The Artist of Death - Chapter 19

The Artist of Death – Chapter 19

Tobin watched totally enthralled as two men carefully shrouded Troy in several sheets of polythene. Sticking strips of brown tape over the joins, they then lifted him carefully into a Styrofoam filled crate. Tobin watched every move, looking to see if there was any clue as to what might be inside. Nothing came lose, and nothing leaked out. The men poured more of the foam over him and pressed it into firmly into place. Troy was now invisible. They nailed down the lid, carried him out and placed him into the back of a van. Gave Tobin a receipt and drove away. Troy was gone, Brazil bound.
If Troy’s flesh shrunk in any way, which he assumed over time that he would, it wouldn’t make any difference to the plaster cast. He had deliberately made it thick enough so that it would hold its shape. He had used several thick strands of wire when he tied Troy’s legs to the stool. Even now he could see the wire biting deep into the gauze covered flesh as he pulled the wire tight with his pliers. The plaster covered gauze that he’s used to wrap Troy’s body with first of all should have sealed the flesh that came into contact with the wood of the stool.
Reading his newspaper, at the bottom of page five, he read a small article about a missing man. 'Police Baffled, Prostitute Sought', ran the headline. His stomach churned. There was a bad picture of Troy that looked as if it had been taken years earlier, most likely a school photo. The article mentioned a plea from the mother and the police were asking for witnesses and any information on Amy.
Amy, Tobin knew, had gone, left the country for good. So far no one had any clue that he had a connection with Troy’s disappearance. Sobering facts dawned on him. No-one was left in the country that had any connection or knowledge with Troy’s disappearance than him and that concerned him. Troy’s family Troy’s murderer had gone, and no one except he knew where. If that wasn’t enough Troy’s body was disguised in a way that no one would think of looking for him there. Now he too was heading out of the country. All he could hope for that the effigy that he had created, the mummified Troy, would not somehow get damaged, thus revealing what was inside.

Rick Fossick sat idly at his desk. He eased himself back in his chair and felt the seat lean slightly and he stared up at the ceiling, tapping a pencil against his lower teeth as he thought. On his way back to the station his mind regurgitated the visit to the Lenning’s house. Something didn’t add up right he had concluded, the old bag had planted a seed. He had kept his thoughts from Kember. In his mind he now retraced his thoughts. Troy was missing. He left behind his wallet and his car. The girl, she too was missing – hadn’t been seen for a few days at work - Goffe, the artist, suddenly out of nowhere came into the picture. He smiled thinly at his own pun. Now, Troy – the girl, Amy, vanished. His first gut feeling was looking very shaky. He had learned from Goffe that Troy was abusive, which would make him controlling. If his first assumption was true, that he and Amy had run off, he would not have left his wallet behind and he for a certainty would have taken his car. Goffe had answers, more than he had revealed thus far. He knew where the girl went or was and if he knew that he had to know where Troy was. He frowned. What if Troy had killed Amy and gone off to dump her body somewhere? But then he would have taken his car. He scratched the thought from his mind. A sinister thought entered his brain via the backdoor. What if Troy was dead? What if Troy’s mother had unwittingly homed in on the real reason for Troy’s unexplained disappearance? Quietly he made up his mind to repay Tobin another visit, this time alone, a more casual meeting – it might just loosen his tongue, make him reveal something that would shed more light in this murky subject. This case, right now, was locked up tight – Goffe had the key. Smiling inwardly he formulated a subtle plan. Pulling himself out of his chair he headed for the door.

Tobin went up stairs to his studio, sat and peered at a blank canvas. He picked up a pencil and began to sketch a children’s Jack in the box floating down a river towards a waterfall. The face he put on the puppet was Troy's. Time sped by and he was busy sketching in detail when he heard a car stop outside followed by a loud rap at the door.
Tobin opened to door to Detective Senior Sergeant Fossick standing on his doorstep.
Tobin's face paled. And his heartbeat instantly leapt into his mouth then lurched back down into his stomach. “Sergeant,” he croaked, “what can I do for you?”
"Sorry to trouble you again sir," he began, "but, well I was wondering if you would sell me one of you paintings?"
