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‘Finished your tea?’ The sudden question made both Holden and Lawson start. Eleanor was back by the painting now. She drank thirstily at her tea as they got up to join her.
‘It’s an interesting little painting. Not exactly my cup of tea, though!’ She laughed, waving her own cup in the air, as if to explain her joke. ‘Very competently painted, though not out of the top drawer. It’s a typical Greek mythological scene, with temple ruins looming out of the background to underline that fact. Sexual union has been achieved, and the male is leaving rather casually, having made his conquest. The male is doubtless Zeus, a singularly randy God who left his bastard progeny all over the Greek world. The female might be one of several poor maidens deflowered by him, but I’d put my money on—’
‘Talking of money,’ Holden interrupted, ‘could you give us an idea of what this would be worth?’
‘Ah, well, it’s probably worth more than I would chose to pay for anything so unoriginal, but the artist has for some reason become quite collectable. He died in his mid thirties and wasn’t that prolific, so the scarcity of his work has not done his prices any harm. Six weeks ago, a similar painting by him was sold in New York for $14,500. Even in these uncertain times, I think if this came up at auction it might easily reach ten thousand pounds.’
Ten minutes later, Holden and Wilson took their leave of Eleanor Bennett and walked briskly to the car. The rain was persistent, but not heavy, and a patch of blue sky promised better things to come.
‘Brook Street is it, Guv?’
‘I think we’d better nip back to the station first, and get this painting into a safe place before anyone nicks it off the back seat.’
‘It’s a fair whack, isn’t it, Guv? Ten thousand pounds. With Maria dead, it’s no wonder that he decided to keep it all to himself. That amount of money is one hell of a temptation.’
Holden looked at her constable, a disapproving frown written across her face. ‘Just remember that temptation is there to be resisted, Wilson. Especially when you’re in a profession where it can so easily present itself.’
Wilson looked back at her, and flushed. ‘Sorry, Guv. It was just a … I didn’t mean to suggest.…’ But he couldn’t think of how to finish the sentence.
Holden turned and looked forward out of the car. She knew she had sounded a bit schoolmarmish, but she felt she had to say it. Wilson was a good constable, but naïve and, she feared, too easily swayed by others. He was the sort of man who might easily succumb to temptation without realizing it, or go with the crowd because he wasn’t tough enough to stand against it. So it was her responsibility to mark out the boundaries as best she could.
‘The key question as regards this investigation, Wilson, is whether a man would kill for ten thousand pounds? What do you think?’
‘People have killed for less, Guv. It depends on the man.’ He paused. ‘Or, of course, woman.’ He wasn’t sure where these words came from, and he was even less sure how Holden would take them. He had decided that he didn’t really understand women, women like Lawson who messed his head up something ridiculous, and Holden who behaved like a very strict version of his Mum. Even his beloved Gran had sometimes seemed like an alien from another planet.
‘Hmm!’ The word was in itself meaningless, but the tone of voice told Wilson that his words of wisdom had been well received. ‘That’s an interesting answer, Wilson. I’ll think about it while you drive us safely to Cowley.’
The house to house enquiries in Brook Street and the area around it proved to be, if not entirely fruitless, then in terms of hard evidence the next best thing. Brook Street is a short street running in a south-north direction, parallel to the Abingdon Road and some forty metres to its west. It can be entered by car only from its southern end, via Western Road, but is not in a true sense a cul de sac, for access on foot and bike at the northern end is not just possible, but commonplace. Indeed for many local residents, hurrying to get to town on bike or shanks’s pony, Brook Street represents a convenient little rat run, enabling them to minimize the amount of time spent breathing in the exhaust fumes of the Abingdon Road.
