Blood in Grandpont (10 page)

‘You’ve a good memory.’

‘Her parents were visiting, weren’t they?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’d like to talk to her.’

‘Why?’ Was there was a note of anxiety in her reply?

‘That’s my business.’ Holden was giving nothing away, but something told her Minette was a sensitive spot. ‘Can you give me her address and phone number.’

Sarah did something with her mouth that was half-way between a smile and a scowl. ‘I could. But it may not be much use to you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because at this very moment she’s on a flight back to Quebec.’

This time it was Holden’s turn to be disconcerted. ‘I thought you said her parents were just visiting.’

Sarah Russell smiled her broadest, most self-satisfied smile. ‘I think seeing her parents made her homesick. Suddenly she realized what she was missing in Quebec – families, friends, the French language – so she insisted on going home with them. Rather touching, don’t you think?’

Holden didn’t say what she thought. Instead she turned to Lawson. ‘Have you found anything of interest, Lawson.’ It was a futile question. Lawson would certainly have interrupted if she’d found the painting. Holden knew it, and she knew too that she was running out of options. She could surely track down Minette’s phone number in Quebec and ask her over the phone if she had seen the painting, but it was a long shot. Can the girl really have got homesick just because her parents had visited?

‘Can I make a suggestion, Guv?’

Holden turned to Fox, absurdly pleased at his intervention. God only knew what he was going to suggest, but anything was better than nothing.

‘Have you ever seen the Mona Lisa, Guv?’

Holden shook her head.

‘Me neither. But my sister went last year. And you know what most surprised her?’ Fox paused, though not because he expected an answer. He wasn’t above wanting a bit of attention. ‘It was so bloody small. She’d always thought it was this huge great canvas, and in reality it was tiny. So what I’m saying is, maybe this painting we’re looking for isn’t so big.’

Fox was pleased with himself, and even more pleased with his boss’s reaction. She was nodding like one of those dogs that people put on the back of their cars. Like that Churchill dog. Almost dementedly. ‘Right!’ she said.

‘So, my point is that it could be almost anywhere in this office. In Mrs Russell’s desk drawers, for example, or up on those book shelves, or maybe tucked behind the catalogues, or.…’ and then he stopped talking, for his eyes had alighted on some flat brown paper packages on the desk to Sarah Russell’s right. He moved over and stretched out an arm.

‘They’re waiting to be picked up,’ Sarah Russell said calmly, her hand moving protectively on top of the pile, as if daring Fox to touch them. ‘In fact, if DHL don’t arrive very soon, I’ll have to ring them.’

‘We’ll have to open them first, madam,’ Fox said bluntly.

She turned in appeal to Fox’s superior, but Holden merely smiled. ‘Lawson,’ she said cheerily, ‘perhaps you can help Sergeant Fox.’

Eventually, they found the painting, though not in the pile of packages that were due for collection. It was located by Fox on the topmost of the shelves, inside a plastic supermarket bag and wrapped in hessian. He reached it down just as Dominic Russell and DC Wilson walked through the door bearing coffees.

‘What are you doing?’ Dominic asked rather pointlessly. Given that four detectives had arrived with a search warrant, the answer was obvious. No one made any attempt to respond, however, for at that moment all their eyes and attention were on the painting that Fox had just unwrapped on the desk. ‘Bingo!’ he said, when he saw it.

‘Is that what you were looking for?’ Dominic tried again to elicit information, but again there was no answer.

‘I presume this belongs to you, sir, does it?’ Holden asked, ignoring his question, but asking her own.

‘Well, sort of.’

‘I’d like you to explain what you mean by that, Mr Russell. But I’d like you to do that down at the station in a more formal setting.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ This time the question came from Sarah Russell, riding belligerently to her husband’s aid. ‘He has a business to run. We’ve been very cooperative so far, and I really cannot see why—’

But Holden’s patience was at an end. ‘Enough!’ She spat the word out like the exasperated teacher of a class of 11-year-olds, suddenly desperate for silence. ‘Mrs Russell, your husband has three minutes to get himself ready, and then he will be leaving with us in order to help us with our enquiries. In the meantime, we will drink the coffee he has so kindly provided.’

‘And while you are drinking our coffee,’ Sarah riposted, ‘I will ring his solicitor.’

‘Perhaps you can explain to my client and to myself the precise reason why you have called him in for questioning.’ James Turley, solicitor at law, spoke with a clipped diction that spoke volumes of his background. Public school certainly, Oxbridge probably. In fact his tie would have told Holden that he had attended Queen’s College, Oxford, had she been interested in such collegiate details. But Holden had no interest in his tie, or his expensive suit, or his ostentatious gold cufflinks or even his rather poncy manner. They served only to irritate her.

