Sturr said something else, earnest and forceful. Ingeborg still looked in two minds. She shamed him with her large, intelligent eyes.
"If I step out," she said in a voice everyone was meant to hear, "it's out of your life, John. I'm not your plaything, to be brought out when you feel like it."
"That's unfair," protested Sturr.
"It's business before pleasure with you, isn't it?" she continued bitterly. "If you're not on the phone to America, or checking your precious pictures, you're in conference with the police.
Meanwhile I'm supposed to sit around waiting, and if the other night's anything to go by, I could wait for ever."
"For God's sake, Inge!"
"I'm off. You can stuff your vintage Mumm up your vintage bum."
With that, she got up and walked out of the building. She refrained from slamming the front door behind her, but certainly closed it with firmness. From the window, they watched her walk to her car in the glow of the security light, and start up.
Diamond saw no reason to apologise. He had not asked her to leave.
Sturr's way of dealing with the incident was to ignore it. He said tersely, "You'd better tell me what you want."
"Miss Redbird," said Diamond. "Did you know her personally?"
"I knew of her. She wasn't a friend, if that's what you mean."
"Did you ever do business with her?"
"Buying stuff from her shop? No, no, I don't go in for antiques."
"Pictures."
"I buy from specialists. Dealers." He gestured towards the line of paintings ranged along the wall. "If you think these were found in junk shops like hers, you're mistaken."
"Have you visited her shop in the last year?"
"Certainly not. What is this about?"
"Ever?"
"I must have looked in at some point, but it would have been a long time ago."
"Have you been in touch with her recently, on the phone, or by letter?"
"No."
Liars will often give themselves away by nuances of timing and tone. Nothing in John Sturr's responses suggested anything but the truth.
"She hasn't contacted you?"
"She has not, and I can't think why she should."
"We'll come to that presently, sir. Last Thursday evening, you were a guest at the Assistant Chief Constable's house. What time did you arrive?"
"Around eight. And you know when I left, because you were there."
"Driving?"
He said with impatience, "It's a bit late to fit me up with that one."
Diamond, calm as a ministering priest, explained evenly, "I'm not interested in the state you were in. I want to knOw how you travelled."
"Yes, I drove."
"Straight home?"
"Yes."
"And Ingeborg Smith was with you?"
"Since when was that a crime?" said Sturr. "I can't believe you have the neck to ask me things like this."
"What time did you get in, sir?"
A sigh. "I don't know. It must have been about ten to eleven."
"And you didn't go out again?"
"At that hour?" Sturr cast his eyes upwards. "Hasn't it struck you that I'm a little old for the night club scene?"
"Miss Smith stayed the night?"
"Yes. Are you satisfied now?"
This sort of counter-punching from an aggrieved suspect was nothing new in Diamond's experience, the only extra element being Sturr's position of influence on the Police Authority. Without apology, the questioning moved on to his movements on Saturday, the afternoon of the attack on John Wigfull.
"I was visiting friends in Castle Cary."
Twenty miles or more from Westwood and Stowford.
"I was there for lunch and stayed until late. I suppose you'll want to go harrassing them. God knows what they'll make of it."
The martyred air was becoming increasingly irksome to Diamond. If he nailed this man for anything at all, it would bring immense satisfaction.
"How late is late, sir?"
"I don't know. After tea. Six, I reckon. Then I drove back to Bath and went to a choral recital at the Forum in the evening. Elgar's Dream of Gerontius."
"Did you have a ticket for that?"
"I expect I still have the stub somewhere. Hold on, I was wearing this suit." He started trying pockets.
"You were alone?"
"At the concert? Yes. And here it is." Triumphantly he produced a piece of torn card from an inner pocket and handed it over.
Diamond gave it a glance and handed it back. "The seats weren't numbered, then?"
Sturr frowned.
"This proves only that you bought a ticket."
"But it's torn in half. That shows I was there."
