‘Give them a chance.’
‘Promise you’ll help clean up the mess if she bolts? A shoulder to cry on?’
‘Promise. I like Ray. I’ll be there for him. I consider him a good friend.’
Annie nodded. ‘I know you do. You and your bloody sixties music.’
Banks shrugged. ‘I feel sorry for you, having to grow up in the eighties.’
‘It wasn’t so bad. At least we had Michael Jackson. Anyway, what are we going to do about Phil Keane? Do you believe that, too? Little Miss Super-brain?’
‘Super-recogniser,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve heard of that. Again, why would she lie? And it makes sense. Keane would hardly go back to his routines in the art world after what happened. He’s probably persona non grata in every art institution in Europe. His skill was in altering the past and forging official documents, making them appear real, as if they’ve been around for years. He’s like the Donald Pleasence character in The Great Escape, only he’s not going blind. He’s also a psychopath. What better line of work for him?’
‘I suppose you’re right. Should we have a chat with Charlie, then?’
Charlie Fox was their contact on the Met. He was a specialist who dealt in art fraud and theft, consulting with the various squads both at home and around the continent when they needed his expertise. ‘We should,’ said Banks. ‘But I don’t think he’ll be able to help us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Think about it. Keane has moved on. What’s the odds he no longer has anything to do with the art world? What’s the odds he hasn’t changed his name?’
‘People make mistakes. You know that as well as I do, Alan. Criminals sometimes make the most basic mistakes because they can’t give up a certain routine or line of operation. They have habits, like everyone else, and habits are often unconscious.’
‘True. Modus operandi. But Keane is smart, remember. And he tried to kill a police officer. Me. He’d know it makes sense to move on, adapt his skills to another criminal venture. It sounds like this is it.’
‘Can’t we contact the people Zelda works with ourselves?’
‘It doesn’t appear as if she’s likely to help us with that. You heard her. I suppose we can’t really blame her. It’s obviously a relationship that nobody wants broadcasting. We could go through other channels, I suppose. Dirty Dick Burgess, for a start. But I don’t want to bring trouble or danger down on Zelda.’
‘God forbid.’
‘Annie!’
‘Sorry. So where do we go next? Do we just wait for Super Zelda to come up with something?’
‘There’s not much else we can do,’ said Banks. He glanced at his watch. ‘In the meantime, I’d better go and pick up my car from the garage, or they’ll be charging me parking for it.’
Winsome knew the campus of Eastvale College fairly well. A couple of cases over the years had taken her there, and she found the racial mix of the area most refreshing after the almost total whiteness of the rest of town, and of the Dales in general. Not that she felt uncomfortable with where she lived or what she did, just that she felt a bit more at home when she walked down a street crowded with young Asian, Chinese and black students as well as white ones. Besides, she liked the tree-lined streets of tall Victorian houses, divided into student flats, with the steep front steps and iron railings and brightly coloured doors, the outside stairs leading down to basement bedsits, the aromas of curry, Thai and Chinese spices that infused the air. It was another world. You could almost imagine yourself in a thriving city rather than a quiet country town.
But that feeling lasted only as far as the campus itself. Its buildings were spread over a large area, mostly ugly and functional squat concrete and glass blocks with fields and woods beyond. There were a few listed buildings, remnants of the original agricultural college, but mostly it was an architectural mess. Winsome paused and consulted her map, then headed for the science buildings, which formed a quadrangle with a central square of grass surrounded by benches. When the weather was fine enough, Winsome knew, students would sit out there chatting or working on essays. They would stretch out on the grass, the young lovers side by side. But not in November.
Professor Luke Stoller had agreed to talk to her about Adrienne Munro in his office. She entered the building through the double glass doors, and a security guard at a semi-circular reception desk told her where the office was on the first floor. The steps were concrete, the rough walls lined with cork boards on which were pinned ads for concerts, ‘ladies’ night’ at The Cellar Club, any lecture changes or cancellations, departmental communications and the meetings of the various clubs and societies. There seemed to be so much going on, Winsome almost wished she were a student again. Almost. The problem was that if she went back these days, she would leave not only with a degree but with the albatross of debt around her neck for many years to come. The Munros were right: it was no way to start a working life.
Professor Stoller answered her knock with a chirpy ‘Come in’ and stood up to shake Winsome’s hand as she entered. He was a paunchy man in his early fifties, she guessed, curly grey hair and matching beard. Even his suit was grey. His tie was the only colourful thing about him, and that looked as if a drunken student had done the Technicolor yawn all over it. He wore it loose at the top, the way Banks always did whenever he had to wear a tie. The bookcases were stuffed with textbooks, and piles of papers sat on top of his filing cabinets and desk, but though the office was cluttered, it was tidy. A large poster showing the human circulation system hung on his wall.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ Stoller said. ‘Work tends to pile up.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Winsome, sitting down in the hardback chair.
‘It’s about Adrienne, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. When did you last see her?’
‘Wednesday, just over a week ago, when she came for her weekly tutorial.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘This is a terrible business. I simply can’t take it all in yet.’
‘It came as a shock?’
‘A huge one.’
‘Did you know Adrienne well?’
‘As well as one gets to know a student. We met in tutorials, of course, and I also supervised some of her lab work.’
‘Was she a good student?’
‘Excellent. She was very intelligent. Quiet and thoughtful. Adrienne took her work seriously. She wasn’t flighty or lazy, like some of her classmates. She was a hard worker. She was usually on time with her projects, and her examination results last year were exemplary. She had a clear, logical mind. Not only was she good academically, but she had a real feel for the work. She would have made an excellent agricultural scientist.’
‘Not a farmer, then?’
‘Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that impression?’
‘Agricultural sciences.’
‘A bit misleading, I’m afraid. It’s a catchall discipline, but we’re not a training school for farmers. The students study methods of farming, true enough, but we tend to see the larger picture: crop management, land use and efficiency, environmental issues, food needs, animal husbandry. It’s a very broad field, including courses in statistics and earth sciences, climate, geology and geography, even a bit of chemistry, and biology, which is my area of speciality. Inter-disciplinary, if you like.’
‘And Adrienne?’
‘Adrienne was especially interested in conservation and wildlife issues, responsible land use, growth cycles, environmental factors such as climate change, alternative energy sources, GMOs. that sort of thing.’
‘GMOs?’
‘Sorry. Genetically modified organisms. Adrienne wasn’t sure whether she was for them or against.’