‘Why sell it at all?’
‘Why steal it in the first place?’ said Slider. ‘Maybe it isn’t Lavender.’
‘You’d better hope it is. It will solve all our troubles.’ They drove on through the dark countryside. The stretches of snow looked oddly luminous. ‘Something I’ve often wondered,’ Atherton said conversationally. ‘Why is there as much water where sponges grow as everywhere else in the ocean?’
Slider shook his head. ‘Potty,’ he said. ‘I knew it would happen.’
‘I like to have something to think about while I drive,’ said Atherton.
Chipping Norton, which sometimes called itself the Gateway to the Cotswolds with an unflinching disregard for the kind of tourists that would attract, was fairly quiet on a cold winter’s day after shop closing time. It was a pretty place of medieval buildings in golden Cotswold stone, some extremely attractive pubs, and the usual complement of tea shops, cafés and restaurants. It, and its surroundings, housed a long list of wealthy celebrities and old County families, so there were quite a few antique shops, from the entry-level to the ‘if you have to ask the price you can’t afford it’ type, plus the sort of food shops – delectable delis and bespoke butchers – patronized by people with green wellies and Labradors.
The Ronald Hindlipp Gallery was in a stone-flagged alley just off the prettier end of the High Street, and was obviously of the pricier sort, with not a print in sight and no mention of framing services. The windows were velvet lined, with dinky little easels for displaying a few choice piccies on to which halogen downlights would shine during the daytime, but the pictures had been removed for the night and metal-mesh shutters were down, though the lights were still on.
Slider rang the bell and, seeing an entry camera above him, held up his warrant for the lens to inspect. In a moment the door was opened, and a conspiratorial voice murmured, ‘He’s not here yet. Come in. Come through to the back where you can’t be seen.’
It was warm and still inside the shop, with a smell of expensive carpets and a cloistered feeling, as if no voice would ever be raised here. There were paintings around the walls, well-spaced and artfully spotlit, and Slider knew without even glancing at them that they were of the ‘don’t ask’ variety.
Ronald Hindlipp himself was a lean, very dark man, with straight black hair slicked back, so smooth that it looked as though it had been painted on, brown eyes behind dark-framed glasses, and a faintly blue chin. His dark-blue suit was exquisite, his tie a nicely judged balance between the artistic and conservative. He seemed nervous, and walked catlike as he led the way through, as though the floor might suddenly turn aggressive. The back office was a businesslike place, except that the desk was a beautiful piece of antique mahogany and the chairs velvet-upholstered. On a side table a painting was lying on the brown paper and string it had been wrapped in.
‘This is it,’ Hindlipp said. ‘Is this your painting?’
‘It looks like it,’ Slider said. He brought out the copy of the photograph from the computer system, compared it, and gave it to Hindlipp.
‘La Fille au Toilette,’ he said. ‘That’s in order. And it’s signed Berthe Morisot. Of course, there’s the possibility it’s a copy, but on the face of it, I’d say it was your picture.’
‘What did John Smith say when he brought it in?’
‘He said it had been left to him by an uncle who died recently, but he didn’t want it and would like to sell it. I said there would have to be an authentication process if it was to realize its full price, and he said he was in rather a hurry for the money, and asked what I would give him for it without going through the process. Of course, I was already looking out for this particular painting, but I would have been made suspicious by that. Although,’ Hindlipp added, puzzled, ‘he didn’t seem the sort. Very well-spoken, sixty-ish, rather old-fashioned overcoat and shoes. Not the sort to steal a painting and try to sell it.’
‘Do you have CCTV?’ Slider asked.
‘Oh – yes, of course! You’ll be able to identify him. I’ll just bring it up.’ He went to the computer and began tapping. ‘If I hadn’t been alerted by SCD6,’ he went on, ‘I might have thought he had bought the painting in good faith and was now having doubts about it and was trying to offload it. That would have seemed sufficiently out of character for a man like him, but I never would have thought it stolen. Here we are.’ He brought up the image and stood back for them.
