Authors: Peter Lovesey
The Vault (22 page)
"REMEMBER,
I
AM NOT
recording the vision of a madman."
There used to be a phrase applied to certain murderers that they were "guilty, but insane". The gentler version was that they killed "while the balance of their mind was disturbed". A comforting phrase in the days when the alternative was a date with the hangman. If you were temporarily unbalanced, you were not responsible for your actions. Instead you were sent to a prison for the criminally insane.
He was not mad.
He was not unbalanced.
He was responsible for his actions. Proud of most of them.
COUNCILLOR STURR USHERED INGEBORG through his front door and then turned to face Diamond, and his expression was not welcoming. "It's inconvenient."
"It's necessary, sir."
"You can see I've got pictures to unload."
"Isn't that the removers' job?"
"Don't you tell me how to unload pictures. I must check every one for possible damage, the glass, the frames."
"How many? That won't take long, sir. We've been waiting hours to see you."
"You made no appointment."
"We don't," said Diamond. "We just drop in."
For a time, Sturr ignored them to supervise the unloading of his pictures. Each had to be unwrapped in the hall and inspected before being taken into a front room. The removal team got on with the job while Diamond and Leaman stood by the front porch like two immovable Jehovah's Witnesses.
Diamond said confidentially to Leaman, "Did you recognise the woman?"
"I've seen her hanging about the nick."
"Ingeborg Smith is a hotshot reporter. Wants to join the police."
"Must be out of her mind. Is that her car, the white Peugeot?"
"Presumably."
"Did you know she was a close friend of Mr Sturr's?"
"She's upwardly mobile, is Ingeborg."
"I already noticed that."
The unloading of the pictures was completed with no damage discovered. Sturr took out his wallet and tipped the removal team. They returned to the van, closed the rear doors and drove off.
Diamond stepped up to Sturr before he could retreat inside the house. "Can we get this over, sir?"
"I told you it's not convenient."
"It's not convenient for us, but we're here."
"Look, it's ten-thirty on Sunday evening, damned near my bed—" He broke off, cleared his throat, and rephrased the statement. "You can see I have a visitor."
"You have three visitors, and two of them are from the police."
"Anyway, what is this about?"
"The death of Miss Redbird and the attack on our fellow-officer, John Wigfull."
As a member of the Police Authority, Sturr could not avoid making sounds of concern. "That was shocking. How is he?"
"Still out, I think. I've been too busy to ask." Diamond stepped closer. He'd had enough. "Either we talk here, Councillor, or down the nick. It's up to you."
Sturr braced, as if for a fight. He thrust his face towards Diamond. Then, quite suddenly, he submitted like an ageing stag faced by the herd leader, turned and walked into his hall, leaving the door open for the two detectives to follow.
The pictures had been carried into a sitting room and propped against the wall. There, as a centre piece, in competition with the artistry of Cotman, Cox and Blake, Ingeborg was seated in her short summer dress, all leg and cleavage, looking faintly amused. Sturr told her, "This is extremely tiresome, my dear, but would you mind waiting in another room?"
She said with spirit, "That's all right. Mr Diamond and I are old chums."
Sturr moved right up to her and muttered something in her ear. The smile vanished. Colour blazed in her cheeks. Here she was, perfectly placed for an exclusive, and they wanted her out.
Sturr said something else, earnest and forceful. Ingeborg still looked in two minds. She shamed him with her large, intelligent eyes.
"If I step out," she said in a voice everyone was meant to hear, "it's out of your life, John. I'm not your plaything, to be brought out when you feel like it."
"That's unfair," protested Sturr.
"It's business before pleasure with you, isn't it?" she continued bitterly. "If you're not on the phone to America, or checking your precious pictures, you're in conference with the police.
Meanwhile I'm supposed to sit around waiting, and if the other night's anything to go by, I could wait for ever."
"For God's sake, Inge!"
"I'm off. You can stuff your vintage Mumm up your vintage bum."
With that, she got up and walked out of the building. She refrained from slamming the front door behind her, but certainly closed it with firmness. From the window, they watched her walk to her car in the glow of the security light, and start up.
Diamond saw no reason to apologise. He had not asked her to leave.
