She shook her head. “That’s politics, not policing. From my lowly point of view, there is enough to look at Forster. You have to decide about Argan. Do you want me to give up a perfectly legitimate enquiry because he wants your job?”
Bottando sighed and rubbed his face. “Curse the man. And you. Of course I don’t. But make it quick, eh? Either find something or get back here. Don’t mess about. I’m not going to be hanged by the neck until dead by your expense account.”
Flavia did her best not to look happy; it was some time since she’d been let out of the office on a jaunt, and it would make a nice change. Besides, there was a small possibility that it might even produce something of interest. She drained the dregs of her coffee cup, and went off to get down to business.
As far as the Norfolk police were concerned, the lad called Gordon Brown was the most likely place not only to start but also to end the investigation into the murder of Geoffrey Forster, if that was what his death was going to be.
At first sight, there was a lot going for him. Even his friends agreed that he was a bit of an oaf, and inclined to violence when roused or with a pint or two too many inside him. Next, of course, came his reputation as the local burglar, the man who had done over several of the houses in search of unearned income. He was a well-connected village figure in his way; the son of Mary Verney’s part-time housekeeper and married to Louise, the elder daughter of George Barton. Relations between the Brown and Barton families had never recovered from the union, George Barton being the sort of person who did not approve of the likes of Gordon Brown, especially the way he treated his daughter.
While nobody seriously doubted that Margaret Brown the housekeeper had, as she’d claimed, spent the evening with her feet up in front of the television, and that Louise the wife couldn’t possibly help in any way due to the fact that she had spent the entire evening with her sister and knew nothing whatsoever about her husband’s activities and didn’t want to either, such credulity did not extend to the mother’s insistence that Gordon, the loyal and devoted son, had been by her side all the time. If he was. Constable Hanson said, it would be the first time in living memory, except for those occasions when he was so blind drunk he couldn’t move.
In his favour, however, was the expressed opinion that young Gordon was far too cowardly to go around killing people, and that robbing art dealers was not really his style. If a colour television or video recorder vanished, then Gordon was your man. Everybody knew that, although unaccountably no one had yet managed to catch him at it. But not more.
Undeniably, however, he was someone who needed to be eliminated from police enquiries, so they hauled him out of bed at ten in the morning and carted him off for a good going-over.
Much to police merriment, the fact that he and his mum hadn’t managed to synchronize their stories helped enormously. Although he started off being obstinate, then angry, it required little skill on the part of the policeman interrogating him to note that there was something of a discrepancy between his mother’s account of a blissful evening together, and Gordon’s memory that he had, instead, spent the entire period in his bedroom listening to music.
Even when Gordon obligingly changed his story to try and help out, the policeman was, with barely controlled delight, able to point out that while he maintained they had watched the football on BBC-1, his mother was strangely convinced they’d been watching the film on ITV.
“Film about football, was it, Gordon? Or maybe you’ve got two televisions, one in each corner of the room?”
Gordon, however, was not someone who knew how to give way gracefully. “We watched the film, then the football,” he explained.
The policeman pulled a copy of yesterday’s paper out of his pocket, and opened it at the television guide. “Odd,” he said, “I can’t see any football on offer yesterday. What match was this, Gordon?”
Gordon snarled, and lapsed into a sullen silence.
“Have it your own way, then. But I must tell you, Gordon boy, it’s not looking too good for you. Why don’t you just tell us what you were up to?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And killing that man. Tut, tut. I’m surprised at you. Not your sort of thing, really, is it? Murder, that is, Gordon. Nasty.”
Gordon blanched. “Didn’t kill no one,” he said. “What are you talking about? Who said anything about murder?”
The policeman ignored the question. It had been worth a try after all, even if the pathologists had still not made up their minds. All they knew so far was that he’d broken his neck by falling down the stairs, had a reasonable amount of alcohol in his blood supply and appeared to have eaten lamb chops and carrots for dinner. All very interesting; unfortunately, they were dithering and taking refuge in technicalities when it came to the important question.
“Of course,” the policeman went on, trying one last time to hurry things along. “We might accept manslaughter. Or even self defence, if you ask us nicely, and make our lives simple.”
But Gordon’s limited mental faculties had shut down. He sat there morosely, words like “brutality,” “persecution” and “harassment” half forming on his lips.
The policeman sighed and got up. “Ah, well. I’ve no doubt we’ll be seeing you later, Gordon.”
“These police are a bit secretive, dear,” Mary Verney said when Argyll ambled back to Weller House after a morning stroll and hung around the place wondering what to do. He ended up helping her chop vegetables for lunch. “It’s the modern age. Ask them the time and they look as though you’re a spy or something. You have to be firm with them. And talking of being firm, your fiancée rang. Flavia, is that right?”
“Yes,” he said, a bit surprised at the connection.
“She sounds quite charming,” she went on. “Very good English. She asked me to tell you she’d be coming to England this evening and would call when she got in. After she’s seen the police in London.”
“Aha!” Argyll said brightly.
“Which means you have a little explaining to do, if you please.”
“About what?”
“The seeing the police in London bit.”
Argyll considered this, and decided it was a reasonable request. “Simple enough,” he replied after a moment. “She’s in the Italian police. The Art Squad. And recently there have been one or two little questions about Forster.”
“Oh, yes?”
“It’s all a lot of nonsense, really, but I gather they’re quite keen to find out whether he stole lots of paintings, starting with an Uccello in Florence years back. The man in charge had this theory about some shadowy professional criminal working for umpteen years, and then some little old lady in Rome pointed the finger at Forster.”
“Really? And is there anything in it?”
“How should I know? But, of course, there are billions of unsolved thefts they would dearly love to pin on to somebody.”
“No doubt. But I’d drop Geoffrey if I were them,” Mary said after giving the idea careful thought. “I’ve always had this idea that master criminals should be dashing, flamboyant, romantic figures. If a little runt like Geoffrey Forster turned out to be one I would be profoundly disillusioned. I mean, he was a cheat and a bit of a bastard. But I don’t think he would have had the endurance to plan anything and carry it through.”
“No. On the other hand, people have been talking, and so it has to be investigated.”
“I suppose so,” she said meditatively. “But that’s something else you have to explain.”
“What?”