trousers — baggy, with vertical pink and gray stripes — and a fisherman’s thick pullover. He was barefoot and sported wild, frazzled hair, as if he’d just pulled his finger out of a light socket. The hair was graying, the face round and unshaven.
“Mr. Neilson?” Siobhan asked, opening her warrant card again. “I’m DS Clarke, this is DC Hynds. We spoke on the phone.”
Neilson leaned out from his doorway, as if to look up and down the street. “You better come in then,” he said, closing the door quickly after them. The interior was cramped: living room with a tiny kitchen off, plus maybe two bedrooms maximum. In the narrow hallway, a ladder led up through a trapdoor into the loft.
“Is that where you . . . ?”
“My studio, yes.” He glanced in Siobhan’s general direction. “Out of bounds to visitors.”
He led them into the chaotic living room. It was split-level: sofa and stereo speakers down below, dining table above. Magazines were strewn around the floor, most with pictures and pages torn from them. Album sleeves, books, maps, empty wine bottles with the labels peeled off. They had to be careful where they put their feet.
“Come in if you can get in,” the artist said. He seemed nervous, shy, never meeting his visitors’ eyes. He smeared an arm along the sofa, clearing its contents onto the floor. “Sit down, please.”
They sat. Neilson seemed content to crouch in front of them, sandwiched by the loudspeakers.
“Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan began, “as I said on the phone, it’s just a few questions about your relationship with Edward Marber.”
“We didn’t
“How do you mean?”
“I mean we didn’t speak, didn’t communicate.”
“You’d had a falling-out?”
“The man rips off his customers and his artists both! How is it possible to have a
“Just to remind you that Mr. Marber’s dead,” Siobhan said quietly. The artist’s eyes almost met hers for an instant.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just that you talk about him in the present tense.”
“Oh, I see.” He grew thoughtful. Siobhan could hear his breathing; it was loud and hoarse. She wondered if he might be asthmatic.
“Do you have any proof?” she asked at last.
“That he was a cheat?” Neilson considered this, then shook his head. “It’s enough that I know it.”
From the corner of her eye, Siobhan noticed that Hynds had taken out his notebook and was busy with his pen. The doorbell rang and Neilson bounded to his feet with a muttered apology. When he’d gone, Siobhan turned to Hynds.
“Not even the offer of a cuppa. What are you writing?”
He showed her. It was just a series of squiggles. She looked at him for an explanation.
“Concentrates the mind wonderfully if they think everything they say is likely to be recorded.”
“Learn that in college?”
He shook his head. “All those years in uniform, boss. You learn a thing or two.”
“Don’t call me boss,” she said, watching as Neilson led another visitor into the room. Her eyes widened. It was the parking-space thief.
“This is my . . . um . . .” Neilson was attempting introductions.
“I’m Malcolm’s solicitor,” the man said, managing a thin smile.
Siobhan took a moment to recover. “Mr. Neilson,” she said, trying for eye contact, “this was meant to be a casual chat. There was no need for . . .”
“Nice to formalize things though, don’t you find?” The solicitor stepped through the debris. “My name’s Allison, by the way.”
“And your surname, sir?” Hynds inquired blithely. In the fraction of a second it took the solicitor to recover, Siobhan could have hugged her colleague.
“William Allison.” He handed a business card to Siobhan.
She didn’t so much as glance at it, just handed it straight to Hynds. “Mr. Allison,” she said quietly, “all we’re doing here is asking a few routine questions concerning the relationship — professional and personal — which may have existed between Mr. Neilson and Edward Marber. It would have taken about ten minutes and that would have been the end of it.” She got to her feet, aware that Hynds was following suit: a quick learner, she liked that. “But since you want to formalize things, I think we’ll continue this discussion down at the station.”
The solicitor straightened his back. “Come on now, no need for —”
She ignored him. “Mr. Neilson, I assume you’ll want to travel with your lawyer?” She stared at his bare feet. “Shoes might be an idea.”
Neilson looked at Allison. “I’m in the middle of —”
Allison cut him off. “Is this because of what happened outside?”
Siobhan held his gaze without blinking. “No, sir. It’s because I’m wondering why your client felt the need of your services.”
“I believe it’s everyone’s right to —”
Neilson was tugging at Allison’s sleeve. “Bill, I’m in the middle of something, I don’t want to spend half the day in a police cell.”
“The interview rooms at St. Leonard’s are quite cozy actually,” Hynds informed the artist. Then he made a show of studying his watch. “Of course, this time of day . . . it’s going to take us a while to get through the traffic.”
“And back again afterwards,” Siobhan added. “Plus the waiting time if a room’s not available . . .” She smiled at the solicitor. “Still, makes things nice and formal, just the way you want them.”
Neilson held up a hand. “Just a minute, please.” He was leading the solicitor out into the hallway. Siobhan turned to Hynds and beamed. “One–nil to us,” she said.
“But is the referee ready to blow?”
She shrugged a reply, slid her hands into her jacket pockets. She’d seen messier rooms, couldn’t help wondering if it were part of an act — the eccentric artist. The kitchen was just behind the dining table and looked clean and tidy. But then maybe Neilson just didn’t use it very much . . .
They heard the front door close. Neilson shambled back into the room, head bowed. “Bill’s decided . . . um, that is . . .”
“Fine,” Siobhan said, settling once again on the sofa. “Well, Mr. Neilson, sooner we get started and all that, eh?”
The artist crouched down between the speakers. They were big and old; wood-veneered sides and brown foam grilles. Hynds sat down, notebook in hand. Siobhan caught Neilson’s eye at last and offered her most reassuring smile.
“So,” she said, “just why exactly
“I just . . . I thought it was the done thing.”
“Not unless you’re a suspect.” She let this sink in. Neilson muttered something that sounded like an apology.
Sitting back in the sofa, beginning to relax, Siobhan started the interview proper.
They both got cups of hot brown liquid from the machine. Hynds grimaced as he took his first sip.
“Couldn’t we all chip in for a coffeemaker?” he asked.
“It’s been tried before.”
“And?”
“And we started arguing about whose turn it was to buy the coffee. There’s a kettle in one of the offices. You can bring your own mug and stuff, but take my advice: keep everything locked up, or it’ll go walkies.”
He stared at the plastic cup. “Easier to use the machine,” he mumbled.
“Exactly.” She pushed open the door to the murder room.