‘Certainly,’ she smiled. ‘Sergeant,’ she prompted, briefly turning to DS Fox, sitting to her right at the table. Fox responded by removing the painting from its package and placing it on the table in front of Turley and Russell.

‘We found this on the premises of D.R. Antiquities, the business run and owned by your client. When asked if it belonged to him, he replied: “Well, sort of.” A photograph of this painting was found on the mobile phone belonging to Jack Smith, a plumber who was found dead yesterday in a house in South Oxford. He had been murdered.’ She paused, for at this moment she was more interested in watching the face of Dominic Russell than engaging in verbal fisticuffs with Turley.

To be fair, as Fox later said, either Russell was genuinely shocked by this news or he was a bloody good actor. Certainly, his habitually flushed face seemed to pale, and his mouth gaped open in an impressively convincing display of surprise. His first verbal reaction was to address his solicitor: ‘This is ridiculous, James.
Quite ridiculous!’

‘So if you don’t mind, Mr Turley,’ Holden said, determined to keep the momentum going, ‘I’d like to ask your client some questions. And then we can rule him out of our investigations, unless, of course, his answers lead us to rule him in.’

Turley shrugged at Russell, and then turned back to Holden. ‘I am sure my client is happy to assist the police in any way he can.’

‘In that case, Mr Russell, can you explain what you meant when you said you sort of owned the painting?’

‘Well.’ The fingers of his hands, which had been face down on the table, began to tap a rhythm on the table. It was the beat of something that Holden vaguely recognized, but couldn’t place. Was that what he did, she wondered, when under pressure or playing for time or maybe telling a lie? Or all three together. ‘I’m the temporary owner, if you like. The intermediary.’

‘You mean, like a fence?’

Russell flushed back to his more normal colour. ‘What are you implying?’

‘There’s no need to be alarmed,’ Holden said with a smile. ‘I’m implying nothing. I’m just trying to understand what “sort of” ownership means. Because of the job I do, I’m familiar with how a fence operates, and so I was merely seeking to clarify your terminology.’

‘The hell you were, Inspector,’ Turley broke in. ‘One minute you say you want his help in connection with a murder enquiry, and the next you’re implying he receives stolen goods without any evidence to support such a preposterous idea.’

‘In that case, I apologize,’ Holden said quickly, conscious she had pushed her luck. ‘I didn’t mean to, but that does still leave us with my original question unanswered. So perhaps I can rephrase it. Who owned the painting before it came into Mr Russell’s possession? And can I see the paperwork?’

Russell swallowed, looked to Turley for support, but again got a shrug back. Russell looked back at Holden and knew that one way or another he had to say something. The truth or a lie. Whichever
way he played it, there were risks. Lies had a nasty way of coming back and catching you out. And if Holden was half as smart as she talked, she would spot the least inconsistency in any story. It was a gamble. Heads I lose, tails they do. Hopefully.

‘I’m in no rush,’ Holden said cheerfully. ‘Take your time.’

‘Maria bought it. She saw it in Venice when she was over there a week or two ago. And she brought it home.’

‘Who did she buy it from?’

‘How should I know? She had her own contacts over there. She wasn’t going to share them with me, was she now? She was born in Venice. You probably know that. I’m sure you’ve checked her out. Born Maria Scarpa. Came to Oxford to improve her English when she was nineteen, but before you could say “Grazie” she had got her hooks into Dr Alan Tull, grieving widower and newly qualified GP. Rather a good catch from her point of view.’

‘So you were selling it for her?’ Holden could spot distraction techniques from a distance.

‘Yes. I have more contacts than her over here. And a lot more in the States. So if I find a buyer for her, I get a cut.’

‘So why was it hidden on the top shelf?’

‘It wasn’t hidden. It just wasn’t on display.’

‘I’m not sure I understand the difference. But that’s beside the point. Just tell me why it wasn’t on display.’

‘It’s quite simple. It was there because I had a buyer lined up. He’s due over here in a week’s time. I sent him a photo by email, but he likes to see what he’s buying before he commits his money. So I decided to give him first bite of the cherry. So I opted not to put it on display.’

‘He pays in cash, does he? So the taxman doesn’t have to know?’

‘My client will not be answering that question,’ James Turley jumped in. ‘The painting has not been sold, so he cannot possibly be found guilty of anything to do with its possible future sale.’

