Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

Russell swallowed, looked to Turley for support, but again got a shrug back. Russell looked back at Holden and knew that one way or another he had to say something. The truth or a lie. Whichever way he played it, there were risks. Lies had a nasty way of coming back and catching you out. And if Holden was half as smart as she talked, she would spot the least inconsistency in any story. It was a gamble. Heads I lose, tails they do. Hopefully.

‘I’m in no rush,’ Holden said cheerfully. ‘Take your time.’

‘Maria bought it. She saw it in Venice when she was over there a week or two ago. And she brought it home.’

‘Who did she buy it from?’

‘How should I know? She had her own contacts over there. She wasn’t going to share them with me, was she now? She was born in Venice. You probably know that. I’m sure you’ve checked her out. Born Maria Scarpa. Came to Oxford to improve her English when she was nineteen, but before you could say “Grazie” she had got her hooks into Dr Alan Tull, grieving widower and newly qualified GP. Rather a good catch from her point of view.’

‘So you were selling it for her?’ Holden could spot distraction techniques from a distance.

‘Yes. I have more contacts than her over here. And a lot more in the States. So if I find a buyer for her, I get a cut.’

‘So why was it hidden on the top shelf?’

‘It wasn’t hidden. It just wasn’t on display.’

‘I’m not sure I understand the difference. But that’s beside the point. Just tell me why it wasn’t on display.’

‘It’s quite simple. It was there because I had a buyer lined up. He’s due over here in a week’s time. I sent him a photo by email, but he likes to see what he’s buying before he commits his money. So I decided to give him first bite of the cherry. So I opted not to put it on display.’

‘He pays in cash, does he? So the taxman doesn’t have to know?’

‘My client will not be answering that question,’ James Turley jumped in. ‘The painting has not been sold, so he cannot possibly be found guilty of anything to do with its possible future sale.’

But Holden had no intention of going any further down that route. ‘So really, Mr Russell, as I understand it, the painting doesn’t actually belong to you. It belongs to Maria Tull, and so now by default to her estate? So when we have finished with it as evidence, I can hand it over to Dr Alan Tull. I presume that is OK by you.’

‘As you wish.’ He spoke gracelessly, dismissively. ‘Is that all then?’

‘Not quite. You see, I have a bit of a problem here. I have two murdered people. The first victim bought this painting, and the second one happened to have a photograph of the painting on his mobile. Furthermore, this painting is found on your premises waiting to be purchased by some big-money private collector from the USA.’

‘What are you saying? That I’d kill two people for the sake of one painting?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Christ, if it was a Canaletto or a Rembrandt, then maybe it would be worth killing for, but for crying out loud this is just a picture that Maria picked up for next to nothing and that I can help her turn a tidy profit on. End of story.’

‘I suppose it all depends what you term a tidy profit. Because with Maria dead, I guess you weren’t going to bring her husband in on the action.’

‘Just a minute!’ James Turley stood up, determined to assert his authority. ‘There is no firm evidence of any wrongdoing by my client. He has answered your questions, so now I must insist that he be allowed to leave. Unless, of course, you are going to charge him.’

Holden remained seated. ‘He is free to leave. But as I said, we will be retaining the painting as possible evidence. And we will also be having it valued by an independent expert.’

CHAPTER 6

‘Welcome home, darling!’ There was a time when these three simple words would have presaged for Dominic Russell a truly welcoming evening. A gin and tonic as he stretched out on the sofa in front of the TV; a candle-lit supper of rare steak washed down with a fine burgundy, followed by sticky toffee pudding and freshly ground coffee; then a glass of port, a shower a deux, and sex. But that time was long since gone, and on this occasion, the only things these words, uttered with icy coldness by his wife, promised was conflict.

She had heard him enter. How could she have not, when the front door slammed shut with such force? And she had heard him pad uncertainly down the corridor in a manner that immediately told her trained ear that he was somewhat the worse for alcohol. His first words confirmed it as he poked his head round the lounge doorway.

‘James and I had a couple of dwinks together.’

‘More than a couple by the sound of it.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

‘You getting drunk is the least of my problems.’

‘It’s just that the police were a bit of a botherkins, so James and I decided we needed to talk tactics.’ He belched, and then giggled. ‘Whoops!’