‘Either Jack Smith was lying, or there are two distinct paintings.’ Wilson paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. ‘The one he described was totally different from the one we found at D.R. Antiquities.’
‘And what do we know about the one we found?’
‘It is probably quite valuable – Mr Russell admitted that – but not hugely valuable.’ Wilson paused again, uncertain what else there was to say about the painting. They had all seen it, after all, so they knew what it looked like.
‘It’s quite small, isn’t it Wilson?’
‘Well, yes,’ he replied.
‘So it could have been hidden under floorboards?’
Wilson frowned, in thought rather than perplexity, for suddenly things had started to slot into place in his brain. ‘Of course, what with all the supporting beams, it would be difficult to hide a large painting under boards.’
‘Exactly,’ Holden said cutting in. She was impatient to push on. ‘It’s just that yesterday Lawson came up with the theory that maybe there was only one painting.’
‘Did she?’ There was irritation in Fox’s voice. He liked working for Holden, and was more than happy to be a sergeant, taking orders, and supporting his DI, but he was not immune to jealousy. And right now the green-eyed monster was telling him that Detective Constable Lawson was usurping his position, and was becoming – had become even – the person with whom his Guvnor swapped ideas and theories.
‘She may have been playing devil’s advocate, of course,’ Holden continued quickly. ‘But even so, let’s just suppose for a moment that Jack Smith lied, and that the painting he found under the floorboards was the same one as we found pictured on his mobile. Why would he have lied to us about what the picture looked like? Why say it had two women and a prone man, when it had one man and one woman in some sort of classical seduction story?’
‘Presumably Lawson has a theory on this?’ Fox was still sore, and it was apparent in his voice. He wanted his boss to know.
Holden pressed her lips together. She wasn’t so dense that she hadn’t picked up on the undercurrents, but she wasn’t someone to back down from a challenge either, and this felt like a challenge.
‘Did you get out of bed the wrong side, Sergeant?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t want an awkward silence – that might cause more damage within the team. But she did want to make her point. ‘As far as I am concerned, any one of you can come up with any damn fool or not such a damn fool theory, and they can tell me any time. They don’t need to check it out with the rest of the team first. I’m interested only in catching a murderer, not running a bloody democracy. So Lawson will say what she has to say now, and then anyone else is welcome to comment as long as they remember what our collective job is.’
Holden stopped, and took a deep breath. Saying all this hadn’t helped. She felt even more bloody annoyed now.
‘It just occurred to me yesterday in the car,’ Lawson began. ‘I can’t pretend I had thought about it a lot first.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Holden turned her irritation towards Lawson now. ‘Stop taking out insurance, Constable, and get to the point. Why might Jack Smith have lied about the painting he found under the floorboards?’
‘Because then we would be looking for a different picture, and there would be no chance of us finding it.’
‘Right. And are there any problems with this scenario, Lawson? You’ve had plenty of time to think about it now.’
‘I guess the main problem is Jack Smith himself. The theory implies that first he is a smart cookie, and second that he knew how to sell a painting of dodgy provenance.’
‘He presumably knew Dominic Russell.’ Lawson, Wilson and Holden all turned and looked at Fox. Whatever Fox was now feeling after his dressing down, he wasn’t letting it show. ‘He had done plumbing for the Russells, hadn’t he? He was well known in the area. Maybe he knew from Maria that Dominic could handle sensitive art sales. So he didn’t need to sell it himself.’
Silence fell. Fox took a sip of his coffee, and waited for Holden to respond.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she nodded. ‘So, if Jack Smith did lie, then we have to assume that he knew where Maria had taken the painting, namely to Dominic Russell. And that even after Maria’s death he hoped to be able to get his cut of the painting’s sale. But maybe Dominic Russell didn’t see it the same way as him.’
‘Sorry, Guv.’ Fox had half lifted his hand in apology. Politeness was suddenly in vogue. ‘But are you saying you think Dominic Russell killed them both for a picture that he claims isn’t worth that much money?’
