It took Fox less than five minutes to get hold of Dr Alan Tull and to receive from him confirmation of Sarah Russell’s visit, including the approximate timing of it and its purpose. Either they were very well organized, or she was telling the truth. Fox was disappointed. He disliked the woman, and had done since he had first clapped eyes on her. She was far too sharp and combative for his taste, and it would have given him the greatest pleasure to trip her up. The idea of her being the killer of her husband, not to mention Maria Tull and Jack Smith, appealed to his sense of justice. But they needed evidence. He made a face, and then scratched his cheek, realizing as he did so that he’d forgotten to shave that morning. Sainsbury’s? Did she really go there? His eyes roved slowly round the kitchen, like a camera panning a long, slow shot, and they stopped only when they reached the fridge. The metaphorical camera zoomed in until only the fridge was in frame. Fox walked over and pulled the door open. He picked up the four-pint plastic milk bottle in the door, examined it and put it back. He did the same to a tub of dairy-free spread, briefly prising its lid off. There were two small pots of yoghurts which he also picked up, before shutting the fridge door.
Back in the sitting room, Holden and Sarah Russell turned as one when he reappeared.
‘Did you get hold of him?’ It was Sarah Russell who asked this, her voice demanding and impatient.
‘Yes,’ Fox replied. ‘Dr Tull confirmed what you said. There was a little variance in his timings, but nothing significant.’
‘Well, thank God for that.’
Holden stood up. She had spent the time probing Sarah about her relationship with both Alan and Maria Tull, but right now there was nothing more to be asked.
‘In that case, we’ll be off,’ she said.
‘Actually, I’ve got one more question, Guv.’
‘Oh?’ She was surprised. They hadn’t pre-planned anything.
‘All right, Sergeant,’ Sarah Russell said, her voice dripping with the condescension she normally reserved for the students of Cornforth. ‘What is it then?’
‘With respect, madam,’ he said calmly, ‘I was wondering what precisely it was that you bought on your trip to Sainsbury’s. It’s just it certainly wasn’t milk or soya spread, both of which are running very low in your fridge, and it wasn’t yoghurts, because the only two in your fridge are now past their sell-by date.’
‘Oh dear, what a shame!’ Dr Eleanor Bennett’s first reaction to the damaged painting was human rather than analytical. Lawson, standing in the proverbial wings, thought it rather quaint. It was the sort of thing her mum would say on discovering a snagged piece of wool in her cardigan, or a chip in the rim of one of her teacups. ‘What a shame!’ Dr Bennett repeated the phrase, but this time there was a stress on the first word, an indication that perhaps Lawson might have underestimated what the phrase might mean coming from the lips of someone other than her mother.
Lawson had picked her up at eleven o’clock, though not precisely. It was difficult to be anywhere in Oxford precisely at any time, unless you aimed to be early. And then, of course, every set of lights would be in your favour, every delivery lorry that typically obstructed the narrow streets whenever you were in a hurry would have magically disappeared, and you would arrive stupidly early. If you were an ordinary member of the public, you would then have to run the risk of an overofficious civil enforcement officer – as traffic wardens were now called in Oxford – slapping a penalty notice on your windscreen while you popped inside to discover the person you were picking up wasn’t actually ready. That, at least, was one thing Lawson didn’t have to worry about. And anyway, Dr Bennett was absolutely ready when Lawson rang her bell at 11.01 a.m. The trip to the laboratory had been straightforward in terms of traffic, and also in terms of social intercourse, as Dr Bennett and Constable Lawson chatted happily away. Once at their destination, they were ushered through a series of fire doors, until they came to a room in the centre of which stood a rectangular Formica-topped table. It was on this table that the object of their interest lay.
The painting was relatively small, no more than 60 centimetres square, and it had been slashed twice in a diagonal direction, from top left to bottom right. It had also been slashed twice on the opposite diagonal, with the result that where the cuts intersected a piece of canvas had been entirely dislodged.
