“No,” said Annie. “Not yet. It’s a lot of legwork. And legwork takes time, and more legs than we’ve got right now.”
“I can talk to Red Ron about manpower.”
“Thanks,” said Annie. “I could do with a couple more good researchers, at least. But for the moment, my money’s still on Leslie Whitaker. Just because we haven’t been able to find a past connection between him and Gardiner doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist, or even that we need one. I mean, maybe McMahon himself is the link. Maybe Whitaker put the idea to McMahon and McMahon recruited Gardiner.”
“Maybe,” said Banks. “We’ll have to ask him when we find him.” He finished his tea and let the silence stretch a moment before asking, “How are you and Phil getting along, by the way?”
“Fine,” Annie said. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”
“He’s down in London dealing with the Turners. You know that. Why the sudden interest?”
“Nothing. Just wondering, that’s all.”
Annie looked him in the eye. “Phil’s right, isn’t he? What I said earlier. You denied it at the time, but you didn’t like him right from the start, did you? I mean, you never really gave him a chance, did you?”
“I told you, I’ve got nothing against him,” Banks said. But if truth be told, he had a very uneasy feeling about Phil Keane, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, and though he wouldn’t tell Annie this, he was going to keep on digging into the man’s background until he was satisfied one way or another. “I don’t want to start another argument, Annie,” Banks said. “I just asked you how you two were getting along.”
“Yes, but it’s not as simple as that, is it? It never is with you. I can tell from your tone of voice. There’s always another agenda. What is it? What do you know? What are you getting at?”
Banks spread his hands. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Is it jealousy? Is that what it is, Alan? Because, honestly, if it’s that, if that’s what it is, I’ll just get a fucking transfer out of here.”
Banks didn’t remember ever hearing Annie swear before, and it shocked him. “Look,” he said, “it’s not jealousy. Okay? I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”
“Why should I get hurt? And who do you think you are? My big brother? I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
And with that, Annie tossed her serviette on the remains of her toasted tea cake and strode out of the cafe. Was it Banks’s imagination, or did the bell ping just that little more loudly when she left?
Annie spent the rest of the day avoiding Banks. It wasn’t difficult; she had plenty more paperwork to hide behind, and she took Winsome along to Whitaker’s shop, which they entered through the backdoor, leaving no sign that they had been there, and borrowed the photograph. A quick trip to Harrogate didn’t provide the conclusive answers she had hoped for. It was over twenty years ago, after all, said Elaine Hough, and Whitaker’s chin and eyes were wrong. Even so, that didn’t let Whitaker off the hook for the fires as far as Annie was concerned.
Had she overreacted to Banks in the Golden Grill? She didn’t know. There had just been something about the way he kept on bringing up the subject of Phil that irritated her. Perhaps she should have let it go; after all, that would have been easy enough. But if she was going to carry on seeing Phil and working with Banks, then something would have to change, and it wasn’t going to be Annie.
Banks clearly had something on his mind, and she wished she knew what it was. Had he been investigating Phil behind her back? Had he found out something? If so, what? Annie dismissed her fears as absurd. If Banks had found any dirt on Phil, he would have made sure she was the first to know. Otherwise, what was the point? Except to hurt her. Lash out because of his jealousy.
But the suspicion and anxiety persisted throughout the day and made it hard for her to concentrate. Late in the afternoon, by which time Annie already knew she was going to be working late into the evening, the phone rang.
“Annie, it’s Phil here.”
“Well, hello. It’s nice to hear from you, stranger.”
“I just thought I’d let you know that the consensus of opinion is that the Turner sketches and watercolor are forgeries.”
If Annie was a bit disappointed that Phil was calling her on business, she tried not to let it show in her voice.
“Oh. Why’s that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing specific. Just a number of things adding up, or not adding up. Some of the scientific tests indicated the paper used was slightly later than the dates of the sketches. Then there’s the style. Little details. I told you Turner was hard to fake. When you add to that the lack of provenance, the loose sketches and the coincidence of these pieces turning up so quickly after the major find, then…”
“What about fingerprints? In the paint, I mean.”
“There were none. So no help there.”
“Would there have been if the painting were genuine?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Okay, Phil. Thanks,” said Annie. “Does this cast doubt on the other watercolor?”
“Not at all. We’ve got some provenance there, and the same tests didn’t turn out negative. I think that one was a genuine find. It must have given someone the idea of forging the other missing piece.”
“McMahon?”
“I’ve no idea who did it, but if you found it at the site of the caravan fire, and you’ve managed to link the two victims, yes, I’d say you’re probably on the right track. They must have hatched some harebrained get-rich-quick scheme. It’s quite possible to be a fine artist and pretty useless at almost everything else.”
“Tell me about it,” said Annie, thinking of her father. She had grown up surrounded by beards and endless arguments on Impressionism versus Cubism, Van Gogh versus Gauguin and the like. While Ray seemed reasonably well equipped to handle the real world, he could lose himself in his work for days on end and forget about petty irritations like bills and housecleaning.
“Anyway, that’s all I’ve got to say, for better or worse. I’ll get them packed and have them couriered back up to you. They’re worthless, but I suppose you might still need them as evidence?”
“Thanks,” said Annie.
“How are things up there?”
“Fine, I suppose.”
“Closing in for the kill?”
“Maybe,” Annie said. “Whitaker – you know, the bloke who supplied McMahon with the paper – he’s disappeared.”
“As in been killed?”
“No. As in legged it.”
“Oh, I see. Best of luck then.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s wrong? You sound a bit glum.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I had a bit of a barney with Alan, DCI Banks, this morning. It’s left rather a bad taste in my mouth.”
“What about?”
“Nothing. That’s it. Just me being oversensitive. I wish the two of you could get on better.”
“Why, what’s he said about me?”
“Nothing. It’s just… I don’t know, Phil. It’s me. Don’t pay any attention.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
“No. He just asked about you, that’s all. See what I mean about being oversensitive?”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, then,” said Phil. “I’ve got nothing against him. I’ve only met the man the once, and
