfway to being crowned already. He was on the shortlist, the announcement was a week away, and the local boy made good had chosen not to spend the last few days before it glad-handing around London but back home, opening a small retrospective in an old pal’s gallery, a thank you for all his help on the way up. It would have been considered one of the hottest tickets in town in any town, but the fact that it was Bangor and the gallery only held a hundred people meant that they really were like gold dust. Or, at least, fairy dust.

It was a big thing for the town, but Rob was finding it hard to get excited. He’d worked in Manchester and London and seen plenty of big things and next big things and usually they turned out to be not that big or interesting at all, a mixture of hype and enthusiasm throwing up a kind of protective heat shield around works in which he was hard pressed to discern anything of value. Of course, it was all subjective. He didn’t know much about art, but he knew what he disliked.

This evening he was one of the last to arrive at Easel. That’s what the owner, Aiden Marten, called the gallery. Easel. Rob wondered why he didn’t go the whole hog and call it Paint Brush. It was already nearly full. Rob had an earphone in. He’d only been in town for a few weeks so not everyone knew him yet, but those who did recognize him didn’t try to engage him in chat because he looked like he was concentrating on whatever important information was coming through to him; they didn’t know he was listening to the football commentary, and that he would much rather have been at home watching the game on the telly, with a carry-out from the Hong Kong Palace on his lap and a beer in his hand. Rob didn’t make any attempt to dissuade them. If it looked like someone was about to approach, he put his finger to his ear and walked away muttering to himself. He didn’t mind the wine, though. He had downed two or three glasses already. He wasn’t a natural conversationalist, and he floundered at small talk with strangers in general and the kind of people who came to small private art galleries in particular. It wasn’t because they were rich, because mostly they weren’t, it was because they put on airs and graces the way they put on their make-up or after-shave; that is to say, generously. Case in point: Janine. She was on the far side of the room, war paint on, chatting, schmoozing, laughing too loudly, and all the while with a smug grin on her face that seemed to expand every time her eyes met Rob’s. She had been back in work for two weeks. She had been as good as gold. She was getting more advertising than ever. And Rob knew she was laughing at all of them. She had stolen tens of thousands of pounds from the paper, come up with a frankly unbelievable story about being forced to pay protection money, and then persuaded someone to beat her up to back up her claim. At least, that was how Rob was seeing it. She was bad to the bone.

And then he saw Alix entering the gallery, with Sean and his camera trailing behind, and he found himself beaming at her.