Dr Bennett looked up at Lawson, peering over the top of her glasses. ‘Why don’t you go and find us a nice cup of tea, Constable, while I have a really good look. Black, no sugar for me.’
‘Sure,’ Lawson replied, though she wasn’t sure at all. She would like to be there, watching and learning, and making sure. …
‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Bennett smiled, as if reading her mind ‘I know it is evidence. I won’t touch it. I promise.’
Lawson nodded, and moved away. In that case, the sooner she got the tea and returned, the better. In the event, when she did return, Dr Bennett was bent over the picture, a small torch in her left hand, and she was moving slowly around the surface, as if taking in every detail.
‘Here’s your tea,’ Lawson said, when Dr Bennett showed no sign of being aware of her return.
‘Thank you.’
Lawson began to sip at her own polystyrene cup, but waited in vain for any response. Patience, she knew, was not one of her virtues and she had to fight the temptation to interrupt. Inactivity was alien to her, so she tried to think. Why anyone should want to damage this painting like this. She had no idea how valuable it would have been in pristine condition, but why do this to it? It must have been worth quite a lot. Maria Tull must have thought so when she wheedled it off Jack Smith. Because this was, no question, the painting that Jack Smith had described. And wouldn’t Dominic Russell have known it was valuable? So why would anyone slash it so ferociously? Why not keep it? It was beyond reason.
‘Ugh, it’s cold.’ Dr Bennett made a face as she belatedly sipped at her cup.
‘It started hot.’ Lawson wasn’t going to be blamed for the temperature of the woman’s damned tea.
The older woman smiled, and put it down.
‘So, Constable, I can see you’re a smart one, so why don’t you tell me what you see in the picture.’
Lawson looked at her, and wondered if she was teasing her, the academic blue-stocking patronizing her because she was young and hadn’t been to university and it showed.
‘Let’s start with when. Look at the clothes, look at the background. What sort of world are we in?’
Lawson paused, though not because she was uncertain. The clothing was a giveaway. ‘The Bible.’
‘Good. Have you any idea who the women are? How old are they do you think?’
Lawson leant forward and peered at them closely. The two women were standing close to each other, looking down on the man. The one to the left of the picture was resting her left hand on the other woman’s shoulder, consoling her. That much seemed pretty clear, Lawson thought. The man was lying on a trestle, and appeared to be dead – or was he just ill? It was hard to be sure because one of the cuts had gone straight through his head. She looked back at the women. ‘Quite old. Maybe late forties, or early fifties.’
‘And the man?’
‘Younger.’
‘Young enough to be a son of one of them, I think.’ This was a statement, not a question.
‘Is it Jesus? Only he was put in a tomb, and this looks more like someone’s house.’
‘No, you’re right, it’s not Jesus. The clue is here, lying on the ground, in the corner. It’s hard to see under the dirt, but I don’t think there’s any doubt.’
She stepped back, as if to encourage Lawson to lean forward and take another, closer look. ‘But don’t touch!’ she added, a mischievous note in her voice.
‘God!’ Lawson said, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Taking the name of the Lord in vain, that would have met with her father’s loud disapproval. But there was no mistaking what the artist had depicted. ‘It’s a noose.’
‘So?’
‘Judas hanged himself.’
‘Don’t tell me I am in the presence of a policewoman who attended Sunday school. That would be unusual.’
Lawson was tempted to tell her that Sunday School was a rather old-fashioned expression, but she knew it wouldn’t be polite. Children’s groups was what they had been called where she had come from. Instead, she shrugged and merely said, ‘My father was a vicar.’
‘Ah!’ Dr Bennett took off her oval glasses and rubbed them with a handkerchief that manifested itself as if by magic in her hand. ‘You didn’t want to become a woman of the cloth?’
Lawson made a choking noise that could have been a laugh killed at birth, and her faced flushed red.
‘I doubt this scene is one you’ve ever come across in Sunday School, though,’ Dr Bennett continued.
‘No,’ Lawson said. She was leaning forward again, her attention fully directed towards the painting. She would have liked to be able to answer the question, but she was stumped. She turned towards her mentor, and rather irritably admitted defeat. ‘So if one of the women is his mother, who is the other one?’
