The camera man, p.22
The Camera Man, page 22
Smith turned right out of the coffee shop and followed the street as it curved down towards the beach. The road had been cut through the low cliffs typical of the east coast, and near the bottom it was covered with fine sand that had been blown up from the beach. Where the road ended and the beach proper began there were a few beach huts, things so wonderfully English that every time he saw them, he had to stop and look – who but his fellow countrymen would build wooden sheds on a beach, paint them in optimistically bright colours and sit inside them twice a year?
He walked out onto the strand, which was of excellent firm sand, and looked to the south. It was another windy day and the few families who had ventured onto the beach were huddled up against the cliffs, their windbreaks flapping like loose sails in a gale. In the hazy distance he could see figures at the water’s edge, and a small group of people swimming out beyond the surf. Gerald Fitch had either been walking to or away from this beach but it resembled a hundred others around the Norfolk coast. Once again - why here?
Turning to the north, he began to walk himself. The beach that way was more exposed to the wind and there was no one in sight. After some two hundred yards he saw a set of steps leading up to a point where the cliffs – they hardly merited the name here – were lower, and on that level area was a set of noticeboards. As he climbed the steps, he began to remember – Hazeborough had made the national news a few years ago. After storms and high spring tides there had been more erosion of the cliffs than usual, and something extraordinary had been discovered. If the site had had these impressive permanent public information structures erected, the find must have been right here, where he had been walking.
Smith began to read the boards, in order and studying the illustrations. The storms had uncovered a level bed of shale, and someone passing by had noticed there were footprints, human footprints in the soft rock – they had also realised the significance of what they had found. For a few frantic days, archaeologists had battled to record and save what they could; there had been rain and slowly the prints were melting away. Nothing could be done to preserve them, but the experts had made the most of the time they had.
He moved on to the next board. Five humans had wandered this way, heading north just as Smith had been. At least two had been children, and the archaeologists believed at least one of the adults had been female – a family group then, walking through the silt and mud at the water’s edge while this place had still been a part of the larger European landmass, and more than likely the estuary of the river which became the Thames. The information board suggested they had been foraging for food, for shellfish and seaweed. There was an artist’s impression of the scene and Smith studied the adult male as he stood on this beach and looked out to sea: a little hunched and low-browed but recognisably human and not so different from what Smith could see in the shaving mirror first thing in the morning. From the shale deposits, the scientists could date the event with, they claimed, a fair degree of accuracy. These ancestors had walked this way nine hundred and fifty thousand years ago.
The longer one looked at the information boards and thought about this, the more extraordinary the story became. Almost a million years ago, early humans had been drawn to the same places as ourselves, and for at least some of the same reasons – fair enough, Smith bought his seafood from Tommy Bean, but he and Jo had been known to gather their own samphire. Almost a million years, and not that much has changed…
Was this why Gerald Fitch had been here? Smith had been looking for something, anything, that might offer a reason for this being the place he had chosen rather than anywhere else, and here was something – as far as he knew, the only place in the world with such a story attached to it. But there had been nothing else to suggest Gerald had a passion for the early history of hominids. All this gave the place a certain atmosphere if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing, and Gerald had lots of photographs of the Norfolk coast back in Woodlands, including some pretty atmospheric ones – but this was no “Aha!” moment. In fact, as he went down the steps back towards the beach, Smith concluded that if he went any further out on a limb as thin as this one, the branch would undoubtedly break and he would end up in an untidy heap beneath it. He had the feeling now that despite the intriguing call from Marilyn earlier in the day, he was going to be no further forward at the end of it, and he’d done a lot more miles he could not honestly claim on his expenses.
He walked back up the track towards Hazeborough, and noticed something he hadn’t on the way down. There was a sign to an art gallery on the left, and he could see the building from this angle – a low, single-storey place tucked in below the edge of the tiny village. The sign read “Spindrift – Authentic Local Arts and Crafts”. The presence of an art gallery might seem improbable but there are dozens around the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts, and they are, in reality, shops that sell mostly paintings to holiday-makers and people decorating their weekend cottages. He and Jo had agreed that a few originals of the local bird species would be a welcome addition to Drift’s End, and as this place was called Spindrift, he took that as an omen and followed the sign.
The gallery was deceptively large, the original old bungalow having had an extension built onto the rear. Through the glass sides there was a fine view of the sea, and the natural lighting was perfect for the many paintings on display. Smith had been into several such places and recognised two things straight away: one, all the usual styles and approaches to the subject were here; and two, the person who had selected them had an eye. These were good.
An elderly woman’s head appeared around a corner, looked at him over her bifocals and said good morning. Smith returned the greeting and was told to look around at his leisure before she disappeared again. A small watercolour of a Redshank had his attention immediately, painted, he noted, just a few miles east of Drift’s End. Two hundred pounds, though…
He walked a few steps more until he was round the corner where the woman had been. Lots more paintings, bigger pictures here, by some serious artists. Smith recognised some of the places and views. And then he found he had lost ten or perhaps twenty seconds of his life. They had simply gone and he would never get them back. He had been staring at a sequence of three pictures, matching pictures by the same hand, and identically framed.
