Losing Ground by Catherine Aird Page A

work.
    ‘And, of course, we need to brief our boss on the extent of the damage,’ said Hitchin. ‘As soon as possible.’
    Detective Inspector Sloan sighed. The person he had to brief was Superintendent Leeyes, sitting like a waiting spider at the centre of a web. When it came to deploying his own meagre resources the way ahead was less clear. In theory, police reinforcements should be being summoned as of now but they shouldn’t be called out at all just for a case of arson already being investigated and a possible prank.
    ‘The development here is of great importance for the economy of this part of Calleshire,’ said Mansfield in the high-handed tone he used for everyone who wasn’t either an architect or a client. Actually some clients got the high-handed tone, too, should they show signs of wanting their own way and not his.
    Detective Inspector Sloan sighed again. If there was one thing that wasn’t the concern of the constabulary, it was the economy.
    Derek Hitchin was taking a great interest in the burnt-out shell of the billiard room. ‘Thank God we’ve got the drawings.’
    ‘What drawings?’ said Sloan.
    ‘Architectural ones.’ Hitchin nodded in the direction of the building. ‘We had to have a full survey done when we applied for Listed Building Consent, didn’t we, Randolph?’
    ‘We did. Delay will be a factor when it comes to restoration, though,’ said Mansfield.
    ‘If it does, that is,’ said Hitchin. ‘The planning officer may look kindly on the demolition of this section, although if you were to ask me I would say that repairing this wreck shouldn’t be too difficult.’
    Randolph Mansfield turned to Sloan. ‘Delay, Inspector, is the biggest weapon in the armoury of the local authority.’
    ‘And time’s money,’ said Hitchin.
    Sloan, professionally interested in weapons, considered this one – delay – with detachment. Who wielded the weapon could be important, too. Even now. Then there was the old Viking tradition that whoever removed a weapon from a death wound was obliged to avenge it. He turned back from this intriguing thought to look at the bare bones of the damaged building, such rafters as remained looking for all the world like ribs. He gave the two men from Berebury Homes a long look and said, ‘But you will understand that as far as our investigations go, gentlemen, your money and your time don’t come into the equation.’
    There was something surprisingly satisfying, decided Detective Inspector Sloan, about sitting back in his own chair in his own office. He found he relished it. He pulled his chair up to the desk – his desk – and drew his in-tray towards him. There was the usual pile of routine communications waiting for his attention but, sifting quickly through the dross, he found the one that he was looking for: the message from the Greatorex Museum.
    It was from Hilary Collins and was accompanied by aprinted copy of the museum’s thumbnail photograph of the missing portrait of Sir Francis Filligree. Sloan studied the picture before handing it over to Detective Constable Crosby. ‘Get that blown up, will you, Crosby? As big an enlargement as you can.’
    The constable gave it a cursory glance. ‘Wouldn’t have thought that was worth stealing myself, would you, sir?’
    ‘Somebody did,’ said Sloan briefly.
    ‘But,’ persisted Crosby, ‘what would you want to steal something like that for?’
    ‘Money, maybe,’ said Sloan, adding slowly, ‘Or maybe not.’
    ‘Not my money,’ said Crosby firmly.
    ‘Or the view, perhaps.’ The constable’s money, Sloan knew, went on taking advanced driving courses.
    Crosby screwed up his eyes. ‘There isn’t much of that in the picture apart from the man and his wife. Just some trees in the long grass and the house.’
    ‘And a particular view of the house that isn’t visible anymore. That’s what the lady at the museum said. A view of great interest to the conservation officer at the council, too, and a