Sturr's way of dealing with the incident was to ignore it. He said tersely, "You'd better tell me what you want."
"Miss Redbird," said Diamond. "Did you know her personally?"
"I knew
of her.
She wasn't a friend, if that's what you mean."
"Did you ever do business with her?"
"Buying stuff from her shop? No, no, I don't go in for antiques."
"Pictures."
"I buy from specialists. Dealers." He gestured towards the line of paintings ranged along the wall. "If you think these were found in junk shops like hers, you're mistaken."
"Have you visited her shop in the last year?"
"Certainly not. What is this about?"
"Ever?"
"I must have looked in at some point, but it would have been a long time ago."
"Have you been in touch with her recently, on the phone, or by letter?"
"No."
Liars will often give themselves away by nuances of timing and tone. Nothing in John Sturr's responses suggested anything but the truth.
"She hasn't contacted you?"
"She has not, and I can't think why she should."
"We'll come to that presently, sir. Last Thursday evening, you were a guest at the Assistant Chief Constable's house. What time did you arrive?"
"Around eight. And you know when I left, because you were there."
"Driving?"
He said with impatience, "It's a bit late to fit me up with that one."
Diamond, calm as a ministering priest, explained evenly, "I'm not interested in the state you were in. I want to knOw how you travelled."
"Yes, I drove."
"Straight home?"
"Yes."
"And Ingeborg Smith was with you?"
"Since when was that a crime?" said Sturr. "I can't believe you have the neck to ask me things like this."
"What time did you get in, sir?"
A sigh. "I don't know. It must have been about ten to eleven."
"And you didn't go out again?"
"At that hour?" Sturr cast his eyes upwards. "Hasn't it struck you that I'm a little old for the night club scene?"
"Miss Smith stayed the night?"
"Yes. Are you satisfied now?"
This sort of counter-punching from an aggrieved suspect was nothing new in Diamond's experience, the only extra element being Sturr's position of influence on the Police Authority. Without apology, the questioning moved on to his movements on Saturday, the afternoon of the attack on John Wigfull.
"I was visiting friends in Castle Cary."
Twenty miles or more from Westwood and Stowford.
"I was there for lunch and stayed until late. I suppose you'll want to go harrassing them. God knows what they'll make of it."
The martyred air was becoming increasingly irksome to Diamond. If he nailed this man for anything at all, it would bring immense satisfaction.
"How late is late, sir?"
"I don't know. After tea. Six, I reckon. Then I drove back to Bath and went to a choral recital at the Forum in the evening. Elgar's
Dream of Gerontius."
"Did you have a ticket for that?"
"I expect I still have the stub somewhere. Hold on, I was wearing this suit." He started trying pockets.
"You were alone?"
"At the concert? Yes. And here it is." Triumphantly he produced a piece of torn card from an inner pocket and handed it over.
Diamond gave it a glance and handed it back. "The seats weren't numbered, then?"
Sturr frowned.
"This proves only that you bought a ticket."
"But it's torn in half. That shows I was there."
Diamond didn't deign to comment.
"Did you meet anyone you knew? You're a well-known man in Bath."
"During the interval, I spoke to several people, among them the Bishop." He paused and asked sardonically, "Will he do?"
Technically, this meant only that Sturr had been at the Forum for the interval, presumably around eight-thirty to nine. But it was increasingly hard to picture him out in the country mounting a vicious assault on John Wigfull, and then hurrying back to Bath to listen to Elgar.
"You've met Chief Inspector Wigfull, of course?"
"Frequently."
"Oh?"
"At the PCCG."
"The what? Oh, yes." Thrown again.
"I keep a finger on the pulse," Sturr bragged. "I was one of the first to know what happened."
Diamond, in the right frame of mind for black humour, was tempted to say, "Surely not just
one
of the first?" Wisely, he bit back the comment. "You haven't spoken to him lately, I suppose?"
"Why should I?"
"Your finger on the pulse. He was handling a murder case."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you. The last time I spoke to Mr Wigfull was at the PCCG."
