Playing with Fire (31 page)

Banks's knock on the front door was answered seconds later by Phil Keane himself, looking every inch the twenty-first-century country squire in faded Levi's and a rust-colored Swaledale sweater.

“Alan,” he said, opening the door wide. “Good to see you. Come on in.”

Banks entered. The ceilings were low and the walls rough-painted limestone with nooks and crannies here and there, each filled with delicate little statuettes and ivory carvings: elephants, human figures, cats.

“Nice,” said Banks.

“Thank you. The place has been in my family for generations,” Keane said. “Even though I only remember occasional visits to my grandparents here when I was a child—I grew up down south, for my sins—I couldn't bear the thought of losing it when they died. Most of the knickknacks were theirs. Do sit down. Can I get you a drink or anything?”

“Nothing, thank you,” said Banks. “It's only a flying visit.”

Keane sat on the arm of the sofa. “Yes? Is it about the Turners? If indeed they are by Turner.”

“Indirectly,” said Banks. “By the way, our fingerprints expert has finished with them, so you'll be able to carry out further testing.”

“Excellent. Did he find anything?”

“Not much. Do you want to pick them up, or should I have them sent to your London office?”

“I'll pick them up at the police station tomorrow morning and take them down myself, if that's okay?”

“As long as you're not worried about being hijacked.”

“Nobody but you and me would know what I was carrying, would they?”

“I suppose not,” said Banks. “Look, in your opinion, would it be very difficult to forge such a work?”

“As I told Annie,” Keane said, “the actual forging would be easy enough for an artist who had the talent for such things. Turner isn't easy to imitate—his brush strokes are difficult, for example—but he's not impossible, as long as the artist got hold of the correct paper and painting materials, which isn't too hard, if you know how. Tom Keating claimed to have dashed off twenty or so Turner watercolors. The problem is the provenance.”

“And you can't fake that?”

“It can be done. A man called John Drewe did so a few years ago, caused quite a furor in the art world. You might have heard of him. He even got into the Tate archives and doctored catalogs. But they've tightened up a lot since then. The last owner is your real problem. I mean, it's easy enough to fake who owned paintings years ago—there's no one to question it, as they're dead. But the last owner is usually alive.”

“I see,” said Banks. “So you'd need an accomplice?”

“At least one.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “as I said, my visit is only indirectly related to the Turners. It's actually the artist himself, Thomas McMahon, I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“You told me you didn't know him.”

“No, I don't. Neither him nor his work.”

“Yet someone told me you were seen in conversation with him at the Turner reception last July.”

Keane frowned. “I talked to a number of people there. That's where I first met Annie, too, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Banks. “But what about McMahon?”

“I'm sorry. I still can't place him.”

“Short, burly sort of fellow, didn't shave often, longish greasy brown hair. Bit of a scruff. He'd been drinking.”

“Ah,” said Keane. “You mean the chap with rather disagreeable BO?”

McMahon had smelled of burned flesh the only time Banks had been close to him. “Do I?” he said. “I can't say I ever smelled him. Not when he was alive.”

“Artist. A bit pissed, if I remember right.”

“So you did know him?”

“No. I hadn't a clue who he was.” Keane spread his hands. “But if you say he was Thomas McMahon, then I'm sure you're right.”

“But you talked to him?”

“Just the once, yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He was a bit intense. I do recall that. I think we just chatted about some of the paintings on the walls. He thought they were pretty dreadful. I actually quite liked one or two of them. And—yes, now I remember—he made some disparaging remarks about Turner, said he could easily dash off the other missing Yorkshire watercolor.”

“The one we've just been talking about?”

“The very same.”

“And you've only just remembered this?”

“Yes. Well, since you jogged my memory. Why? Is it important?”

“It could be. So you had an argument with McMahon?”

Keane smiled, and a bit of an edge came into his tone. “I wouldn't exactly call it an argument, just an artistic dis-
agreement. Look, what are you getting at? What is all this about?”

“Probably nothing, really,” said Banks, standing and heading over to the door. “I'm sorry to waste your time.”