For DS Fox, marshalling his team on a grey morning of persistent rain, this openness to all corners presented its own complications. Looking at it, as Fox did, from the point of view of the killer, there were several routes in and – even more important – out again after the deed had been done. Acyclist, for example, had several options: head back down to Western Road, and then either out on to the Abingdon Road and away out of town with traffic, or turn right along Western Road until it meets Marlborough Road, and then turn left and south, pelting along its length, then through Hinksey Park, and then via a few twists and turns into Wytham Street, running straight south along it until you choose to divert or reach the Redbridge park-and-ride. But a killer could also make his escape east along the towpath to picturesque Iffley. Or he or she could alternatively head west to
wards flood-prone Osney, and the unloved Botley Road. Or if they were a killer committing murder in a lunch break, they could nip back up to their city-centre office either over Folly Bridge or over the rather ugly footbridge some one hundred and fifty metres to the west, just beyond Marlborough Road.
The shortness of Brook Street was the one good thing about it, in Fox’s view: knocking on the doors of all its residents wasn’t an arduous task for the team of himself, Lawson and the four uniformed officers. However, getting useful information proved hugely more difficult. For a start, half the residents were already out – or possibly still in bed, or deaf, or merely perverse – and those who did open their doors had inevitably seen nothing. There was no improvement in their fortune as Fox extended their sweep along the river, knocking on the doors of Cobden Crescent and the northern end of Buckingham Street and of Marlborough Road.
When Holden and Wilson joined them just before noon, Fox was in the process of moving to plan B, namely intercepting locals as they passed along Brook Street and along the towpath, in the hope that someone on a regular commute to or from the city might recall someone or something of interest from the previous day. It proved to be a busy thoroughfare, and even on an increasingly wet and windy day, the eight of them found themselves constantly occupied in stopping passers-by and asking them questions. Had they come this way yesterday at this time? Did they notice anyone stopping at the house? Or anyone in a terrible hurry on the towpath? Or anyone – and this was surely a long shot – with blood on their clothes? Given that the weather the previous day had also been singularly nasty and wet, the answers given were generally short and unenlightening. One man, a beard on his face and a collie at his heels, said he had almost been run over by a cyclist speeding towards Osney round about 1.30 p.m. A tall Glaswegian, with an accent so thick Wilson could barely decipher what he was saying, gave a similar story, though he insisted it was round about 1.15 p.m.
‘Did you manage to get a look at the cyclist’s face?’ Wilson asked hopefully.
‘Naw! The bampot had a balaclava on. A black ’un. And he was wearing navy blue waterproofs.’
‘Why do you say “he”’ Wilson fired back.
‘Who kin tell, nowadays?’ came the laughing reply.
They gave up at 2.15 p.m. and retreated to Cowley, where they dried off and warmed themselves with hot drinks in Holden’s office. Outside, in the Oxford Road, the increased traffic levels signalled the end of school, and beyond their view the ring road was already clogging up, the result of the breakdown of a London-bound coach at the Headington roundabout. It was Friday, and Holden should have been looking forward to the weekend, but all she could feel was frustration. She began the meeting by briefing Fox and Lawson thoroughly on the visit to Eleanor Bennett, and concluded with a variation on the question she had earlier put to Wilson. ‘Would Dominic Russell commit murder for the sake of a painting worth ten thousand pounds? Any offers?’
‘Yes!’ said Lawson. If truth be told, she was feeling a little resentful that Holden had taken Wilson rather than her to visit Eleanor Bennett. And now she was determined to show her worth.
‘No!’ said Fox firmly.
Holden turned. ‘Are you playing devil’s advocate, Fox?’
‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m just saying it how I see it. You saw his business. Loads of expensive stuff. He may be a smarmy arsehole, but I don’t see him as a killer prepared to risk all on a painting like that.’
‘You’re making two assumptions, with respect, Sarge.’ Lawson had no intention of backing off, especially when Sergeant bloody Fox was in flat-foot mood. ‘First, we don’t know how well his business is doing. We’ve entered a recession, haven’t we, and the stuff he sells is hardly essential for people’s survival. So if ten thousand pounds was the difference between going bust and survival, why wouldn’t he kill? Second, maybe there’s a personal angle to it all. He and Maria have a bit of history. Who’s to say this painting wasn’t all that it needed to tip the balance.’
‘Where’s you evidence for that?’ Fox spoke aggressively. He didn’t much like Lawson. Fancied herself a lot. Thought she was smart as hell.
