She agreed that there was definitely something very wrong with Wetlock and his daughter’s relationship, but she also clung onto the last remnants of loyalty she felt towards her old mentor. ‘He was an exceptional surgeon whose training I’ll value forever. Shame he also turned out to be a bloody weirdo. Based on his behaviour in recent months, the hospital breathed a communal sigh of relief that he’s gone, if I’m honest.’
Maggie nibbled on the final piece of prawn toast as she got round to asking Jack about his trip to Ireland. What she specifically wanted to know about was the hotel he’d suggested might be nice for a mini honeymoon. Jack left her with the brochure whilst he went upstairs to unpack.
In his office, Jack laid the cardboard tube, still inside the plastic bag, down onto the desk. As he got a pair of nitrile gloves from his desk drawer, he was momentarily distracted by the contents of his rubbish bin. He rustled through screwed-up bits of paper and chocolate wrappers, uncovering a paper pharmacy bag inside which was a receipt for a plastic syringe. Jack found an old lighter and lit the edge of the receipt, then the bag. As each burnt down to his fingers, he placed them into half a cup of cold tea that had been on his desk since before he went to Ireland.
Jack stood in the shadows of the overhanging trees in the far corner of the doctors’ car park. He was invisible from every angle so, when Wetlock drove into his parking space which was only yards from the trees, he had no clue that Jack was there. Wetlock got out of his car and, as usual, pushed his wing-mirror in so that it wouldn’t get bumped by anyone using the footpath that ran past his driver’s side. Angel had loaned her fingerprint kit to Jack on the proviso that he didn’t end up asking her to run a set of prints ‘off the books’. It was a time-consuming favour and she never got anything in return. Jack had promised. It took him thirty seconds to remove Wetlock’s print from the back of the wing-mirror and ten seconds to clean away all of the powder residue.
Jack hadn’t given his actions a second thought until he’d seen the headline in the Evening Standard. It pissed him off that Wetlock might get away with murder, and Jack decided that he would help Lyle to find enough ex-student doctors to come forwards and give evidence relating to Wetlock’s historic drug crimes. Then the death of Tania could be reopened and Wetlock might get the sentence he actually deserved.
But right now Jack needed to refocus on Adam Border.
Jack kept the latex gloves on, and carefully cut the plastic bag from round the cardboard tube, so as not to smudge any fingerprints. Using the tips of his fingers, he pulled the white plastic cap out of the end of the tube and removed the rolled-up canvas scroll from inside.
The rolled canvas measured around fourteen inches by twenty and was frayed along each edge. It was slightly brown with age and small rust-stained holes showed where it had been attached to the original wooden frame. Once fully unrolled, Jack sat back and took in the image of a dark-faced young man with unruly hair. In the bottom right-hand corner was a faint signature in black paint: A. Giacometti. As he looked at the painting, Jack’s heart pounded in his chest. What exactly had Adam given him? On the reverse of the canvas was a small gallery sticker with faded writing: La Belle Epoque at Villa Massena, Art Museum Marseilles 1940.
Jack rolled the canvas back up and searched through the stacks of papers he’d copied from the numerous inventory lists given to him by Arnold Hutchinson and additional information about various artists he’d found for himself on the internet and in the library. The original list of paintings acquired by Frederick Jenkins over his forty years as a collector was hugely impressive and complete with purchase dates, gallery names and provenance details. Of course, now Jack doubted everything he read. They could have been fakes for all he knew.
Van Gogh, Picasso, Warhol... then some more unusual names such as Zao Wou-Ki and William de Kooning. There were heavy black pencil rings around a Henri Matisse. Paintings listed often had a ‘P’ printed beside them and, under ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ was Rossetti, underlined. Towards the bottom of the list, Jack found what he was looking for. A reference to Giacometti. The painting Jack had just received was apparently part of a collection bought in a silent auction along with a Keith Haring and a Jean Michel Basquiat.
Jack glanced at the rolled canvas sitting on his desk and was certain it had to be a copy. Not that he could tell. But fake or real, what on earth was he supposed to do with it now? And why had Adam given it to him?
As Maggie’s slow, cautious footsteps made their way upstairs, Jack knew that she must be carrying Hannah. He slid the canvas into a shallow drawer and decided that he’d research his newly acquired Giacometti properly tomorrow.
Maggie’s 5 a.m. alarm woke them both with the gentle sound of harp music, which got less gentle the more they ignored it.
Jack took charge of the coffee, which was becoming more of a morning habit with each passing day, whilst Maggie got Hannah up and dressed. Maggie was running late — so when she came down with Hannah in her arms saying that she needed the old car as it had the car seat in it, Jack, without thinking, agreed. Maggie was out the door and away by the time he realised that if he intended to drive anywhere today, he’d be going in a pea-green Nissan Micra.
Chapter 43
The amount of time Angel spent at crime scenes was nothing compared to the amount of time she spent sat in front of a computer or hunched over a microscope. So, it wasn’t unreasonable for Jack to assume that he’d catch her if he wandered into her office unannounced. Angel was in fact trying to unfold a wet piece of paper found in the suit pocket of a man pulled from the canal several hours earlier. Millimetre by millimetre, she was separating the layers and opening the whole thing out into what she hoped would turn out to be a receipt. Jack knew that she knew he was standing behind her, but he didn’t disturb her until she finished what she was doing. The delicate job she was currently in the middle of could be make or break for the SIO. So, Jack waited.
Eventually, Angel looked up. ‘Bloody bingo. At 1 a.m., he was buying chewy at a garage seven miles upriver from where he was found. And who lives seven miles upriver from where he was found?’
‘Your prime suspect?’
‘Got it in one.’ Angel stood and stretched her spine. ‘Simon’s got your ID, you know.’
‘Yeah, I’m heading there next.’ Jack took the now-empty cardboard tube from its carrier bag. ‘I need you to lift prints off this, please. One set will be mine, but I made a point of only touching the bottom. In the middle you’ll find another set which might match the cigarette butts I gave you. That’s it for now.’
Angel said she was glad to help and asked for the case number. Jack just gave her a sparkling smile. She took the cardboard tube and said that it would cost him a Thai takeaway as she was done with helping him for free. He didn’t need her to clarify a potential timeframe: she was a fast worker — even with sneaky, off-the-clock favours.
Jack was the last to arrive in the squad room. He quickly entered Ridley’s office and shut the door. Jack didn’t need to ask the question.
‘The print belongs to Michael Mahoney,’ Ridley said. ‘But it’s only a partial, so it’s weak on its own. Mahoney’s been “no comment” all the way with the Drugs Squad and his brief is trying to get him bailed. So far not one of the men arrested has named Mahoney or implicated him in any way. This is his mug shot taken over twenty years ago when he was arrested in Leeds for possession — take a look at him, and tell me if he’s the man you saw in the videos.’