Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

It was another mild day, vague haze in the air, and perhaps a hint of more rain to come. Banks had no idea whether Keane would be at home or not, but it was worth a try. The silver BMW parked in the narrow drive beside the cottage was a good sign. It was 51 registration, Banks noticed, which meant that it had been registered with the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency – the DVLA – between September 2001 and February 2002. A pretty recent model, then, and not inexpensive. How much exactly did an art researcher make?

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.”

Banks 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.”