Delilah dropped Yasmin and Poppy outside the Pilgrim Street police station, then drove off to meet Peter MacMahon for afternoon tea at Fenwick’s. Rollo had been disgruntled to hear that he had not been invited along to the police interview too, but offered instead to “have another pop” at Gerald Farmer – and, hopefully, Gus. The women dropped him off at the Grand Hotel on their way to the police station.
Sandy signed the two women in and then ushered them down the stairs to the interview room. It was the same room that Poppy had met Grace in on Friday after she had just been arrested. She had not been aware then that the mirror on the wall behind her was in fact a spying device. She looked at Sandy. Had he been behind there, listening in to her conversation with Grace? She felt a chill go down her spine. There was a lot she didn’t know about Sandy Hawkes – like, for instance, if she could really trust him. What was really behind his offer to allow her to listen in to his interrogation of Dante Sherman? But all she got from him was a warm smile and a gentlemanly flourish as he gestured for her and Yazzie to enter a small cupboard-sized room adjacent to the interview room.
Inside the room were two chairs and a small table. And on the wall, above the window overlooking the interview room, a loudspeaker. Sandy gestured for the two women to sit, then stuck his head out and called: “Brown! Test please.”
Poppy watched as one of the constables from the Laing Gallery, who had been so dismissive of her and women in professional roles in general, walked into the room and recited a monotone version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. They could hear him loud and clear. Satisfied, Sherman closed the door behind him, leaving Yazzie and Poppy to take out their notebooks.
“Have you ever sat in on an interrogation, Poppy?” asked Yasmin.
“No, it’s my first. But I was wondering why DI Hawkes has asked me.”
“I was wondering that too. Perhaps though it might just be as he said: you could pick up on something he misses. You’ve done a lot already to gather evidence on this case.” She laughed. “You should probably send the police a bill.”
Poppy smiled at her. “And if they don’t pay, I know who to set on them.”
The two women settled back in their chairs enjoying the sense of mutual respect between them. A few moments later the window, like a screen in a moving picture show, filled with the main players: DI Sandy Hawkes, Dante Sherman, a man in a very expensive-looking pinstriped three-piece suit whom Poppy assumed was Sherman’s solicitor, and a woman stenographer. The door behind them shut, guarded by the artistically talentless Constable Brown. The table over which Sandy and Sherman conversed was set perpendicular to the window, so Poppy and Yasmin could see and hear exactly what was going on.
DI Hawkes opened the interview by confirming Sherman’s identity, address, and date of birth. He then read out the reason for the interview as “suspicion to commit blackmail”. The solicitor countered this by asking whether or not formal charges were going to be laid.
“We’ll determine that after this interview,” answered Sandy, who reminded both the solicitor and Sherman that he was being questioned under an official police caution. He then proceeded to open a file and produced two photographs – of the two questionable paintings at the Laing – plus the letter from the Tate that Poppy had seen on the curator’s desk at the Laing.
“Mr Sherman, can you tell us how much you paid for these two paintings please?”
Sherman cast a glance at his solicitor. His solicitor nodded.
“Not off the top of my head, no. But the amount will be in the ledger at the gallery.”
Sandy nodded. “That’s good, because we currently have a police accountant going through the ledger.”
“Well, be aware that he might not find anything. I normally pass on receipts to our bookkeeper, who writes it up. He might not have got around to it yet. In fact, I’m not sure the money has yet been handed over. Although it will be, of course.”
“Not a problem,” said Sandy, coolly, making a note. “I shall get our man to search all pending receipts too. It shouldn’t take long. I don’t believe you buy that much art at the gallery.”
Sherman gave an equally cool stare. “We buy enough.”
“Do you often buy artworks whose legitimacy is in question?” He pushed the letter from the Tate across the table.
Sherman glanced at it and curled his lip, as if he had been presented with a menu for tripe and trotters. “I only received that the day of Agnes’ exhibition. And only opened it the following morning – after the poor woman had died. If I had known this beforehand, I would have cancelled the sale.”
“The sale for which we will find a receipt when we search your bookkeeper’s office?”
Sherman smirked. “Yes, that one.”
“And will we also find evidence to support your assertion that you only read this letter the day after Agnes died?”
“I doubt that. Unless there is some kind of cinemagraphic or photographic equipment in my office, and the camera operator was hiding behind a curtain, I’m afraid you are going to have to take my word for that.”
“Hmmmm.” Sandy made a note. “And what about the word of Professor Reid?”
“Who?”
“Professor Reid from the art school. I believe he was your lecturer.”
“He was. What’s he got to say about it?”
Sandy made a show of flicking through the file in front of him and pausing to read some notes. “Well, he’s got a lot to say actually. And one of the things he said was that you and he had a conversation about this very painting three weeks ago. And that he had told you he had been at the meeting at the Tate where questions about its authenticity were first raised.”
