Death of a Painter Read online

  Death of a Painter

  Matthew Ross

  Published by RED DOG PRESS 2020

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  Copyright © Matthew Ross 2020

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  Matthew Ross has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

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  Cover Design by Oliver Smyth

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  ISBN 978-1-913331-29-0

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  www.reddogpress.co.uk

  For IGR

  1

  Some say being in the building trade isn’t a job, they say it’s a way of life. What they never tell you about is the problems – every day of every week of every year – nothing but problems.

  Everyone you work with wants money off you, everyone you work for wants to keep money from you, and everyone – and I mean everyone – wants it done by yesterday. It’s problem after problem after bloody problem.

  And right now, I seem to have more than anyone. I’ve got a hysterical woman screaming down the house, a dead man on her kitchen floor, and I’ve got absolutely no idea what’s going on. All I do know… there’s no way now this job’s going to be finished by Friday.

  Mrs Wilkes squeezed my hand and sobbed. I looked at the mess that was once Tommy and couldn’t help wondering – had he been having a bit of a dabble with Mrs Wilkes? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d entertained the client, and it would explain the overly dramatic wailing that quite frankly was starting to give me the hump.

  I figured he probably had been. He definitely had a magic touch with married stay-at-home mums harbouring secret fantasies for no-strings with a rascal – and he was that alright, all smiles and laughs and a little bit of teasing to make them blush – it was as though he’d walked straight out of a crappy 70s sex comedy, only now it wasn’t so funny – Carry On Dying.

  There is a Mr Wilkes. We’d greet him every morning as he headed off in his smart suit and sense of self-importance. It was no wonder the wife treated herself to a bit of fun with a cheeky painter when she was married to such a miserable belligerent arse. He does something in the City and thinks he’s very busy and important; maybe he is, I don’t care. Mrs Wilkes was alright, but he’d been a nuisance since the job began, in fact since before the job began – he’d insisted on having a proper contract between us.

  So far, he’d tried and failed to knock our money for genuine variations, and tried (and failed) to refuse us an extension of time after his wife’s changes of mind added a fortnight to the job. His contract wasn’t really working in his favour and it only seemed to add to his general state of ill-temper. However, we’d run out of smart excuses. We had to finish by Friday, and Mr Wilkes was exactly the sort who’d want his penalty payments out of principle. I could picture him willing us to fail just so he can feel like he’s won something. But I don’t know where the contract stands on when the work’s delayed by the site becoming a crime scene – is that force majeure? It was certainly a force of something, looking at the damage done to poor Tommy.

  This wasn’t a fall or an accident on site, this was violence, this was brutal. Just below his ear, his head yawned open wide, smashed white bones and grey jelly. His face had been rinsed red by the steady flow of blood, now pooled and tacky like spilled paint on the granite tiles beneath him.

  He was the best decorator I’ve ever worked with; morally questionable, but he’d do a lovely job, which is why, as soon as I saw his brushes on the side, I knew something was up. They hadn’t been washed out, he’d still been working, must have been interrupted and put them down for a moment. If he’d intended leaving them for a while, he’d have wrapped them in clingfilm to keep the bristles soft. That’s what he always did. I knew his brushes would stiffen and become brittle, like the bloody wound in the side of his head that was turning black around the edges. Thankfully I was pulled out of these dark thoughts by a voice beside me.

  ‘I said, what are we going to do?’ asked Mrs Wilkes.

  ‘Police… I suppose,’ was my rather feeble response.

  No doubt Mr Wilkes and his swaggering pomposity would have thrived in such a moment, issuing commandments left right and centre, but my immediate reaction – and it probably doesn’t show me in any great light to admit it – was Thank God she found him first, as I could just imagine how the police’s questions would go if she hadn’t, although it didn’t seem to matter because, twenty minutes later:

  ‘He worked for you for how long, roughly, would you say?’ the uniformed copper asked me. He looked so familiar, I’m sure I’d seen him before, maybe from one of the Sunday league teams that drink at the Golden Lamb post-match; he looked the football sort – tall, slim, bit of a swagger. ‘And were there any disagreements? Disputes about money?’

  There it is, that’s the one I’d been waiting for – the sub-contractor’s dead, must’ve been an argument over payment, must’ve been me; brilliant, well done Medway’s finest for jumping to the bleeding obvious!

  A man entered the room, a small man with a face like a fox – all dark eyes, pointy nose and teeth, with white hair. He was very smartly dressed and obviously took a great deal of pride in his appearance judging by his shiny shoes and even shinier cufflinks. The uniform stopped his somewhat insulting questions, looked at the dapper little fellow, gave a respectful nod and moved away.

  Mr Cufflinks approached me, reaching into the inside pocket of his tailored suit jacket. ‘I have been appointed investigating officer here,’ he informed me in a monotone voice, pulling out a warrant card and holding it six inches from my face. I tried to read his name, unusual, never seen it before but I decided to give it my best shot.

