by Clare Revell
Zander laughed. “Welcome to the real world. This isn’t a TV show where everything gets wrapped with a neat little bow in under an hour. She does have a point, though, Guv. Not a very exciting first day for her.”
“Then, if you are both really that bored, I’ll do your next interview in a nice, cool, air-conditioned interview room. You can go outside, into the extreme heat and sunshine, and do what I was about to do. Get over to the Abbey Gate Gallery and talk to the owner, Farrell Vixen. There’s been a burglary.”
“And the owner only just noticed?” Zander pushed to his feet. “Has he been sleeping all day or something?”
The DI shook his head. “I have no idea. Anyway, he wanted my best officers on the case. Don’t let me down.”
Zander laughed. “So that’s why you were going.”
“No.” The DI chuckled. “I was bored with paperwork. Get out of here before I change my mind and send someone of a higher rank instead. SOCO should be there to dust for prints as we speak.”
“Yes, Guv.” Relieved the forensic officers would beat him to an investigation for once, Zander shrugged into his jacket, before he immediately took it off again. “Too hot for that.” He slung it over his shoulder instead, and then glanced at his partner. She hadn’t moved. “Isabel, come on, you wanted some action. Look lively.”
“Paperwork and taking statements sound better,” she said quietly, still not moving. “I’ll stay here. You go do that interview.”
He heaved a long sigh, aware of the DI standing in his office doorway at the far side of the room. If he didn’t do something fast, Isabel was in for the high jump. “You’re kidding me? You’ve done nothing but moan about the lack of real policing all day, and now we finally get a case of our own, you don’t want to go?” He held out the car keys. “You can drive.”
She shook her head, seemingly unaware of the DI watching her intently. “No.”
“Have it your way. Well, I’m going. You can tell the Guv why you’re disobeying a direct order.” He headed to the door. His first impressions about her had been right. Either she was stuck up, sulking because they’d been stuck with paperwork all day, or this whole thing was beneath her. Right now, he didn’t care which. He paused in the doorway and glanced back.
Isabel still sat at her desk, staring down at the mess.
Zander caught the DI’s gaze, noticed the waggling fingers bidding him to leave, and did as he was told.
“DC York! My office. Now!”
The sharp bark made Zander jump and he wasn’t even the object of the DI’s wrath. He closed the office door and stormed down the stairs to the car park. People scattered out of his way. His service vehicle was exactly where he’d left it, which was just as well, given his current state of mind. He climbed in and leaned back in the seat, rubbing the back of his neck. Several deep breaths did nothing to calm his irritation.
Lord, I need patience with this one. Help me. Because she is really doing my head in, and not just the mess on her desk either. She was good with Gramps, and now complains it was social care? Maybe I was wrong about her, but whatever is going on, help her get over it, and quickly. We can’t pick and choose what work we do here. Everyone needs our help and is entitled to it. No matter who they are. Bad guys excepted, that is. They get locked up. He opened his eyes and shoved the keys in the ignition. As he started the engine, the passenger door opened. He glanced sideways. “Finally decided to join me, did you?”
“Yeah.” Isabel’s eyes were too bright, and her voice small and tight.
“Best belt up then.” He didn’t need to ask what happened after he left the office. He pulled out of the car park. “Have you been to this art gallery before?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, that might help. You like art?”
“Some.” Her voice wavered.
He sighed. Would he get points for trying? He fished in his trouser pocket and pulled out a hanky. “Here. It’s clean.”
“Thanks.”
He didn’t look at her. “Closest I’ve ever been to art was a school trip to the National Portrait Gallery when I was thirteen. But I do know where this one is.”
Ten minutes later, he parked on the yellow line outside the gallery and stuck his police attending sign on the dashboard. Abbey Gate Gallery stood on the corner of Abbey Hill. Part of the Abbey quarter, the art gallery took up three rooms of the historic abbey gatehouse, which dated back to the twelfth century. The rest of the building was a museum and gift shop.
