Beside a Narrow Stream (18 page)

Hillary leaned forward on the table and smiled at Colin slowly. ‘Jasper must have jumped at the chance when you put it to him. He was badly in need of a boost of money, wasn’t he? And you had all the materials there right to hand. I daresay there were several canvases of the right age and period just
hanging on the walls of Heyford Court going spare – the worthless daubs of long-forgotten, second-rate artists. I’m no expert, but I know that a lot of artists reused old canvases. So when the art experts came to check the phoney Austen portrait, they wouldn’t be surprised, or even suspicious, to find signs of another painting underneath. In fact, it would only help to confirm that it was the genuine thing. And you, of course, are an expert copyist, aren’t you, Colin?’ Hillary smiled. ‘A man who can combine Augustus John and Burne-Jones, a man who can paint like Constable – well, a man like that wouldn’t have any trouble copying the style of a little nobody like
Crispin-Jones
, would he?’

Blake swallowed hard but again said nothing. Hillary noticed that, beside him, Judith Coulson had become very thoughtful. No doubt she was thinking of her fee, and all the kudos a long, complicated case would bring.

‘You know, I have to hand it to you,’ Hillary said admiringly. ‘Between the two of you, you had the perfect scam. Fielding, with his genuine family history and background to back-up an “accidental find” in his attic. And you, with all the skills to forge the portrait. And you were so clever. That’s what really impresses me. You see, most people when they forge a painting, do so because of the
painter
. People want to believe they’ve got a genuine Monet, or Rembrandt, or
who-the-hell-ever,
because of the fame of the
artist
. What they actually painted is almost beside the point. But you went one better. You deliberately picked an obscure painter, because it was the fame of the
sitter
, that was going to net you the money. Who’d bother to forge a Crispin-Jones? Apart from a handful of artistic academics, nobody would know or care about a painting of his. But a genuine portrait of Jane Austen! Well now, the Yanks alone would go mad for that. Especially since there’s supposedly only one painting of her in existence – that little daub by her sister that hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.’

She reached for the glass of water and took a long, deep swallow. She’d been talking for what felt like hours, and she wasn’t getting anywhere. But at least she could rattle him a bit with the scope of what they
did
know.

‘There have to be plenty of rich Jane Austen fans who’d pay a fortune to have a genuine painting of her, or even only what
might
be a genuine painting of her. That’s what made your scam so clever. Even the
possibility
of owning such a rare object would be enough to start a bidding war.’ She shook her head in admiration and took another sip of water. ‘So, there you were, with everything ready. You’d forged the painting, Jasper had “found it” in his attic, and the experts had been contacted and the ball was rolling. All you had to do was sit back and wait for it to sell to the highest bidder. Then disaster struck. Wayne figured out what you were up to.’

Hillary leaned forward, frowning. ‘Just how did he figure it out, Colin?’

Blake stared at her blankly.

‘Do you even know?’ she asked. ‘No? Well, no matter,’ she shrugged. ‘Juries don’t need to have all the ins and outs to bring back a guilty verdict. And we’ll soon have DNA evidence linking you to Wayne’s killing, and Jasper will sell you out in a nano-second once he realizes he could be charged as an accessory to murder.’

She paused as Barrington came back in, smiling. Hillary read the message and glanced up at Blake.

‘This is from the team searching the barn-studio you’ve been renting. They’re confiscating everything. Presumably, forging a painting from the early eighteen hundreds isn’t all that easy. You’ll have had to mix the paints to the specifications of the day for a start, and stuff like that?’

She saw him shift hard on the chair, and smiled. ‘I thought so. The art squad have experts in that sort of thing, you know. How hard will it be for them to prove that you had everything you needed to fake the portrait? Soon the whole world will be
in no doubt that the Fielding/Austen portrait is worthless. So Wayne will have won after all.’

Blake stared at the wall behind her head and said nothing.

It was her final shot, Hillary shrugged, gathered up her papers, and left.

You couldn’t win them all.

Gemma Fordham signed off on the tape and also went, leaving Blake and Coulson to discuss his defence. No doubt, it would be a long talk.

‘Too bad you couldn’t crack him,’ Mel Mallow said, a few hours later, as they all gathered in his office for a celebratory drink. The warrant had come through for a DNA sample to be taken from Blake, and nobody doubted that it would prove a match with the samples taken from the crime scene. Even better, Barrington had been informed by Interpol just twenty minutes ago that Jasper Fielding had been arrested in Biarritz, and would be accompanied back on the next flight to Heathrow. Apparently, he was already singing about what he knew, and was claiming to have fled the country in panic and fear when he’d read about Wayne Sutton being murdered, fearing that he himself might be next.

A very chuffed art fraud squad was all over the ‘Austen’ portrait and the Crown Prosecution Service were happy with the case against Blake and all ready to sign off on it.

‘A confession would have been nice,’ Hillary agreed drily, ‘but I could have gone at him all day and not got anywhere. When that sort close down, they’re like limpets. There’s just no moving them.’

