If they proved that she had in fact killed all of these people, including Fiona Woods, her name would go down in history along with all the other notorious serial killers. And he would become known as the lead detective of the biggest murder case to ever hit Bath.
He felt no joy at the prospect. In the short time he’d known Alex Taylor she had wormed her way under his skin. Maybe the answer was to walk away. When this was over he could ask for a transfer to Oxford so that he could put it all behind him and be nearer his son. He could then see him more often, instead of trying to fit everything in on these quick visits. These last weeks had taught him one thing: going after someone you liked was the hardest thing.
*
A PC was in the process of shutting the front door, a roll of yellow police tape in his hand, ready to use. Greg asked him for the log book. He flicked through and saw that his team had vacated the flat at 12.15, an hour ago. He asked the officer if he knew why.
‘I don’t think they found much in there, sir. They were in there a few hours, took away a computer and a load of paperwork, but that’s about it. With it being Christmas tomorrow I think they were hoping to get that lot sorted out back at the station. I’m just about to tape the door.’
Greg suspected that the team had chosen the easy option. He knew he should be annoyed with them, knew they would have searched the flat for obvious signs of the crime – blood-stained clothes, the blood of Fiona Woods – but in the short time they were in the place there was surely no way they could have searched it thoroughly. He suspected they had all knocked off early so that they could get to the pub and begin their Christmas celebrations.
He asked the constable to hold off putting the tape over the front door until he’d had a look. He pulled on shoe covers and gloved his hands. The lift behind him dinged as the doors opened and a man stepped out into the carpeted corridor. John Taylor was slim, grey haired and dressed in jeans and blue fisherman’s jumper.
Greg could see a resemblance between him and his daughter in his cheekbones and the shape of his mouth. The man looked haunted, and Greg went to speak to him.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Taylor. May I ask what you’re doing here?’
He nodded at the front door. ‘Probably the same as you – searching for answers. Only I’m looking for ones to prove her innocence.’
Greg nodded sympathetically. ‘I can’t let you in there, sir. I’m sure you realise why.’
The man looked down at the box marked ‘major incident’ set against the wall. It held white zip-up Tyvek suits, slipover plastic shoes, paper masks and gloves, so that whoever traipsed in and out of the place didn’t leave any traces behind, or take trace evidence away with them. ‘What about if I put that lot on?’ Taylor said.
Greg shook his head and John Taylor sighed.
‘My daughter is accused of a double murder. Now that may not mean much to you, you being a police officer, but she’s my daughter and I know she’s innocent, and so while you carry on trying to prove otherwise all I need is a few moments sitting in her place. They had her sedated up at the hospital, so I couldn’t talk to her .?.?. I just need to feel near her.’
The anguish in the man’s eyes grew and Greg made a decision. He might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. He was already expecting a call from the superintendent over his misconduct with Laura. He pulled out a second pair of shoe covers and handed him a pair of gloves. ‘Don’t touch anything, and stay in my sight.’
The two men stepped into the flat and took in the quiet and ordered surroundings. It was nearly as immaculate as the last time Greg had visited. Not a shoe on the floor, or a newspaper discarded on the table, or a cushion out of place. If the other rooms were like this it was no wonder the officers had come and gone so quickly. It would have been an easy search.
The only thing marring the tidiness was the large painting partially unwrapped and resting on bubble wrap on one of the leather sofas. A slim cardboard box was leaning next to it. The painting showed a naked woman lying in a bed, her breasts bare and her hands tugging a red scarf, which was held in the hand of the man exiting the room, as if to pull him back to her. The colours were big and bold and bright. Alex’s father hunched down and inspected it closely. Then he spoke: ‘It is no new thing for the best of men to be falsely accused of the worst crime, by those who themselves are the worst of criminals.’
Greg didn’t have a clue what he was on about. ‘Meaning?’
‘Genesis, chapter 39.’
Greg was surprised. ‘Are you a religious man, Mr Taylor?’
‘No. Merely interested in art. This is a modern version of Potiphar’s Wife. There are several versions, but they all tell the same story.’
‘Which is?’
‘A powerful woman accuses her slave of rape. Joseph was a loyal slave and his master’s wife tried to entice him into her bed. When he refused she told her husband that he had raped her and Joseph was put in prison.’
Greg stared at the painting some more, and then acting on instinct, he called Nathan Bell. He was in luck when the receptionist said he’d just come on duty. As soon as the man said hello, Greg cut in. ‘Nathan. It’s Greg Turner. The night you came to see Alex, was there a painting on one of the sofas?’
The doctor sounded remote, but his answer was immediate. ‘Yes, she’d just received it, by the look of things. It was half unwrapped. Why?’
‘Did she say if she’d bought it or where she got it from?’
‘No, she didn’t. Why? Is it important?’
Greg didn’t know. All he knew was the story behind the painting was making him uneasy. Why would she buy herself a painting like this, especially in view of what she had accused Oliver Ryan of?
He heard an intake of breath on the end of the line and then Nathan Bell spoke again. ‘It was a present! I asked her if it was from her old boyfriend and she said no. But it was a present – she told me it was.’
Alex Taylor’s father was staring at him with hope in his eyes, but Greg wasn’t yet ready to give him any. Aware that the man was listening, he spoke carefully to Nathan Bell. ‘You remember the hospital underground we didn’t get to explore?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Will you meet me there?’
‘Yes. Give me an hour to sort out some cover and then meet me here.’
Greg turned to Alex Taylor’s father. ‘I must ask you to leave now as I have to head back to the station.’
The man nodded. ‘I don’t care where you’re going as long as you’re going in the right direction.’
Greg didn’t know if he was. This could just be a blind alley and he could be building up hope only to have it suddenly come crashing down again. There was probably not the slightest chance of finding anything, but he had to try.
On the way out of the flat he gave instructions to the PC to ring the art gallery who sent the painting and find out who had purchased it, and then to contact him immediately.