Playing With Fire

Chapter 13

“Well, Mark,” said Banks, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head. “Why did you run?”

“How was I to know they were plainclothes coppers? You told me I was in danger, to watch out. That’s what I did.”

“And what do you have to say about it all now?”

“Just the same as I told those bastards in Scarborough yesterday. The bloke attacked me. I defended myself. What was I supposed to do, let him put his hands all over me?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Mark,” he said. “What bloke is this? Who attacked you? Where?”

Mark stared at him. He’d been held overnight at Scarborough for resisting arrest and delivered to Western Area Headquarters that morning. The arresting officer had mentioned some gibberish about an attack and self-defense, but he had no idea what Mark was talking about, either. Nor did he want to know. Enough paperwork on his plate already without picking up Eastvale’s leftovers. One thing that did bother Banks was the black eye, split lip and bruising on Mark’s cheek. He wondered how “necessary” the force was that the two DCs who arrested him used. And had they announced that they were police officers first? Mark said not.

“You mean you don’t know?” Mark asked.

“Know what?”

“The bloke. The poofter. He didn’t report it?”

“Nobody reported anything, as far as I know. What are you talking about? Did you get into trouble hitching a lift?”

“Never mind,” said Mark. “That’s what I thought it was all about, when I found out they were coppers after me. It doesn’t matter now. What am I here for this time, then?”

“Know anything about a fire in Jennings Field last Saturday night? Caravan.”

“I don’t even know where Jennings Field is.”

“You’d have passed close by there on your way east from your friend’s house.”

“I still don’t know. Why are you asking me this?”

“Just seems too much of a coincidence, that’s all. Two fires, and you pretty much on the scene of both of them.”

“Look, you’ve already cleared me on the boat fire. Mandy told the truth about where I was, and your blokes tested my clothes. They didn’t find anything.”

“I know,” said Banks. And he also knew that they couldn’t test Mark’s clothes for traces of accelerant this time because they’d been given to him by Banks himself. Even if the bloody things were soaked in petrol, that wouldn’t make a scrap of difference to the Crown Prosecution Service. “But that doesn’t let you out of the Jennings Field fire. Or out of killing Thomas McMahon.”

“How do you work that out?”

“McMahon was unconscious before the fire. Maybe you drugged him. You certainly seem to be able to lay your hands on any drug you want.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he made a move on Tina. He was an artist. Maybe he offered to pay her for posing nude.”

“He didn’t.”

“Only your word.”

“He didn’t. And I didn’t touch him.”

“Okay. Did you see anything when you passed Jennings Field on Saturday?”

Mark looked away, watching the workmen on the scaffolding around the church. “I thought I saw a fire,” he said. “In the distance. But I wasn’t anywhere near it. And I had other things on my mind.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t remember. No watch.” He turned to face Banks again. “Look, I’d nothing to do with it. You know that. Why don’t you ask Dr. Patrick fucking Aspern where he was? Or is he beyond your reach? A doctor.”

“Don’t worry, Mark. We’ll ask whoever we want. Anyway, what reason do you have to think Dr. Aspern had anything to do with the Jennings Field fire?”

“I don’t know. But if you think it was the same person set both of them, then I’m saying you should have a good look at him, too.”

“We will. Don’t worry. Have you got any other suggestions?”

Mark shook his head and looked back out of the window. Banks wrote down a name, address and phone number on a sheet of paper and passed it to him.

“What’s this?” Mark asked.

Banks nodded toward the window. “Name of the person in charge of the restoration crew out there,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine. Drop by the office or give him a call. Tell him I sent you.”

Mark glanced back and forth from the men on the scaffolding to Banks. Finally, he folded the sheet of paper, and lacking a pocket in the red overalls he’d been issued, held on to it. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. And your pal Lenny says it’s all right to go back to his place, if you want.”

“You talked to Lenny?”

“Yes, I talked to him. His wife is really sorry. She doesn’t like surprises, that’s all. They’d be glad to have you.”

