PICTURES OF LIFE - Chapters 7-8

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CHAPTER SEVEN

The morning brought a brighter aspect to the street. The stench of burning was now departing, and nature seemed to be reoccupying its usual colonies on the concrete, asphalt and stone. Birds sang once more, and the grass and the weeds seemed to thrive.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed this change to the street, but Peter Picasso was not most people. An aesthete by nature, it was his role in life to notice the symmetry and beauty of the world.
DI Summers was also a man to notice the things other people passed by. But his world was more occupied by motive, intent and opportunity. Indeed, as he saw Peter Picasso walking up the street, he realized he had motive, intent and opportunity to interview him.
‘I suppose it was meant to be,’ said Peter after the formalities were over.
DI Summers was taken aback by this. Did Picasso know something about the Old Man’s plans for the street? ‘In what way, “meant to be”?’ he asked.
‘The universe goes round and round, and destiny is way beyond our understanding.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
Peter laughed. ‘Come with me,’ he said as he turned and headed back to the bedsit. Once inside, he took the picture, showed it to Summers.
‘So you’re a ghoulish sort, as well as taking the piss.’
‘Except I painted it before the house burned down.’
And the universe went round and round, and destiny is beyond our understanding, and, thought DI Summers, so was Peter Picasso.

Thadias Grimes was not in the same mood as nature. He was not thriving as he hoped he would be. All he wanted in life was to be a simple and successful butcher, but life just kept getting in the way and pushing him down. Indeed, if he understood Peter Picasso’s view of destiny, he would probably agree; although whereas the universe seemed to coincide to help the artist, it was nothing more than pessimism for Thadias.
Problems seemed to compound at that moment. His shop was in danger from the Old Man; perhaps his very life itself. And as he saw Bobby Crawford coming up the street, presumably going to school, he realized HE was most likely the reason no one would buy his pies.
‘But I’ll have one,’ said Peter Picasso as he entered the shop.
‘Have what?’
‘A pie.’
And as Peter left the shop, Thadias added psychic to the list of oddities of the man.

The universe goes round and round, and as Peter Picasso left the butcher’s shop, he was becoming convinced he was finally at its centre. Indeed, that was the role of any artist; and also, he was beginning to realize, of the mystic. Did the combination of his mind and talents mean the world was interweaving his destiny with its own? Or was he simply entering the first stages of psychosis?
Bobby Crawford wouldn’t have understood ‘psychosis,’ so as he walked up the street and saw Peter Picasso walking towards him, he couldn’t wait to tell him his news.
‘Peter, you won’t believe what I saw last night,’ he said, excitedly.
Peter stopped in his tracks. The universe had brought something else, in the form of a little boy, to its centre. ‘So tell me,’ he said, faking interest, ‘what did you see?’
‘I saw a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
‘Yes, a ghost.’
‘A ghost of what?’
‘Of Jack Thomas.’

The universe was not just going round and round, it was beginning to spin, and through the vortex of happenings in his life, Peter Picasso felt destiny like never before. Was the world really about to become his? Was he finally about to make it? Was he about to become the greatest artist of all time?
Or were the men in white coats about to be busy?
Peter Picasso didn’t think about the latter as he returned to his bedsit. He sat, alone, on his bed for a while. He thought deeply about where to go from here. And the idea came in a flash.
Feverishly, he picked up the Yellow Pages; flicked through until he found what he wanted. Then he dived for the phone. Padding in the number, it seemed to ring for an eternity. Then, finally, success:
‘Veronica Dean. Psychic and Ghostbuster at your service.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

