“Fair enough, Mr Francis.” He adopted a commanding, professional tone. “We’re following a line of inquiry that relates to art and seeing as you’re the foremost artist in this area, and also the only one I happen to know, I was wondering if you could tell me of any amateur classes, workshops or the like going on around here?”
Ken was kneeling pulling together broken frames, some still with the remnants of canvas stretched across them. He stopped, looking up at him. “What style? Painting or ceramics?”
“Sketching, I would say. Using charcoal maybe,” he replied, pointing towards a piece offset nearby, leaning against the wall. One of the few works that appeared to have been spared.
“Yes, that’s charcoal. Not many use it around here as far as I know. Not any of those who claim to be teachers anyway.”
“But you do.”
Ken met his eye, before resuming his selection of pieces to carry. “Yes. I do but no, sorry. I’m not aware of any classes. You’ve no idea how annoying these provincial amateurs are. I tend to steer clear of them. Once they know you’ve sold a few pieces, they are all over you to come and join their sessions. Keen to bask in the light of your name and develop their own kudos. I don’t mix with the artistic community.” The last was said with derision which was a surprising take on a group of people who held mutual interests. Ken gathered up his next load and set off.
Janssen took a deep breath. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why someone may have taken offence to this man and his attitude. The previous day, Ken couldn’t have been more pleasant but he’d been playing the perfect host then. Somehow, this revelation of an angry man, albeit with an arguably justifiable reason for his mood, seemed closer to the real Ken Francis than the one seen yesterday. The man who usually kept himself veiled behind a successful, creative persona harboured a darker edge.
This time, he followed Ken out into the yard. The man was rattled and therefore, he judged, more likely to give something away with an angry response or an ill-thought out comment. Perhaps he would be honest. Emerging into the sunlight, Janssen shielded his eyes. The interior of the studio was somewhat gloomy. The thought occurred that the windows faced north. An obscure fact popped into his head how artists often angled studios to the north as the light remained constant, unchanging with the passage of the sun through the day and the year.
Ken was walking back towards him. Janssen looked around. The children were nowhere to be seen. “How well do you know Holly?” The question came out of the blue and Ken Francis stopped dead in his tracks.
“I don’t!” He was emphatic. “I mean, I’ve come across her parents socially. Her name came up.”
“So, you do know her then. At least, a little.”
“I guess. Why do you ask?”
“What about your wife?” Janssen glanced towards the house, remembering Mark’s outburst regarding Jane. He could see figures moving in the kitchen through the window. Ken’s mouth partially opened. He appeared ready to speak but didn’t. “Would she know Holly any better than you?”
“I… don’t know what you’re inferring.”
“I’m not inferring anything, Mr Francis. It’s a question.” He watched the man intently, gauging his reaction, for there was one. It was just that right now, he couldn’t interpret it.
“I don’t know. You should ask her.”
Ken walked past Janssen and back into his studio. Janssen watched the man go until he disappeared from view. He then crossed the yard, heading for the main house, wondering what was scrawled on the walls that needed cleaning off before anything else was attended to?
Chapter Fourteen
Jane saw the woman walking towards the house while Janssen addressed her husband. Why couldn’t they do it the other way around? Janssen was sharp but she could read him, well enough at least. He was also quiet, no doubt very observant but she figured he was malleable, of an age where she could still deploy her charm successfully if needed. The thought of spending more time with him was agreeable. Hurrying back into the preparation area, she busied herself. Hearing the back door click open, she took a deep breath and steadied herself.
“Hello!”
The voice was light, coming from the boot room and attempting to sound familiar. “Hello! I’m in here,” she called back, trying to sound breezy. “Come on through.” Loading the last of the lunchtime crockery into the dishwasher, she closed the door just as the woman entered the kitchen. By the way she spoke with Janssen, it was likely that she was his senior. A bit young for that role, in her opinion.
“Hi. I’m DCI Tamara Greave. I’m the senior investigating officer on the Bettany case. Your husband said I could come in.”
Jane glanced towards the open window. He’d said no such thing but there was the tacit suggestion for her to enter. She didn’t like this woman. Her fake smile and amicable approach were merely a mask to put her at ease, or off her guard. She took her measure whilst reaching for the kettle. “Would you like tea or coffee?” She was attractive, if you were into that sort of ordinary look. Quite plain, terrible hair and a dress sense taken from a horrible seventies television sitcom by the look of it. She mustn’t care much about what people think about her, style-wise.
“Tea would be lovely, thanks.”
There was that smile again. Although, she had her natural teeth taken care of. No one’s smile came out like that without significant dental work. “What brings you back so soon? I’m not sure I can tell you anything more than I told your colleagues, yesterday.” Jane set down two cups and put a bag in each. “These are okay, aren’t they? I’m not really one for using a pot.”
“Me neither, unless my mum’s visiting. That’ll be fine,” Tamara replied, pulling out a chair