Banks could see doubt cloud Mark’s features. He didn’t blame the kid. He’d be suspicious himself. Things hadn’t worked out especially well for Mark so far this past week or so.

“Up to you,” he said. “One more thing.”

“What?”

Banks slid the photograph of Roland Gardiner that Annie had got from Alice Mowbray across the desk. “Recognize him?”

Mark studied the photo. “Dunno,” he said finally. “It could be one of the blokes I saw visit Tom. He’s got the right sort of nose. But…”

“Okay,” said Banks. He described Leslie Whitaker. “That sound anything like the other bloke?”

Mark shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “But again…”

“I know,” said Banks. “It’s vague.” He thought he should perhaps organize an identity parade, see if Mark could pick out Whitaker from a group of people who looked a bit like him.

“Can I go now?” Mark asked.

“As far as I’m concerned. Where will you be if I need you?”

“Need me? For what?”

“More questions. There’s still a chance you can help us find Tina’s killer.”

“I’ll be at Lenny’s,” Mark said.

“I take it you’re not pressing charges?”

“What?”

“Police brutality.”

Mark fingered his bruises and grinned. “The pavement was hard,” he said. “I fell.” He got up and walked to the door.

“There’s a constable outside,” said Banks. “He’ll take you back down to the custody suite and get you sorted.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Mark?”

“Yes?”

“When you were arrested you had over two hundred pounds in your pocket, but when you first left here you only had about ten. Where did you get the rest?”

“Found it,” said Mark, and nipped out of the door quickly.

There was more to it than that, Banks was convinced, but it didn’t concern him now. No doubt there had been a problem with someone who had given him a lift, and Mark had probably nicked his wallet in the scuffle. That the theft hadn’t been reported made Banks lean in favor of Mark’s garbled explanation that he’d been assaulted by the man, who needed police attention like he needed a hole in the head. Call the two hundred “damages,” then, and have done with it.

He watched the restorers at work for a few moments, thinking about the kind of life Mark had been living at home, in the squat and on the boat, and what the future might hold for him. It had to be better than the past. His phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Ken Blackstone.”

“Good to hear from you. Any news on the doctor?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in hearing, I’m afraid. Clean bill of health, even down to the scrupulously up-to-date shotgun certificate.”

“He’s got a shotgun?”

“Likes to shoot small winged creatures with like-minded people.”

“It takes all sorts. No rumors, gossip?”

“No. Seems he’s a capable doctor. Not much of a bedside manner. Some described him as a bit of a cold fish. There was just one little thing.”

“What’s that?” Banks asked.

“One of the neighbors saw a black woman coming out of his house carrying a plastic bag on Monday morning. She thought it might be drugs.”

Banks laughed. “That would have been our very own DC Winsome Jackman with Dr. Aspern’s clothing for testing. Which came out negative, as expected, by the way.”

“Well, at least he’s been getting wind there’s something going on,” Blackstone said. “Already put a complaint in to Weetwood about harassment, and he gave one of his neighbors a right chewing out after he saw her talking to one of our men.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Let’s hope it keeps him off balance.”

“Have you thought, Alan, that maybe he hasn’t actually done anything?”

“There’s something there. Trust me.”

“Instinct?”

“Call it what you will: body language, unspoken communication, but there’s something there. The girl was screwed up, and why should she lie to Mark?”

“Junkies lie habitually. You know that as well as I do. And maybe the boyfriend has his own reasons for believing her.”

“I’ve thought of that. We did a background check on him, and it’s true he had it rough at home. I still think there’s something going on, though. And if I get any proof, I’ll have the bastard.”

“The fires?”

“Possible. But I don’t think so. He did something to Tina, though. I’m certain of it.”

“Well, best of luck, mate. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, it’s okay. Thanks, Ken.”

“Cheers. And don’t forget, if you’re down in my neck of the woods, that sofa’s always there for you.”

“I won’t forget.”