Holden shut her eyes, and for several seconds rested her head on her right hand as she tried to get a grip on her thoughts. The pressure she had been putting on her team was rebounding back on her. The connections were there, and yet somehow it didn’t hang together. Two people dead, and no clear motive. Two photos on mobile phones. But very different photos. And two paintings. Or maybe one painting? Two people dead. Was that it? Was that the end of it, or would it soon be three? She opened her eyes and sighed.
‘What we need is more information.’ She looked at her watch. ‘At ten-thirty, I’ve got an appointment with Dr Eleanor Bennett, and hopefully she will spread some expert light on this ruddy painting. Wilson will accompany me. As for you, Fox, and you, Lawson, you’re on house to house in the Brook Street area.’ It would be good for them to work together, and without her or Wilson around. If they had anything to say to each other, hopefully they would get it said and out of their systems. ‘And when you’ve done house to house, from twelve o’clock stop everyone entering or leaving the road by the towpath, or riding along past it. If they’re regulars or locals, passing that way the same time every day, then maybe they saw someone or something. We’ll join you as soon as we can.’
Dr Eleanor Bennett lived in one of the terrace of three-storey houses which front the western side of the southern end of Walton Street. Unusually for central Oxford, the front gardens in this residential strip were more than perfunctory, some five metres in depth, and it was up the pathway of one of them that the two detectives advanced cautiously, brushing past the box tree bushes, still wet from the morning rain, which had been allowed to protrude unmolested across the path.
There was a long delay after Holden pressed the doorbell, and she was just lifting her forefinger to repeat the exercise when she heard the sound of a bolt being drawn on the back of the door. It opened, but only as far as the security chain would allow, and a pair of sharp steel-grey eyes looked up at them.
‘Who are you?’ the owner of the eyes demanded.
‘Detective Inspector Holden, and this is my colleague Detective Constable Wilson.’ Holden passed both their ID cards through the gap, and waited while the woman looked at them carefully. She was expecting some police persons to call, but she knew from her regular perusal of the local newspapers that imposters pretending to be all sorts of workmen, from men checking the electricity supply to women claiming to be social workers, were at large and older people like herself were their preferred targets. Only when she was satisfied did she release the chain and open the door wider.
‘Eleanor Bennett,’ she said. ‘Do come in. But would you mind taking your shoes off at the door. I hate cleaning.’
She led them slowly along the corridor, slowly because she walked with a pronounced limp, and then through a doorway. There they found a large living space. To the right was the sitting area with a sofa, two arm-chairs, a child’s rocking chair, and a television. To the left stood a dark, heavy dining table surrounded by six chairs. In its centre there sat a dark, fat candle. It was alight and it gave off a smell of sandalwood. A portable laptop was the only other object on the table, and it was open.
‘I was just about to make myself some tea. Would you care to join me?’ Eleanor Bennett spoke precisely and quickly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you coffee. My doctor’s told me off about it. But I can’t trust myself, so I just don’t keep it in the house.’
‘Can I help?’ Wilson had stepped forward, shoeless yet eager. He was warming to Eleanor Bennett already, not least because she reminded him of his Gran. His Gran had been petite too, and a sparky cheerful soul, and she had liked to talk without demanding an answer. She had smelt of lavender rather than sandalwood, and – sometimes – of urine too, and he had loved her terribly.
Eleanor Bennett looked at him. ‘Thank you, young man. I don’t need help, despite appearances. But only a fool would turn down such a kind offer. Maybe you can locate the chocolate biscuits. I’m sure I bought some the other day.’
Holden, who was clutching the painting to her stomach, placed it carefully on the table at the other end from the laptop, and looked around the room. It was then that she noticed the oddity, the strangeness. There were no pictures on the walls. She had assumed that an expert in art history would have her walls thronged with interesting original paintings, or if not originals then high-class prints of favourites. Yet there was nothing. There were various family photos deployed in a phalanx on a side table, but beyond that there was nothing.