Much of the ground had now been covered, yet there was still one avenue to explore. Diamond shifted his attention to the line of pictures ranged along the skirting-board. "That evening at the meeting, you were good enough to show me these. One, you said, was thought to be by William Blake, the poet." He pointed to the icy landscape with the tall figure striding purposefully across.
"Poet, painter, visionary, call him what you will." Sturr was more ready to talk about art than his own recent doings. "What do you want to know about him?"
"The subject might be mythological, you told me."
"That's my best guess, yes, knowing Blake's absorption in such things, but I couldn't tell you if the figure represents one of the characters from classic mythology, or something from his own strange inner world."
"It's Frankenstein's monster."
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
For an interval there was a real danger that Sturr would erupt. He contained himself, frowned, bent and picked up the picture and held it at arm's length. "What makes you say that?"
"I haven't read the book, but isn't there a chapter when the monster goes wandering through the mountains?"
"You believe this is how the monster looked?"
"Not Boris Karloff. The original monster."
"If you haven't read the book, how the devil..."
"Someone gave me a description."
"It's a long time since I read it," said Sturr. If he had heard this theory before, he was doing a remarkable job of making it appear unexpected.
"Long, black, glossy hair." As if describing a wanted man, Diamond listed the details he had got from Ellis Somerset. "Yellow complexion, pale eyes, good, white teeth, black lips. Wouldn't you say this matches the figure in your painting?"
Sturr remained cautious. He continued to study the painting for some seconds longer. "Blake's figures tended to look otherworldly. The hair is invariably long. I can show you engravings of characters from
Paradise Lost
and the Bible just like this."
"And what if I told you two other paintings by Blake had been discovered, one showing this character or creature, whatever it may be, in a mountain landscape meeting a man about two feet shorter, and the other of it staring through a window at a murder scene? A woman lies strangled on a bed and the man— the same man from the other picture—is wide-eyed in horror. Scenes straight out of
Frankenstein.
What would you say to that?"
Sturr's face lit up. "You really mean this? I'd be fascinated to see them. Are they signed?"
"I couldn't tell you."
"Where can I see them?" His eagerness had transformed him. All the truculence had fallen away.
"Miss Redbird acquired them in a private deal. They disappeared from the shop at the time of her death."
"What?" Now Sturr looked seriously alarmed. "I don't follow you."
"They've gone, sir. They were in her office and they've gone. She bought them with some other goods from a house in Camden Crescent."
"When?"
"On the day she died. She had them collected. She was excited, believing them to be Blakes and worth a tidy sum."
"They would be if they were genuine. I'm not surprised she was excited."
"She had a buyer in mind. She spoke of this to her assistant."
"I would buy them," Sturr said, regardless of the quicksand he was stepping into. "I'd buy them like a shot. Why didn't she come to me?"
"That was our reaction," said Diamond. "You're the obvious person, with your collection."
"With this." He was still holding the Blake and he brandished it like the captain of a winning team with the trophy. "They could be part of a series that no Blake scholar is aware of. If he illustrated Frankenstein, it's sensational news. The art world is going to be amazed. I wonder if Blake knew Mary Shelley."
"He knew her mother, anyway."
"What—Mary Wollstonecraft? You're right! He illustrated one of her books. I haven't seen them, but I remember them in a catalogue. I even remember the title:
Original Stories from Real
Life.
Well, isn't this amazing? I've owned this painting all this time without suspecting any connection with Frankenstein."
"Where did you get it?"
"I bought it at auction in Bristol in 1989. It was a single lot, 'attributed to Blake', which means it's of his style, but can't be proved as one of his works. So I got it for a few hundred, and I consider I got a bargain. The chance of anyone else producing something like this in Blake's style is remote. He's out on his own as a painter. Very difficult to imitate."
"Do you know who put the picture into the auction?"
"Good point. I could look it up."
"Were any others up for sale?"
"Blakes, you mean? I'm certain they were not. I would have bid for them, you see."
Sturr replaced the picture in the line-up along the wall and offered to go off and look up the details of the sale. Each of his pictures had its own file, he said, and it should be easy to find out. He could not have been more obliging now he was on the trail of the unknown Blakes. It was a re-run of the enthusiasm he had shown the evening he had dragged Diamond around his collection.