‘Ah!’ Dr Bennett said again. She was looking, not at the painting, but at Lawson, a twinkle in her eyes. She liked the girl. She liked her enthusiasm, and intensity, and even her impatience. Her uncle had this expression that he would trot out: the wildest colts made the best horses. Well, it applied to fillies too.
‘I believe,’ Dr Bennett said eventually, her voice betraying her considerable excitement, ‘she is Mary, the mother of Jesus.’
‘That’s not in the Bible,’ Lawson said firmly.
‘No,’ came the soft reply. ‘I don’t suppose it is.’
Later, after she had returned Elizabeth Bennett back to her house, where she guiltily accepted the offer of a cup of tea with a piece of leftover birthday cake before returning to Cowley Station, Detective Constable Lawson brought her boss up to date. Holden listened without interruption, her concentration intense. Throughout it, her right hand fiddled incessantly with the left collar of her blouse. It was a mannerism Lawson had never noticed before, and she found it oddly disturbing. When Lawson fell silent, Holden nodded, fmally let go of her collar, and leant back, straightening her shoulders and stretching herself.
‘You haven’t said who the artist was?’
‘Dr Bennett didn’t know. Whoever painted it didn’t sign it. Maybe, because of the subject matter, he wanted to be incognito.’
‘Or she!’
‘Or she,’ Lawson repeated, accepting the correction. ‘Technically, it’s not of the greatest quality. Looking at the frame, she thought maybe nineteenth century.’
‘To cut to the chase, how much does the estimable Dr Bennett think the painting would have been worth in its undamaged state?’
Lawson straightened herself in her seat, subconsciously mimicking her superior. ‘She didn’t want to be tied down to that. She’s says she an art historian, not a valuation expert, but you’re talking at least four figures, possibly five. Sterling.’
‘I see. And in its current state?’
‘Less, obviously. She said it’s amazing what a top-notch restorer can achieve. To you or me, it could be made to look like it had never happened. But you’re probably talking about five to six thousand for a top-quality repair job.’
Holden stood up and walked over to the window. The Oxford Road was surprisingly quiet. She placed her hands behind her neck, then pressed her elbows back, trying to release some of the tension in her shoulders. It was valuable enough for Maria Tull to have wanted some of the action. She could see that. But was it worth murdering for? Was it really valuable enough for someone to kill her and Jack Smith and maybe Dominic Russell too? She couldn’t really see it. But what was the alternative? Dominic murdered Maria Tull and Jack Smith to get the painting, and then had such guilt that he slashed the picture and committed suicide? That seemed even less likely. Which left what? She turned round, to be confronted by Lawson, still sitting there, her hands gripping the hand-written notes at which she had been glancing throughout their meeting.
Holden looked at her watch. ‘OK, bring your colleagues up to date will you, and remind Fox he’s driving me to Geraldine Payne’s later on. And ask him to allow time for a stop at a florist’s on the way.’
‘So you want to know about Sarah and me, do you? Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone likes a bit of gossip, don’t they!’
Geraldine Payne asked the question almost before they were sat down. Holden and Fox had agreed to interview her at her flat, or rather – as she had made clear – the flat she was renting just until her house in Brook Street was ready for her to move in. Last time, when she had wanted something from the police, she had stormed down to the Cowley station like a heat-seeking missile homing in on its target, but now that the boot was on the other foot, she had insisted on them coming to her. ‘Not to my surgery!’ she had stated, as if it was up to her to set the boundaries or what was and wasn’t possible. ‘I don’t want you upsetting my patients. Come to my flat. Lucy can re-jig my appointments so I get off a bit early. Let’s say 4.30 in St Thomas’s Street.’
And so, here they were at 4.35 p.m. with Geraldine Payne doing her damnedest to call the shots.