But Holden had no intention of going any further down that route. ‘So really, Mr Russell, as I understand it, the painting doesn’t actually belong to you. It belongs to Maria Tull, and so now by
default to her estate? So when we have finished with it as evidence, I can hand it over to Dr Alan Tull. I presume that is OK by you.’

‘As you wish.’ He spoke gracelessly, dismissively. ‘Is that all then?’

‘Not quite. You see, I have a bit of a problem here. I have two murdered people. The first victim bought this painting, and the second one happened to have a photograph of the painting on his mobile. Furthermore, this painting is found on your premises waiting to be purchased by some big-money private collector from the USA.’

‘What are you saying? That I’d kill two people for the sake of one painting?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Christ, if it was a Canaletto or a Rembrandt, then maybe it would be worth killing for, but for crying out loud this is just a picture that Maria picked up for next to nothing and that I can help her turn a tidy profit on. End of story.’

‘I suppose it all depends what you term a tidy profit. Because with Maria dead, I guess you weren’t going to bring her husband in on the action.’

‘Just a minute!’ James Turley stood up, determined to assert his authority. ‘There is no firm evidence of any wrongdoing by my client. He has answered your questions, so now I must insist that he be allowed to leave. Unless, of course, you are going to charge him.’

Holden remained seated. ‘He is free to leave. But as I said, we will be retaining the painting as possible evidence. And we will also be having it valued by an independent expert.’

‘Welcome home, darling!’ There was a time when these three simple words would have presaged for Dominic Russell a truly welcoming evening. A gin and tonic as he stretched out on the sofa in front of the TV; a candle-lit supper of rare steak washed down with a fine burgundy, followed by sticky toffee pudding and freshly ground coffee; then a glass of port, a shower
a deux,
and sex. But that time was long since gone, and on this occasion, the only things these words, uttered with icy coldness by his wife, promised was conflict.

She had heard him enter. How could she have not, when the front door slammed shut with such force? And she had heard him pad uncertainly down the corridor in a manner that immediately told her trained ear that he was somewhat the worse for alcohol. His first words confirmed it as he poked his head round the lounge doorway.

‘James and I had a couple of dwinks together.’

‘More than a couple by the sound of it.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

‘You getting drunk is the least of my problems.’

‘It’s just that the police were a bit of a botherkins, so James and I decided we needed to talk tactics.’ He belched, and then giggled. ‘Whoops!’

‘Tell me about the painting.’

‘What painting?’ He scratched his head, and giggled again.

‘The one the police took.’

‘Oh, that painting! It’s a nice little painting, don’t you think. Technically, not from the very top drawer, but very pleasant.’

‘I’m not interested in the painting’s aesthetic qualities, you idiot. Is it stolen?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘So where did you get it?’

He looked down, as if embarrassed, though whether a man can be embarrassed while drunk is a moot point. What is certain, however, is that a drunk can very easily put his foot in it, especially with an already angry spouse.

‘Maria brought it back from Venice.’

‘Maria!’ Sarah’s screech lanced inside Dominic’s skull, bouncing around like a ping-pong ball on speed.

‘It was only business,’ he said quickly, but too late. ‘Absolutely only business.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me. Did she buy it on the last Cornforth trip?’

‘Yes.’ He was sitting down now, his right hand on his forehead, playing the sympathy card. ‘Do we have any paracetamol?’

‘Behind my back. You and her behind my back, laughing at me. You bastard.’

‘It was just business. I swear.’

‘So why keep it a secret from your wife?’

He held up his hand as if this might somehow deflect her ire. ‘I didn’t tell you because it’s safer that way. If you knew, then you would be involved. You’ve got to believe me.’

‘So was the painting stolen?’

‘No. I told you. Maria bought it in Venice. The guy didn’t know what he’d got. No doubt Maria worked her usual charm, and he ended up selling it to her for virtually nothing. She brought it to me, and I made a couple of phone calls, and Bob’s your uncle, we had a deal.’

‘So if Maria bought it legitimately, how come the police were looking for it?’

He didn’t answer immediately. Keeping up with the barrage of
questions was proving difficult in his current state. ‘The police found a photograph of it on Jack Smith’s mobile.’

‘You what? How on earth did it get there?’

‘Maybe Maria showed it to him, and he photographed it. I don’t know. Look, I need some water and paracetamol. Please.’

Sarah considered the request, and then walked off to the kitchen, returning shortly afterwards with a large glass of water and two white pills. He tossed the pills down the back of his throat, and drank deeply. Sarah took the nearly empty glass, placed it carefully on the oak coffee table, and turned back to her husband.

‘Did you kill Maria and Jack?’

