Unfinished Portrait

  Recent Titles by Anthea Fraser from Severn House

  The Rona Parish Mysteries

  (in order of appearance)

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  JIGSAW

  PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

  A FAMILY CONCERN

  ROGUE IN PORCELAIN

  NEXT DOOR TO MURDER

  UNFINISHED PORTRAIT

  Other Titles

  PRESENCE OF MIND

  THE MACBETH PROPHECY

  BREATH OF BRIMSTONE

  MOTIVE FOR MURDER

  DANGEROUS DECEPTION

  PAST SHADOWS

  FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  THICKER THAN WATER

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Anthea Fraser.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Fraser, Anthea.

  Unfinished Portrait. – (The Rona Parish mysteries)

  1. Parish, Rona (Fictitious character) – Fiction. 2. Women

  authors, English – Fiction. 3. Women artists – Fiction.

  4. Missing persons – Investigation – Fiction. 5. Detective

  and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0039-5 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6884-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-224-6 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being

  described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this

  publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons

  is purely coincidental.

  ONE

  Rona could hear the phone ringing as she put her key in the door. In one complicated manoeuvre she nudged the dog inside, pushed the door shut, dropped her carrier bags on the floor, and caught up the instrument.

  ‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Rona? Good! I was just preparing to talk to a machine!’

  For a moment the voice eluded her. Then, with a touch of apprehension, she identified it as that of her editor at Jonas Jennings.

  ‘Prue? How are you? It’s been a long time . . .’ Her voice tailed off in embarrassment.

  ‘It has indeed! Still pursuing your journalistic career?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  Prue Granger laughed. ‘Relax! I’m not about to pressurize you. But I have a project I think might be of interest – one that would combine your talents, as it were.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ Rona said cautiously.

  ‘I hope so, but it could best be discussed over lunch. Today’s Tuesday; how about Thursday this week? Are you free? One o’clock at Papa Gigio’s in Covent Garden?’

  ‘That would be fine, Prue. Thank you.’

  ‘See you then,’ said Prue Granger, and rang off.

  Rona looked down at the dog nuzzling her legs and bent to unfasten his lead. Then, picking up her shopping, she followed him down the basement stairs to the kitchen.

  It was indeed a long time since she’d spoken to Prue, she reflected, starting to unpack her bags. Her career as a biographer had been on hold for eighteen months or more, following the abortive ending of her last project due to murder and a legal minefield her publishers were unwilling to enter.

  While she regained her balance, she’d reverted to her secondary – and, up to then, spasmodic – work as a freelance writer for the glossy monthly Chiltern Life. But, incredibly, innocuous pursuits such as writing-up eight-hundred-year anniversaries, tracing birth parents, and researching the history of local firms had also resulted in death and disaster. Even befriending her next-door neighbours had proved a perilous undertaking.

  Murders seem to seek you out, her husband Max had once observed, and though she’d shied away from it, the phrase had lodged in her mind with an almost superstitious acceptance. If Prue wanted to speak to her, she reasoned now, it must surely mean she’d a biographical subject in mind. With luck, that might break the chain, though what ‘combining her talents’ meant, Rona had no idea.

  On an impulse, she picked up the phone and rang her twin’s office. It was twenty past five; she shouldn’t have left yet.

  ‘Lindsey Parish.’

  ‘Hi, Linz, it’s me. Are you seeing Dominic this evening?’

  There was a pause. ‘As it happens, no. Would you believe he’s abroad again?’

  ‘Then how about joining me at Dino’s? There’s something I’d like to talk over with you.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘Not really. I’d just like a sounding board.’

  ‘My primary function, of course. Actually, since I’ll probably be here till about seven, it’ll suit me quite well. Seven thirty OK?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Rona said, with a lifting of her spirits. ‘See you then.’

  Rona had given up explaining why, on the three evenings he held his art classes, Max spent the night at his cottage across town. Family and friends viewed the arrangement as at best bizarre, but since he wouldn’t have got home much before bedtime, only to return to the studio first thing in the morning, it struck them both as a pointless exercise.

  In fact the purchase of Farthings, with its airy upstairs studio, had in all probability saved their marriage; with both of them working from home, tempers had frayed when Max required loud music as he painted, and Rona total quiet in which to write. The outcome was that both now had space to follow their careers, leaving them free to appreciate each other’s company during his midweek return – following afternoon classes – and at weekends.

  And it wasn’t as though they weren’t in regular contact. They spoke on the phone at least twice a day, the main call to exchange news of the day’s happenings, the last, brief, one to say goodnight. That evening, Rona told him about Prue’s summons.

  ‘Will you be hauled over the coals for dereliction of duty?’ he enquired humorously.

  ‘She says not, but she’s certainly got something lined up.’

  ‘Well, you’ve nothing on hand at the moment, have you? It’ll be good to have something to occupy you.’