Tobin's eyes widened markedly and his heart thudded wildly, "Er . . . yes . . . I mean of course," he stammered, “well come in. Which one did you want? I mean, did you see one that you liked?”
"I saw one that I would like to give to my wife as an anniversary present. She loves classical music and you had one with some sheets of music and a violin or something in it."
Tobin thought as he slowly climbed the steps, "Ah yes, that a copy of ‘The musicians Table’ by Henri Horace Roland de La Porte."
Fossick went striding past him straight up the steps and went to it and picked it up, "She would just adore this," he said, a gleam in his eye. "How much?"
Tobin was stunned. He hated it. He thought it was one of his worse efforts. "I think fifty dollars should cover it."
Fossick stared at him. “Fifty-dollars?"
"I'm sorry if that sounds a bit steep."
"No, not at all. I was expecting you to say three or four hundred. Fifty bucks is fine." He handed Tobin the money.
"Er, any luck with the missing man?" Tobin asked, trying to sound casual.
Fossick smiled noncommittally, "Not yet sir, but I'm sure we'll find him, eventually. These things take time. After speaking with the mother I can see how he might want to get away for a bit." He looked searchingly at Tobin. "I think you could do with a holiday yourself sir. Get right away from it all, maybe a bit of sun and sand."
"Mm, yes, well, I'll see how work goes." He looked as Fossick kept glancing over the painting. “Any luck with finding the girl?”
Rick Fossick shook his head. “Nah and I doubt whether we will. We don’t have her real name or a picture even. We have practically nothing to go on. So how can you look for the needle in the haystack when you don’t even know what field it’s in?”
“Still you never know what might turn up.” Tobin offered.
“True,” Fossick nodded in response.
Fossick showed no sign of moving and Tobin had run out of things to say. He watched silently as Fossick studied his painting. He noticed Fossick tap the edges of the frame.
“Can I ask you this? When you went to the boyfriend’s house, was his car there?”
Tobin shook his head. “No, if it had of been Amy would never have gone inside.”
Fossick nodded without making comment. “What time of day did you go over there?”
Tobin’s mouth dried up faster than the Sahara after a shower. “I believe it was sometime in the evening, Amy had said that Troy went out drinking most nights so she felt that it would be safer then.”
Fossick nodded again. “And the mother, she wasn’t home either?”
“I suppose not,” Tobin said, shrugging his shoulders to emphasize the point. “Where are you going with this?”
“Well, here’s the dilemma I’m faced with. This man, Troy Lenning has gone missing. His American born girlfriend has likewise disappeared at the same time. The funny thing is,” he said, watching Tobin’s face closely, “that he left his wallet and his car at the house. So if he had gone off with the girlfriend, logic would suggest that he would have taken those things with him. Wouldn’t you agree?” he said looking straight into Tobin’s eyes.
Tobin’s stomach lurched and he stared straight back at Fossick. “I’m not sure what could have happened,” he offered weakly.
“Well, to cap it all off, you enter the equation. Shortly before this young man vanishes you appear on the scene, and equally as quickly two people go missing soon after.”
Tobin tried to lick his lips, but he might just as well have used sandpaper to wet them. “Are you saying that I might have some involvement in this matter?”
Fossick knew from his years of experience that Tobin was walking a tightrope and was fast losing his balance. The man’s demeanor and body language were waving huge red flags. Fossick held Tobin’s gaze. “Sir, if there is something that you’re not telling me, something which you are hiding that might prove useful to this investigation, I urge you very strongly to tell me now. If not and we find out, to your determent, that you were somehow involved, well, let me put it this way, it would look ugly for you.”
Beads of perspiration began to form on Tobin’s forehead and the clammy wetness under his arms intensified. Fossick waited. He could see Tobin thinking and was waiting for the man’s resolve to crumble.
“I’m sorry officer,” Tobin finally said, no more than a whisper, I can’t help you. I’ve told you all I know.”
Fossick had sown seeds of doubt and shrewdly decided to retreat, letting guilty thoughts fester in Goffe’s mind. “I see. Well, I needed to ask but I have to warn you that we are becoming extremely concerned about this matter and we might possibly be wanting to talk to you again, so if you’re planning to go anywhere do let us know, won’t you.”