Isabel dragged her feet as they left the car and headed to the building, ending up several paces behind him. She was obviously only here under duress, and only because DI Holmes insisted.
Zander had no real idea why she’d refused this case in the first place. Something had to be said, and the sooner the better. He grabbed the bull by the horns and went for it. He spun around and waited for her to catch up. He stared at her. “Isabel, unless you want this to be the shortest partnership in history, never mind the shortest CID career in the history of policing, buck up your ideas. I need to know you have my back at all times, whether you like the job or not.” He tried to keep the harshness out of his voice. The kid was having a bad enough day as it was. “So, either you get in here and do your job or you wait in the car and put in for a transfer when we get back. Don’t get me wrong. I owe you one for this morning, not simply for getting me out of a hole with Gramps, but for not mentioning it to anyone, either. However…” He yanked open the gallery door, hearing the entrance bell ring to announce their arrival.
She still hadn’t moved.
Grimacing, Zander held the door open, and began to count to ten in his head, like his mother used to do when he was a child. He’d reached seven before she trudged past him and inside the building.
A tall man with short brown hair, a neat beard, and piercing blue eyes turned to greet them. A chiselled jaw, smart suit, and silk tie completed the look. “Can I help you?”
Zander pulled out his warrant card. “I’m DC Ellery, this is DC York. We’re looking for Farrell Vixen.”
“And you’ve found him. Call me Farrell, everyone does.” Farrell looked past Zander to Isabel, a curious gleam shining in his eyes, his welcoming smile tightening. “Izzy, darling, how lovely to see you.” He moved over to her, his hand gripping her arm, lips grazing her cheek. “I wasn’t expecting you when I rang the police.”
Isabel pulled free. “Well, we’re here now.”
“You two know each other?” Zander waved a finger between them, deciding to hit the elephant in the room head on.
“Yes.” Farrell glanced at the other people in the gallery. “Perhaps we should discuss this in my office.” He glanced at the woman he’d been talking with when they’d entered the room. “Steph, I’ll be with the officers for a while. Can you send Dominic through when he arrives?” He turned back to Zander and Isabel. “Come this way, Officers.”
Zander grabbed Isabel’s sleeve, halting her for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, his voice low. “He called you Izzy? What’s going on here? What am I missing?”
“Farrell’s my boyfriend,” she whispered. “Well, kind of.”
“Kind of? He either is or he isn’t!”
“He is.”
Zander’s frown deepened. “And you didn’t think to mention this before we got here?”
“I didn’t want to come at all, if you remember.”
Farrell turned. “Is there a problem?”
Zander managed a bright smile. “Not at all.” He began to follow Farrell across the room, shooting Isabel a firm look. “Be professional,” he hissed. “I’ll ask the questions, you take notes.”
She nodded.
Raising his voice, Zander waved a hand. “Ladies first.” He followed her into a small office to one side of the main gallery. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she had shortened several inches since they’d arrived.
Farrell shut the door. “Have a seat. Can I get you some tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you
.” Zander sat and crossed his ankles.
“Izzy?”
Zander’s partner shrank back into the chair and shook her head. He picked up on the need-to-get-out-of-here vibe emanating from her and decided to forgo the niceties. “Can you tell us what was stolen?”
Farrell tore his gaze away from Isabel and settled into the plush chair the other side of the desk. “Stolen?”
Zander resisted the temptation to sigh. “You called the police and reported a burglary. So, I imagine something was stolen. That’s why we’re here.”
“Ah, yes. A series of ten paintings by local artist, Dominic Higgins, were taken some time since last night.”
Zander shot Isabel a sideways glance. He bit back a sigh. She hadn’t even gotten her notebook out, never mind a pen. “Take notes, please.”
She fumbled for her notebook. “Sure.”
He turned back to the art gallery owner. “Ten paintings? And you’ve only just noticed they were missing?”
