Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  I stepped back, looking at the board.

  “Richard Sandow,” I muttered. “I wondered what went on to make him do that.”

  “He lost his sister,” Mills said, coming around to sit on his desk, looking at the name.

  “It’s heartbreaking,” I agreed, “but so much so that you’d change your name and disassociate yourself from the family you had left?”

  “You think something else happened?”

  “Lord Hocking didn’t tell me he had a brother,” I said, taking a seat on the edge of my desk. “Seemed reluctant to admit that there was someone else other than himself and Rosemary. No name, no picture of him in the house, he’s not in the family portrait. It’s like he’s been wiped out of the place, and from memory too. He also said,” I remembered, holding up a finger, “that brothers seemed to fight a lot. Perhaps that came from his own experience, rather than his observations as a dad.”

  “I used to fight with my brother,” Mills agreed, crossing his arms. “We’re better now, but we used to drive my mum up the wall.”

  “Maybe they fell out,” I suggested, walking back around my desk, “maybe something happened, Richard leaves the family home, changes his name and wants nothing to do with them anymore. And in return, they erase any and all memory of him from the place, not even bringing him up when I asked.”

  “Might be that we have to find him.” Mills scratched the back of his head. “If anyone has any insight into that, it might be him.”

  “We’ll look into it some more. Well-known families like these, their gossip sometimes makes a good yarn for a journalist. Might be that there’s some mention of it somewhere.”

  Mills nodded, a little wearily, and slouched back down behind his computer.

  I searched for the name first, Richard Sandow, pulling up very little results. His name cropped up on a website for a local hospital, board of directors, very impressive. Other than that, the only other mention of him came from someone’s social media, a picture of him, several years older than the one on the hospital website. The page belonged to a Mary Sandow, a granddaughter, by the looks of it.

  I made a quick note, in case we needed her at some later point, and instead searched for Hocking, and the name of the house.

  Several results came up, random articles from times the family sold artwork, opened the doors of the house for charity or lent out the land for the local community at Easter. A few controversial pieces from animal rights activists, slating the family for upholding the traditions of shooting and hunting. One of them was fairly recent, and I made a note of it. Activism could provoke extreme responses from people sometimes.

  “I might have something, sir,” Mills said, picking up his laptop and carrying it over to my desk, sliding it over and standing behind me, reading over my shoulder.

  It was an old article, almost thirty years old, from the Post. A gossip piece, in which the reporter went on to suggest that the middle child of the Hocking family had abandoned his home and brother over an incident from their university days that came back to haunt them.

  “Any mention of what sort of incident?” I asked, reluctant to have to trawl through the whole thing.

  “The usual story,” Mills told me, “apparently there was a girl involved.”

  “There always is. Do we buy that? One girl driving that much of a wedge between a family?”

  “Not unheard of, sir. But not very likely, I shouldn’t think. I doubt there’s a woman around who could make me leave my family or hate my brother.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I told him.

  “There’s more,” Mills reached over, scrolling down the page. “According to the journalist, the two families have ended up in something of a rivalry. Split their friends in two. Some prefer Richard, some Lord Hocking.”

  “What exactly would they be rivals over?”

  “All sorts, sir. Ridiculous stuff mostly. Horse racing, for one thing. They both used to breed good runners. Just a general feeling of discontent.” He pointed to a quote from an alleged source.

  “You can be friends with one but not the other,” it read. “It puts one in an awkward situation. Whoever you don’t choose writes you off entirely. A bitter family feud.”

  I slumped back in my chair. “All rather dramatic,” I criticised.

  Mills hummed in agreement, taking his laptop back over to his own desk.

  “I hope there’d be a good reason for all that.”

  “Might be worth finding out who the girl is?” Mills suggested.

  “We’ll get to it. Let’s try to find some contact information for Richard Sandow. He might be able to offer some more light on this. My instinct’s still leaning towards Dennis.”

  “The butler?”

  “Two generations of loyal service,” I reminded him, “of friendship, I mean they basically regard him as family! All about to be thrown away because they don’t want his daughter working there.”

  Mills frowned. “What did Lord Hocking say about it?”

  “Mostly pinned it on his wife,” I told him, “but he doesn’t seem eager to change her mind.”

  “Just because she's a girl? That’s ridiculous. If they trust her, and her father and grandfather, what’s the issue? Make her a housekeeper!”

  “That’s what I said.” I leant back, crossing my arms. “Maybe there’s more of a reason as to why they don’t want her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like they don’t want her there for some reason,” I shrugged, “like she reminds them of something or stirs up something. Either way, a slight such as that can make a father angry. He might want to act on it and knows exactly where to strike and when to do it.”

  “But he hasn’t done anything with it,” Mills pointed out. “There’s been no threat, no ransom, nothing. Maybe it is just going to be sold.”

  “But that particular painting, Mills. If I did something to wrong you,” I tried, “very much hurt you. And you decided to take something from my desk,” I waved my hands over the mess, “to make me pay for it. What would you take?”

