Playing With Fire

“These were taken at the last office Christmas party we went to,” she said. “Three years ago.”

A

“Has anyone been around asking for him since he left?” she asked.

“No. But there was a phone call.”

A

“In July, I think.”

“Did the caller identify himself?”

“No. That was the fu

“What did you say?”

“I told him. I mean, I knew where Roland was. I had to, with the divorce, the solicitors and everything.”

“Did he ever call back?”

“No. That was all.”

Interesting, A

“One of the main problems an art forger faces,” Phil Keane explained to Banks and A

Banks looked at him as he talked. So this was the mysterious man A

Banks had noticed that one or two of the women in the place had cast appraising glances when Phil walked in ten minutes late and insisted on going to the bar to buy a round of drinks. He was handsome, Banks thought, but not outrageously so, well dressed but not showy, and he talked with the easy charm and knowledge of a habitual lecturer. He did, in fact, give occasional lectures, A

The trouble was that Michelle was far away right now, and here was Banks sitting in the Queen’s Arms with A

“Anyway,” Phil went on, “not everyone can do a John Myatt and forge modern masters with emulsion paint on any old scrap of paper he finds lying around, so the typical forger tends to be careful, especially in these days of scientific testing. He has to make sure his materials, and not just his techniques, pass all the requisite requirements. Not always an easy task.”

“You were saying about the paper…?”

“Was I? Oh, yes.” Phil scratched the crease between the side of his nose and his cheek. It was a gesture Banks immediately disliked. It said, Until I was so rudely interrupted. The pontificator’s irritation at being interrupted in his digressions. He was damned glad he’d found something to dislike about the man at last, even though it wasn’t much.

“Well, until the end of the eighteenth century, all paper was made by hand, usually from rags, and after that it was slowly replaced by machine-made paper, some of it made from wood pulp.”

“What’s the difference?” Banks asked.

“Wood pulp makes far inferior paper,” Phil replied. “It’s weaker and discolors more easily.” He leaned forward and tapped the table. “But the point I’m trying to make is that if you want to forge an artist’s work, you’d damn well better make sure you use the same materials he did.”

Banks took a sip of his Theakston’s bitter. Phil was working on a half of XP, slowly, and A

“Exactly the problem. There are several places he might look for the paper,” Phil went on, “and one of the best sources is an antiquarian book and print dealer. Not everything they sell is expensive, but a lot of it is old. The endpapers of old books are especially useful, for example, and books usually have a publication date to guide you as to the age of the paper you’re using.”

“What about prints?” Banks asked. “I mean, wouldn’t some old drawings be dated, too?”

“Yes, but that’s not always reliable. They could easily be copies of etchings, made posthumously, in another country, even, and until you’ve developed a very good nose for the genuine article, you wouldn’t want to slip up by believing what you read on an old print.”

“What about canvas?” Banks asked. “Aren’t most paintings done on canvas?”

Here Phil allowed himself a slight smile, which Banks pounced on as not being entirely devoid of condescension. He was starting to like the man less and less moment by moment, and he was enjoying the feeling very much.

“Quite a lot are,” said Phil, “but the same applies as to paper, except you don’t find canvas in books. You try to seek out old worthless canvases. Quite often what you find determines which artist you forge.”

“I see,” said Banks. “And you think Thomas McMahon was a forger?”

Phil glanced at A

“Phil only said that could be one possible explanation of McMahon’s odd purchases from Whitaker’s,” A

“Yes,” Phil added. “I’m not making any accusations or anything. I didn’t even know the man.”

“Wouldn’t matter if you did make accusations,” said Banks. “McMahon’s dead. He can’t sue you.”

“Even so…”

“The problem is,” Banks went on, “does any of this have anything to do with his murder, and if so, how? Shall we order lunch?”

Phil looked around. “Look, I know a cozy little place out Richmond way that serves the most tender roast lamb you’ve ever tasted in your life.” He looked at A

Mark awoke the next day still very much alive, and he realized that he probably had the fleece-lined overcoat to thank for that. Even in his favorite leather jacket, he would have been too cold in the barn. He didn’t know what time it was because he didn’t have a watch, but it was daylight, and a hell of a lot warmer than it had been during the night.

He had slept surprisingly well, he thought, but exhaustion will do that for you. He must have run and walked well into the night. And it was the first real sleep he’d had since the fire. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he cast a look around at his surroundings, a half-demolished barn littered with rubble and sheep droppings. It stank of piss, too. Time to move on. He wished he could have a hot cup of tea and something to eat, some bacon and eggs, perhaps. He wouldn’t get far on the ten quid in his pocket and a bit of loose change, but at least he could buy himself a couple of small meals. It would be nice to find a proper toilet, too, somewhere he could wash his hands and face. If only he could find a café. Hardly likely in the sort of classy villages you got around this part of the world. No greasy spoons or lorry drivers’ cafés.