‘That’s our man,’ Slider said with a sense of disappointment. There had never been much doubt from the time he took de Wett’s call, but he had really not wanted it to be Lavender. But there he stood, a little fuzzy and fish-eyed, but right there in black and white and caught red-handed. ‘How did he seem?’
‘A little awkward, perhaps,’ Hindlipp said. ‘But not as much as one would have expected if the painting were stolen. He seemed, rather, as though he had something on his mind. Rather absent.’ He paused hopefully, but Slider did not fill him in. ‘How is this going to work?’ he asked. He looked at the clock. ‘He could be here any moment.’
‘We’ll stay out of sight in the back here, with the door open so that we can hear. When you let him in, lock the door behind him. Then tell him you are very interested in the painting. That will be our cue to come out.’
Hindlipp regarded them carefully for a moment. ‘He won’t become violent, will he? Or draw a gun on me? I’m not cut out for heroism, and he’s quite a big man.’
‘He’s not that sort,’ Slider said. Though he did wonder. There was a vein of suppressed passion that he sensed in Lavender – and he had killed once already. There would be no gun, but the man might fight to get away. Would three of them be enough to hold him if he did? ‘Put the Morisot somewhere he can see it when he comes in,’ Slider continued. ‘That will distract his attention for an instant.’
‘I’ll hang it on the wall opposite the door, with a spotlight on it,’ said Hindlipp. ‘It’ll be the first thing he sees.’
He went to see to it, while Slider and Atherton drew back so that they were out of sight through the open doorway. Hindlipp reappeared, about to say something, but cocked his head suddenly, listening. ‘I think I heard something,’ he whispered. An instant later there was the sound of a door buzzer, harsh and threatening like a wasp with a headache.
He gave them one wide-eyed look and went out again. In the tense silence Slider and Atherton waited. There were no footfalls on that velvet carpet, but they heard the sound of keys and of bolts being drawn, a bright ting-ting-ting from the bell over the door at it was opened, then a deep voice saying something too low to make out. ‘Yes, come in, come in!’ said Hindlipp’s voice. Slider winced slightly. Too cheery by half. The man was no actor. ‘Horrible cold evening, isn’t it!’
Another basso rumble. Slider’s overactive imagination saw the tall, dark shape of Lavender, shoulders bulky under his overcoat, too big for his surroundings, head almost brushing the ceiling, like a massive garden statue brought inappropriately indoors. A statue come to life, with a granite fist and Hephaestian muscles. He heard rapid breathing and thought it was his own, then realized it was Atherton, close beside him and taut as a wire, ready for action.
‘There’s your painting,’ said Hindlipp’s voice – oh good man, drawing Lavender’s eyes to it. ‘I must say, now I’ve had a closer look, I’m very interested in it. Very interested indeed.’
Slider was on a hair-trigger, but Atherton moved so fast they almost got jammed together in the doorway. Both Hindlipp and Lavender jumped at the sudden eruption from the back room. Lavender was wearing the dark-brown trilby, on which Slider noticed a few white flecks of snow just melting; there were spots glistening on the shoulders of his dark overcoat, too. His face registered astonishment, recognition and sick dismay in quick succession, but he did not move – seemed rooted to the spot, thank the Lord. And the expression that came over his face, as Slider reached him and Atherton went quickly behind him to his other side to grab that arm if he should look like
trying anything, was one of horror.
He said, in a raw voice, ‘Oh, what have I done?’
The sound of it was so painful that Ronald Hindlipp, who had stepped hastily away when the detectives emerged, looked at him with something like pity, and said, as if the words were involuntary, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘John Lavender,’ Slider said, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Rowland Egerton. You do not—’
Lavender made a sudden movement that had them both reaching for him, but he had only clapped his hand to his nose. His face was like grey crêpe, and the red was in startling contrast. He started fumbling at his pocket, presumably for a handkerchief, but Atherton stopped him and put his own into his hand.
Slider continued with the caution, thinking of blood – Rowland Egerton’s let out of him without his consent, and John Lavender’s fleeing his body of its own accord, as if restoring some cosmic balance that had been disrupted.
