Playing With Fire

“Any chance that his death might affect the value of his work?”

Maria’s eyes widened. “My, my, you do have a devious mind, don’t you? What a delicious motive. Kill the artist to increase the value of his paintings.”

“Well?”

“Not in his case, I shouldn’t think. A bad watercolor of Eastvale Castle is a bad watercolor of Eastvale Castle, whether the painter is alive or dead. Perhaps a dealer might know more than I do, but I think you’ll have to look elsewhere for your motive.”

“Was he a drinker?”

“He liked his drink, but I wouldn’t say he was a drunk.”

“Drugs?”

“I wouldn’t know. I saw no signs, heard no rumors.”

“And you’ve neither seen nor heard anything of him since?”

“Oh, yes. He’s dropped by a couple of times, for other artists’ openings, that sort of thing. And he was at the Turner reception, of course.”

“I see,” Banks said. The Turner. By far the most valuable and famous painting ever to be housed in the modest community center gallery, a Turner watercolor of Richmond Castle, Yorkshire, believed lost for many years, had spent two days there after being discovered under some old insulation during a cottage renovation. Nobody knew how it had got there, but the speculation was that the original owner died and whoever had the insulation put in didn’t know the value of the small painting. There had been a private reception for local bigwigs and artsy types. A

“Other than that?”

“No. He dropped out of the local scene shortly after the exhibition, five years ago. I understand that his dealer had trouble selling his work, and that McMahon went through some sort of personal crisis. I don’t know the details. Leslie Whitaker might be able to help. I know they were friends, and he tried to sell some of McMahon’s serious paintings as well as the junk he painted for the tourist trade.”

“So Whitaker was McMahon’s agent?”

“Sort of, I suppose.”

“Recently, too?”

“Yes. I’ve seen Thomas McMahon coming out of Leslie Whitaker’s shop once or twice this month. He looked as if he’d been buying some books. He was carrying a package, at any rate.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Only to say hello.”

“How did he seem?”

“Remarkably fit, actually. Though, as you mentioned earlier, his hair was a bit long, and it could have done with a wash. He also hadn’t shaved for a few days, by the look of him.”

“Do you think you could dig out a catalog and give me the names of the artists whose openings he attended?”

“Why?”

“The catalog might help identify any of his works that show up, and we’d like to talk to anyone who might have known him. A photograph would help, too.”

“I can try. I’d have to look at the center’s records, though.”

“Could you do it first thing?”

Maria eyed him for a moment and sipped some Campari and soda. Her glass was almost empty again. “I suppose I could. You do realize it’s Saturday tomorrow, though, don’t you?”

“The center’s open.”

“Yes, but it’s my day off.”

“I’ll send one of my DCs along then,” said Banks. “It might take him a bit longer, but…”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

“Then you will?”

“All right, yes. If you want.”

“And you’ll ring me at the station, send anything you find down there?”

“Yes.” She held out her glass. “You never know; I might even deliver it myself.”

“You want another drink?” Banks asked.

“Please.”

“All right. But I’m afraid you’ll have to drink this one by yourself. I’ve got a long drive home.”

Maria looked disappointed. “Oh, well, in that case I won’t bother… But I thought…”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t live that far away. Maybe you’d like to come for a nightcap, or just a coffee or something?” She wrinkled her nose. “It might perk you up a bit.”

“Thanks for asking,” Banks said, hurriedly finishing his beer. “But perking up’s the last thing I need right now. I really do have to get some sleep.”

“Never mind, then. Some other time.” Maria gathered her things together and stood up to put on her coat. “I’ll ring you in the morning,” she said, and made a hasty exit.

Oh, shit, thought Banks, embarrassed by the looks he was getting from others in the pub. Surely he had never given Maria Phillips any reason to think he wanted more from her than information about the artist? He had only seen her two or three times since Sandra had left, and on those occasions they had simply bumped into each other on the street, or he had visited the community center for one reason or another and had seen her there. They had done nothing but exchange small talk. Still, she had always been a strange one, he remembered, always superficially flirtatious, even when he was married to Sandra. He had thought it was just her way of relating and had never taken her seriously. And maybe that’s all it was, even now. He picked up his overcoat and briefcase. At least she was going to ring him with the information he wanted in the morning, information that might take him a bit closer to the mystery that was Tom.

A

There was one message waiting for her on her answering machine, and she was absurdly pleased to hear that it was from Phil. He would definitely be coming up to Swainsdale tomorrow and would be staying a few days at his cottage in Fortford. Would A

Well, she would, but she didn’t know if she could commit herself right now, what with a big new case on the go and this damn cold dragging on. Still, being a DI gave her some perks, even if it did mean no overtime, and her evenings should be free, barring the necessity to head out somewhere overnight. If she felt well enough, there was no reason why she shouldn’t tentatively agree to di

A

When Banks arrived home after his drink with Maria Phillips, he also found one message waiting for him. It was from Michelle Hart, whom he realized he had forgotten to call. She just wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to see him this weekend as they were all working overtime on a missing-child case. Banks could well understand that. Missing children were the worst, every policeman’s nightmare. It was while Michelle was looking into the disappearance of Banks’s childhood friend, Graham Marshall, whose bones had been discovered the previous summer, over thirty-five years since he had disappeared, that they had met.

Even though he couldn’t get away either, he still felt disappointed. This sort of thing was happening more and more often lately, so much so that they felt and acted like strangers for the first few hours every time they did meet. It was no way to sustain a relationship. First the distance, the long winter drives in fog, driving rain or hail; then the Job, the unpredictable hours. Sometimes he wondered if it was possible for a copper to have anything but the most superficial and undemanding of relationships.