Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,16
showcase their work in their own studios.’ She threw out her arm as if showing me the place for the first time. ‘Just because I live here doesn’t mean we can’t open it to the public.’ Words like insurance and damages came to mind, but I had to trust she knew what she was doing. ‘Zoe’s getting leaflets printed and I’m putting together a competition for Facebook to drum up interest.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’
I wanted to do what normal sisters did: help her out, share life events, have a laugh, confide in one another, but it never seemed to work out that way.
She blew a dead fly off the top of the tea caddy. ‘I think I’m covered now. Thanks. I’ve got friends lined up to help me hang everything on the day. I’ve got someone doing the drinks and social media is covered.’
It sounded, as usual, like she didn’t need me.
I turned my attention back to the main room. ‘Have you done any new pictures I can see?’
She marched ahead of me and pulled one out of a pile, then leant it against the table leg. I’d never been fond of Miranda’s paintings. This one appeared to be large smears of sludge-brown and bruise-purple, resembling shapes from a landscape. It was only when I took a step back and pieced the contours together that it took on a different perspective. The intimate parts of a woman’s body. Torn and violated.
A glutinous ball formed in my throat. I didn’t dare ask who the woman was meant to be.
‘It’s definitely got something,’ I said, cautiously, taking further steps back to see if it improved. It was garish and grotesque. Being offered to a prospective buyer for ￡250, according to the sticker on the edge of the frame.
‘My tutor said it marks the start of a new stage – more earthy,’ she explained. ‘She said it was a real statement piece.’
I nodded, faking an air of favourable appraisal, hoping Miranda wouldn’t see through me. My sister’s artwork had a deep meaning for her and I could never bring myself to say what I really thought. It was too important to her; a crucial form of expressive therapy that kept her demons at bay.
‘What about you? What are you doing with the police?’ She handed me a steaming mug – the handle had broken off some time ago – and led the way to the beaten-up old sofa. She pointed to a shabby low armchair beside it, covered in newspaper. ‘It’s clean,’ she insisted.
‘I’ve been reading up on Jack the Ripper,’ I said.
‘What? Why?’ She sat on the arm of the sofa, swinging one leg.
Instantly, I knew I’d said too much.
13
‘Well?’ she nudged.
It was too late to backtrack. Doing so would have made an even bigger thing of it and I knew only too well that my sister hated being kept in the dark. ‘I’m… helping the police with something. That’s all.’
Miranda scrunched up her nose. ‘What? To find Jack the Ripper?’
I laughed. ‘Not sure that would be the best use of police resources a hundred and thirty years too late.’ I supped the hot drink; if Miranda had one saving grace it was that she made a good coffee. ‘I’m not supposed to mention what I’m doing. Sorry.’
She tutted and looked at me askance. ‘Mmm. You’re reading up on Jack the Ripper and you’re helping the police.’ She tapped her lip repeatedly with paint-encrusted fingers. ‘Let’s get this straight, you’re a psychologist and you’ve just been on a course about delusional behaviour. So that means…’ The light went on behind her eyes and she leapt up. ‘You’re looking for a serial killer, right?’
I ground my teeth. ‘It’s not… I can’t…’
She looked aghast. ‘Shit – you are! You’re tracking down a modern-day Jack the Ripper!’ She stared at me as if she’d just heard I had weeks to live. ‘Oh, God, you’re not are you? It sounds really dangerous…’
‘Not by myself,’ I said with a soft smile. I was touched that she actually seemed concerned for me. ‘I’ll just be looking at the files, finding any connections and handing over any new information back to the force to see if it’s worth following up.’
She shrugged. ‘Oh…’ Her animation dissipated instantly. ‘Sounds a bit boring.’
‘It’s only for a couple of weeks. Maybe less, if it’s a dead end. Pardon the pun.’ I cradled my mug, grateful for the warmth. ‘Thing is, I won’t be able to tell you any details. I’m sorry.’