by Clare Revell
“Hah! And you’ll be thirty and ready to retire!”
He snorted. “Touché.”
“Age before beauty,” she said, waving at the door.
Unable to argue with her on that point, Zander preceded her into the corridor. From there it was a short distance to the front desk. Coming this way, they had the four-foot-tall desk between them and the visiting public. He plastered on a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Vixen. Thank you for coming in.”
“Anything I can do to help.” He looked past him to where Isabel stood. “Izzy—”
Before Zander had a chance to cut him off, Isabel did. “That’s DC York, Mr. Vixen,” she said firmly. “I’d rather keep things on a professional footing from now on.”
Zander would have given her a high five if it weren’t wholly inappropriate for him to do so. “If you could come this way to room one. DC York, that gives you room two, if that’s all right with you?”
“Sounds good to me. Mr. Higgins, come this way, please.”
Farrell frowned. “Aren’t you seeing us together? When Dominic said you’d changed the time of his interview, we assumed…”
“Never assume anything as far as the police are concerned.” Zander kept his tone brisk and business-like. He indicated the door. “That room, right there.”
Farrell didn’t look happy at all.
Zander didn’t care. He shot Isabel a wink as he walked through the other way behind the desk and opened the door. “Come in and have a seat.” He nodded to the Guv. “I believe you know DI Holmes.”
“We’ve met.” Farrell’s tone was icy, his posture stiff as he perched on the chair.
Zander sat and opened a new cassette tape. He slid it into the machine and hit record. “Interview with Farrell Vixen of Abbey Gate Art Gallery. Present are DC Ellery and DI Holmes.”
“You’re taping this? Seriously? A cassette tape? I didn’t realise they still made them.”
Zander scowled. “I’m an old-fashioned bloke. I believe in things like cassette tapes, fixing them with the end of a pencil, and treating women with respect.”
Farrell ignored the last comment. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not at all. It’s simply so we have a complete record of the conversation in case we need to revisit anything later.” He opened the file. “For the tape, the items stolen were ten oil paintings in a modern style of the Ten Commandments by artist Dominic Higgins. At the time of the theft, they were in the possession of Mr. Vixen. Can you tell us where the paintings were being kept?”
“They were in the storeroom in the basement, ready to go out on display. It was meant to showcase Dominic’s work.”
“For the tape, I’m showing Mr. Vixen exhibit EY1, the art gallery brochure of the paintings and price list.” Zander slid the bagged sheets across the table.
Farrell made a show of studying them.
“A little expensive, aren’t they?” Zander asked.
“Worth every penny. Dominic has great talent. One day he’ll be as famous as Picasso or Rembrandt. I assume you’ve heard of them.”
Zander ignored that comment. He pointed to the first painting. “This one. How is that related to the commandment itself?”
“You don’t know much about art, detective?”
“Not modernist art, no,” Zander admitted. “The commandments, on the other hand, I know extremely well.”
Farrell sighed. “The title of the painting is God and Mammon,” he said, an underlying condescension seeping into his voice. “As it says in the brochure—the title of each painting is underneath it. The pot at the end of the rainbow is filled with gold coins.”
“Forgive me if I’m a little slow,” Zander said. “As far as I’m aware the first commandment is ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.’ Not the love of money is the root of all evil, which is First Timothy chapter six verse ten. How does money fit into that?”
Farrell sighed, long and deep. “I’m sure Izzy said something about not serving God and money. Two masters. Some people put earning money above everything else.”
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Farrell?” DI Holmes asked.
He shook his head. “Far from it.”
Zander drummed his fingers on the table top. “So, you’d be in the exalting money first bracket?”
Again, Farrell shook his head. “No, it’s nice to have, of course. But life is for living, not being suffocated by a list of religious rules some invisible Supreme Being foists on us, wouldn’t you say?”
Zander stared him down. “Rules are there for a reason.”
“On the contrary, rules are meant to be broken.”
