Ace in the Picture

by Jude Tresswell

Overview

Polyamory and asexuality meet in this third tale about the North East England quad. 

The police suspect Raith Balan of faking a painting. So do money launderers who sink profits into art.

Mike, Ross and Phil, the three men in Raith's life, must prove his innocence. They're hampered by their certainty that a member of the Fraud Squad is corrupt. 

The senior investigating officer is Detective Sergeant Nick Seabrooke. He knows he is asexual, but is he aromantic too?

As Raith's lovers struggle to keep Raith safe and find the fraudster, the sergeant struggles to understand why the quad is often in his thoughts.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781912655182
Publisher:	Rowanvale Books Ltd
Publication date:	03/31/2019
Series:	County Durham Quad , #3
Pages:	254
Product dimensions:	5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.58(d)

About the Author

Like Nick Seabrooke, the ace in the picture, I am asexual. I've chosen to paint a very narrow picture of asexuality in the story-there are so many types of aces that I could have filled a gallery. My type is very different from Nick's, but there are some firsthand truths peeping through the fiction.  I blog at https://polyallsorts.wordpress.com . There are posts about asexuality, polyamory, beer, tattoos, book covers and many other story-related items. There are photos of the Durham countryside, the setting of the stories, too. 

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Raith stood in the kitchen in front of the calendar. His gaze shifted from the naked figure depicted on 'October' to the highlighted 'Thursday 12th' and back again. He pressed a fingertip to his lips, transferred a kiss to the mid-point of the figure's shoulder blades and ran his finger down the spine — Mike Angells' spine.

The real-life Mike walked into the room and filled the kettle.

"What are you admirin'?" he asked. "The model or the artist?"

Raith was the artist. "The artist," he replied. "He's classy. The model's okay, I suppose."

"Cheeky!" Mike admonished.

Changing the subject, Raith asked, "You know what day it is in two days' time, don't you?"

"In two days? Well, let's see ... difficult one ... It must be Thursday. Aye, that's right. It was Monday yesterday, so —"

"Stop teasing me! Do you think he's forgotten?"

'He' was Phil Roberts, the man Raith had married 364 days earlier.

"Don't be daft. Of course not. You know Phil. His middle name's 'No fuss'."

"That's two names."

"And that's two cups of coffee. One for you. One for me," said Mike, handing over a mug. "Here. You can have the one with the penis handle, seein' as you made it."

"None for me?" asked a third man who, yawning, had entered the kitchen. He hugged the two men already there.

"Sorry, Ross," Mike apologised. "I didn't make you one. I thought you were still asleep."

"No. Just dozy," said Ross, Mike's civil partner, sleepily. "I heard Phil's car. Is it an emergency, Raith?"

"Not exactly," Raith replied. "He went in early to cover for a colleague."

Phil had helped to pioneer a form of rectal surgery that used nanocarbon patches to reconstruct torn tissue. He was a respected consultant at the hospital an hour's drive away in Warbridge, County Durham.

"I'd better get sorted and get out myself," said Ross. He was, amongst other things, a gallery proprietor in Gateshead, and his journey to work took longer than Phil's. He yawned again.

"Are you feelin' okay?" asked Mike, alert to Ross's tone of voice. "It's not like you to sound so unenthusiastic about work." In fact, it wasn't like Ross to sound unenthusiastic about anything. He was always lively — he personified keenness.

"I'm dead tired cos I didn't sleep well. I had a strange text late on. You were already asleep. I don't think you heard the phone buzz. Strange. Unsettling."

"Oh?"

"How do you mean?" asked Raith. "We're not going to get involved with more criminal activities, are we? I'd had enough of crime fighting last time!"

Even though Mike was no longer a detective with the Tees, Tyne and Wear Constabulary, the four of them were involved in a surprising amount of crime fighting. 'Last time' had involved an illegal immigrant, and the tensions that had arisen had threatened the survival of the quad.

That's what they were: a gay, polyamorous quad. They lived in Tunhead, a hamlet in Weardale in the Durham hills. Once, Tunhead had rung to the sound of workers' hammers hitting stone. In a way it still did: Ross had turned it into an arts centre full of smiths, sculptors and potters who wanted to escape the North East's towns.

