Chapter 7 : June 2009
Claudia walked quickly back to her car. She wanted to leave before PC Roberts changed his mind, although thinking through the conversation, she realised that she hadn’t broken any rules – the information he’d given her was unsolicited.
She picked up her map of the Lakes to check the road to Grasmere and was pleased to find the village was only four and a half miles away.
She turned left out of the car park. The road ran alongside Rydal Water. This was Wordsworth country and she could imagine the poet walking along its shores getting fired up about the scenery and the clouds. However her mind was far from poetry.
Distracted, Claudia missed the first turning from the main road into Grasmere, but there was a second road into the village for traffic coming from the north. She took this and to her delight, one of the first buildings she saw as she reached the village was the Green Man. Two of the samples Roberts had taken were from the men who’d been fighting in its car park.
She stopped outside the village store next to the pub.
As she got out, she saw a sign on the door: ‘Fresh rolls and sandwiches made to order’. She suddenly felt very hungry.
The rotund figure of Gordon, the shop owner, turned towards her as he heard the door open.
“Lovely day, miss. How can I help you?”
“Do you have any crusty rolls, and some cheddar and tomatoes?”
“Fresh rolls every morning, miss, and I’ve this delicious crumbly cheddar, not too strong, and locally grown tomatoes. Would you like some ham in that too? Lots of folks do. It’s locally cured, very lean.”
“Sounds great,” smiled Claudia, picking up a bottle of sparkling water from a chilled display cabinet.
“What a fabulous day. How has the summer been up here? It’s been rubbish in the Midlands.”
“Same, miss. Been rotten until a couple of days ago. Doesn’t do much for business, I can tell you. Are you here on holiday?”
“Just a long weekend.”
While Gordon was engaged in a certain amount of theatre preparing her roll, she looked out of the window and across the pub car park to the village beyond.
“It’s so lovely and peaceful up here; so quiet. It’s such a contrast to where I live in the West Midlands. Go to a pub down there and there’s always some lout looking for trouble.”
She forgave herself the small lie – the village of Combrook where she lived couldn’t be more peaceful.
“I’ll bet you don’t get much trouble around here.”
“Pretty peaceful most of the time, miss. But we have our moments. Only a couple of weeks ago, no, more like three it was, there was quite a tussle in the car park right there, outside the pub. Not late in the evening either, but it was chucking it down. Seemed like the middle of the night. Came as a bit of a surprise, though.”
“Surprise?” Claudia held her breath.
“Yes, I didn’t see it so well myself ‘cause I was looking this way, you see, like I am now, talking to a couple of tourists, like yourself. Standing right where you are, they were. They saw most of it. Reckoned that John’s car took a knock from this other bloke who then got real stroppy. But that wasn’t how our local bobby saw it, and he marched them both off.”
“So why were you surprised?”
“Well, I’d always put him down as a peaceful sort, John, that is. Very quiet. But it looked like he gave the other guy a bit of a thumping, by the blood and all. Because it was raining so hard, we didn’t go out, but after the bobby took them off, the tourists said that it looked like he was having more of an argument with John than the other bloke, whose fault it all was. They asked me where the police station was and said they were going there to tell the police what they’d seen; how the other bloke had driven into John’s car and then picked a fight with him. As I said, bit of a surprise to see John defending himself so well. Who’d a thought it, eh? He’d only just popped in here for some pasta and wine.”
Claudia stared at him wide-eyed. Trying to sound casual, she stuttered, “So, er, who’s this peace-loving man called John? He sounds interesting.”
“John Andrews? He’s a local artist. Well, he is now. Not actually from round these parts. Don’t know where he’s from orig–”
Claudia interrupted him, “Does he show his work anywhere? I’m really interested in Lakeland scenes – I suppose he does that sort of stuff?”
“Beautiful pictures, miss, real works of art, if you know what I mean, not like some of the daubers who sling paint at their canvasses around here. No, John’s a real talent. He’s got a gallery down the road in the village, ‘bout 300 yards down there, miss, on the left, near the village green. Lovely setting … Miss, don’t you want your roll?”
Claudia found herself marching out of the shop. She stopped, embarrassed.
“Of course,” she smiled guiltily. “I was just checking if I could see the gallery from here.”
“There we are, miss,” said Gordon, handing her his own work of art in the form of a crusty roll. “That’ll be four pounds fifty-five.”
Claudia looked up at the sign over the gallery: John Andrews. Fine Artist. Lakeland Views and Portraits. Some of the nervousness that she’d felt earlier returned, but, at the same time, she couldn’t believe how much progress she’d made. Was this man really going to be the source of the unbelievably rare DNA?
There were several oil paintings displayed in the gallery window, with the largest placed centrally on an easel. All were beautifully detailed scenes of lakes and mountains in the area. On the left side of the window, there was a small portrait of an elderly woman which combined an almost photographic quality with a timeless air, as if the subject were really from another century. Claudia looked at it in awe, examining the exquisite translucency of the skin tones.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the gallery door. Inside, the walls were hung with numerous views like those in the window, while freestanding panels in the centre were devoted to portraits. The subjects were all modern, but the paintings all had that same combination of fine, photographic detail and incredible skin tones. Claudia went up to one of the medium-sized views and glanced at the price tag.