“I see.” Zander glanced at DI Holmes. “In that case, I suggest we stop searching for the paintings. Because if rules are there to be broken, the theft isn’t a crime, and there is no case to look into.” He stood and snapped the file closed.
“Wait, I didn’t mean that.” As expected, Farrell backtracked quickly.
Zander dropped the file to the table. “Then what did you mean?” He leaned on the table and glared, before finally dropping into his seat when no answer was forthcoming. “How about we go over the security at the gallery? But before we do, can we clear up something unrelated?”
“Sure.”
“Where were you last night?”
Farrell stared at him, clearly aghast. “Last night? Why do you want to know?”
“A car matching yours was seen going through a red light around half past midnight. It collided with a cyclist.”
“That’s terrible. I hope the cyclist is all right.”
“In hospital.” Zander studied his reaction carefully. “So, last night?”
“I was visiting a friend over on the airfield estate at that time. I left there rather late, actually. I think it was between three-thirty and four in the morning. Feel free to check the car for damage. It’s in the car park outside.”
Zander nodded. “I will, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. I have nothing to hide. Check the traffic cams as well, if you wish.”
“I will.”
DI Holmes glanced at him. “Can I have a word, outside a moment?”
Zander stood again. “Sure.” He followed the DI into the corridor and shut the door. “I was just checking where he was last night.”
DI Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Are you lying to him?”
“No Guv. The driver is downstairs in the cells, waiting transfer for court—I didn’t infer it was hit and run. The driver reported the accident and waited for the traffic cops who picked him up. When they breathalysed him they discovered he was five times over the limit. I was just verifying it was him outside Isabel’s half the night.”
DI Holmes nodded. “Finish his statement, and then we’ll make a show of checking his car.”
~*~
Standing by the main desk, Isabel glanced at DS Philips. Butterflies filled her stomach, even though she was sure they shouldn’t be. “Are you sure you don’t want to lead?”
He nodded. “Quite sure. You’ll do fine.”
She bit her lip. “I just…”
“You’ve done interviews before, right?” As she nodded, he continued. “All you need to remember is that this guy isn’t a suspect. He’s a victim and a teenager. So, treat him with compassion and kid gloves.”
She inhaled a deep breath. “And don’t mention the other case the paintings tie into.” She glanced over at Dominic Higgins. “Room two, sir.”
He leapt to his feet, a huge grin on his face. “Never been called that before.” He scurried over to the interview room, waiting to be let inside.
Isabel opened the door to the interview room. “I’ll record this interview if that’s all right?”
“Cool.” The kid slid into the chair. “Like on the cop shows on the telly? Am I under arrest? ’Cos my mate said that’s what ‘helping the police with their inquiries’ means.”
Isabel grinned. “Sometimes, but not in this case.” With a wink, she lowered her voice. “That’s what we tell the
bad guys to make them want to come in and talk to us.” She hit record on the tape machine. “Interview with Dominic Higgins. Present are DC York and DS Philips.”
Dominic waved.
“It’s only audio I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” Disappointment oozed from the teenager. “You don’t film it as well?”
“Sometimes, but we’re not doing that today. I’d like you to tell me about your paintings.”
Dominic beamed them an angelic smile. “What would you like to know? I’ve been painting since I was twelve. Mr. Vixen saw some of my stuff when he came to the school. He said I had talent. I sold a few pieces online, and he’s sold some through the gallery. I did over a hundred for this exhibition. Just a shame we couldn’t show all of them like what we wanted.”
“I’ve seen some in here.” Isabel held up the brochure. “They’re really good.”
“Thank you.” He shifted on his chair, his posture a mixture of embarrassment and something Isabel couldn’t put her finger on. “Do you have a favourite?”
She pointed to one at random.
Dominic nodded, his face alight. “That’s mine, too.”
“The ones that were stolen were the Ten Commandments set. Can you tell me about those? How did they come about?”