Diamond didn't deign to comment.
"Did you meet anyone you knew? You're a well-known man in Bath."
"During the interval, I spoke to several people, among them the Bishop." He paused and asked sardonically, "Will he do?"
Technically, this meant only that Sturr had been at the Forum for the interval, presumably around eight-thirty to nine. But it was increasingly hard to picture him out in the country mounting a vicious assault on John Wigfull, and then hurrying back to Bath to listen to Elgar.
"You've met Chief Inspector Wigfull, of course?"
"Frequently."
"Oh?"
"At the PCCG."
"The what? Oh, yes." Thrown again.
"I keep a finger on the pulse," Sturr bragged. "I was one of the first to know what happened."
Diamond, in the right frame of mind for black humour, was tempted to say, "Surely not just one of the first?" Wisely, he bit back the comment. "You haven't spoken to him lately, I suppose?"
"Why should I?"
"Your finger on the pulse. He was handling a murder case."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you. The last time I spoke to Mr Wigfull was at the PCCG."
Much of the ground had now been covered, yet there was still one avenue to explore. Diamond shifted his attention to the line of pictures ranged along the skirting-board. "That evening at the meeting, you were good enough to show me these. One, you said, was thought to be by William Blake, the poet." He pointed to the icy landscape with the tall figure striding purposefully across.
"Poet, painter, visionary, call him what you will." Sturr was more ready to talk about art than his own recent doings. "What do you want to know about him?"
"The subject might be mythological, you told me."
"That's my best guess, yes, knowing Blake's absorption in such things, but I couldn't tell you if the figure represents one of the characters from classic mythology, or something from his own strange inner world."
"It's Frankenstein's monster."
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
For an interval there was a real danger that Sturr would erupt. He contained himself, frowned, bent and picked up the picture and held it at arm's length. "What makes you say that?"
"I haven't read the book, but isn't there a chapter when the monster goes wandering through the mountains?"
"You believe this is how the monster looked?"
"Not Boris Karloff. The original monster."
"If you haven't read the book, how the devil…"
"Someone gave me a description."
"It's a long time since I read it," said Sturr. If he had heard this theory before, he was doing a remarkable job of making it appear unexpected.
"Long, black, glossy hair." As if describing a wanted man, Diamond listed the details he had got from Ellis Somerset. "Yellow complexion, pale eyes, good, white teeth, black lips. Wouldn't you say this matches the figure in your painting?"
Sturr remained cautious. He continued to study the painting for some seconds longer. "Blake's figures tended to look otherworldly. The hair is invariably long. I can show you engravings of characters from Paradise Lost and the Bible just like this."
"And what if I told you two other paintings by Blake had been discovered, one showing
this character or creature, whatever it may be, in a mountain landscape meeting a man about two feet shorter, and the other of it staring through a window at a murder scene? A woman lies strangled on a bed and the man- the same man from the other picture-is wide-eyed in horror. Scenes straight out of Frankenstein. What would you say to that?"
Sturr's face lit up. "You really mean this? I'd be fascinated to see them. Are they signed?"
"I couldn't tell you."
"Where can I see them?" His eagerness had transformed him. All the truculence had fallen away.
"Miss Redbird acquired them in a private deal. They disappeared from the shop at the time of her death."
"What?" Now Sturr looked seriously alarmed. "I don't follow you."
"They've gone, sir. They were in her office and they've gone. She bought them with some other goods from a house in Camden Crescent."
"When?"
"On the day she died. She had them collected. She was excited, believing them to be Blakes and worth a tidy sum."
"They would be if they were genuine. I'm not surprised she was excited."
"She had a buyer in mind. She spoke of this to her assistant."
"I would buy them," Sturr said, regardless of the quicksand he was stepping into. "I'd buy them like a shot. Why didn't she come to me?"
"That was our reaction," said Diamond. "You're the obvious person, with your collection."
