Playing with Fire (23 page)

“What a pleasure to see you,” said Phil, closing the door behind her.

“It's not exactly a social call,” said Annie, smiling to soften the words. “I need your help.” She was still angry at Banks, but Phil didn't need to know about their exchange.

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Me? A consultation? Official?”

“Approved by the superintendent, no less,” said Annie.

“But what can I possibly do to help you?”

Annie got him to fill out the necessary paperwork, then she unzipped her briefcase and laid out the Turner sketches and the watercolor, now safe inside their labeled and numbered plastic evidence covers.

“Well, well,” said Phil. “These are a surprise. Where did you find them?”

“In a fire-resistant safe in that caravan that burned down over the weekend. It belonged to a man by the name of Roland Gardiner.”

“The fire you had to leave dinner for?”

“That's right.”

Phil leaned over and studied the drawings closely. Annie could see the concentration furrow his brow. When he had finished, he turned back to Annie. “Anything else found with them?”

“Only some money. No more drawings, if that's what you mean.”

“No documents, letters, auction catalogs, nothing like that?”

“No.”

“Pity.” Phil took a large magnifying glass from a box on the bookshelf and went back to the sketches, studying them more closely. “It certainly
looks
like authentic period paper,” he said. “I might get a better sense if I could touch it, too, though.”

“Sorry,” Annie said. “It's still to be tested for fingerprints.”

“Whose fingerprints would you expect to find?”

“You never know. We might find the victim's. And Thomas McMahon's, if there's a link between them.”

“You think McMahon forged these?”

“I don't know. That's partly why I came to you.”

“But how would you know it was this McMahon's finger-prints? I mean, I assume if he'd been badly burned—both of them, in fact—then their hands…”

“Well, that's true,” said Annie. “Unless either of them has a criminal record for some reason…” Then she remembered the book Jack Mellor said Gardiner had lent him. There was a good chance his fingerprints would be on that. Or perhaps even on some object from where he used to live with his wife, on the Daleside Estate. Thomas McMahon might be more difficult, but she was sure that if they looked they'd find his fingerprints somewhere. Whitaker's shop, for example. “We have to try,” she said.

“How do you get fingerprints from paper? I mean, if they're not immediately visible through a magnifying glass.”

“I leave it to the boffins,” said Annie. “I think they usually use a chemical called ninhydrin, or something similar, but it's not my area of expertise.”

“Isn't that a destructive process? Couldn't it damage the works? If these are genuine Turners…”

“I'm sure that's something they'll take into consideration.
They can probably use some sort of light source—laser or ultraviolet. I really don't know, Phil. The technology keeps changing. It's hard to keep up with. But don't worry, our fingerprint expert knows what he's doing. The last thing he'd want to do is to damage a work of art, especially if it's a genuine one.”

“That's good,” said Phil. “Then I assume you brought these to me because you want me to tell you if they're fake or real?”

“That would be a great help,” said Annie. “In fact,
anything
at all you can tell us about them would be a help.”

“It's not as easy as all that, you know, especially when they're covered in plastic. I mean, I can give an opinion off-the-cuff, mostly based on the style, but there are tests, other experts to be consulted, that sort of thing. And the provenance, of course. That would go a long way toward establishing whether it's genuine or not.”

“I understand,” said Annie. “Off-the-cuff will do fine for now.”

“Well, they're similar to other Turner sketches in the large sketchbook and pocketbook he used on his 1816 Yorkshire tour, so it might also be possible to do a bit of comparison work with some bona fide originals. Later, of course, when you've finished with them.”

“Was it unusual to do more than one sketch of the same sort of thing?”

“Not at all. Turner did dozens of sketches like this for the Richmondshire series. Three sketchbooks full. But that's the interesting thing: He usually worked in the books, not on loose sheets.”

“So that's one mark against authenticity?”