“Mr. Vixen commissioned them. It was his idea, and he told me to, like, put my spin on them. So, this one—the first—is not serving two masters.” He jabbed at the brochure. “Work before God, that kind of thing. And the second one is partying. You know, when the Israelites got so caught up in their party with the calf idol. Do you know that story?”
Isabel nodded. “Moses came back down the mountain and broke the stone tablets because he was angry with the Israelites.”
Dominic nodded. “Threw a proper hissy fit, he did. Bit like my mum when I don’t keep my room clean like she asks. Three is a play on words. In vain—in vein, so a sea of blood with a boat on. The woman on board has had her tongue cut out for blasphemy.”
Isabel exchanged a long look with DS Philips. She wondered if the horror in his eyes matched hers. “That’s some vivid imagination you have there.”
Dominic shrugged. “I like horror films. Anyway, painting four is getting ready for church. Five is my parents. Six is my favourite. I called it murder of crows where the vicar crow gets bumped off in the churchyard. Seven is a woman being thrown out of her house for cheating on her husband. Eight is kidnapped. Nine is a woman whose pants are on fire because she’s lying in court. Ten is a lady in green who always wants what she can’t have.”
“Thank you.” Isabel was grateful all that was recorded. “So, going back to the first one…”
“Have you found any of them yet? Mr. Vixen says there’s been heaps of interest since they got stolen. Even from the States.”
“We’ve recovered one, but it’s part of an ongoing investigation, so you can’t have it back just yet. It’s quite safe and undamaged.”
“I will get it back?” the kid persisted. “I need it. And all the others.”
“Yes,” Isabel assured him. “Eventually.”
“Good. Do you know who took them? You took fingerprints…like on the telly?”
“We did.” Isabel consulted her file. “But all of the prints on the painting matched people who worked at the gallery.”
The teen angled his head, eyeing her up. “You have such beautiful hair and eyes. Have you ever been painted? Because you should definitely do it. Maybe you’d pose for me? You know like one of those classical pieces. Just a strategically placed scarf or two…”
Taken aback Isabel just sat there, cheeks burning, bile rising in her throat. She looked at DS Philips, unable to formulate a response, other than shaking her head.
“Interview terminated at eleven-forty.” DS Philips reached over and switched off the tape. “Thank you for coming in, Dominic. I’ll show you out.”
Isabel gathered the files and tape, heart pounding. She stood and walked unsteadily to the internal door. Escaping to the corridor, she pressed her back against the wall, and sucked in several deep, supposedly steadying breaths. Her stomach pitted. Had the kid realised what he’d suggested? Had Farrell put him up to it?
Zander came out of the other interview room. He frowned. “Are you all right? You look awful. What happened?”
“I’m fine.”
DS Philips shut the interview room door. “You handled that well.”
“Really?” She shuddered. “You think he knew what he insinuated?”
“Pretty sure he did. But you didn’t react.”
“I couldn’t…”
Zander looked from Isabel to DS Philips and back. “What did he say?”
“He offered to paint me—classical style. Wearing nothing but scarves.”
“He did what?” Zander’s eyes narrowed and glinted. “Where is he?”
“Easy, cowboy,” DS Philips said. “He’s a kid. And I dealt with it when I showed him out.”
“Thank you.” Zander nodded. “So, partner, let’s compare notes. Preferably over coffee, but I’ll make it.”
Isabel started walking with him. “Is my coffee that bad?”
“How do I put this nicely? Ummm…” he paused, looking sideways at her as dramatically as he could. “Yes?”
“I haven’t killed you yet,” she protested.
He laughed. “Yet being the operative word.”
“I’m working on it. Give me time.” She pushed open the door to the stairwell. “Death by coffee is the low-calorie version of my favourite dessert—death by chocolate.” Back in the office, she dumped the folders on her desk.
Zander headed straight for the coffee. “I have a squash court booked for tonight if you’re not doing anything,” he said.