Tobin barely nodded. “I’ll do that.”
He went back down the stairs and kept admiring the painting as he walked to his car. Then turning to Tobin after he had put it on the back seat of his car said to him, “If you can remember anything at all about that girl, be sure to let us know, won’t you sir?”
“I will.” Tobin watched nervously as he climbed into his car.”
“Anything at all will be a help.”
He nodded. "Just go," Tobin muttered.
Fossick started his car and gave Tobin a long look before driving off. Tobin went back inside and slumped into a chair cupping his face in his hands.
He knows, he damn well knows. Shit, what am I going to do? He tried to cal himself but couldn’t. He got up from his seat and paced the floor. It was hopeless from his perspective. The police knew that he was involved with Troy’s disappearance.
“Good god,” muttered Tobin under his breath, “this is like a fucking circus.”
Emma surged into his driveway and skidded to a halt, showering some gravel towards his house. Climbing out she strode confidently towards him.
Emma planted a huge kiss on his lips, "Miss me?"
He kissed her back. "Yes, I have to say I did."
"Good. So you should. Come inside, I've got some exciting news to tell you," she said dragging him by the hand.
"I showed some people the catalogue we did when we did your showing just recently and they were thrilled. They want you do something for them over there in about six months to a year."
Tobin nodded slowly, obviously pleased, yet his mind was far from centering on what she was saying.
"Isn't that just the best?" she enthused. “You know, getting your mug plastered all over Australia.”
"Sure is," trying his best to rise to her level.
"So what's been happening here?"
Tobin paused, "Not much. Helen sold my sculpture and commissioned me to do another."
"Shit a brick! Really?" she screamed.
"Uh huh. You know, I never thought this sculpting thing would take off. I mean I haven't done too much of it before."
"You must have done some. Where did you train?"
Tobin shrugged. "Nowhere."
"You mean you never had any formal training?"
Tobin shook his head. "No, none. Everything I do is straight out of my head and self taught."
She gaped at him, her eyes flashing across his face. "Shit, this is even more incredible that I first thought. Your story would make a great introduction to the Australian catalogue. Fuck, I wish you had told me about this before Tobin."
"Sorry, I thought if you knew that you might have had doubts about exhibiting me. I mean it's pretty hard to get seen when you're trying to start out, especially when you've taught yourself from library books and the like."
"You are amazing," she said looking at him with renewed wonder. "Anyway, how do you feel about doing a bit of a spiel by way of an intro to your next showing?"
"Yeah, fine. Whatever." His show of enthusiasm was thin but thick enough to ward of any enquiries from Emma. She was too wrapped up in her own state of euphoria to home in on what Tobin was feeling.
"Great." She bounded up the stairs to his studio, Tobin followed languidly. "You know I never did understand that title you gave that sculpture of yours. It really did seem dumb and stupid but then I thought, well it's typical of you arty types, you always think abstractly."
Tobin smiled, "I guess you had to have been there."
Emma paused for a moment and then shook her head as she drove his comments from her, "Never mind all that. You know I'm doing cartwheels of joy over this Aussie thing. I think you and I will make a great team. I can see us taking the place by storm."
"Do you really think we can do that well over there?" he asked clearly still troubled by Fossick’s visit.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him softly,
"Yep! We'll murder the bastards," she whispered softly.
Murder made his stomach convulse. God, don't use that word, he thought, tensing even more..
She pulled away and looked at his face. "What?" she asked, studying his features?
He hesitated, just for a moment. "Nothing, I'm just glad that you're back," he said, drawing her closer to him and breathing in the smell of her hair as he nuzzled into her neck and gently kissing the soft skin. "It's been hell while you've been away."
Sensing tenseness in his embrace she eased herself away. “What’s going on?” she asked directly.
Tobin stared blankly back at her. After a long pause his lower lip began to tremble, as his face reddened and tears fell from his eyes.
“Jesus Christ Tobin, what is it?” she asked harshly.
He released her and went to his sofa and slumped heavily into it. “I’m in trouble, deep fucking trouble and I don’t have a clue what to do about it.”
Emma sat beside him and took one of his hands and squeezed it between both of hers, then looking straight into his eyes said, “Tell me; tell me everything.”