Phil smiled at her. “It signals caution, that's all,” he said. “But genuine or not,” he went on, “this is certainly a beautiful watercolor. Look at that mist swirling around Ingleborough summit. You can almost see it moving. And there's not
a soul around, see? It's very early in the morning, just after dawn. You can tell by the quality of the light. Turner was always very keen on reproducing time-of-day and weather conditions. And do you see that peacock in the right foreground? Marvelous detail.”

Annie had looked at plenty of paintings in her time, many with her father's guidance, and was even a passable landscape artist herself, in what little spare time she had, but she lacked the training both in technique and in history and found she always learned something from Phil's point of view. It was one of the things she liked about him, his knowledge of and passion for art.

“May I ask exactly what makes you think it's a forgery?” he asked.

“Well, I'm certainly no expert,” Annie said. “It's just the circumstances of its discovery. In the first place, it seems a bit of a coincidence that this should turn up so soon after the other Turner, don't you think? And what would Roland Gardiner—the victim in the caravan—be doing owning a Turner watercolor, several sketches and about fifteen hundred pounds in cash? When you consider what we talked about yesterday, about McMahon's buying up old eighteenth-and nineteenth-century books for the endpapers from Leslie Whitaker, then…I don't know. Perhaps we're trying to make a connection where none exists, but you have to admit, it's a bit of a strong coincidence when you put it all together. Two murders in two days—three, if you count the girl—an artist buying old paper, these Turners, the money.”

“You think this Whitaker character might have something to do with it?”

“It's possible,” said Annie.

“Did they know one another, Roland Gardiner and the artist?”

“We don't know. Not yet. But we're trying to link them. I
just wanted to get your take on whether we were dealing with the real thing here, the watercolor in particular.”

“Well, it looks genuine enough to me on first examination. If not, then it's a damn good forgery. To be absolutely certain, though, I'd have to hang on to it for a while, perhaps show it to some colleagues, conduct a few tests. Fingerprints examination, as we did with the other one. Radiography, ultraviolet. Infrared photography. Computer image processing. Pigment analysis, that sort of thing. I'd also try to track down its provenance, if any exists. And I can't do that, can I?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Annie. “Not yet, at any rate. As I said, there are fingerprints to be considered. And it may be evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“I don't know.” She grinned at him. “That's just the way the job is sometimes.”

Phil smiled back. “Mine, too. I suppose you could say we're both detectives, in a way.”

“That's one way of looking at it. Anyway, as soon as we're done with it, I'll ask you to look into its authenticity a bit further, if you'd still be willing to help.”

“Of course. I've signed the Official Secrets Act, haven't I? Look, how rude of me. I never offered you any refreshments. It must have been the excitement of seeing the Turners. Tea, coffee, something stronger?”

“I can't,” said Annie, carefully putting the papers back in her briefcase. “Too much on right now.”

“Not even a tea break?”

Annie laughed. “Sometimes I don't even get dinner, as you know quite well.” She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. He tried to make it into more, but she slipped free. “No. Really. I have to go.”

He spread his hands. “Okay. I know when I'm beaten. See you tonight?”

“I'll give you a ring,” Annie said, and hurried out to her car
before she changed her mind about the tea, and whatever else was on offer.

“And be careful with your briefcase,” he called after her.

 

It was DS Stefan Nowak's job to coordinate between the crime scene, the lab and the SIO, making sure that nothing was missed and priorities were dealt with as quickly as possible. He wasn't a forensic scientist by training, though he did have a degree in chemistry and had completed the requisite courses. As a result, he'd picked up a fair bit of scientific knowledge over his three years on the job, along with the ability to present it in layman's terms. Which was just as well. The best Banks had ever done at chemistry and physics was a grade-five pass in each at O-Level.

Though Stefan himself was elegant and always well-groomed, his office was a mess, with papers, plastic bags of exhibits and half-f mugs of coffee all over the place. Banks hardly dared move once he had sat down for fear the resulting vibration or disturbance of the air would bring a stack of reports, or beakers full of God knew what, toppling down.