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
“OK. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She flopped into her chair and glanced at the in-tray. “Sounds good.” She picked up a brown A5 envelope. Nothing good ever came of brown envelopes. They were usually bills or tax demands. Not that she’d get those at work.
Her name was printed on the postage label.
Her stomach turned. Surely her first thought was wrong? It couldn’t be another postcard. That came handwritten with a stamp. This was a printed postage label with her name and address included. “Wonder what this is?”
Zander poured two cups of coffee. “You won’t know until you open it. Probably one of those circulars inviting you to a convention somewhere really wet and boring. Like, oh I don’t know…Swindon.”
Isabel laughed. The football rivalry between the towns was legendary, even to someone who didn’t follow the sport. She slid her finger under the flap and tore it open. She shook it onto her desk and a postcard fell out. It landed picture upwards. Two trees stood on either side of a lake, sand at the forefront. “Z—Zander…” she managed.
He strode across the room. “What is it? You’re white as a sheet.”
With shaking fingers, Isabel held up the card by the edges, reading the black printed words on the back. Two small numbers appeared on the bottom right hand corner again.
I AM THE LORD YOUR GOD. YOU SHALL NOT MAKE FOR YOURSELF AN IMAGE IN THE FORM OF ANYTHING IN HEAVEN ABOVE OR ON THE EARTH BENEATH OR ON THE WATERS BELOW.
YOU SHALL NOT BOW DOWN TO THEM OR WORSHIP THEM; FOR I, THE LORD YOUR GOD AM A JEALOUS GOD. 5-8
9
Zander grabbed an evidence bag and held out his hand. “May I?”
Isabel slid the card into the clear plastic bag and leaned back in her seat. She closed her eyes for a moment. “This means this isn’t over, doesn’t it?”
“Yep. We have a serial killer on our hands.” Zander reread the card. He took a photograph of it on his phone, glancing up as DI Holmes’s office door opened. “Guv? Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” The DI strode across the room. “What’s up?”
Zander held out the bag. “This was on Isabel’s desk when we got back up here.”
Isabel tucked the en
velope into another evidence bag. Not that it would be any good trying to get prints. There would be dozens. “Posted yesterday.”
DI Holmes studied the photo, his face impassive. That was never a good sign. Were his insides doing what Zander’s were? Tossing and turning and giving him fits? “Any idea where it is?”
“Looks like another river.” Zander took the photo back. “Other than that, no.”
“See if you can find it and keep me apprised. I don’t need to tell you how vital it is we catch this bloke.” The DI headed back to his office.
Zander dropped into his chair and pulled up the Internet search page on his computer. He typed “rivers in Headley Cross” into the box and hit images.
Isabel hadn’t moved. “Why me?”
“Why you what?”
“Why is he sending them to me?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” Zander said, beginning to scroll slowly. “Jack the Ripper taunted the police by sending letters. He sent them to the papers and got them to send them on. At least we’re getting them direct.”
“They never caught Jack the Ripper.”
He looked up. “Hey, we’ll get him, OK?”
A bit on the wan side, she nodded. “OK.”
He shot her what he hoped was a comforting smile. “How’s the new phone?”
“Quiet, but I only have your number. I, umm, put you down as the ICE contact…since you’re the only person I really know. Partner equals family.” She quoted as she tilted her head. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.”
She grinned. “The phone is quiet as it’s only you that has the number, and you never call, you never write, you never send flowers…”
Zander snorted. “I see you every day, woman. I don’t need to.”
An hour later he groaned. “That’s every stretch of river in the county. Nothing even comes close to that photograph.”
“So now what?”
He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “Now, we go for a drive. Get some lunch. Go over what we know so far.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can do this.”
“Not so sure about that.” Downcast, she hung her head.
“I am. And so is the Guv. He’d never have given us this case if he thought otherwise. C’mon. Can’t work on an empty stomach.” He hauled her to her feet and dangled the keys in front of her. “Your turn to drive.”