"With this." He was still holding the Blake and he brandished it like the captain of a winning team with the trophy. "They could be part of a series that no Blake scholar is aware of. If he illustrated Frankenstein, it's sensational news. The art world is going to be amazed. I wonder if Blake knew Mary Shelley."
"He knew her mother, anyway."
"What-Mary Wollstonecraft? You're right! He illustrated one of her books. I haven't seen them, but I remember them in a catalogue. I even remember the title: Original Stories from Real Life. Well, isn't this amazing? I've owned this painting all this time without suspecting any connection with Frankenstein."
"Where did you get it?"
"I bought it at auction in Bristol in 1989. It was a single lot, 'attributed to Blake', which means it's of his style, but can't be proved as one of his works. So I got it for a few hundred, and I consider I got a bargain. The chance of anyone else producing something like this in Blake's style is remote. He's out on his own as a painter. Very difficult to imitate."
"Do you know who put the picture into the auction?"
"Good point. I could look it up."
"Were any others up for sale?"
"Blakes, you mean? I'm certain they were not. I would have bid for them, you see."
Sturr replaced the picture in the line-up along the wall and offered to go off and look up the details of the sale. Each of his pictures had its own file, he said, and it should be easy to find out. He could not have been more obliging now he was on the trail of the unknown Blakes. It was a re-run of the enthusiasm he had shown the evening he had dragged Diamond around his collection.
Left in the room with Leaman, Diamond picked up the picture that had caused so much excitement and examined the flaking brown paper on the reverse. Nothing was written there. "I'd like to show this to Ellis Somerset, see if he thinks it looks anything like the other two."
"Will he let you borrow it?"
"I can ask nicely."
"Where's this leading us, sir?"
"To a plausible motive for murder. You've just seen the grip it can get on a man, this passion for collecting. They hear about something and they have to possess it. It's an addiction."
"Is he the killer? If he is, he would have known about the other two Blakes. He's a bloody good actor if he did."
"Let's not jump to conclusions… yet."
"Nobody else around here collects Blakes, do they?"
Diamond didn't answer. Sturr's tread was sounding across the hall. When he came in, he was carrying a dark red pocket file. "I'm afraid I can't tell you the previous owner of my Blake," he told them, still fired up. "The catalogue lists vendors for some of the other lots, but not this one."
"A secret seller?"
"Anonymous. It's not unusual for a vendor to want his name kept off the catalogue, and you'll find that all auctioneers guard people's privacy if requested. You said these others were owned by someone from Camden Crescent."
"Simon Minchendon."
"Who died last week? Good Lord, I knew him. Visited his house. I had no idea he was interested in Blake."
"Maybe these were not on view."
"I would certainly have noticed them if they had been. It was a fine house, filled with interesting things. This is so tantalising. You say they were stolen from Noble and Nude?"
"No, I said they disappeared on the day the owner was murdered. She could have sold them. We're trying to get a picture of her last hours."
"That's why you came to me?" The Councillor's features creased into a smile. "I wish you'd mentioned it first. Do you know, I was beginning to think you suspected me of murder?"
twenty-eight
DIAMOND LET HIMSELF IN, not expecting to find Steph still up. They had an understanding that if ever he got home late, she would be in bed. So he took off his shoes by the front door and padded through to the kitchen to see if she had left anything in the oven. Some hours had gone by since his visit to the canteen, though the half-price lamb was not forgotten. Bad meals have ways of lingering on the palate that good meals do not.
Under his arm he had Councillor Sturr's Blake, cocooned in bubblewrap. Easing the picture from its owner had been a triumph of persuasion. The lure: the chance to have it examined by forensic scientists specialising in art works, who, using the latest technology, would surely confirm it as genuine-or so Diamond had suggested. Sturr could then announce to the art world that he possessed an accredited Blake, and moreover that it was one of a previously unknown series illustrating Frankenstein.
No one excelled the big detective at exploiting a suspect's vanity.