Banks stood at his window after the phone call thinking and looking out at the people in raincoats down in the market square. He was certain that Dr. Patrick Aspern had sexually abused his stepdaughter, and that his wife knew about it. But he had no proof. Nor did he seem to have much hope of getting any now that Tina was dead. Her death was convenient for Aspern, but Banks was almost certain he hadn’t started the fire on the boats. That had something to do with Thomas McMahon, he was convinced of it. Tina was incidental, maybe an unwanted witness. Which made the killer an especially nasty piece of work.

Thoughts of McMahon brought Banks back to Phil Keane and his little lie. He would have to contrive to have a chat with Phil without Annie around. He knew exactly how she would behave if she thought he was trying to dig up some dirt on her precious Phil. And maybe she would be right; maybe Maria Phillips’s version was exaggerated or even untrue. But until he knew for certain one way or another, he would distance himself from Phil and Annie, do a bit of discreet digging and wait to hear from Dirty Dick.

It felt good to be wearing his own clothes again, Mark thought, as he headed out of Western Area Headquarters for the second time in a week. The old leather jacket felt like a second skin. And it was good to be free again. His face and body still ached from the beating the Scarborough cops had given him, for “resisting arrest,” but, just as he had suspected, Clive hadn’t reported the hitchhiking incident, and the police had no reason to keep him in custody.

And he still had over two hundred quid in his pocket.

Mark crossed the market square, anonymous among the crowd of shoppers and the occasional out-of-season tourist. He hadn’t a clue where to go, but he knew he wasn’t going back to Lenny’s, no matter what he’d told Banks. That had been a mistake in the first place. Lenny was a decent bloke, but he had enough on his plate without bringing Mark home. Sure, maybe they did both feel all guilty right now after upsetting him, but that would soon wear off. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear Sal’s silent resentment of his presence. And when he thought about it, he realized that, if it wasn’t Clive, then it must have been Lenny who’d set the cops on him. He wouldn’t have expected that from him, but there it was. Did Lenny believe he’d started the fires, too? No matter, he wouldn’t be seeing Lenny or his bitch of a wife again.

Across the square, he turned left for a short way on York Road and went into the Swainsdale Centre. When he was at Eastvale Comprehensive and wanted to put off going home after school, he had often hung around the center with his mates, not doing anything, just loitering and smoking, sometimes looking in Dixon’s windows at the fancy computers and stereos he couldn’t afford. Well, there had been an occasional bit of shoplifting, he remembered, but that was as bad as the gang got. Sometimes, too, he had spent the day there instead of going to school at all.

The center wasn’t very busy; it never was on a Wednesday morning. Just a few young women pushing prams, and kids skiving off school, the way Mark had done. On the upper level, at the top of the escalator opposite HMV, was a food court, and Mark bought himself a Big Mac, fries and a Coke and sat at one of the Formica-topped tables to eat. There was something about a shopping center that numbed your brain, Mark thought. Something to do with the weird lighting and the barely audible music. Maybe it hypnotized you into buying things. Well, there was nothing Mark wanted, except maybe a new CD. He’d grown tired of Ziggy Stardust over the past few days, and it was the only one he had left. Maybe he’d get something by Beth Orton in memory of Tina. He’d probably need new batteries soon, so he might as well pick some up in Dixon’s.

As he sat there munching on his Big Mac, lulled by the bland ambience of the Swainsdale Centre, watching the people who seemed to float around him as insubstantial as ghosts or shadows to the faint, pale music of an orchestral version of “Eleanor Rigby,” Mark mulled over the past few days. The fire had occurred on Thursday night, and it was now the following Wednesday. Had it really only been such a short time since Tina had died and Mark had had his adventures on the road? He’d also been assaulted by a queer, been in and out of jail twice, beaten up by the police and spent the most luxurious evening of his life in a B and B in Helmsley. And there was still a chance that someone out there was after him, wanted him dead.

It was hard to think with his brain so numb, but there was something very wrong with the picture he was seeing. What did he think he was trying to achieve? Did he have any control over his life at all? He’d run away from Lenny’s more because of echoes of his past than anything else, but had it all happened because he’d been trying to force himself in the wrong direction in the first place?

