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‘Presumably Lawson has a theory on this?’ Fox was still sore, and it was apparent in his voice. He wanted his boss to know.
Holden pressed her lips together. She wasn’t so dense that she hadn’t picked up on the undercurrents, but she wasn’t someone to back down from a challenge either, and this felt like a challenge.
‘Did you get out of bed the wrong side, Sergeant?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t want an awkward silence – that might cause more damage within the team. But she did want to make her point. ‘As far as I am concerned, any one of you can come up with any damn fool or not such a damn fool theory, and they can tell me any time. They don’t need to check it out with the rest of the team first. I’m interested only in catching a murderer, not running a bloody democracy. So Lawson will say what she has to say now, and then anyone else is welcome to comment as long as they remember what our collective job is.’
Holden stopped, and took a deep breath. Saying all this hadn’t helped. She felt even more bloody annoyed now.
‘It just occurred to me yesterday in the car,’ Lawson began. ‘I can’t pretend I had thought about it a lot first.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Holden turned her irritation towards Lawson now. ‘Stop taking out insurance, Constable, and get to the point. Why might Jack Smith have lied about the painting he found under the floorboards?’
‘Because then we would be looking for a different picture, and there would be no chance of us finding it.’
‘Right. And are there any problems with this scenario, Lawson? You’ve had plenty of time to think about it now.’
‘I guess the main problem is Jack Smith himself. The theory implies that first he is a smart cookie, and second that he knew how to sell a painting of dodgy provenance.’
‘He presumably knew Dominic Russell.’ Lawson, Wilson and Holden all turned and looked at Fox. Whatever Fox was now feeling after his dressing down, he wasn’t letting it show. ‘He had done plumbing for the Russells, hadn’t he? He was well known in the area. Maybe he knew from Maria that Dominic could handle sensitive art sales. So he didn’t need to sell it himself.’
Silence fell. Fox took a sip of his coffee, and waited for Holden to respond.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she nodded. ‘So, if Jack Smith did lie, then we have to assume that he knew where Maria had taken the painting, namely to Dominic Russell. And that even after Maria’s death he hoped to be able to get his cut of the painting’s sale. But maybe Dominic Russell didn’t see it the same way as him.’
‘Sorry, Guv.’ Fox had half lifted his hand in apology. Politeness was suddenly in vogue. ‘But are you saying you think Dominic Russell killed them both for a picture that he claims isn’t worth that much money?’
Holden shut her eyes, and for several seconds rested her head on her right hand as she tried to get a grip on her thoughts. The pressure she had been putting on her team was rebounding back on her. The connections were there, and yet somehow it didn’t hang together. Two people dead, and no clear motive. Two photos on mobile phones. But very different photos. And two paintings. Or maybe one painting? Two people dead. Was that it? Was that the end of it, or would it soon be three? She opened her eyes and sighed.
‘What we need is more information.’ She looked at her watch. ‘At ten-thirty, I’ve got an appointment with Dr Eleanor Bennett, and hopefully she will spread some expert light on this ruddy painting. Wilson will accompany me. As for you, Fox, and you, Lawson, you’re on house to house in the Brook Street area.’ It would be good for them to work together, and without her or Wilson around. If they had anything to say to each other, hopefully they would get it said and out of their systems. ‘And when you’ve done house to house, from twelve o’clock stop everyone entering or leaving the road by the towpath, or riding along past it. If they’re regulars or locals, passing that way the same time every day, then maybe they saw someone or something. We’ll join you as soon as we can.’
Dr Eleanor Bennett lived in one of the terrace of three-storey houses which front the western side of the southern end of Walton Street. Unusually for central Oxford, the front gardens in this residential strip were more than perfunctory, some five metres in depth, and it was up the pathway of one of them that the two detectives advanced cautiously, brushing past the box tree bushes, still wet from the morning rain, which had been allowed to protrude unmolested across the path.
There was a long delay after Holden pressed the doorbell, and she was just lifting her forefinger to repeat the exercise when she heard the sound of a bolt being drawn on the back of the door. It opened, but only as far as the security chain would allow, and a pair of sharp steel-grey eyes looked up at them.