Three extraordinary paintings of Gerald Fitch’s photographs.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘No,’ the lady had said as she came up behind him, ‘I’m afraid we don’t allow that.’
Almost without thinking, Smith had taken the little camera out of his pocket and switched it on – it seemed vital to preserve not only an image of what he’d seen but also the moment of his astonishment. He could have pressed the button anyway and taken one as if she had spoken too late but what chance then of discovering the story that lay behind the display on the wall in front of him?
He apologised and said of course he should have realised. Then he explained he had been so taken by the paintings he hadn’t thought – he wanted to show them to his partner, who was away working in London. He mentioned Jo’s name because that would give the lady cause to think he was probably telling the truth, and put the camera away.
The woman must be in her mid-seventies at least but she was straight-backed and had a fierce eye as she looked him over. Eventually she seemed mollified by his story, and stepped forward to stand by his side. She asked whether he was local to the area, and Smith told the full truth because that’s usually best – he mentioned their cottage at Marston and said they’d been talking about some paintings for it, which was also true, more or less.
Naturally enough, she had begun to see him as a potential customer. He asked whether the artist was a local one. She pointed to the signature hidden in the bottom right of the nearest painting, little more than a line left in the sand by wind or wave, and said ‘That is an interesting question. His name is Ian Fisher, and he is indeed a local man. He lives about ten miles from Hazeborough.’
Ian Fisher. Nothing Smith had heard in the case so far led to that… When they choose another name for themselves, people who wish to begin anew rarely do so randomly – surprisingly often there is some hidden link to their past, some means of holding onto it, of not quite letting go. But the name Ian Fisher meant nothing.
Ten miles from Hazeborough, from this very spot? A rookie might say, oh really, would you happen to have his address and phone number? Instead, Smith took a step towards the nearest picture, peered a little and said, ‘A fascinating technique,’ as if he had the faintest idea what he was talking about. The woman joined him and responded with, ‘It is, and highly original. I’ve had a few comments that it’s in the neo-realist tradition but personally I believe it’s more than that. This is not simply an accurate recording. In each picture I can see something more – a sense that the subject has moved fractionally to the side during the act of creation. It’s almost ironic in the effect, as if we are seeing the subject from two minutely different angles in the simultaneous moment…’
Smith continued to peer, nodding and hoping he wasn’t expected to give his own views on the matter of neo-realism in modern art. Fortunately, the lady took his silence as a sign of complete agreement and continued, ‘And another thing is the structure of these works. The subjects, if they are indeed the subjects, are tiny in proportion to the whole. The figures on the beaches are so small and yet so evocative.’
Indeed, Smith thought – remarkably evocative of the photographs I saw in Gerald Fitch’s abandoned room in West Wootton. Here was a vast beach-scape in what must be the light of dawn – pink and gold, as he had seen it many times now beyond Drift’s End – and against the silvered grey of the sand, a tiny silhouetted figure stood at the edge of the tide. Tiny and yet somehow unmistakably female.
The lady, who must be the owner of this gallery and the remarkable eye, was in full flow now, with such a receptive visitor for an audience. She said, ‘And most excitingly for me, Ian Fisher is a naive artist. He has had no formal training. It is a gift he has shared with the world.’
Smith nodded once more – this made sense. He knew Gerald had a bit of a flair for design – hadn’t he created the new publicity brochures for Fitch Marine? – but there had been no mention of any formal training in the arts.
He said, ‘And you know Ian Fisher personally, I presume, if he lives locally?’
‘We have met on one occasion,’ as if she was recounting the story of when she met Her Majesty the Queen. ‘He came on a visit earlier this year when there was some publicity around his work. We were fortunate to be chosen, because he has already sold his work in other Norfolk galleries. My partner completed the framing on these, and we have a working relationship now. These haven’t been for sale for very long – I have people coming to view them soon.’
This was a sales pitch, naturally. Smith was wondering how he might maintain an interest and gather more intelligence without getting out his chequebook – the three pictures were priced at seven hundred pounds apiece. Another problem was that comment about the visit during some sort of publicity – was that where Gerald had been going when he was spotted from the coffee shop window? The two ideas did not fit together well.
He said, ‘Are they for sale individually?’
The lady looked a little hurt.
She said, ‘They are… But of course, the effect is so much enhanced by seeing them side by side. For anyone who has the room, of course.’
Her look seemed to be saying, ‘But perhaps you do not have the room… Or the means…’
He said, ‘Well, I am interested in these. I’d like my partner to see them. I think we’ll have to make another journey.’
She had dismissed him as a prospect now but he added, ‘I don’t suppose there are any more publicity events planned? We could come then – it would be fascinating to meet the artist.’
The lady said, ‘I fear that is unlikely. His circumstances make such things rather difficult.’
‘Oh?’
His circumstances? Smith could almost taste something juicy now, if only the woman would keep talking. And she did.
‘Yes, rather sadly. He is a resident at Broughton Farm. Do you know it?’