Rather outside my range, she thought, raising her eyebrows.
“Can I help at all?”
She turned towards the voice and found herself looking up into the olive-complexioned face of a lean man she estimated to be in his late thirties, perhaps younger. He was a little shy of six foot tall with short but stylish dark brown hair that showed no evidence of greying. He was wearing beige jeans-cut trousers and a mid-blue linen shirt, but what struck her particularly were his pale grey eyes. They seemed to be looking through her and reading everything about her.
He smiled. “Please, feel free to look around. If there’s anything in particular that catches your eye, I can put it on an easel so you can see it on its own.”
Claudia found herself staring at him. “They’re all so beautiful,” she finally stuttered in hardly more than a whisper.
“Thank you.”
“Are you the artist?”
“Yes, I am. John Andrews.” He held out his hand and Claudia extended hers to shake it.
“Um, Claudia Reid,” she replied.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Reid.”
He turned, leaving her to browse, but Claudia wanted to talk.
“There are so many,” she said, rather lamely. “Does it take you long to paint each one? There’s so much detail. I can’t imagine …”
“Not as long as you might think,” he smiled.
He tilted his head in question. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you’re staring at me, not at the paintings. I can assure you they are far more interesting to look at.”
Claudia looked down, embarrassed.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that … I was wondering, um, well, could I possibly ask you something?”
&n
bsp; “Go ahead,” he replied, amused by this rather flustered young woman.
“Well, I haven’t come only to look at the paintings. Well, that is, I have, because they’re brilliant and I’d love to buy one, but they seem a bit out of my price range.”
“They’re not all highly priced,” he said, “I’ve some smaller scenes and portraits over here–”
“No. Yes. Good.” Claudia was getting cross with herself. She took a deep breath.
“Look, can I ask you something?”
“You’ve already asked me that,” said John genially, raising his eyebrows and smiling at her.
“Yes, of course I did.” Claudia took another breath.
“I’m a biochemist doing DNA profiling of samples taken by the police. One of the samples I analysed recently was incredibly unusual, very rare, so I did a bit of checking up and I’m pretty sure it came from you.”
John frowned, now less amused. “Go on,” he said cautiously.
“Well, could you confirm that you gave a sample to the police recently for profiling? Have I got the right person?”
John looked at her coldly.
“You sound more like some sort of journalist than a biochemist. How did you get this information? I thought these things were confidential. Do you go around interviewing all the people whose samples you analyse?”
“No, of course not. There are millions of them. And anyway, we can’t. I mean, you’re right; it is confidential. But since I work with the samples, there’s a certain amount of information that comes with them.”
“Like my name and address?” It seemed to Claudia he was getting more hostile.
“No, certainly not. I had to dig a little to find that.”
“And why would you want to do that. Surely it must be against the rules?”
Claudia blushed. This wasn’t going well. She ran her hands through her hair.
“Well, yes, it is, in a way–”
“In a way? It either is or it isn’t. What is it you want?”
“Look, I don’t care why you were asked to give a sample, I–”
“I wasn’t asked. I was told I had no choice. Do you think I want to have my sample on your database?”
“Sorry, no, I don’t suppose you do. A lot of people don’t. But as I said, the reason why you were required to give a sample doesn’t matter. The fact is, you have and I profiled it.” She paused to look up into his eyes. “And the results are, frankly, incredible. You have a DNA profile that is unbelievably rare. I mean all profiles are rare, otherwise there’d be no value in them, in crime investigation, that is. But yours is off the scale.”
“Well, I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not about to, so whether my profile is rare or not doesn’t matter. It’s of no interest to me.”
“Can I just explain it?”
Claudia waited, but John didn’t reply. He merely stood and fixed his eyes on hers, his face unsmiling. She decided to plough on.
“When we test the samples, we look at bits of the DNA that vary from one person to another. These variations, some are more common than others; some are very rare. Obviously it’s unusual to find someone with a rare variant; it’s even more unusual to find someone with two. In your case, you have a whole host of rare variants. But they’re not just rare; they are, for the most part, unique. We’ve never seen them before. And they’re all together in your DNA.”
John shrugged his shoulders, deciding it was really time that he sent this Claudia Reid on her way.
“You must have made a mistake; there’s nothing special about me.”
“There’s no mistake. I checked the results and repeated the tests. They are correct. When your sample turned up, I realised it was a golden opportunity to find out if the areas we test have any particular function, whether you are different in any way. Of course, you might not be aware of any differences–”
Oh, I’m very aware of them, thought John, feeling increasingly alarmed.
“–it could be that all the differences are subtle ones, things that occur at a molecular level in your metabolism.”
“It all sounds very complicated to me,” said John dismissively.