Keane's tone softened again when he noticed Banks was leaving. “Oh, that's all right. I'm just sorry I can't help you. Look, are you sure you won't have one for the road? Or is that against police regulations?”

Banks laughed. “I can't say that's ever stopped me before, but not this time, thanks very much,” he said. “I'll be on my way. If you do remember anything else about that conversation, you'll be sure to let me know, won't you?”

“Of course.”

Banks paused at the open door. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“We're putting together an identity parade, and you're the same general build and coloring as the suspect. Seeing as you're practically one of the team, would you consider helping us out and being an extra?”

“How exciting,” said Keane. “I've never been in an identity parade before. Of course. I'd be only too happy to help.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Thank you. I'll be in touch. Bye for now, then.”

B
anks pondered over Phil Keane's response to his visit and his questions as he drove down to Leeds that afternoon. Quite often, he knew, it wasn't so much what a person
said
that was revealing, it was what he didn't say, the way he said something, or the body language he was unconsciously displaying at the time he said it. No matter how often he ran over it in his mind, though, Banks couldn't fault Keane's performance. Even the hint of irritation at being questioned was reasonable, realistic. He'd have felt the same way himself.

But there was something that niggled away at him. It wasn't until the roundabout at the Leeds ring road that Banks realized what it was. Keane's performance had been just that: a
performance
. He was anxious to know if Burgess had been able to dig anything up, but decided he'd leave it until the morning. If he hadn't heard by then, he'd phone Scotland Yard.

For the moment, though, he had a rather difficult interview with Tina's grandparents, the Redferns, to concentrate on. He found their house easily enough, a large bay-window semi on a quiet, tree-lined Roundhay street, and parked outside.

“Mr. Banks,” said the matronly woman who answered the
door, “we've been expecting you. Please come in. I'm Julia Redfern. Let me take your coat.”

Banks gave her his car coat, which she put on a hanger in the hall cupboard. The house smelled of apples and cinnamon. Mrs. Redfern led him into the kitchen, where the smell was even stronger. “I hope you don't mind if we talk in here,” she said. “The study and the sitting room are just too formal. I always think the kitchen is the real heart of a house, don't you?”

Banks agreed. Though he spent most of his time in his living room reading, watching television or listening to music, he loved his own kitchen. In fact, the kitchen was the main reason he had bought the cottage in the first place, having dreamed about it before he saw it. The Redferns' kitchen was much larger than his, though, done out in rustic style, with a heavy wood dining table and four hard-backed chairs. French doors, closed at the moment, led out to a small conservatory. Banks sat down.

“Besides,” Mrs. Redfern went on, “the pie should be ready. I'll just take it out and let it cool a minute.”

“I thought I could smell something good,” said Banks.

“I always like to do something a bit special when we have company,” Mrs. Redfern said, taking the apple pie out of the oven and setting it on a rack. The crust was golden and flaky. There was something surreal about the whole scene, Banks was beginning to feel: rustic kitchens, cooking smells, apple pie fresh from the oven. It was a far cry from Mark's and Tina's world. He wondered if Mrs. Redfern felt that she needed some sort of activity to take her mind off his impending visit, or to calm her nerves.

Dr. Redfern strode in. He looked fit and energetic despite being in his seventies, and he still had a full head of silver hair. His handshake was firm. Banks wondered if he had been a good doctor. “Maurice Redfern,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” Then he sat opposite Banks.

“First of all,” Banks said, “I just want you to know that I'm
very sorry about what happened to your granddaughter, and that we're doing our best to find out who did it.”

“I don't see how we can help you,” said Dr. Redfern, “but we'll do as much as we can, of course.”

His wife fussed over tea, then set the pot and three cups and saucers down on the table and cut them each a slice of apple pie. “Some cream with your pie?” she asked Banks. “Or a slice of Cheddar, perhaps?”

“No, thanks. It looks fine as it is.”

“Milk and sugar?” she asked, tapping the teapot.

