She hadn’t said much since they dropped Mark off at the end of the track running up to his home. The boy didn’t seem in much of a hurry to walk away. Perhaps that was to do with the bruising that he noticed just visible beneath the neckline of his t-shirt. Without any visible defensive wounds to Holly, he was confident they weren’t caused by an altercation with her. Besides, the yellow tinge indicated they were older, developing for a week or maybe more.
The children must have heard their car approaching, dropping whatever they were doing and running to the gate to inspect the arrivals. Rosie, the younger one, probably six or seven years old, and a similar age to Saffy, climbed the gate as they took the turn from the track into the yard. Her feet planted on the bottom bar, Janssen was pleased to see the gate tethered in place as the little girl swung backwards and forwards. The boy, William if he remembered rightly, stood off to one side. He watched them with a fixed expression, bordering on regretful and far more serious than any ten-year-old should bear, in Janssen’s mind, anyway.
Coming to the rear, where the Francis’s parked their vehicles, he was intrigued to see Ken having something of a clear out. Coming out of his studio with bundles of wood and what appeared to be canvas in his arms he was heading towards a skip, sited at the far end of the yard, adjacent to the former barn. There was a great deal of builder’s residue stacked up nearby, presumably leftover from the renovation works, waiting to be either reused or hauled away. Ken eyed them as he walked past, tossing his load into the skip before returning to them. His expression was stern. Janssen thought he looked uptight, emotional.
“I wonder what he’s up to,” Tamara said under her breath. The best lip readers in the world would have struggled to interpret her words, Janssen was sure.
“Just what I was thinking.”
“You take Ken. You’ve met him already. I imagine he’ll more likely speak to you, than me. I’ll pull Jane aside and sound her out, see if I can get a steer on what Mark was talking about.”
He agreed and they both got out of the car. Rosie was still perched on the gate, although she now sat on the top bar, legs dangling over the side watching them, fascinated. William was nowhere to be seen. Janssen greeted Ken while Tamara looked towards the main house. “I wanted to pick your brains about the artist community, if you can spare me a few minutes?” Ken stopped, an almost unreadable expression crossing his face. Was it irritation? Whatever the motivation, it passed swiftly enough.
“If you don’t mind me cracking on as we talk,” Ken replied, setting off towards the studio.
“Is your wife about?” Tamara called after him and he responded over his shoulder without looking at her.
“In the house. The door’s open.”
Janssen was surprised. If Ken was curious as to who she was, he didn’t seem bothered about asking. She was with Janssen and must therefore be a police officer but the offhand nature of the response was interesting. He glanced at Tamara and she appeared to find it just as odd. The two parted, with Tamara heading for the house while he followed Ken into the studio.
Entering, he failed to mask his shock at what he found inside. His mouth fell open as he scanned the studio. The place was trashed. An effort had been made to pull things together, a partial attempt at tidying up. Piles of rubbish lay sporadically around the space. Ripped canvases were neatly stacked against one another and nearby, a pile of shattered ceramics was swept into a corner. A fine dust hung in the air, catching in his throat as he breathed in. Paint had been thrown around the interior and someone had obviously had a go at cleaning something off the walls. Two of them were damp. The contrast to the dry surface alongside was stark. A bucket of water stood beside one wall, still soapy with a sponge floating near the surface. The residue of purple paint remained visible on the wall above, smeared over the white of the base colour.
“I dread to ask,” he said softly, Ken watching him with a wary eye as he gathered another armful of his work, now resembling more junk than art.
“We had a break-in last night.” His tone was bitter, angry.
“Did you report it?” In his head, he sounded accusatory. It wasn’t his intent.
“What’s the point? They didn’t take anything, just smashed up my work. Only my finished pieces are insured and they’re not kept here.” Ken was dismissive. Disappearing back outside, Janssen chose to wait for him to return rather than follow him like a puppy. Looking around, he saw none of the windows were broken and he casually inspected the door to see if it was forced. There was no damage. It was strange. The man had no reason to lie, though, as far as Janssen knew.
Ken reappeared to find him eyeing the lock. He must have clicked what he was thinking. “I don’t bother locking the studio at night. Who would want to nick a load of half-finished paintings? Utter madness.”
“I bet you’ll start now.” The response was instant, perhaps coming across as flippant.
“Probably just kids pissing about anyway.” Janssen flicked his eyebrows at the suggestion but didn’t comment. He hadn’t come across bored youngsters doing anything on this scale before. The odd bus shelter or estate agent’s For Sale board, maybe, but this was a different level of vandalism altogether.
“Anyone express any dissatisfaction with you recently?”
“No, of course not!” Ken replied, irritated. “Look, I don’t wish to be rude, Inspector, but you can see I have rather a lot on. Perhaps you could get to the point