He had been thinking about putting his life back together. Getting back to work on the building site. Living with Lenny and Sal. Making things normal again. But could they ever be normal again? When he thought about it, he really didn’t think so. And what on earth did he think he was up to, running off to Scarborough? It was the same thing, when you got right down to it. A new start. A job. A place to live. The normal life.

But with Tina gone, nothing could ever be normal again. He felt that as he sat there in the Swainsdale Centre staring into space.

And all the things he had been aiming for, trying to do – the job, Lenny’s, Scarborough – they weren’t meant to be. That was clear now. They weren’t meant to be because there was somewhere he had to go before he could get his own life sorted. Something he had to do. For Tina.

In the Queen’s Arms that lunchtime, Banks, Annie and Winsome managed to bag a corner table near the window. As usual, one or two heads turned at the sight of Winsome, but Banks could tell she was used to it. She had a model’s carriage and managed to handle all the attention with mild amusement and disdain.

“Lunch is on me,” Banks said.

Annie raised her eyebrows. “Last of the big spenders.” She looked at Winsome, who smiled, but Banks sensed less humor in the remark than Winsome had. Annie was still pissed off with him over Phil, even though she’d got her way in the end.

Banks wasn’t very hungry, but he ordered chicken in a basket anyway, while Annie went for a salad and Winsome for a beefburger and chips. That settled, drinks in front of them, they got down to business, and Annie first told Banks about the visit to “Captain” Kirk’s garage and the trail leading to the mysterious William Masefield in Studley.

“And there’s no doubt this Masefield is dead?” Banks asked, after he’d digested what she had told him.

Annie glanced at Winsome. “None at all,” she said. “We checked with the pathologist who conducted the postmortem. Getting hold of him was one of the reasons it took us so long down there. We had to stay over. He couldn’t see us until early this morning. Anyway, Masefield had no living relatives, so DNA was useless, but he was identified by dental records.”

“So someone stole his identity?”

“Looks that way,” Annie said. “And whoever did it simply had Masefield’s post redirected.”

“Where to?”

“A post office box in central Birmingham.”

“I see,” said Banks. “And the credit card company had no way of knowing about this?”

Annie shook her head. “All they cared about was that the bills were paid on time. It’s a common-enough form of identity fraud.”

“He used a bank account in Masefield’s name?”

“Yes. And he paid all his bills from Masefield’s bank account over the Internet, so no signed checks. There’ll be a trail, but these things are complicated.”

“We’ll get computers on it,” said Banks. “Why did no one in the post office spot what was going on?”

“Why should they?” said Annie. “Whoever arranged for the redirected post went to a busy central office, presented the right sort of identification and signed the forms. Whoever it was must have resembled Masefield enough and been able to forge his signature. Easy. And all aboveboard, as far as the post office was concerned. I mean, they’re careful, they have their precautions, but the whole thing’s pretty routine. Most clerks probably don’t even examine the documentation closely.”

“Are we certain it’s the same car?”

“Well,” said Annie, “the tire impressions are identical to those found on the lay-by near the boats. The SOCOs also managed to find a few soil and gravel samples, and they’ve gone to the lab for further analysis.”

“Good.”

“But there is one small problem.”

“Oh?”

“The petrol in the Cherokee’s tank matches the petrol from the garage – it’s Texaco, by the way – but not the petrol used to start the Gardiner fire. That’s Esso.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Maybe he used his own car, for some reason?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Annie agreed.

“Anyway, whatever the explanation, forensics can tie the Jeep Cherokee that this ‘Masefield’rented to the scene of the boat fires, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies. We’re still in business, then.”

Jenna, the young girl who worked in the kitchen, brought their food. Winsome was the only one who ate with a vengeance. Banks glanced at her. “I hope you didn’t run up your expenses too high in the hotel restaurant last night,” he said.

“No, sir,” said Winsome. “We ate at McDonald’s.”

Banks looked at Annie. “It’s true,” she said. “And you can imagine what delights they had for a vegetarian like me. I told you we were busy. All we had time for before bed was a couple of drinks in the hotel bar.”

