“Not as far as I know. Pretty cultured bloke. Oxford or Cambridge. One of the two. Works as an art researcher, checking pedigrees and provenance, mostly for private collectors, but does some work for the Tate and the National. As far as I know, it’s his own business. I don’t know if he has any employees or partners.”
“Where’s the office?”
“Belgravia.” Banks gave him the address he’d got from the business card Maria Phillips gave him.
“Company name?”
“ArtSearch Limited.”
“Anything else that might help?”
“Not really. He’s in his early forties. Also owns a cottage in Fortford, North Yorkshire. Well-dressed, good-looking sort of bloke-”
“He has stolen your girlfriend, hasn’t he, Banksy?”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“That pretty young DS you were bonking. What’s her name?”
“If you mean Annie Cabbot, she’s a DI now and-”
“Annie Cabbot, that’s the one.” Burgess grinned, not a pleasant sight, least of all for the glimpse it gave of his smoke-stained, crooked teeth. He shook his head. “Tut tut tut, Banksy. Will you never learn?”
“Look,” said Banks, trying hard not to let Burgess’s prodding and teasing exasperate him. “The bloke lied to me about something that might be important in a murder investigation. I want to know why.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I want to find out as much about him as I can.”
“You mean you want me to find out as much about him as I can.”
“Okay. Will you do it?”
“You want me to find some dirt on him?”
“If there is any, I’m sure you’ll find it. If not… I just want the truth.”
“Don’t we all? And you don’t want Annie Cabbot to know about these discreet inquiries, I take it?”
“I don’t want anybody to know. Look, maybe the lie’s important and maybe it’s not. What you find out, or don’t, might help me to decide. It’s a serious case.”
“The Eastvale Canal fires?”
“You know about them?”
“Like to keep my finger on the pulse. And another thing: you paid a visit to Sir Laurence West this morning.”
Banks smiled. “I don’t suppose I should be surprised you know that already.”
Burgess winked. “The walls have ears,” he said. “Go carefully, Banksy. Sir Laurence has some very powerful connections.”
“He told me what I wanted to know. I don’t think I have a problem with him.”
“Make sure you don’t. These are difficult times. The world’s going to hell in a handbasket. You don’t know who you can trust.”
“You always seem to land on your feet.”
“I’m a Weeble, me. Remember those when you were a kid? You could knock them down as many times as you wanted but they always rolled back to their feet.”
“I remember,” said Banks.
“Anyway, how’s about another couple of pints? Unless you have to run.”
Banks glanced at his watch. There was somewhere he wanted to go, but he didn’t have to run. “Fine with me,” he said.
“My shout this time.”
Winsome was driving the unmarked police car down the M42, weaving in and out of the lanes of lorries with natural ease, windscreen wipers flapping like crazy to get rid of all the filthy spray. Annie, no mean driver herself, was surprised she didn’t feel in the least bit nervous, considering the speed they were going and the narrow spaces Winsome seemed able to maneuver them in and out of.
“Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?” Annie asked.
Winsome flashed her a grin. “Dunno, ma’am,” she said. “Back home, I suppose. I mean, I started when I was twelve, and I guess I just took to it. Some of those mountain roads…”
“But there aren’t any motorways in Jamaica, are there?”
“You never been there, ma’am?”
“No.”
“Well, there aren’t. Not really. Not what you’d call motorways. But you can go pretty fast sometimes, and you get a lot of traffic in Montego Bay.”
“What about Kingston?”
“Dunno,” said Winsome. “Never been there. Mostly I learned driving here, though, on the job. I took a course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Look, Winsome…”
“What, ma’am?”
“About this ‘ma’am’ business. It makes me feel like an old woman. Do you think you could call me something else?”
Winsome laughed. “What do you recommend?”
“Up to you, really.”
“Boss?”
“No. Don’t like that.”
“Chief.”
“No.”
“How about Guv?”
Annie thought for a moment. Banks didn’t like “Guv,” she knew. He said it sounded too much like television. But Annie didn’t mind that. And she liked the sound of it. “Okay,” she said. “ ‘Guv’ will do fine.”
“Right you are, Guv. What do you think?”
“About William Masefield?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure,” said Annie. “It can’t be as easy as this, surely?”
“Sometimes it is. Easy, I mean.”
“Not in my experience. If he’s got any brains at all, he must have known we’d track him through the rental and the credit card eventually.”
“Maybe he’s not so bright as you think.” Winsome dodged in and out of a convoy of about six articulated juggernauts with Spanish number plates, and Annie looked at the map. “We’re nearly there. Get over in the left lane.”
Winsome flashed her signal and edged over.
“You want Junction three. The A-435. Here it is.”
Winsome took the exit and slowed down quickly. Annie turned to a more detailed map of the area she had bought before the journey and found the street in Studley. Winsome drove more sedately now, and there was little traffic on the road. They turned down a hill, then right into a network of streets, Annie looking for the address they had got from the garage.
Finally, Winsome pulled up in front of where the house should have been. The ones around were all detached. Not large, but comfortable enough, with bay windows and garages. The only problem was that where number eleven was supposed to be there was nothing but an empty lot.
They got out of the car, puzzled, and looked at the empty space.
“Help you, love?” said a voice behind them in a slightly nasal Midlands accent.
Annie turned and saw the woman had come out of the house across the street, a gray cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. “Maybe you can,” she said, flashing her warrant card and introducing Winsome. “We’re looking for a Mr. William Masefield.”
“Ah, Mr. Masefield,” the woman said. “I’m afraid you’re a bit late, love. And so’s he. He’s dead.”
“When?”
“Last August.”
“What did he die of? What happened to the house?”
“Burned down.”
“There was a fire?”
“Yes. Whole place went up. Lucky it didn’t take the rest of the street.”
Annie’s mind raced. “Did you see it? The fire?”
“No. Gerald and me were in Spain. Go every summer. When we got back it was all over. Just a ruin.”
“What caused it?”
“I don’t know all the details, love. You’ll have to ask the firemen.”
“Did Mr. Masefield live alone?”
“Yes. He was a bachelor.”
“Did he have any visitors?”
“Not that I saw. Bit of a dark horse. Reclusive.”
“What did he look like?”
“About six foot, maybe a bit more. Stooped from bending over all those textbooks at university, I wouldn’t be surprised. Going a bit gray.”
“What university?”
“He was a lecturer at Warwick.”
“What subject?”
“Physics, I think. Or chemistry. Some sort of science, anyway.”
“How old was he?”
“Hard to say, really. Early-to-mid-forties, at a guess. Look, why do you want to know all this?”