Page 9 of The Blue Hour

Their eyes meet. ‘She made it herself,’ Grace says, her voice a little strained. ‘The case, she put it together herself, her fingerprints are on the inside of the glass. There are …tracesof her inside that case. Her fingerprints, her DNA. Her breath.’

Becker looks down at the table, swallowing his shame. Five years might have passed, but it’s clear this woman is still grieving. Her house has been stripped, paintings pulled from her walls; it doesn’t look as though she has much money. Meanwhile, she’s been met with accusations of incompetence, and worse, she’s been hounded by lawyers. And now he’s shown up at her house at dusk, unannounced.

‘I’m so sorry to have had to bother you with this, Dr Haswell,’ he says, as gently as he can. ‘I thought that … in order to avoid any question of opening the case, I might be able to take a look at any sketches or notes that relate to the sculpture; at least if I could get some idea of where the bone was found, and when, then perhaps I—?’

‘Well, I can tell youwhereshe found it,’ Grace replies flatly. ‘Notexactlywhere, but it’ll have been in the wood up on the hill behind the house, that’s where she went scavenging. There, or on the beach. There’s bones all over the place here, deer and sheep and cattle. Seal, too.’ She tips her head to one side, looking at him through narrowed eyes. ‘But even if you could say where she found it, or when, I don’t see how that helps. What does that really tell you?’

‘Not a great deal,’ Becker concedes. ‘But if she mentioned the bone in her journals, if she mentioned finding it, she might say whatshethought it was, and that would be something, I think, to demonstrate that the artist had no intention of using—’

‘Of using what? Of using human remains in her sculpture?’ Grace lets out another bark of laughter. ‘Why would anyone imagine—’ She breaks off then, getting abruptly to her feet, her expression quite changed again. That look of distaste is back, and then some. ‘Oh,God. I’ve only just realized what this is. You think it’shim, don’t you?’

Becker inhales sharply. ‘No, I—’

‘Oh, this is absurd,’ she says, her mouth twisting in contempt, ‘it’s completelyabsurd.’ She leans forward, snatching away his half-full mug of tea, whirling around and hurling it into the sink. ‘I want you to leave!’ she shouts.

‘Please, Dr Haswell, I don’t think it’s him, that’s not what this is about—’

‘Right now!’ She points towards the door. ‘Out you go!’

Becker has no choice, she’s giving him no choice. He grabs his coat and shuffles back into the hallway with Grace following on his heels, barking at him all the while. ‘You people! Trying to cook up some ludicrous, sensationalist nonsense to publicize your museum! You’re really not all that sharp, are you? Julian Chapman went missing in 2002!DivisionIIwas made in 2004!’ The date on the piece is 2005, Becker thinks, but he’s not about to argue with her. ‘He’d hardly be dry bones in a couple of years, would he?’

‘Well … I don’t … I’ve really no idea—’ Becker says miserably, turning to face her.

‘I’m telling you he wouldn’t!’ Grace snaps. ‘Christ, if you’d only bothered to ask someone who knew what they were talking about! Youpeople!’ she says again. ‘You don’t deserve to sit in her kitchen, to walk on her island. You don’t deserve to hang one single piece of her work on your walls. Is this what you think of her? That she …what? Killed her husband and made a sculpture out of him?’

Vanessa Chapman’s diary

I’m in Naples, where the air tastes of salt and sulphur and the sky at night is purple and you can walk by the sea and watch all the kids, all these ravishing Italian teenagers, laughing and shouting and kissing each other in the half-light.

By day, the heat and the men are relentless. Walking down the street is exhausting. The last time I was here I was a child, Iremember the wolfish way men looked at my mother, how she smiled and laughed. I scowl and swear. Despite my vanity (maybe because of it?), I’ve never liked to be painted or photographed, I’ve never liked to be looked at.

I came tolook.

I came to look at Gentileschi’s Judith and Holofernes at the Museo di Capodimonte.

I remember that from when I was here last, too: then I think I was just fascinated by the horror of it, by thegore, now what I love is the way the two women are working together, seriously, really applying themselves to their task. Caravaggio’s Judith is tentative and afraid, but this Judith – red-lipped, in her dress the blue of a Neapolitan sky – is determined, unflinching. Her sleeves are rolled up. And her servant isnot just standing passively or helplessly to one side; she is fully involved, she holds him, presses him to the bed, her eyes on his face. You can almost imagine she relishes it.

I was standing there, in awe of these magnificent women, when a shadow fell over me. A man was standing too close, taking up all the light. Tall and broad-shouldered, square-jawed – he looked like he’dtaken a wrong turn on the way to the bookies. I was about to move away when he said, Are you Vanessa Chapman? I swear, my mouth fell open.

He said he’d seen my pictures at Cube. His name is Douglas Lennox, he has a gallery in Glasgow, and he says he’s interested in representingme.

I let him take me for a drink and then, after a few, to bed. Probably not the best idea if we’re going to work together, but he was very good – and he is married, so he shouldn’t really cause me any problems.

Julian has been home for five days, sulking. Apparently it is all over with Celia. He is broke and his father is refusing to lend him any more money. I don’t have any to give him either.

Douglas Lennox turned up yesterday. He rang me from the station in Oxford, said he was just passing.

From Glasgow??

He didn’t like the paintings I did of Blenheim Palace, the ones everyone else admires. Sentimental, chocolate boxy. He loved the hedgerows. Bold, he said, ambitious – taking landscape in a new direction. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Julian came into the studio while we were talking, we were standing very close together, my hand was on Douglas’s arm, or maybe he had his hand in the small of my back, we were touching at any rate – anyway, Julian – who knows how touchy-feely I am, witheveryone– stormed out.

Douglas and I talked for a long time. I talked about wanting to move almost towards something three-dimensional, making markswith the palette knife that tend towards carving. He pointed out that the best work I have done has not beenhere– the pictures from Cornwall and Italy are more successful. This landscape – that once thrilled me – now palls.

When Julian came back to the house in the evening he confronted me about Douglas and I laughed at him. I thought for a moment he might hit me – I think I wanted him to. If he hit me then I could walk out, couldn’t I?

We have had thunderstorms three days running and I feel as though my body has absorbed the electricity in the air. I paint and paint, Ifeel revitalized, made new.

London tomorrow, to the Art Fair.

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