  ‘Inspector Senior, I’m—’

  ‘Sen Ya’ he interrupted ‘Senia, it’s pronounced Senia, Detective Chief Inspector Senia. It’s Italian.’ His patronising tone was already beginning to annoy me.

  ‘So, you’re Italian?’ I still don’t know why I asked that, ease the tension I suppose.

  ‘Do I fucking look Italian?’

  Well, that threw me, no-one’s ever asked me that before; what does an Italian look like? I could only think of Pavarotti and he didn’t look anything like him. I must have pondered for too long as he barked his next question at me.

  ‘You’re the one that called it in? Mark Poynter?’

  I confirmed I was both of those, and then started explaining that Tommy worked for me and the job we were doing. He didn’t seem to understand.

  ‘But you’re an electrician?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the deceased was a painter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why does an electrician need a painter?’

  ‘Err, to paint.’

  ‘I know a painter does the bloody painting, don’t get smart with me. Why is an electrician employing a painter?’

  ‘Because I’ve been fitting the new kitchen here, and I had him decorating.’

  ‘Fitting a kitchen? Isn’t that a carpenter’s job?’

  ‘Yes, but the carpenter’s finished, the plumber’s finished, the plasterer’s finished so now it’s just the decorator to finish.’

  ‘But you’re an electrician!’

  I thought carefully about my next words, he was starting to wind me up, but the last thing I wanted was to annoy the Law when they were looking for someone to blame a murder on.

&nb
sp; ‘Yes, I’m an electrician. Most of my work is electrical. But on occasion people have asked me to take on bigger projects because they know I know all the right trades and it’s easier having me manage the thing start to finish.’

  ‘Like a main contractor?’

  ‘Yes, like a main contractor.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say that to begin with instead of farting about saying you’re an electrician?’

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

  ‘So, you two were friends, good friends?’

  I felt a bit guilty – to Tommy not to this foxy-faced fuckwit – to find myself denying we’d been friends for, must be, fifteen years now. Instead I gabbled around the edges staying nondescript, I told him we’d done a lot of work together – he’d get jobs and recommend me, I’d get jobs and recommend him – and that’s how things tend to go in this industry.

  ‘Can you think of anyone that’d want to harm him, or bore a grudge?’ asked Senia.

  I immediately thought of Tommy’s tendency to dabble, and wondered whether Mr Wilkes had found out he’d been dipping more than his brushes whilst he was at work. But I didn’t say anything, firstly because Mr Wilkes may have been a petulant nobhead but I knew he was nothing more than bluster and bullshit, also it didn’t make sense to accuse him of murder when he still owed me a month’s money. I’ve got the bill for his granite worktops due this week, they’re the price of a new car alone, the last thing I wanted was to risk him knocking my payment, so I told Senia no.

  Senia stared patiently at me, for ages, unblinking, like a crocodile. ‘Did he work for you as a direct employee?’

  I explained, again, he was a sub-contractor; this was beginning to feel like hard work.

  ‘Well why in that case,’ the frustration in his voice matching mine, ‘are you both wearing the same shirt?’

  He was right. We were both wearing a purple sweatshirt with my silver ‘MP Electrical’ logo. I tried explaining the concept of corporate branding: ‘my job, my firm, my rules’, meaning Tommy would wear my shirt when on my project.

  ‘So, if you can’t think of anyone that may have wanted to harm him,’ said Senia, ‘what about you? Your job, your firm – your shirt. Could it be mistaken identity and it was, in fact, you they were after? Has anyone threatened you, anyone bear a grudge against you?’

  ‘No,’ I lied, but by the way those dark eyes stared back I don’t think he believed me.

  2

  Blunt had said he’d back off, promised to give me until the weekend. Now I was scared.

  Senia’s team had taken my fingerprints and statement, but all the while I was inside my own head, looking out, on auto-pilot. The rest of the world passed by but I was one pace out of step. My body participated, yet any thought or understanding had been switched off. I don’t know how I managed to keep myself going. Senia’s words had frightened me, not to mention the sight of Tommy like that. Up until today Dad’s was the only dead body I’d seen, but that was different, Dad looked almost glad of it. The only way I can describe it is to imagine bleeding a radiator: as if someone had unscrewed a little cap behind his ear and all the pain had whistled away on the air, pushed out by peace.

  Tommy however: his dry eyes fixed open, his skull smashed apart, damaged beyond repair, his face twisted in terror and confusion. Realising those were the last emotions he’d experienced: the prospect that this job wouldn’t be finished on Friday had suddenly taken on a deadly meaning for me.

  I jabbed at Chapman’s number again, it rang out until the voicemail prompt took over. ‘Anthony, where’s my money? Things are serious. Where is it? You promised I’d get it this week.’ I finished by telling him to call me back straight away. He wouldn’t, he hadn’t done to any of the dozens I’d already left him.