‘You could start by telling us about Saturday,’ Holden replied evenly. She wasn’t flustered by the woman, and she wasn’t fooled either. Geraldine knew perfectly well from their earlier telephone conversation why they had come to question her. And Holden had no doubt that Geraldine and Sarah had spoken to each other, discussing tactics, agreeing times, and all that sort of thing. Even so, she still needed to interview her, and get her evidence down on the record. And you never knew what else might pop up. But that ironically was what Holden was worried about. Geraldine was part of the lesbian and gay network that Karen had long been part of, and Karen and she had even had a brief relationship. So Holden couldn’t help but wonder if Geraldine might not exploit that if things got tricky.
‘She came to see me,’ Geraldine began. ‘She arrived at about eight o’clock, and she left just after nine thirty. She said she was going to see Alan Tull.’
‘And why did she come to see you?’
‘Why not? We’re friends.’
‘Are you lovers?’
‘Ooh!’ Geraldine replied in a tone that was pure mock-horror. ‘You don’t beat about the bush do you, Inspector.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘No,’ she said with a smile.
‘Are you sure?’ growled Fox. He shouldn’t have interrupted. It wasn’t part of the plan, but he was tired and he didn’t like this dyke pissing his boss about.
Geraldine turned on him, all playfulness gone. ‘Of course I’m fucking sure, Sergeant. I’d have noticed if I’d been having an affair with her. And I’d be happy to admit it,’ she continued, turning back towards Holden. ‘Only it’s not true. I like her. I even tried it on with her once. But she wouldn’t have any of it.’
Fox snorted. He wasn’t that easily put off, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the lesbian cow have the last word. ‘So how come she came round so early in the morning, as soon as her husband had left for work. It looks bloody suspicious to me.’
Geraldine turned back to her male interrogator, and her face snarled with fury. ‘Because, Mr fucking Policeman, her husband didn’t like me. And because I’m a dyke, he wouldn’t understand that Sarah and I might have a normal friendship. Like you, he’d have jumped to the conclusion that if we were seeing each other out of his sight, then it must be sex.’ She paused. Her face was flushed and her breathing was fast and shallow. ‘She just needed someone to talk to, that’s all.’
‘What if her husband had found out that you two saw each other socially behind his back?’ Fox was leaning forward, a look of triumph in his eyes. ‘And what if he had jumped to the conclusion that his wife didn’t come round to see you just for a bit of tea and sympathy?’ He spat the words out, so that Holden suddenly shuddered and wondered what
the hell she was doing working with a man like him. ‘Maybe they had a bust up and she blew his brains out?’
Geraldine Payne turned in supplication towards Holden. ‘She wouldn’t have done that. She’s tough on the outside, but inside.…’ Her words tailed off as she tried to martial her thoughts into coherence. ‘Look, Susan,’ she said, suddenly informal, ‘if I thought Sarah had done anything like that, I’d tell you. I wouldn’t protect a murderer. I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m honest.’ She paused, and then gave a sharp prod with her emotional knife. ‘Ask Karen. She’ll tell you.’
CHAPTER 9
She was on a train. It was the same one as always, just like the one in her grandmother’s house. A bright red engine that careered along in front of her, while she stood in the front carriage – or maybe it was the only carriage, only she never dared to look behind her – unable to move. Her feet were glued to the floor, and all she could do was look forwards and watch the huge puffs of smoke which were emitted every few seconds from the funnel. It was like watching a cartoon, only she was part of it and it was real and she was terrified. The train seemed to be racing straight ahead, but they kept passing the same station, the same church, and the same set of signals, which stretched across the line just like in her father’s Triang trainset, and she had to keep ducking every time the signals reappeared for fear they would decapitate her. At first these landmarks, the station, the church, the signals, occurred at regular, spaced-out intervals, but soon she realized the gaps were getting shorter. They were gathering speed and she had no way of getting off or stopping. And then the train let off a whistle, a terrible steaming whistle, and it got louder and louder until it wasn’t a whistle any more. It was a scream of terror, and the scream was hers because right in front of the driverless train – for she had realized by now that it had no driver – there loomed a huge red wall and she was hurtling towards it and she knew she was going to crash into it.
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