Smith shook his head a little, not taking his eyes from hers for a split second.
‘It is a home near Trimsley-on-Sea. Ian Fisher has severe learning difficulties.’
It was quite a story, of course, and the interest shown by her visitor encouraged Florence Langham to tell it. She had first seen one of the paintings in a tiny gallery in Trimsley – no more than a café really, with a few daubs for sale on the wall – and had been struck by that one piece. She had made inquiries, done some detective work – oh, well done, said the man who seemed to be hanging on her every word – and discovered the story of the artist and his whereabouts. She had contacted Broughton Farm and had been introduced to the staff who cared for Ian Fisher. Having explained her own credentials as a connoisseur and gallery owner, the director at the Farm had agreed that if Ian Fisher himself wanted to come to an arrangement with Spindrift, the home would have no objections as long as the matter was professionally handled, and as long as Ian Fisher’s welfare was of the highest priority. This all took place eighteen months ago – since then, Spindrift had sold several pieces on behalf of the artist, and now acted exclusively for him. Using her contacts, Florence Langham had given the story some publicity locally, and from that a wider interest was developing; the buyers she was expecting later in the week were from London. ‘It is likely,’ she said to Smith, ‘the prices of future works will be higher than these. I would not be surprised if there is some competition for the paintings in front of you.’
Smith looked again at the three paintings, looked for several seconds as if the story behind them had made him re-evaluate what he could see, but his mind was racing ahead, to the point where he had to put on the brakes a little. What a tale! Such riches! Where to begin? How to take it further? Walking up the road from the beach, he had turned left towards the Spindrift gallery almost on a whim, without an idea as to how further progress in this investigation was possible. On the beach he had said to himself, why this place of all places, if indeed that had been Gerald Fitch coming down the road last April? And now the answer was hanging on a wall in front of him, at two thousand one hundred pounds, cheap at the price. To someone who hadn’t followed this trail from the beginning, who was having it explained to them from this point in it, the story might seem improbable, and yet these were paintings from Gerald’s photographs. Smith was entirely convinced of it; these three were of vast dreamy expanses of sand and sky but in the background of each was a thin line of trees beyond dunes, Scots pine trees he knew, because he recognised that place – it was the beach beyond the dune-woods at Holkham. He had walked there many times with Sheila, and since with Jo. It was somewhere no lover of North Norfolk has ever failed to go, somewhere that attracts artists – and probably photographers – from all over the world. And the tiny figure of a woman in each one, offset from the centre? Gerald Fitch had taken the pictures which had inspired these paintings.
Florence Langham said, ‘When he came to the gallery, I thought Ian Fisher a remarkable man.’
In more ways than you might think, Mrs Langham, thought Smith. Had he got this absolutely correct? Was there some way in which Ian Fisher and Gerald Fitch were one and the same? Was there some sort of ruse here, to hide the origins of the pictures, perhaps to create a story to bring them to the art market, which, let’s be honest, has a long history of being hoodwinked?
Florence Langham had just said something about a photograph of the day. Smith apologised and said he was a little deaf in one ear. What was that?
She went over to a desk in one corner and returned with a laptop. In moments she had found what she was looking for. She said, ‘We had agreed that a picture of Ian would not appear in the media but one of the Broughton staff took this one at my request.’ She held it out for Smith to see.
Florence Langham and a younger woman were standing behind a chair, one either side of it, and on the chair sat a thin-faced, clean-shaven, dark-haired man whose age was difficult to determine. He was looking up at the camera because his posture was hunched, one shoulder, the left, seemed to be a little higher than the other, and he was trying to smile. And that, thought Smith, answers one of my questions.
He said, ‘It’s a good photograph.’
She said, ‘Yes. I treasure it. The world will not get to see much of Ian Fisher, for obvious reasons.’
She closed the laptop and took it back to her desk. No doubt she was a busy woman and had been generous with her time, especially with someone who almost certainly didn’t have the means to buy much in her gallery.
Smith said, ‘Who did you say took the photograph? If you don’t mind my asking…’
She said, ‘Pardon?’
He said, ‘I was wondering who took the picture of the three of you that day.’
She seemed surprised but answered him.
‘That was Geoff, one of the carers at Broughton Farm. He pops in occasionally on his bicycle, just to keep us updated with Ian’s work. I think he must live locally.’
Five miles? Ten at the most? As he walked back to the car, Smith had asked himself the question, how far do people who rely on bicycles travel on a daily basis? Obviously, Geoff might have a car as well and just use a bike for exercise… Even so, if the man biked to here to visit the gallery, it must mean he wasn’t far away. It was a familiar feeling, the sense that step by step the net was closing, and one Smith had not expected to experience again.
His mind continued to work on the matter. He hadn’t been able to examine the image on the laptop as closely as he would have liked but as well as being successfully composed, it had looked sharp and was in the standard six by four format – it had not been taken on a mobile phone. Had Geoff brought one of his own cameras along when Ian Fisher visited the gallery? That would make sense, especially if he was really Gerald, and would have the added bonus that if you’re taking the pictures, you can’t easily be in them.
