Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“But he’s West Yorkshire,” Annie argued. “And that was ages ago. Phil knows the business, and he’s here right now.”

“I gathered that,” said Banks.

Annie’s mouth tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Only that I think we should go through official channels.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, we use consultants all the bloody time. What about that psychologist? The redhead who fancies you?”

Banks felt himself flush, partly with anger and partly with embarrassment. “You mean Dr. Fuller? She’s a professional psychologist, a trained criminal profiler.”

“Whatever. Phil’s a trained art authenticator.”

“We don’t know what Phil is. You’ve hardly known him five minutes.”

“You know what your problem is?” Annie said, running her hand through her hair. “You’re bloody jealous, that’s what it is. You’re playing dog in the manger. What you can’t have, nobody else should get either, right?”

“He can have you as much and as often as he wants, for all I care,” said Banks, “but I won’t compromise this investigation because of your private life.”

“Oh, pull the carrot out of your arse, Alan. Can you hear yourself? Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

Banks felt as if he’d taken a wrong turn and the brick wall was looming dead ahead. “Look…” he began, but Annie cut in, after a deep breath.

“All I’m saying is let him have a look at the Turners, that’s all,” she said, softening her tone. “If you’re worried he’s going to run off with them, you can chain them to your wrist.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not worried about anything of the kind.”

“Then what is your objection? What can it possibly be?”

“He’s an unknown quantity.” Banks felt that his objections were inadequate, and he knew he was well on the defensive, partly because he also knew he was acting irrationally, out of jealousy, and he didn’t know how to get out of the situation without admitting it.

“I know him,” Annie said. “And I can vouch for him. He knows his business, Alan. He’s no dilettante.”

Banks thought for a moment. He knew he had to give in gracefully, knew that he’d brushed against dangerous ground indeed during their little exchange. Much as he didn’t like the idea of bringing Annie’s boyfriend into the investigation, it was certainly true that Phil Keane might be able to help them with the art forgery angle, had in fact helped them already in elaborating on the possible reasons why McMahon had bought useless old books and prints from Whitaker. Besides, he was objecting because he was jealous, and that was unprofessional.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll put it to Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe. I can’t be fairer than that.”

“ You’ll put it to him? Are you sure you won’t put it to him the way you’ve just put it to me?”

“Annie, this stops now. Okay? I said I’ll put it to him. Take it or leave it.”

Annie glared at Banks, then she snatched up her files. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll take it. You put it to him.”

“Look, what’s all this about?” said Leslie Whitaker, clearly uncomfortable to find himself on the receiving end of a police interrogation. “You’ve kept me waiting over an hour. I’ve got a business to run.”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Whitaker,” said Banks, arranging his folders neatly on the desk in front of him. They were in interview room two, which was hardly any different from interview rooms one and three, except that it let in even less light from the high, grille-covered window. Banks had brought DS Hatchley in to assist. Annie was digging up more background on Roland Gardiner, then she would be going to see Phil Keane with the Turners. Besides, she and Banks were barely speaking, and that was not conducive to the teamwork required for a successful interview.

“Can you get on with it, then?” said Whitaker, tapping his left hand against the desk. His foot was jumping, too, Banks noticed. Nervous, then. Something to hide? Or just angry?

Banks glanced at Hatchley, who raised his eyebrows. “Get on with it?” Hatchley repeated. “It’s not often we get someone telling us to get on with it, is it, sir?”

“That’s true,” said Banks. “Still, we’ll do as you say, Mr. Whitaker, and get on with it. If you’ve nothing to hide, and if you’re truthful with us, you’ll be opening up that shop again in no time.”

Whitaker leaned back in the chair. He was wearing a beige jacket over a dark blue polo-neck sweater. Banks tried to match him with the description he had of McMahon’s visitor from Mark Siddons, but all he could conclude was that the description was vague enough to fit Whitaker and a hundred or more others.

“When we talked to you the other day,” Banks said, “you told us that you sold books and prints on occasion to Thomas McMahon.”

“Yes. I did. So what?”

“Do you know why he wanted them?”

“I already told you, I had no idea.”

“I think you do, Mr. Whitaker.”

Whitaker’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Want to know what I think? I think you deliberately sought out certain books and prints for Thomas McMahon, at his request.”

Whitaker folded his arms. “Why would I do that?”

“You’re an art dealer, aren’t you?”

“In a small way, yes, I suppose so. More of a local agent, really.”

“And you probably know a bit about forgery.”

“Now, hang on a minute. What are you suggesting?”

Banks repeated the lecture he’d first heard from Phil Keane about the re-use of old endpapers and prints. Whitaker listened, making a very bad job of pretending he hadn’t a clue what Banks was talking about.

“I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me,” he said, when Banks had finished.

“Oh, come off it,” said Hatchley. “You were in it together. You and McMahon. You supplied him with the right sort of materials, he turned out the forgeries, you sold them, and then you split the profits. Only he got greedy, threatened to expose you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I did no such thing.”

“Well, you must admit,” said Banks, “that it all looks a bit dodgy from where I’m sitting.”

“I can’t help it if you have a suspicious nature. It must be your job.”

Banks smiled. “The job. Yes, it does tend to make one a little less ready to accept the sort of bollocks you’ve been dishing out so far. Why don’t you just admit it, Leslie? You had something going with McMahon.”

Whitaker faltered a moment, but kept quiet.

“Maybe you didn’t kill him,” Banks went on. “But you know something. You knew why he wanted those books and prints, and I’ll bet he paid above the odds for them. Your cut, nicely bypassing the taxman. What was Roland Gardiner’s role?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Come off it, Leslie. Roland Gardiner. He died in a caravan fire in Jennings Field on Saturday night.”

“And you think I…?”

“That’s what I’m asking. Because if you didn’t kill him, and if you didn’t kill McMahon, then maybe you’re next.”

Whitaker turned pale. “You can’t mean that. Why would you say that?”

“Stands to reason,” said Hatchley. “These things happen when thieves fall out.”

“I am not a thief.”

“Just a figure of speech,” Hatchley went on. “See, if you weren’t the ringleader, as you swear you weren’t, then you were just one of the underlings, and two of them are dead. See what I mean? Stands to reason.”

“No,” said Whitaker, regaining his composure. “It doesn’t stand to reason at all. Your whole premise is rubbish, absolute rubbish. I’ve done nothing.”