‘Dr MacDonald has asked if you could go up to see her, when you’re finished with your interviews.’
‘Will do,’ says Arthur. ‘Thanks.’
At the entrance to the exhibition, Arthur turns to me. ‘How about you take this one, and I interview someone else?’
‘Good plan. Meet you by the reception desk in twenty minutes,’ I suggest, ‘and we’ll go up to see Dr MacDonald?’
‘Great.’ He heads off along an art-lined corridor, and I walk once again into Van Gogh’s extraordinary world. The artist had a condition known as ‘synaesthesia’. This means his senses overlapped – he saw shapes when he heard sounds, for instance. Those great swirls in the sky in The Starry Night? They were the result of his synaesthesia.
There’s no time to look at or reflect on the paintings today, though. We have a case to solve, and a missing woman to find.
The attendant is sitting on a wooden chair beside the archway that leads to the next room. He’s staring into space and nodding his head. It takes me a moment to realise he’s listening to music.
‘Hey!’ I say to him.
As he fumbles with his phone, turning off his music app, I take the opportunity to study him. My eyes flick over him, searching for clues to his personality and interests.
‘Hi!’ he says with a smile. ‘What can I help you with?’
I decide to trust my hunch. ‘What do you play?’ I ask.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I noticed your fingernails. You play the guitar?’
He smiles. ‘Wow, you’re observant! Yeah – I’m a third-year guitar student at ACM – the Academy of Contemporary Music in Clapham.’
I study him. ‘Rock?’ I ask.
‘We have to cover everything, but, yeah, I’m more into the rock side than classical or folk. Do you play?’
I shake my head. ‘No. I love listening, though.’
He gestures to the art on the walls. ‘What’s your favourite?’
‘The Sunflowers.’
He nods. ‘They’re cool.’ He points to the wall opposite his chair, where two paintings of Van Gogh himself hang side by side. ‘I like the self-portraits. They’re kind of creepy, but fascinating, you know?’
‘He was so talented …’ I pause for a moment, then say, ‘Have you heard the senior curator’s gone missing?’
He frowns. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I’m looking into her disappearance.’
‘You are? How old are you?’
I produce the fake ID badge and he takes it and reads it. ‘“Prodigal Investigations”. Is that like a PI firm or something?’
‘That’s right. They specialise in recruiting young people,’ I explain, ‘… but we still report to grown-ups,’ I add quickly. ‘So, do you know Sheila Smith?’
He hands back the badge. ‘Everyone knows her. She’s a really nice woman. Very glamorous – she always looks great …’ He pauses. ‘So, what’s happening? Are the police involved?’
‘They wanted to leave it a few more days – they say there isn’t any reason yet to suspect foul play, but they’re happy to let us look into it in the meantime, as the family are concerned.’
He looks worried. ‘So, do you think she’s all right?’
I shrug. ‘I hope so. There’s certainly nothing to suggest she was attacked.’ I get my pen ready for note-taking.
‘So, Robbo,’ I say, reading his name badge, ‘when was the last time you saw her?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Friday, at the end of the day. She came round to say goodbye and check I hadn’t gone mad from boredom, sitting here all afternoon.’
‘So she was already in her coat?’
‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘She was wearing this long coat, with a man’s hat. She carried it off, mind – very Marlene Dietrich.’
So that was Sheila in the CCTV footage!
‘Did she seem all right?’
He starts to nod, then appears to remember something. ‘Well, she was a bit on edge, you know?’
‘In what way, “on edge”?’
‘It’s just that normally she gives you her full attention, but on Friday she kept checking her phone and she seemed distracted. It’s probably nothing …’
‘It was worth mentioning, though – thank you. Was there anything else?’
‘No. After a few minutes, she just said, “See you on Monday, Robbo”.’
‘Well, thanks for your help.’ I tear a page out of my notebook and scribble down my mobile number. ‘If you think of anything else, please give me a call.’
He takes the slip of paper. ‘Will do. I still can’t believe it … Sheila, missing …’
I remember Darren and the receptionist’s comments on how young Arthur and I were, and want to reassure him. ‘I promise I’m going to report back to my supervisors,’ I tell him, ‘and they’re going to do everything they can to find her.’
It’s only been ten minutes, but Arthur’s already waiting when I reach the reception desk.
‘Let’s find a quiet spot to talk before we go and see Dr MacDonald,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can find a space upstairs in the medieval section, where it isn’t too busy.’
We walk up the stairs and enter a room where there are lots of religious paintings in dark colours with splashes of gold.
‘So, what did you find out?’ I ask him.
‘Not much. You?’
‘Robbo last saw her at the end of the day on Friday, when she did her usual round of goodbyes. She seemed distracted – she kept checking her phone. He also confirmed she was dressed in the clothes we saw on the monitor.’
‘So that was her then, on her way out?’
‘Yes. It’s good to have that confirmed,’ I say.
He nods and consults his notes. ‘Emma saw her in the ladies’ toilets at five twenty pm. They smiled and exchanged pleasantries – nothing more. I also had a quick chat with the other two attendants—’
‘Wow, you’re quick!’
‘Well – nothing to report, basically, so there was no reason to keep them talking.’
‘So, no leads …’
He shakes his head. ‘We’d better report to Dr Mac. Let’s hope she’s not expecting any results yet.’
‘I’d also like to inspect Sheila’s office, if she has one.’
He nods. ‘She does. We can get the key from Dr MacDonald.’
We head back down to the main foyer area and from there pass through another staff-only door and take the stairs two flights to the second floor. Arthur’s been here before, so he leads the way. As we walk, I tentatively say, ‘Arthur – have you noticed anything not quite right about