“Just as it comes, please,” said Banks. She poured and sat down. She seemed on edge, Banks thought, unable to keep still. Perhaps it was just her nature. Banks sipped some tea. It was strong, the way he liked it. Sandra always used to say he could stand a spoon up in his tea. She preferred hers weak, with milk and two sugars. In his mind's eye, he saw her walking away from him in the rain, pushing the pram. “I'm just after some background, really,” he said. “You'd be surprised how helpful little things can be, and you don't know what they are until you find them. Rather like a doctor's diagnosis, I suppose?”

“Indeed,” said Maurice Redfern. “Very well. Go ahead, then.”

“Were you close to your granddaughter?” Banks asked.

The Redferns exchanged glances. Finally, Maurice answered. “Christine lived here with us until she was five years old,” he said slowly. “After that, she was a frequent visitor, and sometimes she even stayed with us for longer periods. We'd look after her if her parents took a short holiday, that sort of thing.”

It was a very evasive answer, Banks thought. But maybe his question was too difficult, or too painful, for the Redferns to answer. “Did she confide in you about things?”

“She was a quiet child. A dreamer. I don't know that she ever confided in anyone.”

“What about when she got older? Did you remain close?”

“Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Banks?” Julia Redfern asked.

“Two,” Banks said. “A boy and a girl.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Not yet.”

“Of course not,” she said. “You're far too young. But you'll know what I mean when I tell you how relationships change when children become teenagers.”

“You didn't see as much of her?”

“Exactly. The last thing a teenage girl wants to do is come and visit old grandma and grandad.”

“Boys, too,” said Banks. “I was the same, myself.” Banks's grandparents had all lived in London, so he hadn't seen them that often, but he remembered endless rainy train rides with his parents and his brother Roy, remembered the old Hornby clockwork train set his grandad Banks kept for him to play with in the spare room, the old war souvenirs in the attic—a tin hat, a shell casing and a gas mask—and the rabbit hutches in the big back garden of his grandad Peyton's house, facing the railway tracks, the long trains rumbling by in the night, through his sleep. All four grandparents were dead by the time he was seventeen, and he was sorry he hadn't had a chance to know them better. Both his grandfathers had fought in the First World War, and he wished he'd asked them about their experiences. But back when he was a kid, he hadn't cared so much. Now the subject interested him. He hoped that if Brian or Tracy had kids it wouldn't be so far in the future that he was a useless old man. “But you did see her on occasion, didn't you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Maurice Redfern answered. “But she was un-communicative.”

“Did you ever suspect there was anything wrong?”

The muscles on Maurice's face seemed to tighten. “Wrong? In what way?”

“Did you suspect drug use, for example? It's not uncommon among teenagers.”

“I never saw any evidence of it.”

“Was she happy?”

“What an odd question,” Maurice said. “I suppose so. I mean she never said, either way. She was very much in her own world. I assumed it was a benign place. Now it appears that perhaps I was wrong.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You'd hardly be here asking all these questions otherwise, would you?”

“Dr. Redfern, I'm sorry if I appear to be prying into private family history, but this is a murder investigation. If you know anything at all about your granddaughter's state of mind prior to her death, then you should realize it might be important information.”

“We don't know anything,” said Julia. “We were just a normal family.”

“Let's go back a bit,” said Banks. “How old was Christine's mother when she got pregnant?”

“Sixteen,” said Maurice.

“Was she a wild child?”

He thought for a moment, fingertip touching his lips, then said, “No, I wouldn't say that, would you, dear?”

“Not at all,” Julia agreed. “Just foolish. And ignorant. It only takes once, you know.”

“And the father was an American student?”

“Apparently so,” said Dr. Redfern. “He soon disappeared from the scene, whoever he was.”

“What kind of a mother was Frances?”

“She did her best,” said Julia. “It was difficult, her being so young and all, but she tried. She did love little Christine.”

“Was Dr. Aspern on the scene then?”

“I've known Patrick Aspern for nearly thirty years,” said Dr. Redfern. “He was my junior at the infirmary, and we even
practiced together in Alwoodley for a period.”

“So you were his mentor?”

“In a way. His friend, too, I hope.”

“How did you feel about Dr. Aspern's interest in your daughter?”

“We were pleased for both of them.”

“How early did you notice it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I assume Patrick Aspern was around the house a lot. Did he seem interested in Frances
before
she had Christine?”