“And those two good-looking businessmen bought us the second round, didn’t they, Guv?” Winsome added.

“Yes,” said Annie. “Connor and Marcus. So you needn’t worry about our expenses, skinflint.” She picked at her salad.

“It’s ACC McLaughlin gets his underpants in a knot over things like that,” Banks said. “Not me. Did you find out anything else about Masefield while you were down there?”

Annie and Winsome exchanged glances and Annie said, “A few things. We asked around about him – neighbors, coworkers at the university – but nobody seemed to know very much.”

“And the fire?”

“Chip pan. There was no accelerant and no reason to treat it as suspicious at the time. The only thing even remotely interesting was that one of the other lecturers at the university where Masefield worked said he’d recently lost some money in a bad investment. I also got the impression that he was in a bit of trouble at the university over his drinking, that he might have stood to lose his job. But you know what academics are like when it comes to giving out information.”

“A bit like us,” Banks said.

“Anyway, there was a lot of alcohol in his system. The general assumption in the fire investigator’s office was that he’d passed out and left the chip pan on. It happens often enough, especially with alcoholics and drug addicts. You come home pissed or high, put the frying pan on, pop another couple of pills or take another stiff drink, and the next thing you know…”

“No traces of Rohypnol or Tuinal?”

“No. Just alcohol.”

“So it could have been an accident?”

“Yes.”

“And someone, a colleague, friend, whatever, could have taken advantage of Masefield’s demise and stolen his identity?”

“Or helped him along a bit. I mean, nobody saw anyone, but that doesn’t mean whoever did it didn’t leave Masefield passed out on the sofa with the chip pan on full heat.”

“True,” Banks agreed. “Did anyone have any ideas at all about exactly who might have taken Masefield’s identity?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Annie. “Nobody knew who he hung around with, if anyone. Apparently, he wasn’t the gregarious type. If he did have any friends, he kept them a secret from his colleagues and neighbors.”

“What about this bad investment? Who did he make it with? Was he swindled?”

“Don’t know, sir,” said Winsome. “That was all his colleague could tell us.”

Banks sighed. He knew they could get a forensic accountant to look into Masefield’s finances and a computer expert to track down the Internet banking records, but that would all take time. There would no doubt be all kinds of false trails and blind alleys. As it stood right now, they still didn’t have very much to go on. The first big lead, the rented Jeep Cherokee, had led them to a dead end. Or so it seemed at the moment.

“How did ‘Masefield’ get to Kirk’s garage?” Banks asked.

“I assume he took a bus,” said Annie. “They run in a constant loop from Askham Bar to the city center.”

“So he traveled to York by train?”

“Or by bus.”

“What if he didn’t?” Winsome said.

“Didn’t what?” Banks asked.

“Take a train or a bus, sir. Maybe he’s local. What if he drove to the garage? I mean, if he only wanted to use a rental car so that his own car wasn’t spotted by the canal, or by Jennings Field, for whatever reason, then he probably has a car of his own, too.”

“Well,” said Annie, “there are plenty of residential streets around there where he could leave a car for a few days without attracting too much attention.”

“Except he might have got unlucky,” Winsome said.

“The Son of Sam,” Banks said.

Winsome smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“A parking ticket?” Annie said. “Isn’t that how the Son of Sam got caught?”

“Yes,” said Winsome. “It’s possible, isn’t it, Guv?”

“It would certainly be a lucky break for us,” Annie said.

“It’ll probably take a day or two,” Banks said, “but it’s worth checking. Can you get the numbers of all cars ticketed in the area on the dates in question and feed them into HOLMES, see if anything comes up?”

“Can do,” said Winsome. “We don’t exactly have a lot of number plates to cross-reference on this one, but I’ll see what I can do. There might be something on the CCTV cameras, too. They’re all over the place these days.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Definitely worth checking.” He finished his chicken and left the chips, then drank some beer and leaned back in his chair. “This still doesn’t let Whitaker off the hook,” he said. “Even though it seems now that it wasn’t his Jeep Cherokee at the scene of the boat fires.”

