Nino kept his voice calm. ‘You don’t remember who the dealer was, do you?’
‘No,’ Jean said regretfully, then brightened. ‘But I think I might still have the photograph of that painting. Sally was very angry one day, said she’d missed her chance and threw out all her drawings, everything she’d ever done, and all the photographs she’d taken of her work. I didn’t tell her, but when she went to work I got them out of the bin.’
‘You kept them?’
‘Yes. I thought one day she might want them back …’ Her voice caught. ‘She won’t now though, will she?’
Nino paused before continuing. ‘Can I see what you saved?’
‘If it’ll help find out who killed her, of course you can,’ Jean said, giving Nino her address and arranging to meet him the following night. Then she paused, regretful. ‘She had a big heart, did Sally. But there was never anyone there to stand her corner or help her out. Not even me in the end.’
33
The house was a semi-detached in the suburbs of London, the mistress of the house nervous but welcoming. Shown into the sitting room, Nino took a seat on the red Dralon sofa and accepted a cup of tea. With biscuits. He could tell that Jean Netherton was uneasy, staring at him and taking a seat as far away as she could. He couldn’t work out if it was because of who he was, or what she was about to show him.
‘Here they are,’ she said, putting a box on the coffee table in front of Nino. ‘All Sally’s drawings and photos.’ She paused, unable to resist the question any longer. ‘Your hair – is it natural?’
Smiling, Nino shook his head. ‘No, I was ill. I recovered, but my hair turned white.’
‘Ah, I see,’ she said, relieved. ‘I suppose it must help you a lot in your business?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, you look tough. I suppose that’s important for a detective. You look like a man who can handle himself. I mean, no one would take you seriously if you were a wimp, would they?’
Smiling again, Nino pulled the box towards him, taking off the lid and beginning to rifle through the remnants of Sally Egan’s talent. He was startled by her ability. The drawings were impressive, even her sketches clever, and when he came to an envelope containing photographs he could feel his hands shake with anticipation. Scattering them on the table, he looked along the row of images. Jean pointed to the last one.
‘There it is!’
She didn’t need to tell him – Angelico Vespucci’s face was immediately recognisable. Picking up the photograph, Nino studied it intently.
‘She was good,’ he said at last. ‘Titian wouldn’t have been ashamed of that.’
‘I told you Sally had talent.’
‘And she did this for a London dealer?’ he asked, turning over the photograph and trying to read some writing. It was faint, written in pencil, and it took him a moment to work it out. ‘Something Ahmadi … The first name begins with F and I think it’s an A.’ He glanced at Jean. ‘Ring any bells? Did Sally talk about a dealer called Ahmadi?’
Regretfully she shook her head. ‘No. She just said it was a dealer in London.’
‘Well, there won’t be that many London dealers called Ahmadi.’
‘Oh, now wait a minute!’ Jean said, remembering some-thing. ‘Sally said the painting was going abroad, somewhere exotic. She did tell me …’ Irritated, she sighed. ‘It’s no good, I can’t remember.’
‘D’you know when Sally painted this?’
‘About three or four years ago. Long before I knew her.’
He pointed to the photograph. ‘Can I take it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve been a big help,’ Nino said, smiling and slipping it into his pocket.
‘D’you want to take the rest?’
He frowned, baffled. ‘What?’
‘Everything else. D’you want to take it?’ Jean said, passing him the box. ‘Please, take it. Look at what she did, how clever she was. I know you’re only really interested in that photograph, but I want someone to see Sally for what she really was. She wasn’t like they say in the papers – she was unlucky, that was all. Look at her work, Mr Bergstrom. Don’t judge Sally Egan by what she was when she died, judge her for what she could have been. If you do, somehow her death won’t be such a waste.’
*
It was nearly seven thirty when Nino returned to Kensington. Letting himself into the gallery by the back door, he turned off the alarm and checked the answerphone. There were three messages: two from Gaspare, one from the police. The last recorded voice asked him, with cold civility, if he would call the station and ask for Detective Steiner. At his earliest convenience.
So when the doorbell rang thirty minutes later the name coming over the intercom was a familiar one – Detective William Steiner. Frowning, Nino buzzed him in, waiting for the policeman at the top of the stairs. Showing him an identity card, Steiner moved into the sitting room and Nino offered him a seat. He was slight in build with curly, dry hair, wearing a creased grey suit that didn’t fit and scuffed brown shoes.
‘I’d like to have a chat with you, Mr Bergstrom,’ he said, his voice surprisingly guttural.
Wary, Nino regarded him.
‘Can I have the number of your police station? I’d like to check that you are Detective Steiner,’ he said, taking down a number and making the call. When Steiner’s identity was verified, he shrugged. ‘Sorry about that. I just wanted to be sure who I was talking to. You can never be too careful these days.’
Steiner was unemotional, unreadable. ‘You work for Mr Jonathan Ravenscourt, I believe?’
‘Yeah, I work for him.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m looking into something for him.’
‘What?’
‘The death of a friend of his, in Venice. A woman called Seraphina Morgan.’ Nino paused. ‘What’s the problem?’
Steiner ignored the question. ‘Aren’t the Italian police dealing with the case?’
‘They are. But Mr Ravenscourt wanted me to look into the matter too.’
‘But you’re …’ There was a pause as Steiner flipped open his notepad and checked his facts, ‘a location finder for the film industry, I believe.’
‘I was.’
‘But now you’re a detective? Rather a change of career, isn’t it? Or did watching all the private eyes on screen inspire you?’
Keeping his patience, Nino answered him. ‘I’m just helping Mr Ravenscourt out.’
‘But he’s hired you. He’s paying you for this help?’ Steiner pressed him. ‘There’s no point being evasive with me, Mr Bergstrom. I’m privy to all of Mr Ravenscourt’s affairs and he hired you on the twenty-seventh of November, and paid you a retainer of five thousand pounds. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Nino said warily. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘What did he want to find out?’
‘Everything about Seraphina Morgan’s death,’ Nino repeated. ‘She was a close friend of his in Venice. He was upset, wanted to find out why she’d been killed. Who had killed her.’
‘And why would he think you could find this out?’
Feeling suddenly under threat, Nino wondered how much to tell, how much to withhold. He had to give the police something, but not too much. Nothing about the painting or Vespucci.
‘I knew Seraphina slightly – we met once. Actually we had a mutual friend.’
‘Mr Gaspare Reni.’
‘Why are you bringing him into this?’
‘Into what?’ Steiner replied. ‘You said you had a mutual friend. We know you’ve been staying with Mr Reni at his Kensington gallery; I was just coming to an obvious conclusion … You seem very jumpy, Mr Bergstrom. Is there a reason for that?’
‘What’s all this about?’ Nino asked, his voice calm again. ‘You’ve obviously been checking up on me – why? Tell me. You owe me that.’
‘Mr Ravenscourt’s back in Venice. He contacted us from there, told us about you. He said he was afraid of you—’