Free Gone to Ground by John Harvey Page B

that's all."
    "So why was Stephen so interested in her, do you know?"
    McKusick smiled. "He must have told me at length, but you know how it is when someone's carrying on about somebody and you don't have much of a clue who they are. It all tends to go in one ear, out the other."
    "I'd like to read what he'd written so far."
    "As far as I know the police have got all his papers. Boxed them up and carted them away. Just about everything. What's going to happen to them eventually, I've no idea. They'll go up to your parents, probably. Or to you."
    "I'll get in touch with the officer in charge."
    "Grayson?"
    Lesley nodded.
    "You've met him?"
    "The other day."
    "Not a bad bloke, considering." McKusick surprised her by grinning. "Straight as a poker, sadly."
    Lesley laughed. When the waitress appeared and asked if they wanted any more coffee, both declined. Outside, the air seemed, if anything, a little colder, the sky more overcast. Perhaps they were due some more snow.
    "You driving back right away?" Lesley asked.
    McKusick shook his head. "I thought I'd nose around for a bit while I'm here. Do a little shopping. Take a look at the new Paul Smith shop, maybe. In a Georgian town house or something?"
    "Well, enjoy," Lesley said. "Just don't end up having to take out a second mortgage. And Mark..."
    "Yes?"
    "Keep in touch."
    "Of course."
    They waited as a tram made its stately way past and on down toward the station, then crossed toward the opposite pavement, said goodbye again, and headed off in opposite directions.
     
    The recital had just finished as Helen arrived, and she had to make her way through quite large numbers of people who were only slowly beginning to move away, others continuing to stand in small groups of three or four, talking about what they'd heard.
    Some of the attendants were standing at the edges of the room, collecting donations, while others were starting to stack away the folding chairs. Helen asked where she could find room five, and was directed through a small, squarish space into a rectangular gallery that was largely empty of visitors. To her immediate right, a man stood with his back to her, looking at the paintings on the adjoining walls.
    "Mr. Rouse?"
    "Jack." He turned smartly, holding out his hand.
    He was a light-toned black man, smart in a camel-coloured coat, dark loose-fitting trousers, tan leather shoes. His hand, Helen thought, was as smooth as his voice had been on the phone.
    "How was your concert?" Helen asked.
    "Oh, you know, pretty good. Some Handel. A piece or two by Lord Fitzwilliam himself. It's good to have an excuse to just sit for the best part of an hour, doing nothing. And I'm always happy for the chance to take another look at these."
    There were several paintings in the corner, hung at varying heights: portraits, interiors, still lifes. The canvas immediately in front of Helen showed a woman sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring off into space. The heavy blue-gray dress she was wearing was difficult to pick out from the background, which was a not dissimilar muddy blue splotched with gray flowers. Just to the woman's left, a blue-and-white cup stood on a smudge of yellow tablecloth and, behind her, in the opposite corner, a door opened to what looked like the bathroom.
    "Marvelous, isn't it?" Rouse said.
    Helen was looking at the woman's almost featureless face. Whoever the artist was who had painted this, he couldn't do faces to save his life.
    "Look at it long enough, and that woman's life, it's all there. It's like a story. A really good short story. Someone like Alice Munro."
    Helen was sorry. She just didn't get it.
    Edauard Vuillard. Seated Woman: Cup of Coffee. 1893.
    On her feet, the woman seemed to be wearing trainers, but Helen was sure that couldn't be right.
    "You wanted to talk about Stephen," Rouse said.
    "Yes, if we could."
    "Well, you have to understand, until he started here at the university, I'd only met him on a couple of occasions, through