Playing With Fire

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

“I assume he took a bus,” said A

“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 Je

“Well,” said A

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

“The Son of Sam,” Banks said.

Winsome smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“A parking ticket?” A

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

“It would certainly be a lucky break for us,” A

“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 co

“Maybe,” said Banks. “Anything new on those Turners?” he asked A

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,” A

“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?” A

“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, A

A

“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.”

A

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

A

He immediately regretted his sarcastic remark, but it was too late to take it back. Instead, he bade A

One thing Banks hadn’t told A

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 a

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 cra

“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 A

“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.”