"Well, we're not, are we?" Raith repeated.

"No."

"Good. Well, my creations won't create themselves. I'd better get off, too."

In Raith's case, 'getting off' simply meant walking twenty yards to his studio, a converted storehouse.

"You sure he hasn't forgotten?" he asked Mike again before he left.

"I'm sure."

"Okay then."

"What's that about?" asked Ross after Raith was gone.

"He's bothered that Phil's forgotten their anniversary."

"He hasn't."

"I know he hasn't. He's takin' him off on a trip sumwhere — he's not sayin' where yet — but you know Raith. He needs everythin' crystal clear and written in capital letters. And sumtimes, so do I. What was this message about?"

Ross pulled a face and explained. When he'd done so, Mike could understand his concern.

"He wouldn't be so stupid, Ross ... Would he?"

"Not stupid, Mike, but he's gullible. He doesn't always think. I just don't know."

* * *

The message stayed in Ross's mind during the forty-mile drive to the gallery and he couldn't forget about it once he was there. Some of Raith's paintings hung on the gallery walls. They were mainly of Weardale's waterfalls. After heavy rain, the falls transformed from gentle trickles into rushing, gushing powerful forces of nature that the four men knew could kill. They'd seen them kill.

Raith loved to paint the waterfalls. From a distance, his torrents looked alive. The effect was linked to his use of colour. Raith was a tetrachromat; he could see a host of hues in what, to most people, was a single shade. He painted for himself, though, not for fame or money — he had plenty of both, due to his skill with clay not brushes. Several of his wares were on show at the gallery, most tagged 'sold' with a price that would feed and clothe all four men for a long, long time. His sensually erotic sculptures, modelled on Mike and Phil, were always in demand and beautifully, lovingly executed. But today, Ross gave Raith's erotica a miss. He stared, instead, at the waterfalls.

What might induce Raith to produce a piece of work "with intent to deceive", as the legal phrase was?

That was what the worrying message had suggested. That Raith's were the hands and eyes behind a painting that the police were interested in. They thought it was a fake. For the umpteenth time, Ross asked himself why?

Raith didn't need fame and he didn't need fortune, but did he need the challenge of outwitting the experts? Of copying another artist's work so accurately that no one would notice the difference?

Surely not. Momentarily, Ross's dark mood lifted. The only challenge Raith was likely to rise to was the one of finding ways to spice up the quad's evening meals. Two nights ago, he'd 'accidentally' stumbled near the saucepan with a teaspoon of chilli flakes in his hand.

"Oh, look! They've fallen in," he'd said apologetically.

Ross smiled when he thought about it, but anxiety soon returned. Could Raith be feeling resentment? Sometimes, that was the driving force behind a fraud. Failed artists whose work had been refused once too often. Failed artists who took I'll show them! literally.

No. All Raith's resentments were little ones that quickly blew over — feeling nagged for not doing his turn on the housekeeping rota, being yelled at for leaving clay-covered dirty washing on top of the pile of clean laundry. Raith took umbrage easily, but he'd be smiling again within the hour. And anyway, he wasn't a failed artist. He was a very successful one.

He was a strange mixture though. That complexity was part of his attraction. It was part of what made him Raith. His skill was undeniable, but his mental health was fragile — 'bloody unhinged' was how Mike would describe Raith in less charitable moments. He could be unpredictable. He could be very violent. He had another side, though, and it was what Mike and Phil and Ross adored about him. Canny, clued up, an ex-con hard as nails ... but at the toss of a coin, as loving, as sweet and as trusting as anyone they had ever met. Mike was as loving, and often as sweet, but trusting? No. Mike was ex-CID. It wasn't in his nature to be trusting.

Which was why Mike was already making phone calls.

CHAPTER 2

Phil sat in his Fourtrak in the hospital car park, ready to drive home. The past year had been a good one. He loved being part of the quad. Serious, reserved and a loner by nature, he'd found acceptance, affection and security with his three men, and he had as much sex as he wanted. With two of them anyway. Ross only partnered Mike.

When, early in the previous year, Phil had felt assailed by problems, he'd reacted to the strain by accusing Ross and Mike of bias and unfairness, of unbalancing the dynamics of the quad. But when he'd married Raith, the balance had been restored. In two days' time, it would be his and Raith's first wedding anniversary.