Sherman smirked. “Yes, I remember that conversation. And did the good professor also tell you that at the time the official opinion was inconclusive? That it was just at that time an accusation?”
Sandy nodded. “He did. But why would you still go ahead and – assuming these elusive receipts can be found – buy the painting? Surely it puts the gallery’s reputation in a bad light?”
“Does it? Why do you say that?”
“I am asking the questions here, Mr Sherman, not you. Why did you buy this painting?”
“Because I thought it would be a good acquisition for the gallery. Agnes Robson is – was – a world-renowned artist.”
“But why this one? And this one?” Sandy pushed both photographs towards Sherman.
“Why not these ones? They are both high-quality Agnes Robsons.”
“Except one of them is not entirely by Agnes Robson, though,” Sandy countered.
“Apparently not. But I did not know it wasn’t when I first purchased it. Now that I do, I shall be returning it to Gerald Farmer and asking him to reimburse the gallery.”
“Are you sure you actually bought the paintings?”
“Of course I am.”
“Really? You didn’t demand Gus North give them to you in return for keeping something quiet?”
Sherman jutted out his chin. “Of course not! Who has been telling you that?”
“I will remind you, Mr Sherman, that I am the one asking the questions.” He again perused the file, then after a few moments asked: “Is it correct that you first saw these paintings when you were down in London in August?”
Sherman gave a cool smile. “Ah, so it is Gus North you’ve been talking to. I wouldn’t believe a word that boy says. He’s got a drinking problem, you know.”
“Really? Well, it was Gerald Farmer, actually. I still have to interview Mr North. But not to worry, he is on the list.” Sandy flicked through the file again and stopped at a particular page. He took even longer than usual to read. In the silence, empty of the tick-tack of the stenography machine, Poppy could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. Sherman looked to his solicitor. The solicitor nodded to him encouragingly. Stay calm, he appeared to say.
Eventually, Sandy spoke. “Mr Farmer told me he had not been aware of the purchase of these paintings until the morning of his departure for Newcastle. That is, last Thursday morning. He said Mr North had told him ‘at the last minute’ that you had requested the paintings be brought up to the exhibition when you dropped in to see Agnes back in August. But Agnes wasn’t there and you asked Gus if you could buy the paintings. Why didn’t you wait to speak to Agnes? Gus is merely her studio assistant, is he not?”
Sherman leaned back in his seat. He adopted a weary air. “You know he is. But why shouldn’t I speak to him? Agnes wasn’t there and I didn’t have time on my London trip to drop by again. My train was leaving two hours later.”
“Didn’t you telephone ahead to see if she were in and prepared to receive visitors?”
Sherman shrugged. “I didn’t think to. It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“And was buying the paintings spur of the moment?”
“It was. But I had been wanting to buy some anyway. So I took the chance when I saw them.”
“And you still contend that you paid money for these paintings?”
“I do.”
“What if I were to tell you that the Metropolitan Police have found evidence in Agnes’ studio to suggest that you were attempting to blackmail Gus North? That you demanded he bring these paintings in return for your silence?”
“I would say you should produce this evidence,” said Sherman’s solicitor.
Sandy flattened his lips into an approximation of a smile. “Oh I shall, at the right time. Come, Mr Sherman, I asked you a question: did you or did you not demand these paintings in return for your silence about some unlawful activity you believed Mr North to be involved in?”
“I did not. As I said, I bought these paintings in good faith as valuable additions to the Laing’s collection. I don’t know what ‘unlawful activity’ Gus was involved in. That’s all news to me. But it doesn’t surprise me. As I said, he’s a heavy drinker and is known for getting into scrapes. He’s also run up a lot of gambling debts…”
Sandy did not respond to the accusations about Gus and allowed silence to fall again. Then he pushed the Lilies in a Vase photo closer to Sherman. “So, to clarify – you bought this very painting?”
A slight smile played on Sherman’s lips. “You know I did. That’s the painting that’s hanging in the gallery. And this is a photograph of it.”
“But I’ve been told by someone who attended the exhibition that the paint is still tacky. I’m no expert, but that suggests to me that it’s only recently been painted. Professor Reid and Gerald Farmer both confirmed my observation. This picture could only have been painted early September at the earliest. But more likely, according to Professor Reid, the second or third week in September. Only two weeks ago… and you were in London when…”
“You know when I was in London,” Sherman snapped.
“I do indeed. The thirteenth of August. So this isn’t the exact painting you saw when you visited Agnes’ studio, is it?”
Sherman’s solicitor flicked a warning glance at his client. But Sherman remained calm.
“DI Hawkes, if you had truly done your homework you would know that Agnes painted a number of versions of that painting. It was one of her recurring themes. As it turned out, the one I saw in August was sold to someone else. This one was painted as a replacement.”
Sandy raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m glad you finally got one of them, after all these months of trying to buy one and being turned down.”
