Playing With Fire

“Artist. A bit pissed, if I remember right.”

“So you did know him?”

“No. I hadn’t a clue who he was.” Keane spread his hands. “But if you say he was Thomas McMahon, then I’m sure you’re right.”

“But you talked to him?”

“Just the once, yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He was a bit intense. I do recall that. I think we just chatted about some of the paintings on the walls. He thought they were pretty dreadful. I actually quite liked one or two of them. And – yes, now I remember – he made some disparaging remarks about Turner, said he could easily dash off the other missing Yorkshire watercolor.”

“The one we’ve just been talking about?”

“The very same.”

“And you’ve only just remembered this?”

“Yes. Well, since you jogged my memory. Why? Is it important?”

“It could be. So you had an argument with McMahon?”

Keane smiled, and a bit of an edge came into his tone. “I wouldn’t exactly call it an argument, just an artistic dis-agreement. Look, what are you getting at? What is all this about?”

“Probably nothing, really,” said Banks, standing and heading over to the door. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”

Keane’s tone softened again when he noticed Banks was leaving. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m just sorry I can’t help you. Look, are you sure you won’t have one for the road? Or is that against police regulations?”

Banks laughed. “I can’t say that’s ever stopped me before, but not this time, thanks very much,” he said. “I’ll be on my way. If you do remember anything else about that conversation, you’ll be sure to let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

Banks paused at the open door. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“We’re putting together an identity parade, and you’re the same general build and coloring as the suspect. Seeing as you’re practically one of the team, would you consider helping us out and being an extra?”

“How exciting,” said Keane. “I’ve never been in an identity parade before. Of course. I’d be only too happy to help.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch. Bye for now, then.”

Chapter 14

Banks pondered over Phil Keane’s response to his visit and his questions as he drove down to Leeds that afternoon. Quite often, he knew, it wasn’t so much what a person said that was revealing, it was what he didn’t say, the way he said something, or the body language he was unconsciously displaying at the time he said it. No matter how often he ran over it in his mind, though, Banks couldn’t fault Keane’s performance. Even the hint of irritation at being questioned was reasonable, realistic. He’d have felt the same way himself.

But there was something that niggled away at him. It wasn’t until the roundabout at the Leeds ring road that Banks realized what it was. Keane’s performance had been just that: a performance. He was anxious to know if Burgess had been able to dig anything up, but decided he’d leave it until the morning. If he hadn’t heard by then, he’d phone Scotland Yard.

For the moment, though, he had a rather difficult interview with Tina’s grandparents, the Redferns, to concentrate on. He found their house easily enough, a large bay-window semi on a quiet, tree-lined Roundhay street, and parked outside.

“Mr. Banks,” said the matronly woman who answered the door, “we’ve been expecting you. Please come in. I’m Julia Redfern. Let me take your coat.”

Banks gave her his car coat, which she put on a hanger in the hall cupboard. The house smelled of apples and cinnamon. Mrs. Redfern led him into the kitchen, where the smell was even stronger. “I hope you don’t mind if we talk in here,” she said. “The study and the sitting room are just too formal. I always think the kitchen is the real heart of a house, don’t you?”

Banks agreed. Though he spent most of his time in his living room reading, watching television or listening to music, he loved his own kitchen. In fact, the kitchen was the main reason he had bought the cottage in the first place, having dreamed about it before he saw it. The Redferns’ kitchen was much larger than his, though, done out in rustic style, with a heavy wood dining table and four hard-backed chairs. French doors, closed at the moment, led out to a small conservatory. Banks sat down.

“Besides,” Mrs. Redfern went on, “the pie should be ready. I’ll just take it out and let it cool a minute.”

“I thought I could smell something good,” said Banks.

“I always like to do something a bit special when we have company,” Mrs. Redfern said, taking the apple pie out of the oven and setting it on a rack. The crust was golden and flaky. There was something surreal about the whole scene, Banks was beginning to feel: rustic kitchens, cooking smells, apple pie fresh from the oven. It was a far cry from Mark’s and Tina’s world. He wondered if Mrs. Redfern felt that she needed some sort of activity to take her mind off his impending visit, or to calm her nerves.

Dr. Redfern strode in. He looked fit and energetic despite being in his seventies, and he still had a full head of silver hair. His handshake was firm. Banks wondered if he had been a good doctor. “Maurice Redfern,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” Then he sat opposite Banks.

“First of all,” Banks said, “I just want you to know that I’m very sorry about what happened to your granddaughter, and that we’re doing our best to find out who did it.”

“I don’t see how we can help you,” said Dr. Redfern, “but we’ll do as much as we can, of course.”

His wife fussed over tea, then set the pot and three cups and saucers down on the table and cut them each a slice of apple pie. “Some cream with your pie?” she asked Banks. “Or a slice of Cheddar, perhaps?”

“No, thanks. It looks fine as it is.”

“Milk and sugar?” she asked, tapping the teapot.

“Just as it comes, please,” said Banks. She poured and sat down. She seemed on edge, Banks thought, unable to keep still. Perhaps it was just her nature. Banks sipped some tea. It was strong, the way he liked it. Sandra always used to say he could stand a spoon up in his tea. She preferred hers weak, with milk and two sugars. In his mind’s eye, he saw her walking away from him in the rain, pushing the pram. “I’m just after some background, really,” he said. “You’d be surprised how helpful little things can be, and you don’t know what they are until you find them. Rather like a doctor’s diagnosis, I suppose?”

“Indeed,” said Maurice Redfern. “Very well. Go ahead, then.”

“Were you close to your granddaughter?” Banks asked.

The Redferns exchanged glances. Finally, Maurice answered. “Christine lived here with us until she was five years old,” he said slowly. “After that, she was a frequent visitor, and sometimes she even stayed with us for longer periods. We’d look after her if her parents took a short holiday, that sort of thing.”

It was a very evasive answer, Banks thought. But maybe his question was too difficult, or too painful, for the Redferns to answer. “Did she confide in you about things?”

“She was a quiet child. A dreamer. I don’t know that she ever confided in anyone.”

“What about when she got older? Did you remain close?”

“Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Banks?” Julia Redfern asked.

“Two,” Banks said. “A boy and a girl.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Not yet.”

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re far too young. But you’ll know what I mean when I tell you how relationships change when children become teenagers.”