Banks said nothing for a moment. “Anything else?” he asked finally.
“His prints match a partial the SOCOs found on the rented Jeep Cherokee, which confirms what we already suspected.”
“That the killer was using Masefield’s identity?”
“Yes. The accountants digging into Masefield’s investments have discovered that he was dealing with someone called Ian Lang of Olympus Holdings, registered in the British Virgin Islands, but they’re not having a lot of luck tracing Mr. Lang or his company.”
“They wouldn’t have, would they?” said Banks. “Any more on Masefield?”
“All we know is that he was at university in Leeds at the right time, so I assume ‘Giles Moore,’ if that’s who we’re looking for, must have known him somehow and kept in touch. There’s every chance that Keane had something to do with whatever lost Masefield all his money, and that he killed him. But we can’t know for sure. Maybe it was just opportune. Maybe Masefield did commit suicide – everyone said he was depressed and drinking too much – and Keane found him dead, stole his identity and started the fire. But one way or another, he was involved in the death.”
“Yes,” said Banks. “And it would have been easy for him to pass himself off as Masefield if the two of them had a passing resemblance. It’s amazing what you can do with a pair of glasses, a different hairstyle or coloring, maybe a slight stoop and a little paunch.”
“Anyway,” Annie went on, “I talked to Elaine Hough again, and she reluctantly dug out a couple of old letters Giles Moore had written to her. She said she hadn’t wanted anyone else to read them. No detectable prints, unfortunately, but we do have samples of Keane’s handwriting, and our expert cautiously admits they might match. But they’re years apart, so it’s hard to be certain. Nothing that would stand up in court, at any rate.”
“It’s a start,” said Banks. “Can you show her Keane’s picture?”
“We don’t have a picture,” Annie said. “Another problem is that we can’t seem to dig up any background on Giles Moore. He definitely existed for Elaine Hough, and for McMahon, Gardiner and Masefield, and whoever else he hung around with in Leeds, but outside that, we have no record of him. You do realize we might never find out?”
“Someone like him,” Banks said, “is bound to be clever. Keane and Moore are probably only two of his identities. Maybe he’s Ian Lang, too. God knows who he is now, or where, but if I read him right, he’d have an escape route – and a new identity – all set up for an eventuality like this. I’ll bet he’s overseas already. He’s been at this all his life, Annie. Conning people, stealing identities. Maybe this is the first time he’s killed, maybe not. But he’s been at the game for a long time. Look how he conned us.”
Annie produced a cheap pocket-sized notebook bound in stiff cardboard covers and tapped it with her forefinger. “We found this at the cottage,” she said. “One of the SOCOs discovered a false ceiling in the wardrobe. The measurements didn’t agree. In it we found the notebook, a passport in the name of Ewan Collins, and about twenty thousand quid in fives and tens.”
“So he didn’t have time to get back there and pick them up,” said Banks. “Which means maybe he doesn’t have a passport – not one he can use, at any rate.”
“Which means he may well be still in the country.”
Banks looked at the notebook. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Roland Gardiner’s journal. It looks as if he started keeping it when Keane first came to visit, and it stops on the evening of his death. It’s quite touching, really. Elaine Hough told us Gardiner fancied himself as a bit of a writer when he was at the Poly.”
“Does it tell us anything?”
“Not really,” Annie said. “It’s more of a personal, poetic record than anything else. Gardiner was taken in by the excitement and romance Keane offered. It does help explain why they had to die, though. It was mostly McMahon’s fault. Not only did he get greedy, he also intended to try to pass off the Turner as genuine. According to Gardiner, he was embittered. He wanted revenge on the art world for failing to recognize his great talent, and he thought the best way to get it was to put one over on them. A big one.”
“And Keane?”
“Ever the pragmatist,” said Annie. “McMahon tried to blackmail him into helping authenticate the Turner. Said if he didn’t he’d pass on the names of all the fakes he’d channeled through Keane to the press, the police, the galleries, the dealers. It would have ruined Keane, and he’d probably have ended up in jail. McMahon could have claimed that all he did was paint them, not try to pass them off as genuine. Keane obviously realized what trouble McMahon could cause him, so the artist became more of a liability than an asset. And Gardiner was a loose end.”
“Why did Keane hang on to the notebook? Why not burn it?”
“Vanity,” said Annie. “It never names him, but it’s all about him.”
“What was Gardiner’s role?”
“Forger of provenance, letters, old catalogs, bills of sale. That sort of thing. Go-between for nonexistent owners, dealers and auction houses. McMahon could dash off the paintings, but that’s as far as his contribution went.”
“As we thought,” said Banks.
“Yes.” Annie paused. “We’ve also talked to Keane’s wife, who was less than useful, and we’ve been having a close look at his business. It was clever,” Annie went on. “Very clever. He chose lesser-known artists. Eighteenth-century English landscape painters. Dutch minimalists. Minor Impressionists. And McMahon churned them out in quantity. Sketches. Small watercolors. Nothing big enough to draw too much attention to itself. Ten thousand quid here, fifty thousand there, twenty, five. It all adds up to a tidy sum.”
“Christ,” said Banks. “Keane told us all this, you know. He told us everything we needed to know. He was toying with us. We just weren’t listening.”
Annie said nothing.
“Anything more from Whitaker?”
“I’ve talked to him again. He admitted supplying the paper and canvas for a small cut, most likely from McMahon’s take. He knows nothing about the real magnitude of what was going on, knew nothing about Keane, but he did know why McMahon wanted the materials and what he did with them. He also confirmed what Gardiner wrote, that McMahon was bitter and bragged about ‘showing them all.’ ”
“Are we charging Whitaker?”
“What with? Being an arsehole?”
Banks managed a weak smile, but Annie could tell it hurt. “Have you seen or heard anything of Mark Siddons?” he asked.
“No,” said Annie. “We’ve no unfinished business with him, have we?”
“No,” said Banks. “I was just wondering, that’s all.” He glanced toward the window again, and Annie could see he was looking at the scaffolding around the church tower.
Annie tapped the notebook again. “It really is odd,” she said, “the way Gardiner seemed to look up to Keane, hero-worship him, as if their scam was all that made life bearable, and when it was over…” She dropped the notebook on the bedsheet. “Well, you can read it for yourself.”
“Keane made him feel special?” Banks suggested.
“Yes. He made him feel special.” Annie leaned forward. “Look, Alan…”
Banks touched her hand. “Later,” he said.
Then the door opened and Michelle Hart popped her head in. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”
Banks looked over at her. “Well,” he said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Annie left the room.
18th JANUARY
He’ll be coming for me soon. Today, tomorrow, or the next day. I can feel his dark mind reaching out to me. It doesn’t matter. I’m tired now. I’m the cancer patient who lives longer than the doctors have given him, the sad father who outlives all his children, the condemned man who receives a stay of execution. But now it’s time. Soon he will come.