“Don't be absurd,” said Maurice. “She would have been under sixteen then. He knew her, of course, had done almost since the day she was born. But Frances was twenty-one when they got married, well above the age of consent. There was nothing untoward or unhealthy about it at all. Besides, an older man can bring a bit more stability and experience to raising a family. Frances needed that.”

“So your daughter was grateful for Patrick Aspern's interest in her?”

“I wouldn't say ‘grateful' is the right word to use,” Maurice argued.

“But his interest was reciprocated?”

“Of course. What do you think it was, an arranged marriage? Do you think we forced Frances into it?”

“What are you getting at, Mr. Banks?” asked Julia. “What's this got to do with Christine's death?”

“How long were they courting?” Banks asked her. “These things don't happen overnight.”

“You have to remember,” Julia explained, “that there was Christine to think about. Always. It was hard for Frances to lead a normal life, make friends and go out with boys like other girls her age. She didn't get out very often, so she had no chance to meet boys. Patrick took her out a few times, while we looked after Christine. Just to the pictures, that sort of thing. More as a favor, really, to get her out of the house
for a while. Sometimes he'd take the two of them to the country for a day out. Whitby, or Malham. Somewhere like that.”

“Weren't you worried?”

“About what?”

“That they might be up to something.”

“Why should we be?” said Maurice. “Patrick was my closest and dearest friend. I trusted him implicitly.”

“But didn't it bother you, him being so much older than Frances? Weren't you concerned that he might take advantage of her?”

An edge of irritation entered Maurice Redfern's tone. “Not at all,” he said. “Why would we be concerned? Frances was twenty and Patrick was in his thirties when they first started ‘stepping out' together. She was a very attractive young woman, and he was a dashing, handsome, talented doctor with a great future. What could be wrong with that? Why should we object or feel concern? We'd almost despaired of Frances finding anyone, and then…this happened. It was perfect. A miracle. An occasion for joy. Two of the people I loved most in the world finding one another. I couldn't have wished for a better match.”

So that was it, Banks realized. The reason for all the edginess and embarrassment he had sensed. The Redferns had wanted to get Frances married off, and baby Christine had been an impediment to that. They were the ones who were grateful for Patrick's interest in their daughter. After all, not many young men are willing to take on a young woman
and
a baby, especially if that baby isn't his own. When the good Dr. Aspern took both Frances and the child as well, it would have been easy for the Redferns to turn a blind eye to any number of things. Perhaps they had even encouraged him, left the two alone together, offered to baby-sit? But to what, exactly, had they turned a blind eye?

“What was their relationship like?” Banks asked.

“Perfectly aboveboard,” said Julia Redfern. “There was no
hanky-panky. Not in this house. And, take my word for it, we'd have known.”

“Were they affectionate? Demonstrative?”

“They weren't always touching and feeling each other like some of the kids today,” said Julia. “It's disgusting, if you ask me. You should keep that sort of thing for private.”

“And they didn't get much privacy?”

“I suppose not,” she said. “It was difficult.”

“We were just happy that Patrick took an interest in her,” Maurice added. “He brought her out of her shell. It had been a difficult few years. Christine wasn't always the easiest child to deal with, and Frances was becoming withdrawn, old before her time.”

“Christine was five when Patrick and Frances married?”

“Yes.”

“How did he take to fatherhood?”

“He was very good with her, wasn't he, darling?” Julia said.

“Yes, very,” Maurice agreed.

Well, what had Banks expected? That they'd suddenly come out and tell him that the pure and holy Patrick Aspern was a daughter-diddling pedophile? But the portrait of utter mind-numbing ordinariness that they were painting just didn't ring true. Had they suspected something and tried to ignore it? People did that often enough, Banks knew. Or were they really blissfully, willfully ignorant of Aspern's sexual interest in Tina? And when did that start? When she was six, seven, eight, nine, ten? Or before? Had he been interested in Frances when she was a child, too? He wished he could find out, but he couldn't think of a direct way of getting an answer to these questions. He would have to see if he could get there indirectly.

“Did the marriage have any effect on Christine?” he asked.