‘Who are you?’ the owner of the eyes demanded.
‘Detective Inspector Holden, and this is my colleague Detective Constable Wilson.’ Holden passed both their ID cards through the gap, and waited while the woman looked at them carefully. She was expecting some police persons to call, but she knew from her regular perusal of the local newspapers that imposters pretending to be all sorts of workmen, from men checking the electricity supply to women claiming to be social workers, were at large and older people like herself were their preferred targets. Only when she was satisfied did she release the chain and open the door wider.
‘Eleanor Bennett,’ she said. ‘Do come in. But would you mind taking your shoes off at the door. I hate cleaning.’
She led them slowly along the corridor, slowly because she walked with a pronounced limp, and then through a doorway. There they found a large living space. To the right was the sitting area with a sofa, two arm-chairs, a child’s rocking chair, and a television. To the left stood a dark, heavy dining table surrounded by six chairs. In its centre there sat a dark, fat candle. It was alight and it gave off a smell of sandalwood. A portable laptop was the only other object on the table, and it was open.
‘I was just about to make myself some tea. Would you care to join me?’ Eleanor Bennett spoke precisely and quickly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you coffee. My doctor’s told me off about it. But I can’t trust myself, so I just don’t keep it in the house.’
‘Can I help?’ Wilson had stepped forward, shoeless yet eager. He was warming to Eleanor Bennett already, not least because she reminded him of his Gran. His Gran had been petite too, and a sparky cheerful soul, and she had liked to talk without demanding an answer. She had smelt of lavender rather than sandalwood, and – sometimes – of urine too, and he had loved her terribly.
Eleanor Bennett looked at him. ‘Thank you, young man. I don’t need help, despite appearances. But only a fool would turn down such a kind offer. Maybe you can locate the chocolate biscuits. I’m sure I bought some the other day.’
Holden, who was clutching the painting to her stomach, placed it carefully on the table at the other end from the laptop, and looked around the room. It was then that she noticed the oddity, the strangeness. There were no pictures on the walls. She had assumed that an expert in art history would have her walls thronged with interesting original paintings, or if not originals then high-class prints of favourites. Yet there was nothing. There were various family photos deployed in a phalanx on a side table, but beyond that there was nothing.
‘I’ve had the decorators in,’ Eleanor said. She had re-entered the room, with Wilson behind her carrying the tea tray, and had spotted Holden observing the walls. ‘The pictures are all in the spare bedroom. I had to take them down, and I just haven’t got round to getting them back on the walls. To be frank with you, Inspector, I was getting a bit bored with them, so I thought I’d take a break from them.’
‘I was merely wondering what sort of paintings an art historian buys for herself.’
She chuckled in reply. ‘My collection is what my nephew’s daughter calls a funny old mixture. I am sure there are smarter words for it, but I think she sums it up rather well. Anyway, it’s time for tea, and for me to take a look at your picture.’
‘Just a dash of milk in mine, Constable, and half a teaspoon of sugar,’ she said, but her mind had moved on, and her delicate, unadorned fingers were picking up the package and beginning very carefully to unwrap it. When she had removed the hessian, she lay the painting back on the table, and stooped over, peering at it with intense concentration. ‘Constable, would you mind turning on the overhead lights,’ she said, without looking up. She stood poring over the painting for at least two minutes, and then limped slowly to the other end of the table where she sat down and began to press away at the keys of her laptop. ‘I’ll be a few minutes. Please, do go and sit in the comfortable chairs until I’ve finished.’
It was more a command than a request, and so Wilson and Holden went and sat down, Wilson in an armchair and Holden on the sofa, and sipped their tea from china cups. While Holden tried to focus her thoughts on the investigation, Wilson thought rather smugly of Fox and Lawson doing door to door (it had started to rain again), and then wondered whether to go to the United game – home to Altrincham – the following day, Saturday. They had had a great start to the season, so the chances were that he’d see a win. And that, after all, was what mattered if they were ever going to get out of this poxy league. Yes, he thought he would go to the game. Definitely.