To DI Summers the universe didn’t go round and round, but facts were going round and round in his head. It was proving a troubling case. Indeed, he wasn’t sure that it was a case at all. Except, that is, for his instincts. Something, he knew, was going on.
The fire itself might or might not have been deliberate. Jack Thomas might or might not have been inside – although the evidence was strongly suggestive that he was. But if he was, where was he now? Why was there no evidence of a body in the fire?
Then there were the suspects. Old Man Hollis and his sons were bound to be at the top of the list. They had motive for the fire, but he doubted they would have removed the body. And then there was Peter Picasso. He was, in the detective’s view, a borderline schizophrenic, and possibly a psychopath to boot. The thought of catching him in the act of a crime was appealing. He’d never had a true psychopath before.
And then there were the other residents of the street. Many of them seemed to know nothing at all about the case. Had community broken down so much that no one gave a damn about anyone any more? He was still old fashioned enough to believe that could not be true. Someone, somewhere, must have seen something that night. And he would dig and dig and dig until he found out who and what.

His next port of call was to be Mr and Mrs James across the street. He rang the doorbell. It took a long time for the door to be opened. ‘Yes?’ snapped Vernie James. ‘Who are you?’
Summers showed his ID. ‘May I come in?’ he said.
Reluctantly, Vernie stepped back. Summers walked in.
He immediately felt an oppressive atmosphere in the house. Julia James was sat in a chair in the corner. She seemed, to Summers, to have been crying. ‘Can you tell me where the two of you were at the time of the fire?’ he asked.
Julia immediately offered an answer. She had been in the house. Indeed, it had been her who had raised the alarm.
‘And you, sir?’ he said, to Vernie.
Vernie James was cagey. He could offer no alibi to his whereabouts before, during or after the fire. After all, he could hardly say he watched it from the window. And before, he had been with a married woman – hadn’t he?
The interview was interrupted by the closing of a door. Julia stood. Looked out of the window. Observed Dale going off in his taxi. ‘If that’s all, inspector, I’ve got things to do,’ she said, as she hurriedly left.
Summers had, of course, also looked out of the window. As he left the house, Vernie remained a possible suspect. But as for his detecting skills, he had been honed to perfection. And in the James house, he saw a couple ripping themselves apart, and a night in shining armour in the form of a taxi driver.

Some time later DI Summers found himself in another house close by, and he was soon ushered into Old Man Hollis’s study. He looked at the man behind the desk. He immediately saw the ruthlessness in his eyes, and he knew straight away he was capable of doing anything to get what he wanted. ‘I understand you have designs on the land by the burnt out house, Mr Hollis,’ he said.
The Old Man stared. Said: ‘I don’t see what that has to do with you, Inspector?’
‘I’m investigating a crime. Everything is to do with me.’
‘I beg to differ,’ the Old Man replied. ‘As far as I can see, no crime has been committed.’
Stumped. And he knew it. Summers decided against further questions at that point; and it was pointless asking where he had been at the time, because he certainly wouldn’t have got his hands dirty himself. No, he would leave the Old Man for another time. ‘I wonder if I could have a word with your niece?’ he said.
He found Rachel Hollis in the lounge. ‘Perhaps you could tell me where you were at the time of the fire?’ he asked.
Rachel sighed. ‘This is very tedious, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with it.’
‘If you could answer the question, please.’
‘At the time the fire broke out, I had just got in.’
‘And before the alarm was raised?’
Consequences flashed through her mind. Eventually, she thought, what the hell. ‘I was in bed with Dale Crawford.’
And as DI Summers left the house, he wondered where the good taxi driver got the stamina.

Yet for Rachel Hollis, sex was not a matter of stamina, but necessity. And it had been hours since she had had it. ‘Damn you, Dale Crawford,’ she screamed. And as she pounded the carpet, walking up and down, she decided to revisit times past.
Peter Picasso was surprised as he answered the door and Rachel walked into the bedsit.
‘It’s been a long time,’ she said, to which Peter could only agree. After all, it had been ages since Rachel Hollis had needed her spare.
‘I’ve finished with Dale,’ she said.
‘I see.’
‘So do you want me, or not?’
The universe was going round and round for Peter Picasso; yet for the next hour or two, he couldn’t have given a damn.

(c) Anthony North, November 2007

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