“They were in storage. I checked last night before I went home, and they were there. Steph opened up the gallery this morning, but she had no reason to go down to the storage room. I went to put the paintings up for tonight’s showing about forty minutes ago, and they were missing.”
“Ten paintings don’t seem enough for a showing.”
“There are many more being exhibited and were already on the wall, but only these particular ten were taken.”
“Tell us about the paintings.”
“They’re modernist oil paintings on canvas, a mixture of landscape and portrait depending on the topic. Each painting covers one of the Ten Commandments and is about fourteen by eighteen inches in size. Or thereabouts.” Farrell handed them both a single page advertisement flyer. “As you can see, the event has been heavily promoted. These have gone out in shops and through doors in the immediate location. Plus, it’s on the Internet.”
Zander scanned the leaflet. “Just your typical advertise-an-event-style flyer. Similar to one advertising the summer carnival and winter fete. It doesn’t give people much to go on. What about something with the pictures of the paintings in it?”
“Then no one would come. Why go to the cinema when you can watch the same thing from the comfort of your own home? There is a brochure available with pictures of all the paintings, along with guide prices, available for those people who come tonight. Serious art collectors will come based on the flyer alone. I can let you have an advance copy.”
Zander nodded. “That would be helpful.” He didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm. How were they meant to find something when they had no idea what it looked like? Never mind ten of the things.
Farrell handed them both a brochure. This one was much thicker, akin to a guidebook from a stately home or castle. “They are all in here, along with a guide price for each painting. I must emphasise, you can’t show them to anyone outside of here.”
“I’ll have to take it with me. But it’s evidence, so it won’t be on line before the end of the day.” Zander looked up. “The artist’s selling them?”
“The collection is worth more together, but yes, he is. Prints will be available to purchase, as well. Also, there will be postcards of select paintings.”
Isabel cleared her throat. “What are they insured for?”
“Four hundred thousand pounds sterling. Each.”
Zander exchanged glances with his partner before turning his attention to the brochure, his mind whirling. That’s a lot of insurance coverage. He raised an eyebrow at the prices of each painting. They ranged from ten to fifty thousand, depending on the size of the canvas. “Pretty expensive for a relatively unknown artist—at least one that I’ve not heard of.”
“Up and coming,” Farrell crossed his arms. “Dominic’s young, but he’ll go far. I’m hoping the National Gallery will be interested.”
“What security do you have in place?”
“We have an alarm, motion sensors in every room. CCTV, but the system is down right now. My tech bloke is working on it. There are officers dusting for prints everywhere.”
Zander nodded. “Hopefully, they’ll find something useful. We’ll also need prints from yourself and all of your staff for elimination purposes.”
“I will see everyone co-operates with your inquiry.” Farrell switched his gaze to Isabel. “No uniform today, Izzy?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “First day in CID.”
“I see. You didn’t say you were changing departments.” His brow narrowed, and his voice took on a rough edge.
“It must have slipped my mind.” Isabel seemed incapable of standing up for herself. What was it with her and this bloke? Did he have some hold over her or something?
“Keep an eye on this one, DC Ellery.” Farrell smirked. “She’s a tad forgetful. Must be all that religious nonsense crammed inside her pretty little head, if you ask me.”
Zander tried not to scowl. “Nothing wrong with a little faith,” he said, eager to wrap this up. “I just need to see where the paintings were kept and how the thieves got in, and we’ll be on our way.”
Farrell stood. “I’ll show you.”
The office door burst open and a dishevelled young man, no more than nineteen or twenty, rushed in. His black hair stood up at all angles, as if it hadn’t seen a brush in days. Paint streaks covered his shirt and hands.
Assuming this was the artist in question, Zander wasn’t sure whether his lack of age explained the weirdness of some of the paintings or not.
“Is it true, Farrell?” the kid blurted. “Have they really gone?”
“Yes, Dom, I’m afraid so. This is DC Ellery and DC York.” Farrell indicated the two officers. “They’re the investigating officers. Meet Dominic Higgins, the creator of the Ten Commandments.”