“Turned down? No one turned me down. There was just a short delay, that’s all.”
“Are you telling me a nun is lying?”
A look of shock came over Sherman’s face but was swiftly subdued. He leaned forward and answered in an admirably calm voice: “A nun? Whatever are you talking about, Inspector?”
“Sister Henrietta. She runs a home for young women in distress in Gosforth. St Hilda’s. But you know that already. You visited her over the summer, wanted to know about Agnes’ time there when she was pregnant, and then tried to buy a version of this painting from her. Now why would you do that?”
The solicitor cleared his throat. “This has nothing to do with the charge at hand, Inspector.”
“Doesn’t it? It shows your client had been trying to buy this painting – or a version of it – for some time before he procured it from Gus North under what the Metropolitan Police tell me were potentially extortionate means. I – and no doubt the King’s Counsel if this goes to trial – will see it as an indication that Mr Sherman was interested in more than just any old Agnes Robson painting. He was interested in paintings that reflected a difficult period in her life – when she became pregnant and had to leave her home. Now why would you be interested in that, Mr Sherman?”
“I’ve told you, Lilies in a Vase is a quintessential Agnes Robson theme. I would be remiss not to get one for the gallery. It would be like me not getting a Constable depicting a pastoral scene.” He smirked, challenging Sandy to contradict him.
“Well, I don’t know much about art, but I do know that you appear to have been doing the rounds, trying to dig up dirt on Agnes Robson.”
Sherman laughed disdainfully. “Digging up dirt? Asking to buy a painting from a nun and trying to get a bit of background information from her for our exhibition programme notes is hardly digging up dirt.”
“No? Then what about travelling to Ashington to visit the sweet shop right next to the railway line where this second picture was painted? Why would you do that, Mr Sherman, and why would you ask the shopkeeper to share any gossip she had on Agnes? Particularly about the time she became pregnant? And what about the rumours that the baby was sired by your father, Michael Brownley? Who, according to Professor Reid, also painted naked children.”
Into the stunned silence, Sandy produced the photograph of the nude painting of Agnes at fourteen and slapped it on the desk between them. “Do you recognize this painting, Mr Sherman? I am reliably informed it is one of your father’s.”
Sherman paled. “I – well – I –”
“You do not have to answer that, Dante.”
“If he doesn’t,” Sandy nodded to the stenographer, “then it will go down that the subject refused to answer.”
“May I remind you, DI Hawkes, that my client does not have to answer any questions that might lead to self-incrimination.”
“Oh aye? So you’re admitting there is something to incriminate then?”
The solicitor leaned over the table. “No Hawkes, I am not. I am just doing my job and preventing my client from saying anything that might be twisted and used against him unfairly.”
“In that case, then, you should not object to providing a writing sample. We asked your client for one a few days ago but he has not yet complied. Now why is that?”
“Because, DI Hawkes, as we told Mrs Rolandson, providing it would suggest that our client was under suspicion of something.”
“He is under suspicion of something.” Sandy pushed a sheet of paper and a fountain pen across the table. “So, Mr Sherman, in order to clear your name of all this suspicion, why don’t you write us a little note. ‘Mary had a little lamb’ should do it. Or something more highbrow if you prefer. Oh, and please also write ‘Stay away’.”
“Stay away? Why should he write that?” demanded the solicitor.
“Will you write it or will you not, Mr Sherman? Be assured that refusing to do so will go down in the interview record.”
“You don’t have to do it, Dante.”
Sherman shook his head. “That’s all right, James. I will.” He picked up the pen, leaned over, and wrote for a few moments. When he’d finished he passed the sheet to Sandy.
Sandy picked it up, read it, then opened his file again, raising the cover so neither Sherman and his solicitor, nor for that matter Poppy and Yasmin, could see what he was looking at. He eventually closed the file and straightened it on the table in front of him.
“Thank you, Mr Sherman. That was not hard to do, was it? You are free to go for now, but do not leave town. I will need to talk to you again.”
Sherman looked at his solicitor, who nodded. “That’s fine. But make sure you have proper reason to do so – backed up by evidence a judge considers pertinent, not hearsay and gossip – or I shall be laying a charge of police harassment.”
Sandy smiled, the conviviality not reflected in his eyes. “You do that.”
Sherman and his solicitor left the room. Sandy looked towards the two-way mirror and nodded. A few moments later he was at the door of the viewing room.
“Good job, DI Hawkes,” said Yasmin.
“Thank you, Mrs Rolandson, but we have a way to go yet.”
“How’s that?” asked Poppy.
Sandy looked at the two women ruefully. “Because, unfortunately, Sherman’s handwriting did not match that of the person who wrote the threatening note to Poppy’s mother. Nor who inscribed the message on the back of the photograph of Agnes as a girl.”
“Oh bother,” said Poppy.
“Quite,” said Yazzie.