Dominic Russell looked up at his wife, incomprehension plastered across his flushed, sweaty face. ‘You what?’

‘Did you kill them?’ she repeated, her voice sharper, louder, almost visceral in its intensity. Even through his drunkenness, Dominic could sense the danger signs.

‘Of course I bloody didn’t. Why would I have done? It was just a business deal, plain and simple. Why should I kill them?’

‘Can’t you think of a reason? Well, let me see if I can help.’ Every word she spoke was infected with sarcasm and disgust, and even her sot of a husband could feel it. ‘Because with both of them dead, you’ve got that nice little painting all to your nasty little self. And maybe others that I know nothing about. So then you could go off and make a sale without your dear little wife knowing, and then you could spend it all on yourself. How about that for a motive?’

He licked his lips. His head was still throbbing, but the pain was displaced by a sudden sense of panic. ‘I didn’t kill them, I swear,’ he insisted.

Sarah looked at her husband again, trying to see into his head. Was he capable of murder, she wondered. She doubted it. When push came to shove, he was one of the shiftiest of shits, but a killer? That was harder to believe. Mind you, she had a theory that in the right circumstances anyone could commit murder. Absolutely anyone. And that would, by definition, include him.

‘So, husband, what was your cut for finding a buyer for Maria’s painting?’

He looked at her, puzzled. ‘What does that matter? She’s dead. She never paid me a penny. And the police have got the picture.’

‘I’m interested to know how much you charged her?’

Again he looked at her, though this time his brain was trying hard to engage. What was his wife’s angle? ‘Ten per cent,’ he said.

‘Ten per cent! Is that all?’

‘It only took two phone calls.’

Sarah Russell picked up the glass she had earlier placed on the coffee table, and surveyed it, as if inspecting it for faults. Then, in a single whiplash of her arm she hurled it across the room so it crashed against the marble of the fireplace, exploding spectacularly into fragments.

Dominic almost jumped in his chair. He struggled to get up, but she had advanced close to him and her left hand pushed him back down.

‘Were you sleeping with her? Was that part of your business deal? Was that why you only charged her ten fucking per cent?’

Dominic Russell’s red face had grown pale again. His head was throbbing like hell, his wife wouldn’t go away, and all he wanted was to go to sleep. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘You know that was ages ago. That’s ancient history, you know it is.’

‘Too old for you, is she?’ Her face was now close up to his, so he could feel her breath as she spat her words at him. ‘You like them young, and pretty and foolish, don’t you, Dominic. We’re no use to you when we have to start dying our hair to hide the grey ones, and booking ourselves in for botox treatment. When the centre of gravity starts to slip south, you start to look elsewhere.’ She fell silent then, still looming over him, but there was a coldness in her eyes as she assessed him and found him wanting. ‘Tell me, Dominic, did you manage to get your grubby little hands inside Minette’s knickers?’

‘No,’ he said very quickly, and truthfully. Though it wasn’t for the want of trying.

‘But you would have done, wouldn’t you. I could see it in your eyes. Which is why I told her we could no longer afford to pay her.’

‘You told her what?’

‘Well, it’s not entirely a lie. Besides, would you rather I’d told her all about you?’

Dominic shook his head, but that only made his head hurt more and he groaned feebly. ‘I thought she was homesick.’

‘Actually, she said she’d be prepared to take a pay cut. The last place she wanted to go was home. But that’s her problem. I’ve got plenty of my own.’

Dominic was beyond protesting. The pain in his head had got worse, not better. The paracetamols had been absolutely useless. ‘I need to go to bed,’ he moaned.

‘Just as long as it isn’t mine, you can do what the hell you like,’ came the reply.

At much the same time as this rather nasty scene was being enacted in the Russells’ home in North Oxford, a rather different domestic get-together was taking place in Chilswell Road, South Oxford, where Susan Holden was giving supper to her mother, Mrs Jane Holden, and Dr Karen Pointer.

It was not Susan Holden’s normal practice to offer her mother supper during the week. In fact, because of Susan’s work, it was so rare as to be abnormal. Which is why Jane Holden was so surprised to get a phone call at 12.30 that lunchtime asking her if she would like to come to supper that evening.

‘Tonight?’ she had said, not sure that she had heard right.

‘Yes, if you can make it. I’ve got someone else coming.’

‘Who?’ she had said eagerly.

‘You’ll have to come to find out.’

That, of course, had been the clincher. Whatever curiosity does to cats, it certainly gets its hooks deep into humans too, and Jane Holden was human enough to be fascinated with every facet of her only daughter’s private life.

