Playing With Fire

something. And if we can dig out any connection, however remote, between Whitaker and Masefield…”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “Anything new on those Turners?” he asked Annie, as casually as he could manage.

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,” Annie agreed.

“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?” Annie asked.

“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, Annie. I just want to sound out their feelings, that’s all.”

Annie shrugged.

“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.”

Annie gave Banks a hard look. “We don’t have any evidence against Patrick Aspern at all,” she said. “I think you’re going off on some sort of personal crusade against the man.”

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

Annie’s mouth closed to a tight, white line. Winsome looked away, embarrassed. Banks wondered if Annie had told her all about the row they’d had over Phil Keane’s involvement in the case. Maybe after a couple of drinks in the hotel bar last night.

He immediately regretted his sarcastic remark, but it was too late to take it back. Instead, he bade Annie and Winsome a curt good-bye and left the pub.

One thing Banks hadn’t told Annie was that he was intending to stop off at Phil Keane’s cottage on his way to Leeds. Well, it wasn’t exactly on his way, but he thought it was worth the diversion.

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 annoyed with himself for his outburst over lunch, he parked on the cobbles in front of the shops by the village green and headed toward the cottage. Maybe Annie was right and he was on some sort of personal crusade against Patrick Aspern. But so what? Someone had to bring the arrogant bastard down.

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 crannies here and there, each filled with delicate little statuettes and ivory carvings: elephants, human figures, cats.

“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 Annie,” Keane said, “the actual forging would be easy enough for an artist who had the talent for such things. Turner isn’t easy to imitate – his brush strokes are difficult, for example – but he’s not impossible, as long as the artist got hold of the correct paper and painting materials, which isn’t too hard, if you know how. Tom Keating claimed to have dashed off twenty or so Turner watercolors. The problem is the provenance.”

“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.”

“I see,” said Banks. “So you’d need an accomplice?”

“At least one.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “as I said, my visit is only indirectly related to the Turners. It’s actually the artist himself, Thomas McMahon, I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“You told me you didn’t know him.”

“No, I don’t. Neither him nor his work.”

“Yet someone told me you were seen in conversation with him at the Turner reception last July.”

Keane frowned. “I talked to a number of people there. That’s where I first met Annie, too, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Banks. “But what about McMahon?”

“I’m sorry. I still can’t place him.”

“Short, burly sort of fellow, didn’t shave often, longish greasy brown hair. Bit of a scruff. He’d been drinking.”

“Ah,” said Keane. “You mean the chap with rather disagreeable BO?”

McMahon had smelled of burned flesh the only time Banks had been close to him. “Do I?” he said. “I can’t say I ever smelled him. Not when he was alive.”