Playing With Fire

“Was it unusual to do more than one sketch of the same sort of thing?”

“Not at all. Turner did dozens of sketches like this for the Richmondshire series. Three sketchbooks full. But that’s the interesting thing: He usually worked in the books, not on loose sheets.”

“So that’s one mark against authenticity?”

Phil smiled at her. “It signals caution, that’s all,” he said. “But genuine or not,” he went on, “this is certainly a beautiful watercolor. Look at that mist swirling around Ingleborough summit. You can almost see it moving. And there’s not a soul around, see? It’s very early in the morning, just after dawn. You can tell by the quality of the light. Turner was always very keen on reproducing time-of-day and weather conditions. And do you see that peacock in the right foreground? Marvelous detail.”

A

“May I ask exactly what makes you think it’s a forgery?” he asked.

“Well, I’m certainly no expert,” A

“You think this Whitaker character might have something to do with it?”

“It’s possible,” said A

“Did they know one another, Roland Gardiner and the artist?”

“We don’t know. Not yet. But we’re trying to link them. I just wanted to get your take on whether we were dealing with the real thing here, the watercolor in particular.”

“Well, it looks genuine enough to me on first examination. If not, then it’s a damn good forgery. To be absolutely certain, though, I’d have to hang on to it for a while, perhaps show it to some colleagues, conduct a few tests. Fingerprints examination, as we did with the other one. Radiography, ultraviolet. Infrared photography. Computer image processing. Pigment analysis, that sort of thing. I’d also try to track down its provenance, if any exists. And I can’t do that, can I?”

“I’m afraid not,” said A

“Evidence of what?”

“I don’t know.” She gri

Phil smiled back. “Mine, too. I suppose you could say we’re both detectives, in a way.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Anyway, as soon as we’re done with it, I’ll ask you to look into its authenticity a bit further, if you’d still be willing to help.”

“Of course. I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, haven’t I? Look, how rude of me. I never offered you any refreshments. It must have been the excitement of seeing the Turners. Tea, coffee, something stronger?”

“I can’t,” said A

“Not even a tea break?”

A

He spread his hands. “Okay. I know when I’m beaten. See you tonight?”

“I’ll give you a ring,” A

“And be careful with your briefcase,” he called after her.

It was DS Stefan Nowak’s job to coordinate between the crime scene, the lab and the SIO, making sure that nothing was missed and priorities were dealt with as quickly as possible. He wasn’t a forensic scientist by training, though he did have a degree in chemistry and had completed the requisite courses. As a result, he’d picked up a fair bit of scientific knowledge over his three years on the job, along with the ability to present it in layman’s terms. Which was just as well. The best Banks had ever done at chemistry and physics was a grade-five pass in each at O-Level.

Though Stefan himself was elegant and always well-groomed, his office was a mess, with papers, plastic bags of exhibits and half-full mugs of coffee all over the place. Banks hardly dared move once he had sat down for fear the resulting vibration or disturbance of the air would bring a stack of reports, or beakers full of God knew what, toppling down.

“I trust you’ve got some positive results?” Banks said as he eased himself onto the chair. Nothing fell.

“Depends on how you look at them,” Stefan said, the Polish accent barely audible in his cultured voice. “I’ve been over at the lab most of the afternoon, and we’ve finally got something on toxicology. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Do tell,” said Banks.

“Luckily, in all three cases there was still enough fluid present in the bodies for tox analysis. McMahon, the artist, was the worst, but even there Dr. Glende

“Go on,” Banks urged him, not wishing to dwell on the evaporation of vitreous fluid.

“Let’s take the girl first,” Stefan said. “Christine Aspern. Because she was a known heroin addict we could be more specific in our search. As you probably know, heroin metabolizes into morphine once injected into the bloodstream, and it bonds to the body’s carbohydrates. Only a small amount of morphine is secreted unchanged into the urine. Sometimes none at all.”

“So you can’t tell whether she injected heroin or morphine?”

“I didn’t say that. Only that heroin becomes morphine once it’s in the blood. Besides, heroin’s a morphine derivative, made through a reaction with acetyl chloride or acetic anhydride. Anyway, spectral analysis indicated traces of heroin. The presence of other substances, such as quinine, bears out the result.”

Banks knew that quinine was often used to pad heroin for sale on the streets. “It’s what we expected,” he said. “How much?”

“The stuff was around thirty percent pure, which is pretty much the norm these days. And there wasn’t enough to cause death. At least, the lab results make that seem unlikely.”

“So the fire killed her one way or another?”

“Asphyxia did. Yes.”

“What about the other two?”

“Ah, there it gets a little more interesting,” Stefan said. He leaned forward and a pile of books teetered dangerously. “Alcohol was present in the urine in both cases, though none was present in the girl’s system.”

“How much?”

“Not a lot in McMahon’s case, maybe between one and two drinks.”

“Not enough to make him pass out, then?”

“Unlikely.”

“And Gardiner?”

“About twice as much. But there’s more.”

“I hoped there would be. Go on.”

“During general screening, spectral analysis also discovered the presence of flunitrazepam in the systems of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner. Comparisons indicate it’s the same drug in both cases.”

“Flunitrazepam?” said Banks, remembering one of the drugs circulars he’d read in the past few months. “Isn’t that Rohypnol?”