She was, if truth be told, disappointed to discover that the
mystery guest was female. She had hoped that the third person would be a man. Indeed, by the time she had knocked on the door of her daughter’s Victorian house, she had convinced herself that he or she was unequivocally a he. So when she found Karen Pointer already ensconced in the kitchen dining room, drinking a glass of white wine, her excitement took a brief nosedive. She hoped it didn’t show. She accepted a small glass of the same wine, and soon recovered when she discovered that Karen was a pathologist, and moreover a pathologist prepared to share the more gruesome details of her work.

Later, after supper and teas all round – ‘much too late for coffee for me’ Mrs Holden had said, and the two younger women had tactfully followed suit – the three of them walked round to Grandpont Grange.

‘Thank you so much for a lovely evening,’ she had said, at the door to her block of apartments. ‘No need to come up. I’m not that decrepit yet. And very nice to meet you, Karen.’

‘Likewise, Jane.’

‘I don’t wish to lecture you, but you won’t be driving after all that wine will you? My husband died in a car crash you see.…’ She tailed off remembering. Despite everything, it was a bad memory.

Karen rested her hand briefly on her arm. ‘Susan told me, and don’t worry, I won’t be driving.’

‘Good.’

Susan leant forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. It was her chance to say something. ‘Karen is staying the night, Mum,’ she said quietly. ‘So no need to worry.’

‘Right!’ Detective Inspector Holden sat in her office in the Cowley Station, and looked round at Detective Sergeant Fox and Detective Constables Lawson and Wilson. It was just gone 8.30 a.m. and she felt better than she had done for weeks. ‘Time to assess where we are. We’ve got two deaths, two mobile phones with photographs and, as far as we know, two paintings. But so far, no answers and certainly no arrests. So, what do we know for certain? Wilson?’

Wilson wasn’t exactly ready for the question, but he wasn’t exactly unready either. He was getting used to Holden’s methods, and firing questions from the hip was certainly one of them.

‘Both murder victims were killed by the same person, or at least the same weapon.’

‘Good. But if it was the same weapon, why not the same killer, or are you just hedging your bets?’

‘The second killing was more frenzied. A thrust to the heart, then to the neck, and then into the eyes.’ He paused, wondering how this was going down. ‘The first killing was more clinical.’

‘Lawson, any comments?’

Lawson hesitated, remembering the corpse of Jack Smith, and in particular the red holes where the eyes had once been. ‘The second killing was certainly more frenzied. But in both cases, the first blow was one aimed at the heart, and the second to the neck was to make sure.’

‘Fox.’ Holden rapped out his name as if taking a role call. ‘One killer or two. Put us out of our misery.’

Fox leant back in his chair and looked around, at Lawson and Wilson, and then back to Holden. ‘It’s a hard call, Guv.’

‘Sergeant! I want an answer, not a philosophical discussion.’ She slapped her hand down on the desk, not hard, but sufficient to make her point.

‘One.’ Fox leant forward and picked up the mug of black coffee that sat on the desk in front of him. He took a sip. He looked around. He had got their attention. ‘The first killing took place outside in filthy weather in a public car park. The killer didn’t have time for afters. A stab in the bodily mass, then one to the neck to make sure, and he – or she – took off. But Jack Smith was different. He was inside, in a private place. So the killer had time, to do what he wanted to do, to do what he would have ideally wanted to do to the first victim. So two victims and one killer.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. There’s no certainty, I admit, but I think you’re right.’ She looked at Wilson and Lawson, curious to see their reactions, but there was no need to rub the lesson in. The bottom
line was that experience wasn’t something you were born with. ‘So, what do we make of the two paintings? The one that Jack Smith found and the one we found on his mobile. Wilson. Your turn again.’

The young constable looked around nervously. Holden looked back, but said nothing. He was a nice lad, but she wasn’t sure he had what it took. It was a sink or swim business, and she was afraid that sooner or later he would end up drowning.

‘Either Jack Smith was lying, or there are two distinct paintings.’ Wilson paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. ‘The one he described was totally different from the one we found at D.R. Antiquities.’

‘And what do we know about the one we found?’

‘It is probably quite valuable – Mr Russell admitted that – but not hugely valuable.’ Wilson paused again, uncertain what else there was to say about the painting. They had all seen it, after all, so they knew what it looked like.

‘It’s quite small, isn’t it Wilson?’

‘Well, yes,’ he replied.

‘So it could have been hidden under floorboards?’

Wilson frowned, in thought rather than perplexity, for suddenly things had started to slot into place in his brain. ‘Of course, what with all the supporting beams, it would be difficult to hide a large painting under boards.’