“They’re not all expensive. Many books and prints, even old ones, are hardly worth more than the paper they were printed on. It’s actually quite rare to come across the sort of find that makes your pulse race.”

“So McMahon bought cheap old books and prints?”

“Inexpensive ones.”

“Why?”

“I’ve no idea. I suppose he must have liked them.”

“What did he buy the last time you saw him?”

“An early-nineteenth-century volume of natural history. Nothing special. And the binding was in very poor shape.”

“How much did it cost?”

“Forty pounds. A steal, really.”

Yes, Banks thought, but what was a man squatting on a narrow boat doing spending forty pounds on an old book? He remembered the wet, charred pages he’d seen on the boat with Geoff Hamilton. Well, McMahon was an artist, and perhaps he just loved old books and prints. “Can you tell me anything about his state of mind?”

“He seemed fine whenever I saw him. In very good spirits, really. He even so much as hinted that things might be on the up for him.”

“Was he specific?”

“No. It was just when I asked him how he was, you know, as you do. Well, you don’t really expect much more than ‘fine, thanks’ as a reply, do you? But he said he was thriving and that they might think they could grind old Tom down but he’d still got a trick or two up his sleeve. He often referred to himself in the third person.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

Whitaker shrugged. “Didn’t say. The world in general, I assumed. The ones who refused to recognize his talent and buy his masterpieces.”

“And what trick did he have to show them?”

“No idea. I’m merely reporting what he said. Tom always tended to talk a good game, as they say.”

“You think there was any truth to it, that his fortunes were improving?”

“Who can say? Not from sales to the tourists, they weren’t.”

“So you hadn’t noticed any decline in him? In his appearance or mental state?”

“Quite the opposite, really. I mean, Tom was never the model of sartorial elegance – he was always a bit paint-stained and disheveled – but his clothes sense seemed to have improved. He’d also lost a bit of weight. And mentally, I’d say he was in good spirits.”

“Was he ever married?”

“I think he might have been, once upon a time, but if he was, it was long before he fetched up here in Eastvale.”

“Womanizer?”

“No, not really.”

“Men? Little boys?”

“No, don’t get me wrong. Tom wasn’t that way inclined. He liked women, even had the occasional girlfriend, but nothing lasted. There was only one love for him, and that was art. It was always his art that came first – came even before such mundane matters as punctuality and thoughtfulness, if you see what I mean. And it was such a damn shame that his art wasn’t really worth much to anyone else.”

Banks nodded. Whitaker might as well have been describing a policeman’s lot. He’d forgotten his share of dates and anniversaries because he’d been too involved in a case. That was partly why his marriage had ended. The miracle was, he realized only later, that it had lasted so long in the first place. He had assumed everything was fine because Sandra was an independent spirit and got on with her own life. And so she did – ultimately to the extent of taking up with Sean, dumping Banks and getting pregnant in her mid-forties. And now she was a mother again. “Any particular girlfriends you remember?” he asked.

“Well, he was rather taken by young Heather. Can’t remember her second name. Worked in the artists’ supplies shop down York Road. I can’t say I blame him. She was quite a stunner. Real page-three material. I don’t think she’s there anymore, though the owner might know where she is. Much too young for Tom, of course. He was asking for grief, there.”

“How old was he?”

“It was about five years back, so he’d have been in his late thirties.”

“And Heather?”

“Early twenties.”

“Serious?”

“On his part. He was quite broken up when she traded him in for a more successful artist. That was one of the few times I saw him pissed. I think it really depressed him, you know, feeling all washed-up as an artist, and then his girl chucks him for someone more successful. That was about as low as I ever saw him.”

Well, that would do it, thought Banks. “Who did she leave him for?”

“Jake Harley. Glib bastard, I must say. Up-and-comer at the time, but I’m happy to report that he went nowhere, too. He didn’t have the guts to live with his failure, though. He committed suicide about eighteen months ago down in London. Of course, he’d split with Heather ages before then.”

“And you don’t know where she is now?”

“Sorry. Haven’t clapped eyes on her in about three years. Sam Prescott might know, though. He still runs the shop.”

“You don’t know of any more recent girlfriends?”

Whitaker shook his head.

“Was he ever with anyone when he came in here, male or female?”

“No. He was always alone.”

“Did he ever mention anyone, any names at all?”

“No, not that I can recall. But he was always a bit of a loner, especially after Heather.”

Banks stood up and stretched out his hand. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Whitaker. You’ve been a great help.”

“I can’t see how, but you’re welcome, I’m sure.”

“Can you think of anyone else we might talk to about McMahon?”

Whitaker thought for a moment. “Not really.” He mentioned a couple of artists whose names Banks had already heard from Maria Phillips. It sounded to Banks as if McMahon had shed his earlier life and friends and cut off all contact with the old world, the world that had burned him, had refused to recognize his talent. Whether he had found new friends or adopted the life of a recluse, the way it seemed, remained to be seen. And why had he been buying worthless old books and prints from Leslie Whitaker?

Annie had been around enough artists in her time to recognize the type. Baz Hayward had adopted the persona of the suffering, world-weary, misunderstood, dissolute genius, justifying all his excesses and his total lack of talent and social graces by his devotion to art – right down to the beard, the ragged clothes and the body odor. Whether he really did have any talent or not, she didn’t know. Some of the most obnoxious people she had ever known possessed immense talent, though many of them squandered it.

Hayward bade her wait for a moment while he finished off some essential brushstrokes to a painting he was working on. Smiling to herself over the pathetic arrogance of his need to seem important, Annie wandered over and looked out of the window. She knew she could play the heavy if she wanted, but luckily she was in a good mood because she was going to dinner with Phil tonight, all being well.

Hayward lived in a converted barn on the high road between Lyndgarth and Helmthorpe. It was an isolated spot with a spectacular view down the slope past the stubby ruins of Devraulx Abbey to the drizzle-darkened flagstone roofs of Fortford, where Phil’s cottage was. Smoke from chimneys drifted slowly eastward on the faint breeze, bringing a hint of peat to the air. On the steeply rising slopes of the south daleside, beyond the clustered cottages of Mortsett and Relton, Annie could see the imposing symmetry of Swainsdale Hall.

It was odd to see the hall from this perspective, she realized. Only last summer, she had spent some time there, heading the search for a missing boy. Today, no smoke came from the high chimneys. Annie guessed that ex-footballer Martin Armitage was in Florida or the West Indies with his wife, ex-model Robin Fetherling. Well, good for them. There wasn’t much left for them at Swainsdale Hall now.

Hayward’s loft was chilly and Annie kept her greatcoat on. The cold didn’t seem to bother Hayward himself, though, who was prancing around waving his paintbrush, wearing torn jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. If he’d been at the Turner reception, Annie didn’t remember him.