  He looked at the laptop, my phone, the rather nice expensive metal paperweight Dr Crowe had given me for Christmas; and dismissed the lot, his eyes landing on the framed photograph on the corner.

  “That,” he nodded to the photo of my mother. She was facing the window at the moment, and I reached over to turn her around. Her face smiled out at me, the familiar surge of guilt rising within me. I smothered it down and turned back to Mills, who was looking between myself and the image somewhat regretfully.

  “Exactly my point,” I confirmed. “There are different values we place on things. Now, a painting can still be sold. I’d wager they’d get a bloody good price for it to, enough, let's say, to make sure your daughter would be alright in life. But it’s the fact that they took this one, rather than the others.”

  “Made it more painful,” he muttered.

  “Still achieves whatever they wanted to achieve,” I said, “only with an extra pinch of salt on the wound.”

  Someone knocked on our door, and it opened a fraction of a second later, Sharp leaning against the frame, looking defeated.

  “Press has caught wind of the case,” she told me, walking over and handing me her phone. It was unlocked, on a media website where a brief outline of the story had been released.

  “Already?” Mills looked confused. “How did it get so fast?”

  “I don’t know, and frankly,” Sharp held her hand out for her phone, “I don’t really care.”

  I placed her phone back in her hand, meeting her steely gaze.

  “Any suspects?” she asked me.

  “Nothing concrete, ma’am.”

  She muttered a curse word, slipping her phone into her pocket. “What are you doing next?”

  “We’re going to look into this rivalry that sprung up between Lord Hocking and his brother,” I told her, earning myself a respectful nod. “See if there’s anything there that might be relevant, or if the brother can
shed some light on anything. Mills,” I nodded to him, “is going to some background research into the painting itself. The artist, the value of the piece, all that.”

  “You might need a professional,” Sharpe suggested. “It can’t hurt to get someone else weighing in.”

  “Do you know any art dealers?” I asked her.

  “I don’t. But you can find one. They’ll have an extra ear to the ground, and they’ll know better than any of us when something’s come up on the market from out of nowhere.”

  I nodded, making a mental note to find such a person.

  “I’m handling the press, and I need to approach the family and make sure they get a statement in order. They’re lying low?” she asked me.

  “I suggested it to them,” I informed her. “Advised Lord Hocking to keep to themselves, make sure the house is secure, security up to scratch.”

  “Good. I saw Smith,” she said, relaxing slightly against the wall. “It seems most of the guests from last night want to pin this on the waiting staff.”

  “We know.”

  “One of them,” she said, “specifically mentioned seeing a waitress down the hallway in question. And that she was still there when they left it.”

  “Nadia,” I confirmed. “We spoke to her. One of the boys made her feel uncomfortable, so she waited for them to leave, then headed outside to her colleagues.”

  Sharp clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Poor girl. Alibi?”

  “Her colleagues confirmed the time she went out to join them.”

  “Well, I’m not about to pin a whole case on the suspicious claims of a few drunk rich people,” she sniffed, “and neither would the court.”

  “But we will bear it in mind,” I drawled.

  She gave me a wry smile. “We always bear it in mind. Back to it.” She nodded to us both. “Let me know if you need anything. Search warrant or any of that.” She rapped her knuckles on my desk and swanned back to her office, the door clicking shut behind her.

  “Search warrant might be useful,” Mills said, spinning in his chair. “Check a few properties before they get the chance to sell it.”

  “From what we know so far,” I argued, “I think our thief might be too clever to simply take the painting home.”

  They used the cover of the party, they wore gloves, and they stole that specific painting. No, this wasn’t the sort of person to leave it lying in the wardrobe or under a bed. They’d had taken it somewhere, and in any case, we didn’t have enough cause to ransack someone’s house. Not just yet, anyway.

  “Sir,” Mills began carefully.

  “What?”

  “About the art dealer.”

  “Do you know one?”

  “No,” he dropped his gaze, “but someone else might.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t, just fiddled with his stapler. “Stop being so cryptic, Mills and tell me.”

  “Well, it might be worth asking Miss Gray. She seems to have a lot of connections.”

  I knew for a fact that Jeannie’s interest in art began and ended with marble statues of Greek figures, but I nodded to Mills and banked it in the back of my mind. She does have some very strange connections to people, it had to be said. She even told once that she knew a man who bred peregrine falcons. No clue as to why, but she did.

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I told him, echoing Sharp’s sentiment. He nodded, ducking his head back to the screen of his laptop, returning to his endless slogging through articles and papers. I headed back to the hospital website, deciding to learn as much about Richard Sandow as I could before pitching up at his front door one day, demanding insight into his family’s past.

  Slow work, boring work, but we stuck with it.

