Free A Painted Doom by Kate Ellis

writhing figures.
    Neil and his companions stood back to look at the thing they had brought out into the light. Unlike Steve’s, their excitement
     didn’t seem salacious; in fact their eyes were alight with wonder, as though they had uncovered some great treasure.
    Rachel tried to sound casual. ‘What is it?’ It was time to move on, to conduct more interviews, but her curiosity was conquering
     her sense of duty.
    Neil’s female companion answered. She was in her thirties, slim and unadorned with make-up. She wore old jeans and a shapeless
     brown jumper. Her hair was flyaway brown tied back in a makeshift ponytail. She looked at Rachel with keen blue eyes. ‘If
     I’m not mistaken, this is an important piece of late-medieval art. It’s better painted than most examples I’ve seen before
     – almost reminds me of the work of Hieronymus Bosch. Extremely rare.’
    Steve mumbled something incomprehensible, then asked how much it was worth. The woman ignored his question.
    ‘So what is it exactly?’ asked Rachel, hoping she wasn’t displaying undue ignorance.
    ‘In the medieval period it would have been displayed at the front of a church above the chancel arch to remind the congregation
     just what was in store for them if they didn’t behave themselves in this life. It was commonly known as a Last Judgement or
     a Doom.’
    ‘Bloody hell,’ was Steve’s only comment. ‘Exactly,’ said the woman with a smile of triumph.
    ‘This is it.’ Wesley Peterson stood at the garden gate, staring at the thatched, whitewashed cottage.
    It had been easy to find the place. A ring around the local estate agents who dealt with rented property had produced quick
     results. A Tradmouth estate agent called Jones and Carlton in Lower Quay Street had admitted to renting Warwick Cottage in
     the village of Whitely, three miles inland from Derenham, to Mr Shellmer on a three-month lease. All dealings with Mr Shellmer
     had gone smoothly, the young woman had assured the constable who rang, and now he was looking for a permanent home in the
     area.
    The keys to Warwick Cottage were obtained and the secrets of Jonny Shellmer’s life would, Wesley hoped, soon be revealed.
     If the body did indeed belong to JonnyShellmer – until he was properly identified they couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure. And experience told Wesley that it wasn’t
     always wise to jump the gun.
    First thing that morning they had replayed the tape of Ray Davenport’s interview with Shellmer. According to the singer, the
     motive for his move was a desire to get out of London and live life at a slower pace. He was concentrating on composing and
     his solo career, but a Rock Boat reunion tour couldn’t be ruled out. He had chosen Devon because he liked it, he stated in
     a Liverpool accent watered down by years of exile. There had been no hint of any past connection with the area: like many
     others he had simply fallen in love with the place.
    Wesley was still going over Shellmer’s words in his head as Gerry Heffernan pushed the gate open and strode up the crazy-paved
     path. They had already spoken to the next-door neighbours – two elderly ladies, one with cropped white hair wearing manly
     tweeds and the other a fluffy, doll-like creature – and the pair had seemed quite happy to share their knowledge of Jonny
     Shellmer’s comings and goings.
    Shellmer had lived in the cottage for about three weeks and had led a life, according to the ladies, of quiet contemplation.
     As for visitors, they had seen a small blue car parked outside on more than one occasion. And at weekends they had observed
     an attractive blonde female arriving in a red hatchback and then driving off in the passenger seat of Shellmer’s yellow sports
     car. They had a key to the cottage next door, but they would only use it in case of emergencies, they assured him earnestly.
     They never pried. Wesley wasn’t sure whether to believe them.
    The interior of Jonny Shellmer’s