‘I’ve had the decorators in,’ Eleanor said. She had re-entered the room, with Wilson behind her carrying the tea tray, and had spotted Holden observing the walls. ‘The pictures are all in the spare bedroom. I had to take them down, and I just haven’t got round to getting them back on the walls. To be frank with you, Inspector, I was getting a bit bored with them, so I thought I’d take a break from them.’
‘I was merely wondering what sort of paintings an art historian buys for herself.’
She chuckled in reply. ‘My collection is what my nephew’s daughter calls a funny old mixture. I am sure there are smarter words for it, but I think she sums it up rather well. Anyway, it’s time for tea, and for me to take a look at your picture.’
‘Just a dash of milk in mine, Constable, and half a teaspoon of sugar,’ she said, but her mind had moved on, and her delicate, unadorned fingers were picking up the package and beginning very carefully to unwrap it. When she had removed the hessian, she lay the painting back on the table, and stooped over, peering at it with intense concentration. ‘Constable, would you mind turning on the overhead lights,’ she said, without looking up. She stood poring over the painting for at least two minutes, and then limped slowly to the other end of the table where she sat down and began to press away at the keys of her laptop. ‘I’ll be a few minutes. Please, do go and sit in the comfortable chairs until I’ve finished.’
It was more a command than a request, and so Wilson and Holden went and sat down, Wilson in an armchair and Holden on the sofa, and sipped their tea from china cups. While Holden tried to focus her thoughts on the investigation, Wilson thought rather smugly of Fox and Lawson doing door to door (it had started to rain again), and then wondered whether to go to the United game – home to Altrincham – the following day, Saturday. They had had a great start to the season, so the chances were that he’d see a win. And that, after all, was what mattered if they were ever going to get out of this poxy league. Yes, he thought he would go to the game. Definitely.
‘Finished your tea?’ The sudden question made both Holden and Lawson start. Eleanor was back by the painting now. She drank thirstily at her tea as they got up to join her.
‘It’s an interesting little painting. Not exactly my cup of tea, though!’ She laughed, waving her own cup in the air, as if to explain her joke. ‘Very competently painted, though not out of the top drawer. It’s a typical Greek mythological scene, with temple ruins looming out of the background to underline that fact. Sexual union has been achieved, and the male is leaving rather casually, having made his conquest. The male is doubtless Zeus, a singularly randy God who left his bastard progeny all over the Greek world. The female might be one of several poor maidens deflowered by him, but I’d put my money on—’
‘Talking of money,’ Holden interrupted, ‘could you give us an idea of what this would be worth?’
‘Ah, well, it’s probably worth more than I would chose to pay for anything so unoriginal, but the artist has for some reason become quite collectable. He died in his mid thirties and wasn’t that prolific, so the scarcity of his work has not done his prices any harm. Six weeks ago, a similar painting by him was sold in New York for $14,500. Even in these uncertain times, I think if this came up at auction it might easily reach ten thousand pounds.’
Ten minutes later, Holden and Wilson took their leave of Eleanor Bennett and walked briskly to the car. The rain was persistent, but not heavy, and a patch of blue sky promised better things to come.
‘Brook Street is it, Guv?’
‘I think we’d better nip back to the station first, and get this painting into a safe place before anyone nicks it off the back seat.’
‘It’s a fair whack, isn’t it, Guv? Ten thousand pounds. With Maria dead, it’s no wonder that he decided to keep it all to himself. That amount of money is one hell of a temptation.’
Holden looked at her constable, a disapproving frown written across her face. ‘Just remember that temptation is there to be resisted, Wilson. Especially when you’re in a profession where it can so easily present itself.’
Wilson looked back at her, and flushed. ‘Sorry, Guv. It was just a … I didn’t mean to suggest.…’ But he couldn’t think of how to finish the sentence.