He texted his colleague: The ops went smoothly. Thanks for swapping theatre dates. Phil's ops had originally been scheduled for the following day, but now he could pack in the morning and fly off later in the afternoon instead. A week-long trip to Venezuela and the Angel Falls. Then, after he and Raith returned, he would still have three weeks off to laze around Tunhead and enjoy the autumn weather on the moors above the village.

He smiled as he placed the travel documents in the inside pocket of his jacket. He'd kept them at work, well out of sight.

Raith was well-travelled. He'd seen the Angel Falls four years previously, but only briefly. He'd often said how much he'd like to return and paint the rainbows made by the tumbling water.

Raith and his waterfalls! thought Phil. Well, he'd take him there, to the highest cascade in the world. Tomorrow.

Phil rounded the final bend of the narrow, twisty lane that led from Tunhope on the trunk road to their home at the head of Tun Beck. He was a little surprised to see a blue and yellow police car parked on the tarmac in front of Raith's studio, but it probably belonged to Clive Flaxby. Flaxby had been Mike's superintendent when Mike was in the Force. He sometimes visited but, being CID, usually in an unmarked car.

As soon as Phil stepped out of his Fourtrak, he realised he was mistaken. What the hell was going on?

The studio doors were open. Phil ran in and nearly bumped into a uniformed constable who was carrying a laptop out. Raith, furious, tore out after him.

"Bring that fucking laptop back, you fucking bastard!"

Raith grabbed hold of the constable's arm, then found his own restrained by a plain-clothes cop.

"You bust my fucking arm and I'll fucking kill you!" he screamed. "I'll break your fucking neck!"

Then he saw Phil, and Phil saw Mike. Mike made a gesture of helplessness. Phil went straight to Raith and, in front of everybody, put both arms tightly round the trembling man.

"Shhh now."

Raith relaxed and the DC released him from the armlock.

"Phil, what's going on?" asked Raith, still distraught but visibly calmer now the one man who could calm him was there, holding him tightly.

Mike, standing near the back, breathed a sigh of relief. Phil had arrived just in time. Mike had been working in the garden when the cars had pulled up outside the studio. He'd recognised the driver of the marked car. He'd recognised the knock on the studio door, too. Peremptory. No nonsense. Business. He'd put down his tools and quickly crossed the little lane — in time to hear a plainclothes cop he didn't recognise tell Raith that they'd like him to visit the station tomorrow to answer some questions to aid an investigation, and they'd need to confiscate his PCs and phones. Raith had gone ballistic.

With the quad's patience and support, Raith had learnt to control the angry outbursts that, years ago, had seen him jailed for GBH, but rage was never far beneath his surface. When Raith erupted, the only person who could contain his wrath was Phil. Somehow, Phil could calm him and make him feel safe.

Raith let himself be held and, bewildered, repeated his question: "Phil, what's going on?"

* * *

The men were unable to discuss the day's events together until the evening, when Ross returned from work. They gathered in Cromarty's comfortable living room to talk.

Cromarty: it was the name of their home. Mike had been the first of them to move to Tunhead, many years before. He'd met Ross and — tickled by the link between Ross and Cromarty, two adjacent Scottish counties — had named the house "Cromarty" when Ross moved in.

Originally, most of the houses in the hamlet had been the homes of quarry workers, but they'd become holiday lets by that time. As few people wished to spend their holidays in this beautiful but wet, cold and remote part of North East England, the owners had been glad to sell their properties to Ross and Mike. The two of them had renovated everything in their spare time. Ross, versed in many aspects of the art and craft world, had started up the Beck on the Wear Arts Centre (known, with amusement, as BOTWAC) and leased the buildings to artisans. Raith was one. He'd long known Ross, and Mike had long known Phil.

Now, the four men lived together, having made Cromarty and the house next door into a single, much-loved home.

Ross took Mike to one side. "Keep it light, love. I know you. When it's cloak and dagger stuff, all your old police gravitas takes over, and I understand that, but ..."

"You mean I can tease him?"

"You usually do."

"Aye, I know. You try to look less worried, though."