“I trust you've got some positive results?” Banks said as he eased himself onto the chair. Nothing fell.

“Depends on how you look at them,” Stefan said, the Polish accent barely audible in his cultured voice. “I've been over at the lab most of the afternoon, and we've finally got something on toxicology. I think you'll find it interesting.”

“Do tell,” said Banks.

“Luckily, in all three cases there was still enough fluid present in the bodies for tox analysis. McMahon, the artist, was the worst, but even there Dr. Glendenning found blood in the organs and traces of urine in the bladder. Unfortunately, the vitreous fluid in the eyes had evaporated in all victims.”

“Go on,” Banks urged him, not wishing to dwell on the evaporation of vitreous fluid.

“Let's take the girl first,” Stefan said. “Christine Aspern. Because she was a known heroin addict we could be more specific in our search. As you probably know, heroin metabolizes into morphine once injected into the bloodstream, and it bonds to the body's carbohydrates. Only a small amount of morphine is secreted unchanged into the urine. Sometimes none at all.”

“So you can't tell whether she injected heroin or morphine?”

“I didn't say that. Only that heroin becomes morphine once it's in the blood. Besides, heroin's a morphine derivative, made through a reaction with acetyl chloride or acetic anhydride. Anyway, spectral analysis indicated traces of heroin. The presence of other substances, such as quinine, bears out the result.”

Banks knew that quinine was often used to pad heroin for sale on the streets. “It's what we expected,” he said. “How much?”

“The stuff was around thirty percent pure, which is pretty much the norm these days. And there wasn't enough to cause death. At least, the lab results make that seem unlikely.”

“So the fire killed her one way or another?”

“Asphyxia did. Yes.”

“What about the other two?”

“Ah, there it gets a little more interesting,” Stefan said. He leaned forward and a pile of books teetered dangerously. “Alcohol was present in the urine in both cases, though none was present in the girl's system.”

“How much?”

“Not a lot in McMahon's case, maybe between one and two drinks.”

“Not enough to make him pass out, then?”

“Unlikely.”

“And Gardiner?”

“About twice as much. But there's more.”

“I hoped there would be. Go on.”

“During general screening, spectral analysis also discovered the presence of flunitrazepam in the systems of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner. Comparisons indicate it's the same drug in both cases.”

“Flunitrazepam?” said Banks, remembering one of the drugs circulars he'd read in the past few months. “Isn't that Rohypnol?”

“Rohypnol is one form of it, yes. The ‘date rape' drug. Recently upgraded from Class C to Class A. It's a form of benzodiazepine, a tranquilizer about ten times stronger than Valium. It causes muscle relaxation, drowsiness, unconsciousness and amnesia, among other things. It also impairs basic motor skills and lowers the blood pressure. It's often used to spike drinks because it's colorless, odorless and tasteless and it dissolves in alcohol. At least it used to. The problem is that since 1998, La Roche, the chief manufacturer, has added a component that makes any drink you add it to turn bright blue. The drug itself also dissolves more slowly and forms small chunks.”

“Which makes it a lot harder to sneak into people's drinks.”

“Yes. Even dark drinks will turn cloudy. Anyway, if that were the case, one or both victims might have noticed.”

“Which means?”

“Which means it's either counterfeit, bootleg Rohypnol, or another member of the benzodiazepine family. Remember, this test took a bit more time because they had to do a general tox screen. They're still working on it to pin down specifics, but I thought you'd like some sort of advance notice of what you're dealing with.”

“Thanks, Stefan,” said Banks. “Much appreciated. How long does it take to act?”

“Twenty minutes to half an hour.”

“Any idea what quantities they were given?”

“Certainly enough to be effective. One odd thing.”

“Yes?”

“Gardiner, the caravan victim, also had a significant amount of Tuinal in his system. Tuinal's—”