Grief Encounters Read Online Free PDF Page B

biscuits. The years had been kind to him. His goatee was white, his lanky frame was stooped a little and the eyes rheumy, but otherwise it was the same old JKL who exhorted us to use bold strokes to capture the spirit of a subject and not just a likeness, and discussed the models as if they were unfeeling lumps of clay. The oil paintings on his walls were impressionist landscapes that shone with their own sunshine, and a couple of modern sculptures in copper and stone shepherded a family of primitive clay animals on his mantelpiece.
    ‘Priest, did you say?’ he asked, after we were seated and I’d admired his works of art.
    ‘Charlie Priest, but it was a long time ago. We came from Batley, mainly for life classes, that’s all.’ As he poured the tea I remembered that the beard was more than an affectation. He had a livid scar at the left hand side, running up his neck from under his shirt collar, and he habitually turned the other cheek towards you.
    He gazed up into the corner of the room and shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t remember you. And you became a policeman. That’s an unusual career change of direction, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
    ‘It’s a long story, sir,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to go into teaching, wasn’t good enough to make it as an artist, and my father was a policeman. I only expected to be in the force until I found something else, but here I am.’
    ‘And you made your father happy, no doubt.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It’s strange how so many parents have an inherent antipathy to their sons going into the fine arts. I used to think it was a working class thing, but now I’m not so sure.’
    I had thought it might be interesting to have a discussion about the state of the arts today, but I glanced at his clock and decided that would have to wait for a subsequent visit. ‘I’m investigating the death of a woman who I believe used to be a model in the life classes you held,’ I said, plunging straight into it. ‘She was called Magdalena. Do you remember her?’
    ‘Magdalena?’ he repeated. ‘Magdalena Fischer?’
    ‘I don’t know her surname. Fisher, is it?’ I’d been expecting something more exotic, with perhaps an apostrophe in it. D’Auberville, or something.
    ‘Fisher with a c in the middle,’ he told me. ‘Was she murdered?’
    That was more like it. ‘Thanks for that,’ I said. ‘It’s a big help. At the moment it’s just a suspicious death, but it could be murder. When did you last see her?’
    He thought for a few seconds. ‘It doesn’t seem long ago, but when I put it into years it’s frightening. It must be nearly ten years ago. I used to bump into her occasionally down Headingley Lane, out shopping. I don’t get down there so often, these days, what with the traffic and all the riff-raff. We didn’t speak. Just acknowledged each other with a smile. She was a good model, no doubt about it. Long hair, down to her waist. That was her most impressive feature. Does she – did she – still have it?’
    ‘Yes, she did. I don’t suppose you know where she lived?’
    ‘No, I’m afraid not. Somewhere down in bedsit land, near Hyde Park Corner, if I were to hazard a guess. If she owns a house down there she’ll probably be the last of the owner-occupiers. All the others have been bought to let.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you still have a painting or drawing of her?’ I asked. Sometimes you get lucky. The secret is to keep asking the obvious questions.
    ‘No. I donated all my old stuff to the college.’ He chuckled, adding: ‘They probably made a bonfire of it.’
    ‘Was there anybody – I’m thinking of tutors – who was close to her, do you know?’
    He shook his head. ‘You mean having an affair with her? No, sorry. Not that I heard about.’
    ‘Do you still paint?’
    ‘I try, but the eyes are not what they were. Do you?’
    ‘Now and again. I’m working on a couple at the moment, for an exhibition of policemen’s art. They’re