Ross pulled a face. "I can't help it," he admitted. "I know I never have sex with him — it's not that sort of love — but I do love him. Very much. And I am worried. For him. He's always on the edge. You know what I mean. I'm not even sure that Phil can keep him in one piece this time. Mentally, I mean."

"He worked his usual magic earlier on. But yes, I'll keep it light."

* * *

"I've got to go into Warbridge station tomorrow for a 'voluntary interview'," Raith said bitterly. "I could've answered all their fucking questions here. They don't have to drag me off to fucking Warbridge. I mean, they're not charging me with anything. It's all this stupid 'helping with enquiries' shit, and they wouldn't tell me what the fucking enquiries I'm supposed to be helping with actually are. Fucking shiters. I felt like I was eighteen years old again. Standing in the dock with some poncy, stuck-up magistrate telling me what a naughty boy I was ..." Resentment gave way to fear, his brown eyes suddenly filling with concern. "I've done nothing wrong. Honestly, I haven't. I would never risk losing this, losing Phil, losing you two, and I don't want to go back to jail. If I'm going to get fucked, I want to be fucked by you and Mike," he said, turning to Phil, "not by some spiced-up, HIV-infected bastard in a jail."

All Phil could do was hold him more tightly.

"We found a few things out," said Mike. "I phoned Flaxby this mornin'— actually, before they all came."

"Before?"

"It was sumthin' Ross said."

"I'd had a text," said Ross, and he explained what had happened. "You'd already left for work, Phil."

"So, I phoned Flaxby," said Mike, "to see if anythin' had come his way. I could tell he was bein' evasive, but there was nuthin' I could do. I didn't realise things would move so fast. He phoned me later this afternoon and apologised. He knew what was happenin', but because the four of us are together, he had to keep schtum. When I say he knew what was happenin', I mean he knew that there'd be officers comin' here. That's all. He's got nuthin' to do with the actual case.

"It's not local. It's a London crew. They came up to HQ in Tyneside the other day, then turned up at the Warbridge station wantin' an office. They're a branch of the National Crime Agency. Accordin' to Flaxby, the ICU — the International Corruption Unit."

"International corruption? What on earth do they think is going on here?" asked Ross in disbelief.

"Wish I knew. The ICU remit is cybercrime, gun runnin', drugs, money launderin'. Those sorts of things. I'm assumin' this is some kind of fraud, maybe linked to money launderin'. All Flaxby could tell me was that it's sumthin' to do with Raith bein' a tetrachromat. So, I phoned Ross."

"And I've been making calls all day," Ross cut in. "In a nutshell, a painting has just been offered to a London auction house, Lenfitte's, privately. They're a Mayfair art and antiques auctioneers. Lenfitte's staff became suspicious. They don't believe the painting is authentic. The artist is supposedly a Russian woman, Masha Ivashova. She was more or less unheard of until recently, then bang! Lenfitte's sold two of her works for a hundred and ten thousand euros six months ago. Then this turns up. Red alert in the art world. Alarm bells ringing. Here, look."

"A hundred and ten each?" asked Phil when Ross passed his laptop over and he and Raith studied the screen.

"Yes."

"Phew!"

Mike, all cop for a moment, watched Raith carefully, and smiled to himself. Raith had been telling them the truth.

"It's like the kind of thing ... oh shit," said Phil as he saw the picture, too. It was a painting that was executed in exactly the same style as Raith's, and it was a waterfall.

"What's so special about it?" Raith asked. "It looks normal to me."

"Well, it would look normal to you, but it doesn't look normal to the rest of us. It looks wrong. It's ... too blue, too green. Too something."

"It's too detailed for one thing," said Ross. "In terms of the palette. I spoke with Melissa Cayson. She's the conservator who texted me — we worked at the gallery in Durham together years ago, and now she works for the auctioneers. If we had the painting here, instead of on a laptop, it would look like yours, Raith. At least, it would if it were magnified. That bubble there ..." He pointed. "That wouldn't be one blue. It'd be fifty tiny, different blues. That's why it takes you so long to complete anything. You spend half your time mixing paints."

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "Ace in the Picture"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Jude Tresswell.
Excerpted by permission of Rowanvale Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---