“It would be fascinating to be able to make a few more tests. And perhaps to look at your family to see if they have many of the same rare variants.”
“No, I certainly don’t want you testing my family. It would be a total invasion of their privacy.”
“Well, could I just ask about your parents, are they–?”
“No, they died a long time ago,” he interrupted, emphasizing the ‘long’.
“Look, Miss Reid, I can sympathise with you, but I’m really not interested in your research. It seems to me that you’ve very much overstepped the mark by tracking me down and talking to me. I don’t know much about your database, but I imagine that you could find yourself in a lot of trouble if I chose to make a complaint about your behaviour. I think you are misguided and letting your enthusiasm get the better of your common sense. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Claudia was mortified. She’d blown it. She’d come in half-cocked without thinking of a strategy and had alienated him. She wasn’t to know that going to the authorities was the last thing John Andrews would do, that he had far too much to hide.
“Yes,” she mumbled, “you’re right, I’m sorry. I apologise. I shouldn’t have come. I have no right to ask you these things. I hoped that you’d understand that this could have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me, whichever way any further research turned out.”
She looked up sheepishly and saw John’s pale grey eyes boring into her. After a moment his face relaxed.
“OK, Miss Reid, no harm done. I won’t report you, but please, I don’t want you or anyone else probing into my DNA, or my family’s. So why don’t you go and we’ll leave it there?”
But Claudia wasn’t ready to leave. She looked around the gallery and said, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Look, I really am interested in your work. Could I have a look at some more? You said that you had some smaller paintings that I might be able to afford.”
John didn’t want her in the gallery any longer. He was about to make an excuse for closing up when the door flew open and his two daughters rushed in.
“Hi, Daddy, we’re back.” Eight-year-old Sophie ran in, glanced at Claudia, and charged straight on past them both into the studio at the back. Her five-year-old sister, Phoebe, was close behind.
“I’m going to do some painting,” called out Sophie as she disappeared. Phoebe’s glance at Claudia had lasted a little longer, enough for Claudia to gasp quietly, not only at her resemblance to John, but also at her pale grey eyes.
“Sorry, darling,” said Lola as she appeared at the door, arms full of books and shopping. “I told them to go quietly in case you had a customer, which I see you do.”
She turned to Claudia. “Sorry. They can be so exuberant.”
“No problem,” smiled Claudia, glad that the tension had been broken. “I’ve been looking at these wonderful paintings.”
“Buy as many as you can afford,” replied Lola, ever the saleswoman. “They’re a brilliant investment. Your grandchildren will thank you for it.”
She turned to her husband. “I’ve got some lunch, John, I’ll sort it out in the studio.”
“OK,” he replied, “I won’t be long.”
“Oh, take your time. If you sell a picture, I can pay the grocer.”
“Well, that puts my paintings in their place.”
“You haven’t seen what we owe him,” called Lola, disappearing into the studio.
Claudia browsed the portraits and located a few of elderly women, rather like the one in the window. She held one up. “This is beautiful. It reminds me of my grandmother.” She looked at the price and did a swift calculation. She reckoned her credit card could just about take it.
“I can give you a discount,” said John.
“After all I’ve said to irritate you? You’re very kind.” Claudia wa
s delighted.
“Let’s say it will close the matter, shall we?” John replied, taking the picture from her. “I’ll go and wrap it for you.”
John took the painting into the studio and left Claudia looking around. Taking advantage of being alone, she pulled out her phone and aimed its lens at a few of the pictures. She was about to move to another part of the gallery when she looked towards the studio door. Leaning against the doorframe, Phoebe was holding a large rag doll and looking at her, swaying slightly. Claudia smiled at her, rapidly putting the phone to her ear and pretending to talk to someone. Phoebe looked down and then disappeared back into the studio.
“Here we are,” announced John, returning to the gallery and handing Claudia the now securely wrapped painting. She handed him her credit card.
He had also written out a brief description of the work, which he folded and put in an envelope. He licked the flap, sealed the envelope and handed it to Claudia.
“I like to give customers a brief description of a work along with their purchase for insurance purposes,” he explained.
“Thank you,” said Claudia, putting the envelope in her bag. “Are there any books of your work, you know, a coffee table art book or something?”
There are dozens of books, thought John. And you could take a look in the National Gallery, The Louvre, the Uffizi or the Metropolitan Museum of Art…
“No,” he said, “only the odd exhibition catalogue.”
“Well, I shall treasure this,” said Claudia. “Thank you for being so understanding. I hope you appreciate my motives.” She took a business card from her bag, scribbled on it and handed it to him. “If you ever change your mind…”
Later, as John was eating lunch in the studio, Phoebe looked up at him.
“Daddy, who was that lady?”
“She was only someone who bought one of my paintings, darling.”
“Is she a nice lady?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t met her before. But she seemed to be a nice lady.”
“I don’t think she is.”
“Why’s that, sweetheart?”
“Because she taked photos of your pictures with her phone. Lots of photos.”
John’s face darkened. Once again, he felt threatened.