“Which painting?”
“I can’t remember. Just one of the ones we had on display in the reception room. Nothing fancy. Local, most likely.”
“Did you get any sense of what their conversation was about?”
“Not really.”
“I mean, were they arguing?”
“No.”
“Exchanging pleasantries?”
“No.”
“Intimate?”
“Not in that sort of way.”
“An animated, passionate discussion?”
“No. More casual than that.”
“Just passing the time of day, then?”
“Well, yes, except…”
“Except what?”
“When I was playing it back in my mind last night… I don’t know if I’m imagining things, you know, embroidering on what I actually saw, but I could swear they were talking as if they knew one another.”
“Not as if they’d just met?”
“No, that’s it. You can tell, can’t you, when there’s a history? Even if you don’t hear a word?”
“Sometimes,” Banks said. “Body language can actually tell you quite a lot.”
“Body language,” Maria repeated. “Yes… Anyway…” She reached into her handbag. “He gave me his business card and I dug it out of the files, if that’s any use.”
Banks looked at the card. Some ornate sort of typeface, black and red. It gave Phil Keane’s company name as Art-Search Ltd., along with an address in Belgravia. “Can I keep this?” Banks asked.
“Of course. It’s no use to me, is it?”
Banks thanked her.
“Well, that’s it, then.” Maria spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know. I have nothing left up my sleeve to keep you here with.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks, suddenly feeling magnanimous toward Maria, and not in any great hurry to go home. After all, it was not yet seven o’clock and the film didn’t start till nine. “What about the pleasure of your company?”
Maria looked puzzled. “You don’t have to dash off somewhere?”
“No. Not yet, at any rate. As you pointed out, there’s no wife waiting to massage my shoulders and neck and run a hot bath. How about another drink?”
Maria narrowed her eyes and looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
Maria blushed, then slid her empty glass toward him. “I’ll have another Campari and soda then, please.”
She actually seemed quite shy when he took the lead, Banks thought, as he made his way to the bar. As he stood there waiting for Cyril to pull his pint, he wondered about what he’d just heard. It didn’t mean anything, necessarily, even if Maria’s intuition was right, but why hadn’t Phil told him? Why had he lied about knowing McMahon? And how could Banks go about checking into it without damaging his already fragile relationship with Annie?
Chapter 12
On the train to London, Banks fretted about what Maria Phillips had told him the previous evening, and what to do about it. He couldn’t even relax and enjoy his John Mayall CD for worrying, and he certainly couldn’t concentrate on the Eric Ambler thriller he’d brought along.
There was no denying that Maria had told him Phil Keane was deep in conversation with Thomas McMahon, as if they already knew each other, and Keane had said he didn’t know the artist. It could be a simple, honest mistake in identity – after all, it was a few months ago – but Banks didn’t think so.
Maybe Keane, like anybody else, wanted to avoid any connection with a police investigation. It was a natural response, after all. Don’t get involved. Leave me out of it. Leslie Whitaker had done the same thing, and Banks was convinced that he was in a lot deeper than he admitted.
But Phil Keane was involved. As a consultant, and as Annie’s lover. Which meant he was supposed to be on their side, didn’t it? The last thing Banks could do was talk to Annie about it. She would immediately turn on him for trying to come between her and Phil out of personal jealousy, making their last little set-to seem like a preliminary round.
Shortly after Grantham, Banks had an idea. He made a call on his mobile to an old colleague on the Met, someone who might be able to help. After that, he had a bit more success putting the matter out of his mind and listening to Blues from Laurel Canyon.
King’s Cross was the usual melee. Banks headed straight for the taxi rank and joined the queue. Within a few minutes he was on his way to Sir Laurence West’s office in the City. The journey was slow, like most road journeys in London, and the mild weather seemed to have brought more people out onto the streets. Couriers on bicycles weaved in and out of the traffic with total disregard for safety – theirs or anybody else’s – and pedestrians wandered across the streets no matter where, or what color, the traffic lights were. Many were wearing only their suits or Windcheaters and jeans.
There aren’t many skyscrapers in the City, but Sir Laurence’s offices were on the twelfth floor of one of them and offered a splendid view south over the river to Southwark, or would have done had the day not been so overcast.
When Banks finally made it past the security, receptionists, secretaries, office managers and personal assistants, he was beginning to wish he’d sent someone else instead. He didn’t cope well with bureaucracy and soon found himself losing patience. When he was finally ushered into the inner sanctum he was ready to give Sir Laurence a hard time.
The office was about as big as the entire upper floor of Western Area Headquarters, and most of it was uncluttered open space. Thick carpets with intricate eastern designs covered most of the floor area, the rest being shiny hardwood, and a big teak desk sat at the center, a sleek laptop computer the only object on its surface. In one corner a black leather-upholstered three-piece suite was arranged around a low, glass-topped table, a cocktail cabinet nearby. There was a faint whiff of old cigar smoke in the air.
The man himself was tall and portly, bald-headed and bushy-eyebrowed, with more than a passing resemblance to Robert Morley, probably in his early seventies, but well preserved. He was wearing a slate gray suit, white shirt and striped tie, no doubt representing some old school, exclusive club or regiment. He came forward with a genial smile on his face and shook hands, gesturing for Banks to sit in one of the armchairs.
“Drink?” he offered.
“No, thank you,” said Banks.
“Hope you don’t mind if I do.”
“Not at all.”
West poured himself some amber fluid from a cut-glass decanter and added a splash of soda. Banks got a whiff of brandy.
“I know it’s a bit early,” said West, “but I always make it a point to have a drink before lunch. Just the one, you understand. It helps sharpen the appetite.”
Banks, who might have time to grab a burger at the nearest McDonald’s, if he was lucky, nodded. “I’ll have a Coke, if you’ve got any,” he said.
“Of course.” West opened what looked like a filing cabinet. It was a small fridge. He took out a can of Coke, poured it into a crystal tumbler and handed it to Banks, who thanked him and took a sip.
“Now, what can I do for you?” said West, sitting opposite Banks. He didn’t have to explain that he was a busy man; it was evident from his body language. “The young man on the telephone didn’t tell me very much. I do hope those wretched British Waterways people haven’t been bothering you. They’ve been on at me for years, but I’m afraid I’ve rather ignored them.”
Anyone else’s boats would probably have been towed away long ago, Banks reflected. Wealth and power do have their privileges. Slowly, he explained about the fires and the deaths.
“Oh, dear,” said West. “I hope you won’t be holding me legally responsible for their condition?”
“That’s not my department,” said Banks. “All I’m interested in is who set the fire, and why.”