He telephoned Joanna, to tell her it would be a long night.
‘Shouldn’t you sound a little happier about it?’ she said. ‘You’ve got a result.’
‘I know. It’s just … It was a bit like shooting a sitting duck. It was such a stupid thing to do, to try to sell the painting like that.’
‘Well, it isn’t sport, it’s criminal justice,’ Joanna reminded him drily.
‘I know. I think I’m just tired. Everything all right your end?’
‘Fine. I have some news, as a matter of fact. Good news.’
‘Oh yes?’ he invited.
‘No, I’ll wait till I have your full attention,’ she decided. ‘Go, be a policeman. Do your stuff.’
‘Is it snowing there?’ Slider asked.
‘Yes, like billy-oh. Is that relevant?’
‘Not really. I just wanted to hear your voice again.’
‘Don’t worry about us – we’re fine,’ she said, as if that was what he had asked.
‘Well, thank God for that,’ Porson said. ‘Good to get it sorted so quickly. He said, “What have I done?” did he? I reckon you ought to get the whole story, then. That sort don’t play out the end game, your nobs – reckon caught is caught. Old school-tie. Put your hand up and get it over with.’
‘Let’s hope so, sir,’ said Slider.
‘What’s up with you?’ Porson said sharply. He cocked an eye at Slider. ‘No, no, don’t go there, laddie! I can see through you like a book. You’ve developed a soft spot for him. Want someone else to interview him?’
Slider bucked up. ‘No, sir, of course not.’
Porson jabbed him a bit more. ‘I’ll do it. It’s coals off a duck’s back to me.’
Water to Newcastle? Slider thought, puzzled. ‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t have a soft spot. Far from it. I saw the body.’
Porson nodded approvingly. ‘Sword of justice, that’s us.’ He made a little swishing movement with his forefinger, carving a Z in the air. ‘Leave sentiment to the lawyers.’
Lavender, in an interview room now and not the soft room, looked no less out of place. In his shirt sleeves, cufflinks and tie removed according to regulation, he sat hunched, a box of tissues at his elbow and an untouched cup of tea beside him. His eyes were red as though he had been crying. His nose was red, but had stopped bleeding for the moment. His comb-over had slipped, and he looked utterly pathetic. Big, but pathetic, like some large animal stuck uncomprehendingly in a bog.
‘I understand you have waived your right to have a solicitor present,’ Slider said.
Lavender shrugged, staring sightlessly at nothing.
‘For the tape, please. Will you confirm that you do not want a solicitor present at this time.’
‘I don’t want anyone,’ he said.
He had also waived his right to a telephone call. ‘Who would I call?’ he had said. ‘There isn’t anyone. I have no family.’
But before they had done processing him, Georgia Hedley-Somerton had turned up, asking after him, visibly upset, and accompanied by her husband. Slider had naturally wanted to know how she knew Lavender had been arrested, and she had said blankly that someone had telephoned her, saying they were from the station. Either they had not given their name or she didn’t remember it. It was a leak, which Slider deplored, but of a curious sort – not to the press, or for gain, but, it seemed, out of an untypical compassion. She had been told she could not see Lavender, and had eventually gone home, having left him a message to call her if there was anything she could do.
He had shown no interest when this was relayed to him and refused, again, both telephone call and solicitor.
‘You understand, don’t you,’ Slider said now, ‘that this is a very serious matter.’
‘I’ve been a fool,’ Lavender said, but not as if it was an answer to the question. ‘Such a fool. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. I see it clearly now. I could hardly have made worse choices – and for what?’ He sighed, a terrible dragged-up-from-the-feet sigh, and a trickle of blood re-appeared at his nostrils. He took a tissue and pressed it to his nose with weary patience.
‘You understand, don’t you,’ Slider said, trying again, ‘that being in possession of that painting clearly implicates you in the murder of Rowland Egerton. Trying to sell it—’
‘It was mine to sell,’ he said sharply. ‘I bought it. I have the sale receipt and the receipt from the restorer who cleaned it, the report from the evaluator at Sotheby’s that I sent it to and the certificate of authentication, all clearly showing my title to it.’
