Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(8)
“When I read that Billy Bragg had torn up his party membership card,” she said, “I had to fight hard to restrain myself from doing the same.” She topped and tailed two washed carrots and chopped them into a pot simmering on the stove. “After all the work that young man put into the cause. You remember Red Wedge, Inspector, naturally?”
Resnick allowed that he might, though it was confused in his mind with Arthur Scargill and the miners’ strike. He knew if he got onto that subject with Sister Bonaventura, he would be there long enough not just to share supper, but to wash the pots as well.
“Here,” Teresa said, rescuing him. “Are these what you’re referring to, I wonder?”
These were a pair of photographs, Polaroids, both of the later Dalzeil painting, one clearly showing the surround of Miriam Johnson’s wall. Sister Teresa’s name and address were on the envelope, the postmark too smudged to read.
“When did you get these?” Resnick asked.
“It would have been early May, the seventh or the eighth perhaps.”
“As if you didn’t know,” Sister Bonaventura said.
Teresa ignored her.
Reflected in one of the photographs, Resnick could now see, was the blurred image of the man taking the picture—Jerzy Grabianski at work. Resnick remembered the camera they had discovered in his bag.
“Why are you so interested in him?” Teresa asked. “I mean, why now?”
“Two paintings—this and another by the same artist—they’ve been stolen.”
“And you think Jerry …”
“I think it’s a strong possibility, don’t you? Given his proclivities.”
“As an art lover.”
“As a thief.”
“You didn’t get very far with those potatoes,” Sister Bonaventura remarked.
“You don’t know for certain that it was him?” Teresa said.
Resnick shook his head.
“Of course. If you did there would be no need to be shilly-shallying here with me. You’d have him somewhere under arrest. But since presumably all you have are suspicions, if he had been here and made contact with me that would be—what would you call it?—circumstantial evidence.”
“It might have helped to place him near the scene.”
“Of the crime,” Sister Bonaventura said.
“It would be my duty, then,” Sister Teresa said a touch regretfully, “to help you if I could?”
“What is a crime,” said Sister Bonaventura, “is that these paintings were ever in private hands in the first place. They should be on public view, available to all and sundry. Not just the privileged few.”
“I don’t see our friend Grabianski,” Resnick said, “as some artistic Robin Hood.”
“Don’t you?” Teresa asked.
“Maidens in distress,” Sister Bonaventura said, now peeling the potatoes herself. “A different legend, surely.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a number for him? Any kind of current address?” asked Resnick.
Sister Teresa said that she did not.
“Ah, well …” With a sigh, Resnick rose to his feet.
“You’re not staying for supper, then?” Sister Bonaventura asked.
“Maybe some other time.”
Teresa escorted him to the door. “Do you need to borrow these?” she asked, glancing down at the envelope by her side. “If they’d be any help …”
“I don’t think so. Not now, at least.” He looked at her handsome face, unflinching green eyes. “I doubt you’ll be getting rid of them, throwing them away.”
When he turned back near the street end, she was still standing in the doorway, a tall, solidly built woman in simple, straightforward clothes. Had she always wanted to become a nun, he wondered, one of those fantasies so beloved of little Catholic girls, one that most of them leave behind with their first period, their first real kiss? Or had something happened in a split second that had changed her life? Like walking into a room and finding yourself face to face with God?
Next time, he thought, crossing toward the Boulevard, he just might ask. Next time. For now there was a colleague he could contact down in the smoke, someone who kept his ear well to the ground. And the secretary of the Polish Club would have connections with his counterparts in Kensington and Balham. Small worlds and where they connected, Grabianski might be found.
Five Hannah was wearing a Cowboy Junkies T-shirt, white with a picture of the band low over her waistline; if she hadn’t been wearing it loose outside her jeans they would have been tucked from sight. The Lay It Down tour, is that what it had been called? She remembered the way Margo Timmins had performed half of her numbers sitting down, hands resting across the microphone, a voice that was clear and strong, stronger than on their recordings. Unhurried. Hannah had liked that. Liked, too, the way she had prattled on between songs, seemingly inconsequential stories she felt needed telling, despite the hectoring calls from young men on the edges of the audience. Beautiful, also—but then they always were—Margo with her sculpted nose and perfect mouth, bare legs and arms. Well, women were beautiful, Hannah knew that.
She reached out toward the mug of coffee she had made after she had showered and changed from school, but it had long grown cold. A handful of small boys, primary age, were playing football in the park, an elderly woman in a dark anorak was slowly walking with a lead but no apparent dog; the foliage was several shades of green. Beside Hannah, on the floor by her comfortable chair, were folders for her to mark and grade, fourth-year essays on soap opera—realism or melodrama? For tomorrow, there were lessons still to prepare, chapters of Hardy to reread, Lawrence short stories, poems by Jackie Kay, Armitage, and Duffy.