He switched on the light, put the picture in a place of safety on top of the fridge and looked for Steph's note about supper. It wouldn't be like her to go to bed without leaving a note.
No note this time, but there was a chicken dinner on the table covered in clingfilm. Steph had not let him down. Roast potatoes, runner beans, peas and carrots. It was still slightly warm. He would give it a whirl in the microwave and shortly expunge the memory of the lamb.
An ice-cold lager would go down nicely with the chicken. He reached for the fridge door and was surprised by a sudden movement at the edge of his vision that made him lean sharply to the left and put up a protective arm. Something dark leapt up from the floor. Warm fur brushed the back of his hand, Raffles, expecting to be fed.
A cat will judge the minimum effort required to make a leap, and will always succeed unless the unexpected happens. Nudged in mid-air by Diamond's flailing hand, Raffles lost some momentum, got the front paws up, but not the rest. Two sets of claws caught in the bubblewrap covering Councillor Sturr's Blake. The hind paws scraped frantically against the side of the fridge, trying for a purchase that was not there. The package was dragged inexorably to the edge and tipped over. Cat and picture crashed to the tiled floor. There was the sickening sound of glass breaking.
Diamond shouted, "Bloody hell, I'll skin you."
Raffles bolted out of the kitchen and upstairs, all prospect of a late supper gone.
So unfair. Diamond was notorious for being clumsy, but this time he'd taken special care. You'd think the top of a fridge would be a safe place.
He picked the package off the floor. It chinked. He placed it on the kitchen table and untied the string.
"What was that?"
He jerked again. His nerves were bad. Steph had come in, as silent as the cat.
He explained the accident, while she watched him ease aside the bubblewrap. The splintered glass was mostly still in place, but a few pieces had fallen out of the frame. Steph warned him not to touch.
They upended the picture and let the loose fragments fall onto the wrapping.
"The worst thing is it doesn't belong to me."
"Thank God for that," Steph commented.
"Why do you say that?"
"It's not the sort of thing I'd want on the wall, that's why. It's a Blake print, isn't it?"
"It's an original."
"Oh, Pete!"
"Well, I can't see that it's damaged." He let out the tension with a long breath. "Where did you come from? I thought you'd gone up."
"I was dozing in my armchair in the back room. You gave me a proper shock."
"The cat did."
"It wasn't the cat that shouted. All right," she said, lifting a hand to pacify him. "You've had one hell of a Sunday. Did you find who attacked John Wigfull?"
"Not yet."
"They say there's a slight improvement. He's drifting in and out of consciousness. I phoned a friend at the hospital two hours ago."
One of Steph's network. Nothing happened anywhere without her hearing about it.
"They won't let us near him," he said. "They never do."
"He won't remember anything," she said.
"You're probably right."
She put the dinner in the microwave and pressed the reheat pad. "It isn't obvious, then?"
"What isn't?"
"The person you're after."
"Not obvious, no." Steph had a remarkable gift for unlocking mysteries, so he summarised his day, the interviews with Somerset, Dougan, Pennycook, Heath and Sturr. "I can't see any of them bludgeoning a police officer. Well, old Heath isn't in the frame, anyway. He's too old and too frail."
"Why did you bother with him, then?"
"Checking back on Joe Dougan-who was the man most likely to be chased across a field by Wigfull. There's no question Wigfull had him top of the list. But everything the little rogue has told us is true."
"Sounds as if you like him."
"That means nothing, but, yes, I do. In spite of everything, he's chirpy."
"And the others?"
"Not so lovable." He returned to the fridge for that lager. "But I haven't caught them seriously lying. Somerset is the bloke in a bow-tie you don't see out of doors, let alone wielding a bludgeon in a Wiltshire field. Pennycook is a junkie without a car. And Sturr doesn't have any reason to bash Wigfull. He wasn't even seen by Wigfull. What's more, he has an alibi."
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