‘But you gave it to Rowland Egerton as a present,’ Atherton said.
‘There is no documentation to prove that. Any paper trail you undertake will show the Morisot is mine.’ All this was said firmly and righteously. He seemed braced by the recital. But then his mouth bowed down, and his shoulders sagged again. ‘He never liked it, anyway,’ he said bitterly. ‘He never appreciated it. The trouble I went to to get it for him, and he barely thanked me. Hung it up with the rest of his trash, didn’t even bother to find a good place for it, just stuck it in the bottom row of a wall of paintings that had no coherence. Paintings have to be carefully placed, with other works that harmonize. They should sing! But the Morisot wept, where he put it, like a caged finch. He didn’t care! Do you know,’ he added, with an accusing glare at Atherton, ‘how hard it is to buy a present for someone like him, who has everything? I’d been racking my brains for weeks. Searching, scouring the country. Then I found it. I was so happy! It was exactly right, it was perfect. But he just looked at it and practically shrugged.’
‘That’s very hard,’ Slider said sympathetically. ‘It must have been upsetting for you. But that was some time ago, wasn’t it?’
‘His fiftieth birthday. We had a big celebration for it. His half century. I wanted something special for him, something he’d get pleasure from for the rest of his life. That he’d look at and think of me. He stuck it on the wall, and I don’t think he looked at it again from that moment on.’
‘I can see that you would be annoyed,’ said Slider. ‘But there must have been something else that drove you to kill him – some other reason. Something more immediate – or was it an accumulation of things? He’d behaved so badly to you that in the end you couldn’t take it any more?’
Lavender dabbed at his nose, examined the tissue, decided it had stopped bleeding, and folded his hands in front of him. He stared at them and said, almost indifferently, ‘I didn’t kill him. I would never do such a thing. I know I’ve behaved like a fool, but I’m not that, not a murderer.’ Slowly, he clenched his big, purpled hands into fists and looked at them as they rested on the table; then relaxed them again. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said. ‘He was dead when I got there.’
Slider’s heart sank. He caught Atherton’s glance and knew he was thinking the same thing. Damn, he’s going to go that route. The hardest thing to prove or disprove.
TWELVE
Loved and Loft
‘Mr Lavender,’ Slider said sternly, ‘it
is necessary to tell us the truth now. Your lies have been found out. Your only hope of any leniency is in telling us exactly what happened, and why.’
‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ he said, and he sounded almost surprised that it should be in question. ‘I behaved like an utter fool before, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I was – upset.’ He seemed to know how inadequate the word was. He looked at Atherton, briefly, and then at Slider. ‘You must be so habituated to it, you perhaps can’t understand what a shock it is to an ordinary person to come upon a dead body like that. Particularly the body of someone you – cared about.’
Slider guessed he had been going to say ‘loved’ but pulled the word at the last minute, perhaps because of Atherton’s presence. He probably reminded him a bit of Rupert Melling. Slider smiled inwardly and vowed to pass on that thought to Atherton some time.
‘You are still claiming that Mr Egerton was already dead when you arrived at the house?’ he said.
‘I’m not “claiming” anything. I’m telling you,’ Lavender said, annoyed. ‘I’ve said I’ll tell you the truth.’
‘You also said you arrived at the house at two twenty-five.’
‘That was a lie,’ Lavender said.
‘I know,’ said Slider. ‘Would you like to start again, beginning with when you left your shop – remembering that we know when you are lying.’
Lavender frowned at that word, and the hands clenched slightly, but perhaps he realized he had earned it, because he relaxed them deliberately, and said, ‘I left when Georgia came back from lunch at one o’clock. I suppose, by the time we talked a little and I’d put on my coat, it was about five or ten past. I didn’t look. I drove straight to Waitrose, to shop for things for the evening.’
‘I imagine you’re a careful shopper,’ Slider said. ‘Slow and methodical.’
Lavender studied the remark for offence. ‘I don’t dash around throwing things in the trolley, if that’s what you mean.’
Star Fall Page 17