“We’ll check the petrol in his car against the accelerant used at the Gardiner scene. That might tell us something. And if we can dig out any connection, however remote, between Whitaker and Masefield…”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “Anything new on those Turners?” he asked Annie, as casually as he could manage.

Her tone hardened. Pure professional. “Phil couldn’t say at first glance for certain whether they were forged or genuine,” she said. “Not without a more comprehensive examination. But he did say they looked genuine, the style and the paper, that sort of thing.”

“Which means they could be very good forgeries?”

“Yes,” Annie agreed.

“I’ve heard that McMahon was a good copyist,” Banks said. “Apparently he didn’t have much original talent, but he did have a gift for reproducing the work of others.”

“Where did you find this out?” Annie asked.

“From someone who knew him,” Banks said.

“What next?”

“I’m going to Leeds.”

“What for?”

“I want to visit Tina’s grandparents. I rang them earlier, and they agreed to talk to me. They might be able to tell me something about Tina’s relationship with Patrick Aspern.”

“Surely you don’t think they knew what was going on, and that even if they did they’ll tell you?”

“Give me some credit. I’m not that stupid, Annie. I just want to sound out their feelings, that’s all.”

Annie shrugged.

“What?” said Banks.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. Out with it.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure the girl has anything to do with all this.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Aspern’s clothes came out clean, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “That’s the problem. So did everybody else’s.”

“To be honest, Guv,” Winsome said, “he could have given me any old clothes. I don’t know what he was wearing that night.”

Annie gave Banks a hard look. “We don’t have any evidence against Patrick Aspern at all,” she said. “I think you’re going off on some sort of personal crusade against the man.”

“So all of a sudden you’re SIO on this case, are you?” Banks shot back.

Annie’s mouth closed to a tight, white line. Winsome looked away, embarrassed. Banks wondered if Annie had told her all about the row they’d had over Phil Keane’s involvement in the case. Maybe after a couple of drinks in the hotel bar last night.

He immediately regretted his sarcastic remark, but it was too late to take it back. Instead, he bade Annie and Winsome a curt good-bye and left the pub.

One thing Banks hadn’t told Annie was that he was intending to stop off at Phil Keane’s cottage on his way to Leeds. Well, it wasn’t exactly on his way, but he thought it was worth the diversion.

Puddles from yesterday’s rain spread out from the gutters and sent up sheets of spray as Banks drove just a little too fast into Fortford. Still annoyed with himself for his outburst over lunch, he parked on the cobbles in front of the shops by the village green and headed toward the cottage. Maybe Annie was right and he was on some sort of personal crusade against Patrick Aspern. But so what? Someone had to bring the arrogant bastard down.

Across the street, on top of a grassy mound, stood the excavated ruins of a Roman fort. What a bitter, lonely and dangerous outpost it must have been back in Emperor Domitian’s time, Banks thought. Wild country all around and enemies everywhere.

It was another mild day, vague haze in the air, and perhaps a hint of more rain to come. Banks had no idea whether Keane would be at home or not, but it was worth a try. The silver BMW parked in the narrow drive beside the cottage was a good sign. It was 51 registration, Banks noticed, which meant that it had been registered with the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency – the DVLA – between September 2001 and February 2002. A pretty recent model, then, and not inexpensive. How much exactly did an art researcher make?

Banks’s knock on the front door was answered seconds later by Phil Keane himself, looking every inch the twenty-first-century country squire in faded Levi’s and a rust-colored Swaledale sweater.

“Alan,” he said, opening the door wide. “Good to see you. Come on in.”

Banks entered. The ceilings were low and the walls rough-painted limestone with nooks and crannies here and there, each filled with delicate little statuettes and ivory carvings: elephants, human figures, cats.

“Nice,” said Banks.

“Thank you. The place has been in my family for generations,” Keane said. “Even though I only remember occasional visits to my grandparents here when I was a child – I grew up down south, for my sins – I couldn’t bear the thought of losing it when they died. Most of the knickknacks were theirs. Do sit down. Can I get you a drink or anything?”

