“I’m saying that it might be the case that your client has taken Mr. Masefield’s identity,” Banks went on.
“Have you any proof of this?” Bowen asked.
“The investigation is ongoing.”
“In other words, you haven’t?”
“This is ridiculous,” said Whitaker. “I’ve already got a Jeep Cherokee. Why would I rent one?”
“To avoid exactly the kind of situation you’re in,” said Banks.
“But I’m in it anyway, aren’t I?”
“There are several counts against you. First, you’re a minor art dealer and one of the victims was a forger you supplied with paper. Secondly, you drive a Jeep Cherokee and such a car, or one very much like it, was spotted at the scene of the Thomas McMahon fire.”
“But you’ve already found-” Bowen started.
Banks cut him off. “That doesn’t mean Mr. Whitaker’s Jeep was never there.” He went on. “Add to this that you have no alibi for either murder, and that you lied to us in your previous interview, I’d say it adds up to a pretty strong case against you.”
“Circumstantial,” said Bowen. “You’ve no proof my client had ever heard of, let alone knew, Roland Gardiner; the car in the lay-by spotted near the scene has been identified; the accelerant used did not come from Mr. Whitaker’s fuel tank; and there’s no connection between Mr. Whitaker and the man whose credit card was used to rent the car. I’d say that adds up to nothing.”
“Except,” said Annie Cabbot, “that Mr. Whitaker’s business has been reporting a loss for two years in a row now, yet he has recently made several rather expensive purchases. For cash.” Annie opened a file folder. “To wit, a thirty-two-inch widescreen television and a home theater system, a state-of-the-art Dell desktop computer system, and he’s had his house repainted and added a new conservatory. Do you deny these purchases?”
Whitaker looked at Annie. “I… er… no.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“I won it. The horses.”
“You don’t bet on the horses.”
“How do you know?”
“Do you think we overlook the bookies when we’re investigating someone’s financial status, Leslie?” Annie said. “Do you really think we’re that stupid?”
“It was a gift. A friend gave it to me.”
“Which friend?”
“He wants to remain anonymous. A tax thing. You understand.”
Banks was shaking his head, and even Gareth Bowen looked anxious.
“Where did you get the money, Leslie?” Annie repeated.
“You don’t have to answer,” said Bowen.
“Right,” said Banks, standing up. “I’ve had enough of this. Interview terminated at six thirty-five P.M. I’m going home and the suspect is going back to his cell.”
“You can’t – -”
Bowen touched Whitaker’s sleeve. “Yes, they can, Leslie,” he said. “For twenty-four hours. But don’t worry. I’ll be working for you.”
Whitaker glared at the solicitor. “Well,” he said, “you’ve no idea how bloody confident that makes me feel.”
Annie munched on a salad sandwich Winsome had brought her from the bakery across Market Street and started reading through the statements again. Andrew Hurst. Mark Siddons. Jack Mellor. Leslie Whitaker. Elaine Hough. There had to be something there to link Whitaker more closely to the killings, but if there was, she was damned if she could find it. It didn’t help that she was having trouble concentrating, partly because she still couldn’t stop herself wondering what Banks was up to, and partly because of something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It would come, she knew, if she let her mind drift.
Phil had suggested that McMahon and Gardiner were involved in some art forgery scam, an ill-advised and illtimed attempt to come up with a Turner watercolor that had been lost for over a century. Annie agreed. But if that was the case, her question remained: Who killed them, and why? Leslie Whitaker still seemed the most logical culprit, despite the Jeep Cherokee rented under William Masefield’s name. Perhaps that was a red herring, another issue entirely?
Annie ruled out the Siddons-Aspern angle, as she had done almost from the start, despite her mistrust of the boy. Tina’s death was an unfortunate but irrelevant distraction; she had died because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time and in the wrong state of mind. In other words, she wasn’t the intended victim. Thomas McMahon was. And in Gardiner’s case, there was no question. He lived alone, and in isolation. The two knew each other from their time at Leeds Polytechnic, and they had also once been close to a mysterious character named Giles Moore, who had misled all his friends about being a university student.
Why? What possible reason could he have had, unless lying was an essential part of his character? If it was, it could easily be put to criminal purposes. This Giles Moore had claimed to be studying art history, and according to Elaine Hough, had seemed to know plenty about the subject, whether he learned it at university or not. Was this, then, the person who had assumed William Masefield’s identity when hiring cars for meetings with McMahon? Meetings about their scam. Because she was certain it was he, not McMahon or Gardiner, who was the brains behind it. And was this person Whitaker?
But again the question remained: Why had Moore-Masefield-Whitaker, or whoever he was, killed the goose that laid the golden eggs – McMahon? Unless… unless, she thought, the Turners weren’t part of his master plan, and he believed they would ruin everything and expose him. Phil had said that any forger worth his salt goes for lower-level stuff, artists who fetch a decent price but don’t draw too much attention to themselves, like Turner or Van Gogh. And Phil should know. He was in the business. An expert. Dead artists were a better bet, too, especially if they’d been dead so long that nobody living had known them, because the provenance was easier to forge. So who was it?
Winsome walked by with a handful of papers she had been keying into HOLMES.
“Anything?” Annie asked.
“My fingertips are bleeding,” said Winsome. “I don’t know if that counts as anything.” She dropped the papers on Annie’s desk. “The list of parking tickets from the Askham Bar area. You’d think with all those vehicle numbers something would jump out, wouldn’t you?”
“Son of Sam?”
“Like that, yes.”
“Fancy a drink?”
Winsome grinned. “You’re talking my language.”
Annie glanced over the list of car numbers that had been given parking tickets in the area around Kirk’s Garage, where “William Masefield” had rented his Jeep Cherokee and she saw one that immediately jumped out at her. It couldn’t be right, she thought. It wasn’t possible. She looked again. Maybe she’d remembered the numbers wrong. But she knew she hadn’t. She never did.
Banks felt irritable when he got back to his cottage that evening. It was because of his argument with Annie, he knew. He didn’t think he’d been too heavy-handed, so maybe she had simply overreacted. Love can make you feel that way sometimes. Was Annie in love with Keane? The thought didn’t make Banks feel any better, so he poured himself a generous Laphroaig, cask strength, and put some Schubert string quartets on the CD player. Should he have told her about Helen? Probably not. What he should do, he realized, was talk to Keane again and suggest he tell Annie himself. After all, if it was such an open marriage, what had he got to hide? Annie wouldn’t like it, would no doubt promptly end the relationship, but that was Keane’s problem, not his.
He was trying to decide whether to get back to his Eric Ambler or watch a European cup match on TV when someone knocked on his door. Too late for traveling salesmen, not that there were many around these days, and a friend would most likely have rung first. Puzzled, he put his glass aside and answered it.
Banks was surprised, and more than a little put out, to see Phil Keane standing there, a smile on his face, a bottle clutched in his hand. He’d wanted to talk to Keane again, but not in his own home, and not now, when he was in need of solitude and relaxation, and the healing balm of Schubert. Still, sometimes you just had to take what you were offered when you were offered it.