“You have to get them back.” The young painter wrung his hands, despair oozing from every pore. “It’s my life’s work. If you don’t, I could lose everything.”
~*~
Isabel headed out to the car in the blistering heat, dreading what Zander would say about Farrell. She wasn’t expecting the whole “boyfriend issue” to go unmentioned.
Zander unlocked the car. “Well?”
Isabel opened it and glanced over the car at him. “Bit of an overreaction from Dominic Higgins, in my opinion. He’s what, nineteen or so, and his career is over if we don’t recover his life’s work? Maybe he really is expecting to sell them to the National Gallery and win the Turner Prize for them.” She got inside the vehicle and shut the door.
Zander climbed in and turned on the engine to start the air conditioning. “Or simply sell them all to a private collector. The paintings are a little weird if you ask me. And only loosely based on the theme. Or maybe I just don’t get modern art.”
“Nor do I. Give me classical art any day.” She reached behind her for the seatbelt, and then fastened it. She eyed Zander. “This will be a tough one to solve. Not a single sign of forced entry, and too many people have access to the building and the storage room.”
“So, we just give up?” He shot her a curious glance as he shoved the car into first gear. “I thought you’d have been all over this one. Farrell Vixen being your boyfriend…”
“You told me to be professional. I am.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go back to the office and see what the fingerprint search revealed.” He paused as he released the handbrake. “Oh, and the next time we run into someone you know, tell me before we arrive. I don’t want to be put in that situation again. Ever. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” Isabel closed her eyes as Zander drove. The air con blasted onto her face, a pleasant change from the oppressive heat everywhere else. She liked to keep her two lives separate. Farrell was very particular about everything. He liked things just so. Liked to be kept in the loop. Now everything would be confused and cause problems because she hadn’t done that.
She’d tried telling DI Holmes and Zander that she didn’t want this case but had been overruled by the DI when she
wouldn’t give a valid reason. How did she get saddled with a partner who didn’t want her, a boss who thought she did nothing but complain, and a boyfriend who believed she’d lied to him by omitting to tell him about her new job? If she’d told the truth at the outset, she’d have been yelled at. She bit her lip, turning to face the window. Every aspect of her life complicated in one fell swoop. So much for a new start.
What remained of the afternoon passed in a blur of paperwork. Before Isabel knew it, Zander began packing up. She glanced at him. “Where are you going?”
“It’s five thirty. The end of shift. Come on, let’s go to the pub.”
“Huh?” She clicked her pen closed and shoved it into the pen pot. She didn’t drink, and from what little she’d gleaned that day, Zander attended church and surely didn’t drink either. Maybe she was wrong. “The pub?”
“It’s a tradition. Newbie buys the whole team a drink. We can stop by the ATM first if you need to.”
Did she even have money in her main bank account? She’d used the card on the extra shopping and lunch she’d bought earlier and wasn’t sure. She didn’t internet bank, not trusting her banking details to a phone or computer that was so easy to lose or hack. She’d done enough policing to know that much, so it wasn’t a simple case of transferring funds without going to the bank itself.
She wouldn’t say as much. That kind of comment had been the butt of many jokes against her in her previous job. Along with a dozen other unkind comments about her being female, and thus incompetent. “I can’t tonight as I have plans. Can we do this next week instead?”
“Only if you want seven years’ bad luck,” Robert called from the other side of the room. “Everyone will be there, including the DI and Sarge. You daren’t mess with tradition in this nick.”
Isabel sighed. Seven years bad luck applied only to superstition, not a trip to the pub. Although her house mother would say both were just as evil as each other. Luck and the pub that is, not mirrors.
Zander dropped a file on her desk. “If money is tight after you bailed me out earlier, I’ll pay it back,” he said quietly. “Let me know what I owe you and we’ll stop at the bank. Or I can transfer it across wirelessly.”