Mel laughed. ‘Well, here’s to another successful case.’ He’d already opened the wine, and now poured the last of it into their glasses.

Frank Ross drank his quickly, and left. He preferred beer or whisky. Barrington too, seemed fidgety, and Hillary watched him with a jaundiced eye. He wanted to be somewhere else,
badly. Perhaps she’d give him the rest of the weekend off to try and get it sorted – whatever the crisis was. There were still a lot of loose ends to be tied up, but she could tell he’d probably be useless to her in this state.

Gemma Fordham was the only one drinking orange juice. She looked very satisfied to be associated with a successful and
high-profile
murder case, for already the media, scenting something glamorous and a touch out of the ordinary, was sniffing around.

Yes, she’d let Gemma handle the bulk of the cleaning up, Hillary mused. It would keep her busy, and that patrician nose of hers out of Hillary’s business for a little while.

‘Well, if nobody objects, I think I’ll call it a day,’ Hillary said, getting up. ‘Gemma, I’d like you and Ross to stay for a while. The art squad will probably have questions and the media need to be seen to.’ She glanced at Mel, who nodded that he’d see to it from here on in.

Outside, Hillary walked across the car park, and once level with Puff the Tragic Wagon, stretched luxuriously. It felt good to be out in the fresh air, after the tense afternoon inside. She was just opening her car door, when she heard someone cough apologetically behind her. She turned around, and found herself facing a chubby man in uniform.

‘George Davies, ma’am.’ His smile looked distinctly uneasy. Hillary, puzzled and eager to get home to relax, wondered what was up.

‘Something I can help you with, Constable?’ she asked, firmly but pleasantly.

George Davies nodded miserably and glanced around, but they had the parking lot to themselves.

‘Thing is, ma’am, I was wondering if you knew about your new DS,’ he began, and flushed uneasily.

‘DS Fordham, you mean?’ Hillary asked sharply, turning away from the open door of her car to face him more squarely head on.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Davies confirmed, staring down at his boots.
‘Thing is, ma’am, I recognize her from a brief stint I did down in Reading. Oh, she weren’t in the force then, not when I saw her. She was a youngster, like, still at Uni.’

Hillary blinked. ‘Yes?’ she asked, wondering why the constable was looking so furtive. Surely the fastidious Gemma hadn’t been up to something naughty? Like paying for her student fees by doing a bit of prostitution on the side?

‘Yes. Thing is ma’am … she, er … that is …’ When it came to it, George faltered. This was a DI, after all, a woman who’d earned a medal for valour.

‘Just spit it out, constable,’ Hillary advised quietly. ‘I won’t shoot the messenger, and it’s obviously something important, or you wouldn’t have come to me. If it’s nothing official, I shan’t repeat what you say, or mention your name.’

‘Oh no, ma’am, it’s nothing to do with the job, like. It’s just … I thought you should know. You’re held in high regard round here, ma’am, and I think you should know … well …’

He met her calm, dark-brown eyes, and blurted out, ‘That sergeant of yours was with your husband, ma’am.’ And then he promptly stared at his feet again.

Hillary felt herself go cold then hot. Damn! Did the humiliations never end? Even five years dead, that bastard of a husband of hers was still making her life a misery.

She drew in a long, hard breath. ‘I see,’ she said calmly. ‘Thank you for telling me, Constable Davies. I take it nobody else knows about this?’

‘Oh no, ma’am,’ George looked appalled. ‘I ain’t told no one and never will. I just thought that you should know, ma’am. Seeing as how it might be awkward like.’

Hillary nodded and forced a smile. ‘Thank you, George, I appreciate it,’ she said, sincerely. ‘If I see you in the canteen sometime, I’ll stand you to dinner.’

George Davies nodded, relieved she was taking it so well. ‘Right-oh, ma’am. I’ll be off then,’ he said, and with that, turned and scarpered.

Hillary didn’t blame him.

She felt like scarpering herself.

Instead, she got in her car and drove numbly home. On her boat, she opened another bottle of wine and poured a glass. She drank it slowly, with her mind whirling.

So Gemma had been one of Ronnie’s old girlfriends. Blonde and young, she’d been just his type. But Ronnie must have dumped her long before he died in the car crash, and Gemma herself had gone on to join the force and rise to the rank of sergeant. She couldn’t still be holding a candle for Ronnie, or, by association, a grudge against herself.

So why had she transferred to Hillary’s team? What was she after? What had prompted her to search the boat?

The answer came in a flash, and Hillary abruptly sat up in her chair, sloshing wine over her slacks.

Of course!

Gemma Fordham was searching for the money. She was trying to track down Ronnie’s dirty millions.

Hillary Greene leaned back in her chair and began to laugh.

A NARROW ESCAPE

ON THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW

NARROW IS THE WAY

BY A NARROW MAJORITY

THROUGH A NARROW DOOR

WITH A NARROW BLADE