  Rona was silent, admitting to herself that the tragedy next door, though nearly two months in the past, still haunted her. It had taken all her willpower to complete the article she’d been working on, and knock it into shape for Chiltern Life.

  ‘Sweetie?’ Max prompted. ‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, you know.’

  She shook off her musing. ‘I know; the trouble is, the longer I put off doing another bio, the harder it gets. It’s such a commitment, Max; so much easier just to toss off the odd thing for Barnie, than look around for something new.’

  ‘But you’re wasting your talents. You know that. At least keep an open mind till you hear her proposal.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, of course. By the way, Lindsey and I are going to Dino’s, so don’t phone before eleven.’

  ‘Right, I’ll prop my eyelids open! Enjoy yourselves, and give Dino my regards. I’m only sorry I can
’t join you.’

  Dino’s was an Italian restaurant a brisk, six-minute walk from Rona’s home, and she was a regular customer. Hating cooking as she did, when Max wasn’t home to act as chef she invariably opted, according to mood, for ready-meals, takeaways or salads. And when she fancied none of them, she went to Dino’s. Often, on arriving at the restaurant, she’d find friends already there, and the obliging Dino would lay an extra place at their table.

  That evening, though, there was no one she knew, and she was led to her corner table with the effusive welcome always afforded her, and Gus the retriever settled resignedly beneath it.

  Lindsey arrived minutes later, dropping into a chair and lifting her hair with both hands.

  ‘This was good thinking, sis,’ she remarked, reaching for the glass Rona had already filled. ‘I’ve had the hell of a day; if we’d not arranged to meet, I might well have been there another hour.’

  Lindsey was a partner at a firm of solicitors on Guild Street, Marsborough’s main thoroughfare.

  ‘Jonathan didn’t help,’ she added, picking up the menu. ‘Ever since Dominic and I got together, he’s lost no opportunity to be bloody-minded. I’d have got through hours earlier if he’d been more cooperative.’

  Jonathan Hurst, a fellow partner at Chase Mortimer, had, despite being happily married, conducted a light-hearted affair with Lindsey over the past twelve months, while Dominic Frayne, a relative newcomer who interested her far more, had remained offhand and non-committal. It was only recently that he’d made a positive move, though after Lindsey’s initial ecstasy, Rona guessed it hadn’t progressed as far as she’d hoped.

  Her sister’s love-life had always been erratic, Rona reflected; her ex-husband, Hugh, was also still on the scene, willing to be strung along when she had no better offer.

  Dino himself approached to take their order, and as he moved away, Rona enquired, ‘Where’s Dominic this time?’

  ‘God knows,’ Lindsey replied shortly. ‘He doesn’t ring me daily, like your dutiful Max, who’s only down the road anyway. With Dominic, it’s a question of out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Rona said soothingly, then, when Lindsey didn’t respond, ‘Linz, everything is – all right, isn’t it?’

  Lindsey made an impatient gesture. ‘When we’re together, it couldn’t be better. It’s just that we’re not together nearly as much as I expected. Business always comes first, and that means being closeted with bloody Carla.’

  Carla Deighton was Dominic’s attractive assistant, whom, since her flat was two floors below his in the same building, Lindsey referred to bitingly as his live-in girlfriend.

  ‘She goes abroad with him?’ Rona asked incautiously.

  ‘Too right she does. Anyway – ’ Lindsey straightened – ‘enough of me. This meeting is to discuss something specific, is it not?’

  ‘A phone call from Prue Granger,’ Rona said.

  ‘Ah! A call to arms?’

  ‘To lunch, actually, the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘But with the intention of extracting a bio?’

  ‘That must come into it, but she said something about combining my talents, whatever that means.’

  Lindsey thought for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose you’ve done a fair bit of research recently.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t require combination – it’s a large part of bios anyway.’

  ‘How do you feel about tackling another?’

  ‘Depends who the subject is. I have to feel some kind of . . . rapport.’

  ‘And there’s no one who fills the bill?’

  ‘No one who’s not been written about a dozen times already.’

  ‘Dominic’s read all yours, you know. He’s most impressed. Didn’t realize I had such illustrious relatives.’

  ‘Talking of illustrious relatives, weren’t you going to meet one of his, the last time we spoke?’

  ‘Oh, Crispin, yes; though that’s not how Dominic sees him. He keeps emphasizing they’re only second cousins.’

  Rona looked surprised. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘He reckons some of his activities don’t bear scrutiny.’

  ‘Really? I’ve never heard that.’

  ‘Too nebulous to get into the press; they concentrate on his celebrity status – fast cars, loads of money, famous girlfriends. Oh, he’s been fined for possession of drugs, drink driving and so on, but it didn’t tarnish his image – just made him one of the boys.’

  Lindsey smiled at the waiter as he laid a plate of steaming pasta in front of her.

  ‘If Dominic has such a low opinion of him,’ Rona said, ‘why did he accept his invitation?’