Holden turned and looked forward out of the car. She knew she had sounded a bit schoolmarmish, but she felt she had to say it. Wilson was a good constable, but naïve and, she feared, too easily swayed by others. He was the sort of man who might easily succumb to temptation without realizing it, or go with the crowd because he wasn’t tough enough to stand against it. So it was her responsibility to mark out the boundaries as best she could.
‘The key question as regards this investigation, Wilson, is whether a man would kill for ten thousand pounds? What do you think?’
‘People have killed for less, Guv. It depends on the man.’ He paused. ‘Or, of course, woman.’ He wasn’t sure where these words came from, and he was even less sure how Holden would take them. He had decided that he didn’t really understand women, women like Lawson who messed his head up something ridiculous, and Holden who behaved like a very strict version of his Mum. Even his beloved Gran had sometimes seemed like an alien from another planet.
‘Hmm!’ The word was in itself meaningless, but the tone of voice told Wilson that his words of wisdom had been well received. ‘That’s an interesting answer, Wilson. I’ll think about it while you drive us safely to Cowley.’
The house to house enquiries in Brook Street and the area around it proved to be, if not entirely fruitless, then in terms of hard evidence the next best thing. Brook Street is a short street running in a south-north direction, parallel to the Abingdon Road and some forty metres to its west. It can be entered by car only from its southern end, via Western Road, but is not in a true sense a cul de sac, for access on foot and bike at the northern end is not just possible, but commonplace. Indeed for many local residents, hurrying to get to town on bike or shanks’s pony, Brook Street represents a convenient little rat run, enabling them to minimize the amount of time spent breathing in the exhaust fumes of the Abingdon Road.
For DS Fox, marshalling his team on a grey morning of persistent rain, this openness to all corners presented its own complications. Looking at it, as Fox did, from the point of view of the killer, there were several routes in and – even more important – out again after the deed had been done. Acyclist, for example, had several options: head back down to Western Road, and then either out on to the Abingdon Road and away out of town with traffic, or turn right along Western Road until it meets Marlborough Road, and then turn left and south, pelting along its length, then through Hinksey Park, and then via a few twists and turns into Wytham Street, running straight south along it until you choose to divert or reach the Redbridge park-and-ride. But a killer could also make his escape east along the towpath to picturesque Iffley. Or he or she could alternatively head west to
wards flood-prone Osney, and the unloved Botley Road. Or if they were a killer committing murder in a lunch break, they could nip back up to their city-centre office either over Folly Bridge or over the rather ugly footbridge some one hundred and fifty metres to the west, just beyond Marlborough Road.
The shortness of Brook Street was the one good thing about it, in Fox’s view: knocking on the doors of all its residents wasn’t an arduous task for the team of himself, Lawson and the four uniformed officers. However, getting useful information proved hugely more difficult. For a start, half the residents were already out – or possibly still in bed, or deaf, or merely perverse – and those who did open their doors had inevitably seen nothing. There was no improvement in their fortune as Fox extended their sweep along the river, knocking on the doors of Cobden Crescent and the northern end of Buckingham Street and of Marlborough Road.
When Holden and Wilson joined them just before noon, Fox was in the process of moving to plan B, namely intercepting locals as they passed along Brook Street and along the towpath, in the hope that someone on a regular commute to or from the city might recall someone or something of interest from the previous day. It proved to be a busy thoroughfare, and even on an increasingly wet and windy day, the eight of them found themselves constantly occupied in stopping passers-by and asking them questions. Had they come this way yesterday at this time? Did they notice anyone stopping at the house? Or anyone in a terrible hurry on the towpath? Or anyone – and this was surely a long shot – with blood on their clothes? Given that the weather the previous day had also been singularly nasty and wet, the answers given were generally short and unenlightening. One man, a beard on his face and a collie at his heels, said he had almost been run over by a cyclist speeding towards Osney round about 1.30 p.m. A tall Glaswegian, with an accent so thick Wilson could barely decipher what he was saying, gave a similar story, though he insisted it was round about 1.15 p.m.
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