Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

‘In that case, we’ll be off,’ she said.

‘Actually, I’ve got one more question, Guv.’

‘Oh?’ She was surprised. They hadn’t pre-planned anything.

‘All right, Sergeant,’ Sarah Russell said, her voice dripping with the condescension she normally reserved for the students of Cornforth. ‘What is it then?’

‘With respect, madam,’ he said calmly, ‘I was wondering what precisely it was that you bought on your trip to Sainsbury’s. It’s just it certainly wasn’t milk or soya spread, both of which are running very low in your fridge, and it wasn’t yoghurts, because the only two in your fridge are now past their sell-by date.’

‘Oh dear, what a shame!’ Dr Eleanor Bennett’s first reaction to the damaged painting was human rather than analytical. Lawson, standing in the proverbial wings, thought it rather quaint. It was the sort of thing her mum would say on discovering a snagged piece of wool in her cardigan, or a chip in the rim of one of her teacups. ‘What a shame!’ Dr Bennett repeated the phrase, but this time there was a stress on the first word, an indication that perhaps Lawson might have underestimated what the phrase might mean coming from the lips of someone other than her mother.

Lawson had picked her up at eleven o’clock, though not precisely. It was difficult to be anywhere in Oxford precisely at any time, unless you aimed to be early. And then, of course, every set of lights would be in your favour, every delivery lorry that typically obstructed the narrow streets whenever you were in a hurry would have magically disappeared, and you would arrive stupidly early. If you were an ordinary member of the public, you would then have to run the risk of an overofficious civil enforcement officer – as traffic wardens were now called in Oxford – slapping a penalty notice on your windscreen while you popped inside to discover the person you were picking up wasn’t actually ready. That, at least, was one thing Lawson didn’t have to worry about. And anyway, Dr Bennett was absolutely ready when Lawson rang her bell at 11.01 a.m. The trip to the laboratory had been straightforward in terms of traffic, and also in terms of social intercourse, as Dr Bennett and Constable Lawson chatted happily away. Once at their destination, they were ushered through a series of fire doors, until they came to a room in the centre of which stood a rectangular Formica-topped table. It was on this table that the object of their interest lay.

The painting was relatively small, no more than 60 centimetres square, and it had been slashed twice in a diagonal direction, from top left to bottom right. It had also been slashed twice on the opposite diagonal, with the result that where the cuts intersected a piece of canvas had been entirely dislodged.

Dr Bennett looked up at Lawson, peering over the top of her glasses. ‘Why don’t you go and find us a nice cup of tea, Constable, while I have a really good look. Black, no sugar for me.’

‘Sure,’ Lawson replied, though she wasn’t sure at all. She would like to be there, watching and learning, and making sure. …

‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Bennett smiled, as if reading her mind ‘I know it is evidence. I won’t touch it. I promise.’

Lawson nodded, and moved away. In that case, the sooner she got the tea and returned, the better. In the event, when she did return, Dr Bennett was bent over the picture, a small torch in her left hand, and she was moving slowly around the surface, as if taking in every detail.

‘Here’s your tea,’ Lawson said, when Dr Bennett showed no sign of being aware of her return.

‘Thank you.’

Lawson began to sip at her own polystyrene cup, but waited in vain for any response. Patience, she knew, was not one of her virtues and she had to fight the temptation to interrupt. Inactivity was alien to her, so she tried to think. Why anyone should want to damage this painting like this. She had no idea how valuable it would have been in pristine condition, but why do this to it? It must have been worth quite a lot. Maria Tull must have thought so when she wheedled it off Jack Smith. Because this was, no question, the painting that Jack Smith had described. And wouldn’t Dominic Russell have known it was valuable? So why would anyone slash it so ferociously? Why not keep it? It was beyond reason.

‘Ugh, it’s cold.’ Dr Bennett made a face as she belatedly sipped at her cup.

‘It started hot.’ Lawson wasn’t going to be blamed for the temperature of the woman’s damned tea.

The older woman smiled, and put it down.

‘So, Constable, I can see you’re a smart one, so why don’t you tell me what you see in the picture.’

Lawson looked at her, and wondered if she was teasing her, the academic blue-stocking patronizing her because she was young and hadn’t been to university and it showed.

‘Let’s start with when. Look at the clothes, look at the background. What sort of world are we in?’

Lawson paused, though not because she was uncertain. The clothing was a giveaway. ‘The Bible.’

‘Good. Have you any idea who the women are? How old are they do you think?’

Lawson leant forward and peered at them closely. The two women were standing close to each other, looking down on the man. The one to the left of the picture was resting her left hand on the other woman’s shoulder, consoling her. That much seemed pretty clear, Lawson thought. The man was lying on a trestle, and appeared to be dead – or was he just ill? It was hard to be sure because one of the cuts had gone straight through his head. She looked back at the women. ‘Quite old. Maybe late forties, or early fifties.’

‘And the man?’

‘Younger.’

‘Young enough to be a son of one of them, I think.’ This was a statement, not a question.

‘Is it Jesus? Only he was put in a tomb, and this looks more like someone’s house.’

‘No, you’re right, it’s not Jesus. The clue is here, lying on the ground, in the corner. It’s hard to see under the dirt, but I don’t think there’s any doubt.’

She stepped back, as if to encourage Lawson to lean forward and take another, closer look. ‘But don’t touch!’ she added, a mischievous note in her voice.