made both the men at the bar – and the barman – turn and look at her. ‘Very intellectually put. The last woman I interviewed had a more down to earth approach about it. How did she put it.’ She checked back a few pages in her notebook and grinned. ‘Oh yeah. If I wanted to hang a painting on my walls, I’d buy a Blake. If I wanted to impress a philistine, I’d buy a Sutton.’
Keith nodded. ‘Yeah, that sums it up pretty well. Seems that this Colin Blake fellah could paint the kind of things that you could show your mum, and not have her screw up her nose. But our vic liked to shock.’
‘I get the feeling Wayne Sutton wasn’t as good, though. I mean technically. I was chatting to this man out Bloxham way, a retired lecturer. He seemed to rate Blake far higher than Sutton,’ Gemma said thoughtfully. Although she didn’t think the relative artistic merits – or otherwise – of the murder victim were going to mean much to the investigation. Unless an irate art critic bashed him over the head and drowned him because he couldn’t stand the way he handled his gouache.
‘Think that made our vic jealous?’ Keith asked curiously.
‘Bound to,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘A guy like Wayne Sutton needed to be praised and petted. He’d have wanted top spot in the limelight. But I just can’t see anyone committing murder over jealousy about who painted a better landscape.’
Keith shrugged. ‘I dunno, Sarge. Artists can get fairly het up, I reckon. Rage and jealousy can fester.’ He took a sip of his own drink. ‘Might be a good idea, from now on, to find out just how much resentment between the two actually existed.’
Gemma shrugged. ‘Couldn’t hurt. Although I think our boss is looking more at the female angle. And he could certainly put it about a bit, our Wayne. I got the feeling he was boffing the old gal I talked to, even though she wouldn’t have hung one of his paintings on her walls.’
Keith grinned. ‘So, how have your first few days at the new job worked out? Enjoying it?’
‘Sure. Getting a murder case right away was a bit of luck.’
Keith grunted. ‘Tell me about it. I did too. So, you found a good place to shack up? I’m still in a cramped bedsit in Summertown. Bit of a dump, but accommodation in Oxford is a nightmare. You’re from Reading, originally, right?’
Gemma took a sip of water. ‘Right, yeah, but my fellah’s from Oxford, so when things started to get serious, I juststopped commuting and moved in with him. Saved me a lot of hassle. Plus, he’s got this really nice place on the Woodstock Road.’
Keith Barrington whistled silently. The north Oxford suburb surrounding the Woodstock and Banbury Roads consisted mostly of large, detached semi-mansions, and was very des res.
‘He’s a don,’ Gemma said, as if reading his mind. ‘St Bede’s. He’s the master of music there. Holds one of those fancy international chairs. Always off to Vienna or Salzburg.’
And totally blind. But Gemma didn’t mention that.
‘Are you musically minded?’ Keith asked curiously, and Gemma laughed.
‘Two tin ears. Well,’ she drained her drink, ‘back to the grindstone. I was going to wait to catch Colin Blake at home this evening, but after this, I think I might take a shufti to his place of business. Scope him out.’ She got up, riffling through her notes for his business address, then raised one slender, plucked brow. ‘Well, well, the Michaelangelo of the Ale and Arty Club is a butcher no less. What would Freud have made of that?’
Keith Barrington dreaded to think.
The pub where they’d chosen to meet was in Adderbury, about mid-way between their locations when she’d called, so Gemma drove the short distance north, towards the old market town of Banbury, whilst Keith, about to interview a mother-and- daughter team in the village of Wootton, took off in the opposite direction.
Gemma’s car was a 7-year-old Fiesta, which she kept immaculately clean and
Keith nodded. ‘Yeah, that sums it up pretty well. Seems that this Colin Blake fellah could paint the kind of things that you could show your mum, and not have her screw up her nose. But our vic liked to shock.’
‘I get the feeling Wayne Sutton wasn’t as good, though. I mean technically. I was chatting to this man out Bloxham way, a retired lecturer. He seemed to rate Blake far higher than Sutton,’ Gemma said thoughtfully. Although she didn’t think the relative artistic merits – or otherwise – of the murder victim were going to mean much to the investigation. Unless an irate art critic bashed him over the head and drowned him because he couldn’t stand the way he handled his gouache.
‘Think that made our vic jealous?’ Keith asked curiously.
‘Bound to,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘A guy like Wayne Sutton needed to be praised and petted. He’d have wanted top spot in the limelight. But I just can’t see anyone committing murder over jealousy about who painted a better landscape.’
Keith shrugged. ‘I dunno, Sarge. Artists can get fairly het up, I reckon. Rage and jealousy can fester.’ He took a sip of his own drink. ‘Might be a good idea, from now on, to find out just how much resentment between the two actually existed.’
Gemma shrugged. ‘Couldn’t hurt. Although I think our boss is looking more at the female angle. And he could certainly put it about a bit, our Wayne. I got the feeling he was boffing the old gal I talked to, even though she wouldn’t have hung one of his paintings on her walls.’
Keith grinned. ‘So, how have your first few days at the new job worked out? Enjoying it?’
‘Sure. Getting a murder case right away was a bit of luck.’
Keith grunted. ‘Tell me about it. I did too. So, you found a good place to shack up? I’m still in a cramped bedsit in Summertown. Bit of a dump, but accommodation in Oxford is a nightmare. You’re from Reading, originally, right?’
Gemma took a sip of water. ‘Right, yeah, but my fellah’s from Oxford, so when things started to get serious, I juststopped commuting and moved in with him. Saved me a lot of hassle. Plus, he’s got this really nice place on the Woodstock Road.’
Keith Barrington whistled silently. The north Oxford suburb surrounding the Woodstock and Banbury Roads consisted mostly of large, detached semi-mansions, and was very des res.
‘He’s a don,’ Gemma said, as if reading his mind. ‘St Bede’s. He’s the master of music there. Holds one of those fancy international chairs. Always off to Vienna or Salzburg.’
And totally blind. But Gemma didn’t mention that.
‘Are you musically minded?’ Keith asked curiously, and Gemma laughed.
‘Two tin ears. Well,’ she drained her drink, ‘back to the grindstone. I was going to wait to catch Colin Blake at home this evening, but after this, I think I might take a shufti to his place of business. Scope him out.’ She got up, riffling through her notes for his business address, then raised one slender, plucked brow. ‘Well, well, the Michaelangelo of the Ale and Arty Club is a butcher no less. What would Freud have made of that?’
Keith Barrington dreaded to think.
The pub where they’d chosen to meet was in Adderbury, about mid-way between their locations when she’d called, so Gemma drove the short distance north, towards the old market town of Banbury, whilst Keith, about to interview a mother-and- daughter team in the village of Wootton, took off in the opposite direction.
Gemma’s car was a 7-year-old Fiesta, which she kept immaculately clean and
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