  I’ll be honest with you, I was in a bit of a bind. A little while ago I finished a big wrap-around extension for this man, Chapman, who’d knocked me my last payment. I’ve a third of my money unpaid and hanging out – seriously overdue, almost twelve weeks. He’d given me promise after promise, lie after lie, same old same old, more broken records than a boot fair. In the end, the threat of going legal got him to swear he’d pay up. Needless to say, he’s now avoiding my calls.

  Twelve weeks is too long. Any money in the business had been spent, any personal savings long gone. No money makes life very awkward. Even people I’ve dealt with for years treat me like the enemy. For instance, Thorpe Timber And Building Supplies: I’d gone in there today with Mrs Wilkes so she could choose her door handles. Before you ask why I was in there instead of giving it a wide berth and heading to a place they don’t know me, first ask anyone that’s ever run a business, they’ll tell you: it’s always easier to get credit from someone you know, especially if you already owe them money. And besides, I like Thorpe’s. There’s all the big national chains nearby but there’s something nice about a local family firm, and that something nice is the Magnificent Maria who spent the whole time giving me pained faces and gestures towards the cash register.

  ‘What are you doing Mark?’ she said. ‘Uncle Trevor’ll go nuts if he catches you here. You know he’s suspended your account until you pay what you owe? You’re not expecting to buy anything for her over there?’

  I love the way women can manage to put so much contempt into a simple little word like ‘her’. It amused me she was more annoyed about me being there with another woman than the state of my account. We’d had history, a little dabble a long time ago. I’ve often wondered whether there could have been a rematch, but the timing’s never been right and now I hear she’s engaged to a panel beater from Strood. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, you don’t mess with the woman of a man who wields a big hammer.

  Anyway, money’s tight. I’m forced to do what I’d promised I’d never do (again), I’m passing the problem down the chain. I’ve not been paid, so I can’t pay, won’t pay. I’m getting by on fumes, telling everyone to be patient, bear with me, I’ll have the money in a few days. Even I don’t believe me when I say it anymore.

  It’s not fair, I don’t like it one little bit, but what can I do? Go to the bank? Since some head office nitwit decided to do away with actual people in banks, I can’t get a meeting with anyone for at least two weeks and even if I could wait that long, there’d be another fortnight on top of that before anyone can make a decision. So, no, going to the bank is not an option. Payday lender? I suppose it would get me the money quicker, but at fifteen hundred percent interest rate, would you do it? No, nor will I.

  My very last hope had been to get this job finished on Friday, get paid and use that money to buy a bit of breathing space. Rob Peter to pay Paul. Literally. Paul Blunt, my biggest creditor whose volatile temper is matched only by his lack of patience.

  Blunt is a roofer from a long line of roofers, like he’s been genetically modified to be a roofer. He’s short and he’s squat. His low centre of gravity makes him ideal for scuttling over rooftops. And he has got immense upper body strength from clambering up and down ladders all day fully laden. Coupled with a neck as thick as your waist, a heavy brow and a covering of short black hair, you can’t help thinking he resembles a chimp – that, and the feeling he’d tear your arm off without provocation.

  But I thought we had an understanding. He agreed to give me a clear run until the end of the week to finish this job then as soon as they pay me, I pay him, that was the deal.

  I know, it was only one part of a bigger problem, but I wanted the monkey off my back.

  3

  There’s people been in this area since, well, since people. They were here long before the Romans jabbed Watling Street straight through the middle of it. The three towns of Rochester, Chatham and Gillingham are so ancient that the entry in the Domesday Book probably read ‘old and shitty and falling to pieces’ even back then.

  As centuries passed, they bled in to a dense sprawling conurbation known as the Medway Towns, after the river around which they all were
built, each town flowing seamlessly into the other. Unless you’ve lived here all your life you wouldn’t know where one stops and the other starts. Three hundred thousand people crammed into a space a mere eight miles across, no wonder tempers fray from time to time around here.

  The Wilkes’s large modern home was in the affluent and leafy Walderslade Woods area of the Towns. When the police were finished with me, I left there and headed for the Golden Lamb. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. The police had closed the house off as a crime scene, so I couldn’t get back to work, and no doubt Mr Wilkes was already poring over the contract to see whether becoming someone’s last resting place represented a breach. So, pub it was.

  As I drew to a halt in the Golden Lamb’s car park, I recognised at least five of the vans, a couple sign-written, the others left plain. You can always spot a tradesman’s van, it’s backed up tight against the wall, if you can’t slip a credit card between the bumper and the brickwork then no-one can break in and steal your tools.

  Sure enough, eight or nine thirsty grafters congregated about the bar, and right in the middle holding court was Disco. The building trade thrives on gossip and rumours, so I figured Disco was the best person to go to if I wanted to get the true story about Tommy out there before it’s exaggerated out of all proportion. Around here, nothing gets past Disco, he knows exactly where everyone is and exactly what they’re up to, he’s just like Google – if Google wore saggy-arsed track pants and smelt of sawdust and roll-ups.

  ‘Mr Poynter,’ he said, raising his pint glass in greeting towards me.