Another of my fellow Anthology author’s is In the Spotlight today. Meet Louise MacBeath Barbour and learn about the forbidden room at the IWSG Anthology blog.
At the end of last year, I was in a dilemma over the themes for the 2020 WEP/IWSG Challenges and what I should do. I even ran a poll with 3 options, but it left me wavering between Skaði and Sparkle as the Facebook votes balanced the ones here.
I envisaged some Skaði tales in my Viking Age Alternative History timeline. I sketched a story with Skaði and a successful Vincent Willem van Gogh. But would such a devout Christian have allowed himself to be saved by a Norse goddess? Antique Vase in the desert and Agatha Christie?
Crime never sleeps.
Anyway, it’s now the Year of the Jackdaw, so Sparkle Anwyl returns in a six-part story called ‘Custody Chain’.
Enjoy this opening, and if you wish, please comment or suggest what happens next. Many thanks for reading.
Plus, ensure you visit all the other writers in this challenge via: https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2020/02/wep-february-challenge-cafe-terrace.html
Sunday, March 16th
Waves sigh up the beach as I gaze into the starry night over Cardigan Bay.
But I’m distracted.
Where is Kama? She’s late and I feel exposed in the black dress she insisted I wear for my 20th birthday meal.
Some customers at Surf’s Up have attempted pick-up lines. But saying I’m waiting for the woman of my dreams scares them off.
The bar is packed, so escaping onto the balcony was my only option. I’ve kicked off my ankle boots and when I need my glass refilled, the owner Heilyn Trevor appears.
Followed by Kama in an emerald and black Kandangi Saree.
“Sorry cariad, Ffion assigned me a new case. I pulled the files as your insight is devious. But after our meal.”
I silence her with a long kiss. “For you, I might wait.” Her excuse triggers questions. “Tempt me with a taster. Then we eat.”
“In brief. A collectible forgery of a Van Gogh painting was stolen last night from a connoisseur’s Llanystumdwy home. And he was savagely assaulted. The files are at home so can wait. First, our tryst at Agnelli Trattoria.”
I’m sated by the celebratory Italian meal – and our after-dinner exertions. But I want more. My mind switches from caresses to clues.
So far, the burglary details are minimal.
“Professionals if they breached the victim’s high-tech security.” Crime scene photos present another angle. “Vicious pros. The assault looks–”
“—excessive.” Kama paces. “The collector, Urien Cadwallader is unconscious in hospital. CCTV tapes wiped. No prints. No witnesses as the house is hidden in a wood.”
C for Collector. E for Expert. R for Replica. T for Tapes. A for Art.
“Did the crime scene assessment produce anything to show the art’s origin?”
I lean over Kama as she opens her laptop and accesses the case on the internal North Wales Police site.
“This contract suggests our connoisseur wanted to ensure the provenance – even for a forgery.”
“A replica by a ‘reputable artist’ with the pseudonym Turbulent Sky. My tingling tattoos imply it’s relevant.”
Kama strokes my face.
“Then it is. The painting was acquired from Orme Replica Masterpieces Emporium in Llandudno six months ago.”
I groan. A dealer on West Conwy Coastal’s patch. My involvement slips away. I’m a PC with no standing outside South Gwynedd.
Kama reads my dejection. “But I’m a Detective Sergeant, so as our DCI, Ffion can authorise I interview the dealer – with my PC assistant.”
True, even if we risk questions about our relationship.
Monday, March 17th
Behind his glasses, Desmond Deckard’s eyes study us as we show our warrant cards.
Neatly dressed, even if the plaid flannel suit fails to hide his anxiety. Guilt or habit?
“Always happy to oblige the Heddlu,” he says in posh English. “Especially when they send such exquisite coppers. Another inspection? You’ll find everything in order.”
He grandly gestures around his gallery at familiar masterpieces and obscure art pieces. Forgeries?
“Every replica is genuine and documented as required. All legal, ladies.”
Kama leads. “By genuine you mean by artists working openly making copies.”
“Paying tribute to the Masters and making accurate replicas for art connoisseurs. Each one carries a subtle statement that it is not a forgery but an object of devotion.”
Glossy words to hide the reality? Or genuine talent? Manipulated for profit?
Kama will get to the truth. “So, all traceable. Tell us, Mr Deckard, about these artists, especially Turbulent Sky, please.”
My fingers tap studs. T for Turbulent Talent.
“Every artist is a modern master with temperament burning from the canvas, clay, or chosen medium.”
“And Turbulent Sky. What can you tell us about them?”
Deckard shakes his head. “I’m afraid details on my artists and clients are confidential. I’m their confessor.” He grins.
“Unwise when a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night has been stolen, and its collector’s in hospital.” Kama hands him a copy of his contract. “We appreciate your assistance.”
S for Shamefaced Suspect.
“Turbulent Sky is a unique talent I’ve nurtured. Well, I encourage them all – even if some galleries are outraged by my support. Antagonism forces artists to adopt alter-egos. If I supply Turbulent Sky’s details, treat her gently, she’s had it rough.”
We promise, so he scrawls on a compliment slip.
“Anything else, ladies?”
“What’s the value of the reproduction?” asks Kama.
“Turbulent Sky’s crow sigil commands exceptional prices, as does an original Van Gogh. He died penniless – a fate never to be shared. She tries to emulate all elements, so Cadwallader paid five thousand in this instance. If this was an attempt at forgery, the work would have earned her millions.”
A for Affluent. R for Rarity. S for Sigil.
Van Gogh’s star-filled sky reproduced by Tesni Szarka.
Tesni’s home is a barn in the same woodland as the crime scene.
“A witness we missed?” Kama points through the trees to a walled retreat. “Uniform overlooked this barn.”
“I suspect my colleagues never realised it was converted.”
I press a button beside the yellow door. An oscillating buzz echoes inside.
The door camera lights up, so we show our identity.
A young woman, my age, opens the door. Dark, high cheekbones, sculpted face. Riveting eyes. 5 foot 6 inches in jeans and sunflower T-shirt – Vincent’s work.
She says nothing but touches her ears and mouth.
Then, she signs. “If you understand BSL, come in. What can I do?”
I sign back, “We both know British Sign Language – my sister taught us. We’re investigating the theft of a Turbulent Sky painting. We have questions.”
She smiles, then leads us into her studio home.
The smell of paint, varnish and coffee percolate the air. Her workspace is a chemistry lab to age her art decades in days.
On the wall are Van Gogh masterpieces. All with the crow sigil.
On an easel is Café Terrace at Night.
Word Count 991: FCA
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