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‘No, Guv,’ he replied, trying not to mind the sharpness of her tone. ‘Well, we have established that this man is Dominic Russell. He deals in fine arts, antiques, architectural antiquities, and so on. He has a business out on the ring road, near the Pear Tree roundabout. Anyway, he was clearly well known to Mrs Tull, but by all accounts they weren’t on best-buddy terms the other night.’
He paused, as if to get his breath back.
‘What do you mean by that? Not being on best-buddy terms.’
‘Well, Mr Russell stayed only until the interval, about half eight or quarter to nine. He did a bit of sales patter, handed out his business card to anyone who was prepared to take one, and then he left. The only thing is, Mrs Tull didn’t seem to be very happy about him being there.’
‘I see.’ Holden raised her left hand, and began to massage the lobe of her ear. It was itching. It was always her left ear, never the right one. But she did like wearing her studs. ‘Anything to add, Lawson?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Any observations?’
‘Yes!’ Lawson was quick to take her opportunity. ‘I think we’re agreed that Mrs Tull may have felt he was encroaching on her ground, turning a lecture into a sales plug if you like. If not, well, the fact that Mrs Tull hardly said a word to him all evening? There must be some reason for it.’
D.R. Antiquities occupied three old farm buildings just inside the Oxford ring road. Had they not been uncomfortably within earshot and exhaust range of both the A34 and the main exit road from North Oxford, they would no doubt have been converted into rather pricey country homes. ‘I moved the business here five years ago,’ Dominic Russell explained, as he escorted Holden and Fox into the largest of the three buildings. ‘I used to be in Jericho, but the landlord was desperate to develop the plot into canal-side apartments, so I negotiated a very generous deal to give up my lease early, and Bob’s your uncle, here I am now. D.R. Antiquities. If you fancy a nice statue for your garden, a bit of stained glass as a feature in your hall, or a nice little Victorian genre scene on your dining room wall, then Dominic’s your man!’
DS Fox gritted his teeth as he listened. Holden had asked him to accompany her while she left Wilson and Lawson to chase up on Maria Tull’s unresponsive students, and he had appreciated that. But already he was wondering how much of this garrulous git he could stand. Indeed, he thought he already understood only too well why Maria resented him turning up unannounced and buttonholing her students. In fact, if anyone had deserved a knife in the gut that night, it was surely Dominic bloody Russell.
But Dominic was alive and well and talking. ‘This used to be the cowshed,’ he said with a flourish of his hand. Even Fox found it hard not to be impressed by the collection of items through which they were now passing. There were stained-glass windows of various saints, and of Jesus holding a lamb; busts and statuettes of classical figures; a set of six gargoyles; dark oak pews from a church; oil paintings of castles and seascapes, sour-faced gentry and still lifes; old street lamps; and even a row of Foden lorry radiators. Fox paused despite himself to peer more closely at one of them, and then whistled at the price on the tag.
They had come to a glass door, through which Dominic now led them. ‘My office,’ he announced, ‘and my wife Sarah.’ The woman at the computer looked up briefly from her computer, and then down again, as if the visitors were beneath her interest. ‘She helps out from time to time. Minette usually mans the post – nice girl, French-Canadian, but her parents are over here so I’ve let her have a few days off.’
‘Do you really think the police are interested in Minette?’ Sarah Russell said tartly, and without even the pretence of looking up. ‘Perhaps you should invite them to sit down and ask their questions, and then they can go.’
‘Please,’ her husband said apologetically, and with another wave of his arm towards the two plastic green chairs ranged against the right-hand wall.
Holden and Fox sat down, while he plonked himself down at the other desk, opposite them.
‘Was it quick?’ he said leaning forward,
the effusive manner suddenly abandoned. ‘I mean, did she suffer?’
Holden registered the fact that this was the first time he had shown any sympathy for – or indeed interest in – Maria Tull. ‘Yes, it would have been quick,’ she said simply, not wanting to give out too much information.
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘We understand you attended Maria’s lecture last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Venetian art is an interest of yours?’
He laughed. ‘All sorts of art are of interest to me, as you have seen.’
‘So why did you leave at the interval?’
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘you have done your homework.’ And he wagged his finger at Holden.
Holden wondered if this was the way he was, or whether he was playing for time. She kept her eyes on his, and said nothing. Fox noticed that Mrs Russell had given up pretending to be busy and was now watching her husband with considerable interest.
‘It was a long day, yesterday, and I was tired. I wanted to support Maria, of course I did, and she certainly knows, or knew, a lot more about Venetian art than I do, but I was there to network, essentially. Of course, half of them were there just because they wanted a reason to escape from the house and the wife or husband, but you only need to make one good contact and it’s been worthwhile.’
‘How would you characterize your relationship with Maria Tull?’
The question, fired in low, caught him amidships. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You said you wanted to support her. I guess that implies a relationship of some sort.’
‘Ah, spot on, detective,’ he blustered, as he fought to regain his equilibrium. ‘I’ve known her husband since we were at Keble together, and her almost as long as Alan has known her. And until someone stuck a knife in her, she and I worked together. Not in any formal sense, but if she found something that I could shift I’d give her a commission, or vice versa if she found a buyer for any of my stock. It suited us both very well. So to answer your question, that was the sort of relationship we had. A business one. All right?’
‘Can you tell me what you did when you left St Aidan’s?’
