“There were none. So no help there.”
“Would there have been if the painting were genuine?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Okay, Phil. Thanks,” said Annie. “Does this cast doubt on the other watercolor?”
“Not at all. We’ve got some provenance there, and the same tests didn’t turn out negative. I think that one was a genuine find. It must have given someone the idea of forging the other missing piece.”
“McMahon?”
“I’ve no idea who did it, but if you found it at the site of the caravan fire, and you’ve managed to link the two victims, yes, I’d say you’re probably on the right track. They must have hatched some harebrained get-rich-quick scheme. It’s quite possible to be a fine artist and pretty useless at almost everything else.”
“Tell me about it,” said Annie, thinking of her father. She had grown up surrounded by beards and endless arguments on Impressionism versus Cubism, Van Gogh versus Gauguin and the like. While Ray seemed reasonably well equipped to handle the real world, he could lose himself in his work for days on end and forget about petty irritations like bills and housecleaning.
“Anyway, that’s all I’ve got to say, for better or worse. I’ll get them packed and have them couriered back up to you. They’re worthless, but I suppose you might still need them as evidence?”
“Thanks,” said Annie.
“How are things up there?”
“Fine, I suppose.”
“Closing in for the kill?”
“Maybe,” Annie said. “Whitaker – you know, the bloke who supplied McMahon with the paper – he’s disappeared.”
“As in been killed?”
“No. As in legged it.”
“Oh, I see. Best of luck then.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s wrong? You sound a bit glum.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I had a bit of a barney with Alan, DCI Banks, this morning. It’s left rather a bad taste in my mouth.”
“What about?”
“Nothing. That’s it. Just me being oversensitive. I wish the two of you could get on better.”
“Why, what’s he said about me?”
“Nothing. It’s just… I don’t know, Phil. It’s me. Don’t pay any attention.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
“No. He just asked about you, that’s all. See what I mean about being oversensitive?”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, then,” said Phil. “I’ve got nothing against him. I’ve only met the man the once, and you were there.”
“Like I said, Phil, it’s just me. Where are you? Will you be up tonight?”
“Afraid not. I’m still down in London. I’ll try to make it tomorrow or the next day, all right?”
“Okay. See you later, then.”
“See you.”
Annie put the phone down and looked at the piles of actions and statements on her desk. Well, at least it would keep her from thinking about Banks. And about Phil.
But before she could even pick up her pen, DC Templeton dashed into the squad room. “We’ve got him,” he said. “We’ve got Whitaker. He’s downstairs.”
“Well, Leslie,” said Banks. “It’s quite a merry dance you’ve led us, isn’t it?”
“I had no idea you’d been looking for me,” said Whitaker. “How could I?”
They were in the same interview room as last time, only today Whitaker was already wearing the disposable red overalls. He hadn’t been charged, but he had been arrested and read his rights, and the tape recorders were running. The duty solicitor, Gareth Bowen, sat beside him. Banks could still sense some tension between Annie and himself, but he knew that they were both professional enough to do their jobs, especially now they seemed close to the end. If they could break Whitaker, it would be drinks all around in the Queen’s Arms, and there was a good chance Banks would get to see Michelle this weekend.
“Where were you?” Banks asked.
“I needed to get away. I went to visit a friend in Newcastle.”
“Rather an opportune time to go away, wasn’t it?”
“As I said, I had no idea you would want to talk to me again.”
“Oh, I think you did, Leslie,” said Banks. “In fact, I’m sure you did.”
“Why don’t you tell us about it?” Annie said. “You’ll feel better if you do.”
Whitaker curled his lip. “Tell you about what?”
“About Thomas McMahon. Tommy. And about Roland Gardiner. Rolo. How long have you known them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve already told you I saw Thomas McMahon in the shop from time to time, but I don’t know the other person you’re talking about.”
Banks sighed. “All right, we’ll do it the hard way.”
“Lay a finger on me and I’ll sue you.” Whitaker looked over to Bowen, who just rolled his eyes.
“What I meant,” said Banks, “is that I’m tired, DI Cabbot’s tired, and I’m sure you and Mr. Bowen are tired, too. But we’ll stay here as long as it takes to get the truth.” He glanced at Bowen. “With all requisite meal breaks and rest periods, as required by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, of course.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” said Whitaker.
“No, you don’t,” Banks agreed. “In fact, if you remember that bit in the caution about later relying in court on something you didn’t say when we first asked you, you’ll understand exactly what it means not to have to tell us anything. But let me lay my cards on the table, Leslie. At the moment, you’re our main suspect in the murders of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner.”
“But I told you, I was in Harrogate, at a dinner party. Surely you must have checked?”
“We checked.”
“And?”
“Everyone we talked to corroborates your statement. You were there.”
Whitaker folded his arms. “I told you so.”
“I wouldn’t look so smug if I were you, Leslie,” Banks went on. “We now have evidence to suggest that a timing device was used in Roland Gardiner’s caravan.”
“A timing device?”
“Yes. A candle. Crude but effective. It allowed the arsonist to prepare the fire scene but leave before the blaze started. A good couple of hours before. Easily. Wouldn’t you agree, DI Cabbot?”
“Yes,” said Annie, turning the pages of Stefan Nowak’s report. “Easily.”
“But do you have any evidence specifically to connect Mr. Whitaker to the scene?” Bowen asked. “All you’re saying is that anyone could have set that fire.”
“Have you ever heard of a man called William Masefield?” Banks asked Whitaker.
“No. Never.”
“All right. We’ll leave that for the moment. Did you or did you not supply period paper to Thomas McMahon?”
“He bought books and prints from me. It’s my business. It’s what I sell.”
“But did you sell them to him for the purpose of forging works of art?”
“Chief Inspector Banks,” Bowen cut in. “Mr. Whitaker can hardly be held responsible for what a client did after a purchase, or even know what he intended to do.”
“Perhaps in this case, he can,” said Banks. “If money was involved.”
Whitaker looked sheepish.
“Leslie?” Banks went on. “What’s it to be?”
“I told you,” Whitaker repeated. “I sold him what he wanted. It’s what you do when you’re in business.”
“You own a Jeep Cherokee, am I right?” said Banks.
“You know I do. Your men have been taking it apart since we last spoke.”
“And,” Bowen added, “might I say that they have come up with nothing to connect my client’s car with either crime scene.”
“Not yet,” said Banks.
“In fact,” Bowen went on, “I understand that a Jeep Cherokee has been connected with the Thomas McMahon fire, and that it was rented to this mysterious, and late, Mr. William Masefield by a garage outside York. Are you now saying that my client is this Mr. Masefield?”