“Nothing, thank you,” said Banks. “It’s only a flying visit.”

Keane sat on the arm of the sofa. “Yes? Is it about the Turners? If indeed they are by Turner.”

“Indirectly,” said Banks. “By the way, our fingerprints expert has finished with them, so you’ll be able to carry out further testing.”

“Excellent. Did he find anything?”

“Not much. Do you want to pick them up, or should I have them sent to your London office?”

“I’ll pick them up at the police station tomorrow morning and take them down myself, if that’s okay?”

“As long as you’re not worried about being hijacked.”

“Nobody but you and me would know what I was carrying, would they?”

“I suppose not,” said Banks. “Look, in your opinion, would it be very difficult to forge such a work?”

“As I told Annie,” Keane said, “the actual forging would be easy enough for an artist who had the talent for such things. Turner isn’t easy to imitate – his brush strokes are difficult, for example – but he’s not impossible, as long as the artist got hold of the correct paper and painting materials, which isn’t too hard, if you know how. Tom Keating claimed to have dashed off twenty or so Turner watercolors. The problem is the provenance.”

“And you can’t fake that?”

“It can be done. A man called John Drewe did so a few years ago, caused quite a furor in the art world. You might have heard of him. He even got into the Tate archives and doctored catalogs. But they’ve tightened up a lot since then. The last owner is your real problem. I mean, it’s easy enough to fake who owned paintings years ago – there’s no one to question it, as they’re dead. But the last owner is usually alive.”

“I see,” said Banks. “So you’d need an accomplice?”

“At least one.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “as I said, my visit is only indirectly related to the Turners. It’s actually the artist himself, Thomas McMahon, I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“You told me you didn’t know him.”

“No, I don’t. Neither him nor his work.”

“Yet someone told me you were seen in conversation with him at the Turner reception last July.”

Keane frowned. “I talked to a number of people there. That’s where I first met Annie, too, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Banks. “But what about McMahon?”

“I’m sorry. I still can’t place him.”

“Short, burly sort of fellow, didn’t shave often, longish greasy brown hair. Bit of a scruff. He’d been drinking.”

“Ah,” said Keane. “You mean the chap with rather disagreeable BO?”

McMahon had smelled of burned flesh the only time Banks had been close to him. “Do I?” he said. “I can’t say I ever smelled him. Not when he was alive.”

“Artist. A bit pissed, if I remember right.”

“So you did know him?”

“No. I hadn’t a clue who he was.” Keane spread his hands. “But if you say he was Thomas McMahon, then I’m sure you’re right.”

“But you talked to him?”

“Just the once, yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He was a bit intense. I do recall that. I think we just chatted about some of the paintings on the walls. He thought they were pretty dreadful. I actually quite liked one or two of them. And – yes, now I remember – he made some disparaging remarks about Turner, said he could easily dash off the other missing Yorkshire watercolor.”

“The one we’ve just been talking about?”

“The very same.”

“And you’ve only just remembered this?”

“Yes. Well, since you jogged my memory. Why? Is it important?”

“It could be. So you had an argument with McMahon?”

Keane smiled, and a bit of an edge came into his tone. “I wouldn’t exactly call it an argument, just an artistic dis-agreement. Look, what are you getting at? What is all this about?”

“Probably nothing, really,” said Banks, standing and heading over to the door. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”

Keane’s tone softened again when he noticed Banks was leaving. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m just sorry I can’t help you. Look, are you sure you won’t have one for the road? Or is that against police regulations?”

Banks laughed. “I can’t say that’s ever stopped me before, but not this time, thanks very much,” he said. “I’ll be on my way. If you do remember anything else about that conversation, you’ll be sure to let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

Banks paused at the open door. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“We’re putting together an identity parade, and you’re the same general build and coloring as the suspect. Seeing as you’re practically one of the team, would you consider helping us out and being an extra?”

“How exciting,” said Keane. “I’ve never been in an identity parade before. Of course. I’d be only too happy to help.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch. Bye for now, then.”