  Eight

  Mills

  We didn’t stay at the station long; Sharp kicked us out as the day drew to a close. I dropped Thatcher at home, him muttering and chuntering about the case. I could only pick on a few words from him, but I got the gist. We had a very small list of suspects, and until we spoke to Richard Sandow and learnt more about this rift that had sprung up between the family, the butler remained at the top. Thatcher climbed out of the car, leaning in through the window.

  “Do some research into this painting for me, Mills,” he ordered, looking distracted and tired. “Find out if it’s worth more than just what Lord Hocking thinks it to be.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “I’ll see if I can find anything more about the family and their little falling out,” he muttered.

  “The article was in the Post,” I reminded him. He was staring out across the street, and then he dropped his gaze back to mine, brows furrowed. “Jeannie could access the archives.”

  “The last time we asked Jeannie for her help, her office was ransacked.” She hadn’t seemed to mind really once she got her all her anger out.

  “We could ask someone else at the paper.”

  He nodded but fixed me with a look that I understood well enough. If we asked somebody else at the paper for help, Jeannie would come crashing down on us like a ton of bricks.

  “I could do it,” I added, to spare him the trouble.

  He gave a short, dry laugh. “We’ll see what it comes to. For now, get to grips with the art world, Mills.” He tapped the roof of the car with his knuckles and strode up the steps to his house.

  I didn’t know anything about art, nor did I really know where to begin with all that. Architecture, a little. Art from history, some things. Political cartoons, now those I knew well. But classic art? I’d have more luck trying to fix my car’s engine than understanding all of that. I did, however, I remembered gratefully as I pulled away from the curb, know somebody who did.

  My parent’s house hadn’t changed in the near twelve years since I moved out from it. The garden grew wildly beside the neat lawns and flowers on either side; Mum claimed that it was better for the environment, biodiversity and all that. Dad didn’t have much of an opinion on it, and besides, once Mum dug her heels in, there was no moving her. I pulled into the drive, the garage door open, and spotted Dad inside, tinkering with an old piece of Second World War memorabilia from his collection. He looked up as I slammed the car door and frowned.

  “Were we expecting you?” he called.

  “No,” I strolled into the garage, hands in my pockets, “I came to see Mum. Want to borrow some of her books on art.”

  Dad turned from his work and stared at me. “Is this for a case,” he asked, “or a girl?”

  “A case. A painting’s been stolen.”

  The furrow between his brows deepened. “Oh? So, your mother’s degree in Art History is about to pay off, then?”

  I grinned. “Seems that way.”

  “She’s inside.” He nodded to the door. “Kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” I clapped him on the shoulder.

  “You staying for dinner?”

  “Not tonight,” I told him, though telling Mum that might be a challenge, “I’ve got some research to do.”

  He nodded and returned his attention to what looked vaguely like a beaten up gas mask. I pushed the door open, wandering through the utility room and into the kitchen where Mum sat at the table, flicking through a magazine, a pot of something stewing on the stove.

  “Hiya, mum,” I called, shutting the door.

  “Isaac!” She abandoned her magazine and stood up, pulling in for a hug. “What’s this? You alright, my love?”

  “I’m fine. Wondered if I could borrow a few books from you. Art history.”

  “Of course.” She released me and walked me into the living room. “What for?”

  “For a case.”

  She shook off her surprise, diligently pulling out book after book, passing them to me until I had a large stack balanced in my hands.

  “How’s art involved?” she asked as she scoured the shelves. “Someone died in a gallery or something?”

  “No. A painting’s been stolen. Apparently a valuable one.”

&nbs
p; “Oh?” She pulled another book off the shelf and whacked it atop the pile. “Who’s the artist?”

  I hesitated. I wasn’t completely sure. It was in my notebook, of course, somewhere.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Mum turned and looked at me, her hands braced on her hips. “It certainly does. There’s a difference between stealing a modern piece and stealing a Monet, or something.”

  “Not Monet,” I said quickly, “I know that much.”

  She hummed and handed me one last book. “Well, if that lot could get me a degree, then they can teach you whatever it is you need to know.”

  “Thanks, mum. If people were selling art,” I asked her, “where’s the best place to do that?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” she answered.

  “You studied art,” I replied, deadpan.

  “Art history,” she corrected me, ushering back through the kitchen, “but I never really worked in the field, you know. Met your father in my last year at university and not two years later your brother came along.” She opened the door to the garage for me and followed me out to the car.

  “Are you off?” Dad asked without looking up.

  “I am.”

  “You are?” Mum asked.

  “You’re walking me to my car,” I pointed out.

  “To put the books away! You’re not staying for dinner?”

  I somehow managed to unlock the passenger door and stick the books on the seat, shutting it with one hand as she glared at me. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got work to do.”

  The disapproving look on her face was enough for dad to sigh and abandon his work, hopping from his stool and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

  “He’ll be by soon, won’t you lad? Your brother’s birthday in a few weeks. He’ll be here for that.”

  “Course I will,” I assured them both. I kissed mum on the cheek and received a stiff, one-armed hug from dad. “Thanks for the books.”