Playing With Fire

“Well, he wasn’t talking to anyone most of the time, but I did see him chat with Mr. Whitaker from the bookshop.”

That made sense. Whitaker had told Banks that McMahon bought old books from him. For the endpapers, Phil Keane had suggested, perhaps to make forgeries of period sketches. And Banks was still keeping an open mind as to whether Whitaker was involved in some sort of forgery scam with McMahon and Gardiner, especially after Stefan Nowak had confirmed that the car parked in the lay-by on the night of McMahon’s murder had been a Jeep Cherokee, the same model Whitaker owned. Thanks to Geoff Hamilton’s expert knowledge, they could now check Whitaker’s fuel tank against the accelerant used in the Gardiner blaze.

“What was Thomas McMahon doing?”

“Well, his wineglass was rarely empty, I can say that.”

“But he wasn’t drunk?”

“No. Maybe a little bit tipsy. But not so’s you’d notice that much. I seem to remember he was the kind of chap who could hold his liquor, as they say in the movies. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

“What is it, then?”

“Just that at one point he was talking to someone who might be able to tell you more about him than I can.”

“Who?”

“That art researcher from London. Well-heeled, yummy-looking fellow. Do you know who I mean?”

Banks felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. Annie’s “friend” Phil. Philip Keane. “Yes,” he said. “I know him. Why do you say well-heeled?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you men. His suit, dearie. You can’t get a suit like that off the peg in Marks and Sparks. That was a made-for-measure job, bespoke, tailor. Beautifully made, too. Best-quality material. Nice bit of schmatter. At a guess I’d say Savile Row.”

“How do you know?”

She winked. “I’ve got hidden depths.”

Banks imagined an art researcher probably made a fair income, and if Phil Keane wanted to spend it on Savile Row suits, good for him. “Go on,” Banks said. “What were they talking about?”

“I don’t know that, do I? I was some distance away doing my hostess routine, seeing that everyone’s glass was full. It was just something I noticed, that’s all, perhaps because most of the time McMahon wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“How long were they talking?”

“I don’t know that, either. My attention was diverted. Next thing I knew, McMahon was studying one of the paintings on the wall and Mr. Art Researcher was chatting up Shirley Cameron.”

“Which painting?”

“I can’t remember. Just one of the ones we had on display in the reception room. Nothing fancy. Local, most likely.”

“Did you get any sense of what their conversation was about?”

“Not really.”

“I mean, were they arguing?”

“No.”

“Exchanging pleasantries?”

“No.”

“Intimate?”

“Not in that sort of way.”

“An animated, passionate discussion?”

“No. More casual than that.”

“Just passing the time of day, then?”

“Well, yes, except…”

“Except what?”

“When I was playing it back in my mind last night… I don’t know if I’m imagining things, you know, embroidering on what I actually saw, but I could swear they were talking as if they knew one another.”

“Not as if they’d just met?”

“No, that’s it. You can tell, can’t you, when there’s a history? Even if you don’t hear a word?”

“Sometimes,” Banks said. “Body language can actually tell you quite a lot.”

“Body language,” Maria repeated. “Yes… Anyway…” She reached into her handbag. “He gave me his business card and I dug it out of the files, if that’s any use.”

Banks looked at the card. Some ornate sort of typeface, black and red. It gave Phil Keane’s company name as Art-Search Ltd., along with an address in Belgravia. “Can I keep this?” Banks asked.

“Of course. It’s no use to me, is it?”

Banks thanked her.

“Well, that’s it, then.” Maria spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know. I have nothing left up my sleeve to keep you here with.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks, suddenly feeling magnanimous toward Maria, and not in any great hurry to go home. After all, it was not yet seven o’clock and the film didn’t start till nine. “What about the pleasure of your company?”

Maria looked puzzled. “You don’t have to dash off somewhere?”

“No. Not yet, at any rate. As you pointed out, there’s no wife waiting to massage my shoulders and neck and run a hot bath. How about another drink?”

Maria narrowed her eyes and looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

Maria blushed, then slid her empty glass toward him. “I’ll have another Campari and soda then, please.”

She actually seemed quite shy when he took the lead, Banks thought, as he made his way to the bar. As he stood there waiting for Cyril to pull his pint, he wondered about what he’d just heard. It didn’t mean anything, necessarily, even if Maria’s intuition was right, but why hadn’t Phil told him? Why had he lied about knowing McMahon? And how could Banks go about checking into it without damaging his already fragile relationship with Annie?

Chapter 12

On the train to London, Banks fretted about what Maria Phillips had told him the previous evening, and what to do about it. He couldn’t even relax and enjoy his John Mayall CD for worrying, and he certainly couldn’t concentrate on the Eric Ambler thriller he’d brought along.

There was no denying that Maria had told him Phil Keane was deep in conversation with Thomas McMahon, as if they already knew each other, and Keane had said he didn’t know the artist. It could be a simple, honest mistake in identity – after all, it was a few months ago – but Banks didn’t think so.

Maybe Keane, like anybody else, wanted to avoid any connection with a police investigation. It was a natural response, after all. Don’t get involved. Leave me out of it. Leslie Whitaker had done the same thing, and Banks was convinced that he was in a lot deeper than he admitted.

But Phil Keane was involved. As a consultant, and as Annie’s lover. Which meant he was supposed to be on their side, didn’t it? The last thing Banks could do was talk to Annie about it. She would immediately turn on him for trying to come between her and Phil out of personal jealousy, making their last little set-to seem like a preliminary round.

Shortly after Grantham, Banks had an idea. He made a call on his mobile to an old colleague on the Met, someone who might be able to help. After that, he had a bit more success putting the matter out of his mind and listening to Blues from Laurel Canyon.

King’s Cross was the usual melee. Banks headed straight for the taxi rank and joined the queue. Within a few