Still Waters by John Harvey Read Free Book Online Page B

seen on the Dover ferry, a thirteen-year-old boy from Aberdeen.
    The phone rang and, picking up, he identified himself. Miriam Johnson’s clear but genteel voice was easy to recognize.
    â€œIt was your associate, Inspector, that I was hoping to speak with. I remembered something, you see, regarding the paintings.”
    â€œDC Vincent’s not here at the moment,” Resnick said. “Will I do?”
    He could nip across to Canning Circus, pick up a double espresso, and take his time strolling down through the Park, breathe some air, stretch his legs.
    She had rich tea biscuits waiting for him, symmetrically arranged on a floral plate, Earl Grey tea freshly brewed. “Milk or lemon, Inspector?”
    â€œAs it comes will be fine.”
    They were sitting in the conservatory at the back of the house, looking out over a hundred feet of tiered garden, mostly lawn. Near the bottom was a large magnolia tree, which had long lost its blossom. Inside the conservatory, shades of geranium pressed up against the glass, herbs, inch-high cuttings in small brown pots.
    â€œI can’t be certain this is relevant, of course, but I thought, well, if it were and I neglected to bring it to your attention …”
    Resnick looked at her encouragingly and decided to dunk his biscuit after all.
    â€œIt would be some time ago now, more than a year. Yes. I was trying to get it clear in my mind before. You’re busy, of course, all of you, and the last thing I wanted to do was waste your time, but the nearest I could pin it down would be the early summer of last year.” Her gaze shifted off along the garden. “The magnolia was still in flower. He made specific mention of it, which is why I can remember.”
    She smiled and lifted her teacup from its saucer; yes, the little finger crooked away.
    Resnick waited. He could smell basil, over the scent of the Earl Grey. “Who, Miss Johnson?” he finally asked. “Who mentioned the magnolia?”
    â€œI didn’t say?”
    Resnick shook his head.
    â€œI could have sworn …” She frowned as she issued herself an internal reprimand. “Vernon Thackray, that was his name. At least, that was what he claimed.”
    â€œYou didn’t believe him?”
    â€œMr. Resnick, if he had told me it was Wednesday, I should have looked at both my calendar and the daily newspaper before believing it to be so. Though it was …” Her face brightened and her voice rose higher. “Isn’t that interesting, it was a Wednesday. Maurice was here, tending the garden. I should never have let this Thackray into the house otherwise, not if I had been on my own.”
    â€œYou didn’t trust him? He frightened you?”
    â€œMy fears, Mr. Resnick, would not have been for myself, rather for the family silver. As it were. A metaphor. All the good things, unfortunately, had to be sold long ago.”
    â€œThen it was the paintings, that’s why he was here?”
    â€œAbsolutely. From somewhere, obviously, he had heard about the Dalzeils and presented himself on my doorstep as a serious collector, imagining that I would be this dotty old maid, bereft of her senses thanks to Alzheimer’s disease and happy to let him take them off me for a pittance.”
    Resnick grinned. “You gave him short shrift.”
    â€œI told him I appreciated his interest but that the paintings were not for sale. That was unconditional.”
    â€œHow did he react to that?”
    â€œOh, by telling me how much safer they would be in someone else’s hands, how fortunate I had been not to have had them stolen. At my advanced years—he actually said that, Inspector, that phrase, my advanced years indeed—wouldn’t I be more sensible, rather than risk losing them altogether and ending up with nothing, to take what I could get for them and enjoy the proceeds while I was still able.”
    Indignantly, she rattled her cup and saucer