  ‘It wasn’t from him, it was from his parents, and he’s quite fond of them. Anyway, it was a jolly good do, at the Dorchester.’

  ‘But you did actually meet Crispin?’

  ‘Oh yes, and believe me, he’s quite something. Charm personified, and extremely good-looking. Photos don’t do him justice.’

  ‘Did you tell Dominic that?’ Rona asked blandly, winding spaghetti round her fork.

  Lindsey gave a brief laugh. ‘What do you think? Anyway, on the subject of relatives, illustrious or otherwise, have you spoken to the parents recently?’

  ‘I dropped in on Pops yesterday. I was up that way, and he gave me a cup of tea. He seemed in good form.’

  ‘More than Mum does, at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rona looked up.

  ‘She seemed a bit subdued when I phoned, though she insisted nothing was wrong.’

  Their parents had separated at Christmas, and while their father was renting a flat near the woman he hoped to marry, their mother, still in the marital home, had taken in a lodger, a teacher at the nearby primary school.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Max,’ Rona said, ‘and perhaps we could invite her over at the weekend. Sunday lunch. Will you be free?’

  ‘In all likelihood,’ Lindsey said gloomily. Then, with a shamefaced smile, ‘Sorry – nothing personal. Thanks; if Mum’s up for it, I’d be glad to come.’

  Avril Parish, unaware that her daughters were discussing her, looked up at the sound of the front door.

  ‘That you, Sarah?’ she called, realizing too late the fatuity of the question. After all, who else could it be?

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply, as Sarah moved purposefully towards the stairs.

  ‘Had a good evening?’

  Intercepted, she’d no option but to put her head round the door.

  ‘We went to the cinema. It was OK. I’ve put the snip down.’

  Avril nodded. ‘Thanks. Good night, then.’

  ‘Good night.’ And the door closed behind her.

  Avril stared at the television screen, where, since she’d muted it on hearing the door, figures waved their arms about silently. How long, she wondered miserably, could she keep this up? Including the summer break, Sarah had been with her six months, yet Avril knew her no better than on the day she arrived. But in the interval, through a variety of circumstances, she had met her father, Guy Lacey, and an attraction had sprung up between them.

  While Sarah and her boyfriend spent a large part of the summer in France – he was a sports master at the school, so shared the long holiday – she and Guy had grown closer, and Avril was happier than she’d been for years. Unsure how the relationship would progress, they’d not as yet mentioned it to their daughters, but Avril knew, with sinking heart, that Guy was planning to tell Sarah when she went home to Stokely for the weekend.

  It would have been so much easier, she reflected, if she and Sarah got on well, but Sarah had made it plain from the start that their relationship was a strictly business one. How would she react on learning her father and her landlady had been seeing each other?

  With a sigh, Avril switched off the television and went to bed.

  By the time Max came home the following evening, Rona had changed her mind a dozen times about whether or not she wanted to embark on a new biography. Would Pr
ue expect an immediate answer to whatever she was proposing? Should Rona phone her agent to tell him about the lunch? Or wait till she knew what Prue had in mind? It was as well, she reflected, that Max would be home, or she’d doubtless have vacillated all evening.

  Hearing his key in the door, she went into the hall to greet him, while Gus bounded joyfully about them. Max’s face felt cool, and the scent of wood smoke clung to his coat. An illegal bonfire somewhere, no doubt.

  He shrugged off his coat and lifted the mail from the hall table, leafing through it as he followed her into the sitting room.

  ‘An airmail from the Furnesses, I see,’ he commented. ‘Why didn’t you open it?’

  ‘I . . . thought I’d leave it for you,’ Rona said, not meeting his eyes.

  He flicked her a glance. The Furnesses were the owners of the house next door, renting it out to a series of tenants during their residency in Hong Kong. This was their first communication since the tragedy.

  Max slit open the flimsy paper, ran his eye rapidly down its contents, then returned to the beginning to read it aloud.

  ‘Dear Max and Rona: first, please accept my apologies for not having written before. Monica and I were appalled to hear what had happened at the house – even more so, since you were both so closely involved. Useless to rant at the letting agents – the tenants’ references were impeccable and no one could have foreseen what would happen.

  ‘As they point out, however, the notoriety is unlikely to tempt new enquiries – or at least, not of the right kind – and we have decided to come home, look the place over, and decide what we want to do with it. In the present economic climate, putting it on the market is hardly an option, but nor is trying to let it again in its current state. Last time we were over, we realized it was badly in need of modernizing, and this seems the right time to go about it. At least it will then bear no resemblance to the house lived in by the Franks.

  ‘An added incentive is that my contract out here is coming to an end, and we will shortly be needing a base in the UK. This will be an opportunity to decide if we want to return to number seventeen, or leave it on the agency books as an investment. We certainly intend to stay in the area, and as you know, Lightbourne Avenue has a great deal going for it.