Losing Ground by Catherine Aird Page B

view of a house where there has been a mysterious fire. As for the rest, Crosby, we don’t know yet,’ said Sloan, adding absently, ‘but we will one day.’
    ‘There’s something else that’s a bit funny, sir,’ said Crosby. ‘There’s someone in the frame who wants to buy the place…’
    ‘While it’s still smouldering is a bit soon for a fire sale to be on the cards,’ murmured Sloan ironically.
    ‘He says he wanted to buy it before the fire,’ said Crosby. ‘And he says he wrote to Berebury Homes to tell them so.’
    ‘That’s different,’ said Sloan more alertly. ‘What does he want it for? Building twice as many houses on site as all the others?’
    ‘He didn’t say.’
    ‘Check him out, Crosby. Money laundering can take some strange forms.’ So, he sighed, did the transactional fraud on which he should be working this minute.
    Crosby was still looking at the museum’s reproduction of the portrait. ‘Looks as if Sir Francis might have been a bit of a lad to me. He’s a redhead for a start and they usually cause trouble.’ He tilted it to the light and took another look. ‘With an eye for the ladies, I should say. That’s a pretty little wife beside him.’
    ‘I think the artist – any artist – would have seen to that,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan. ‘Probably wouldn’t have got paid if he hadn’t and for your information, Crosby, it’s known as artistic licence.’
    Crosby swept the photograph into a document case. ‘One thing you can say for the camera is that it never lies.’
    Reminding himself to have a little chat later with the detective constable on the subject of evidence as it related to digital photography, Sloan said, ‘And when you’ve seen to the photograph you can find out as much as you can about Sir Francis.’
    ‘But he’s been dead for the best part of two hundred years,’ protested Crosby. ‘Or is it three?’
    ‘Since Nelson lost his eye, anyway,’ agreed Sloan, ‘but it’s not a crime to set light to animal bones and pile them on crushed shells and unless there’s definitely been arson out atTolmie Park, the theft of the portrait and the damage to the display cabinet in the museum are the only offences we’ve got to go on.’ He pointed to Hilary Collins’ note. ‘She says they’re still running through their records of the Anglo-Saxon artefacts in their keeping at the museum.’
    ‘Sounds painful,’ commented Crosby.
    ‘To see if anything’s missing from their collection,’ said Sloan repressively.
    ‘I can’t see anyone wanting to steal bits and pieces like that, either,’ said Crosby.
    ‘And while you’re seeing to the Filligree family history,’ went on Sloan, who had now thought of at least one reason why the Anglo-Saxon pieces could have been taken from the museum, ‘I’m going to try to get hold of an animal osteologist.’
    ‘Beg pardon, sir?’
    Detective Inspector Sloan sighed. ‘An expert on non-human bones. There’ll be one at the university. Bound to be.’ He wasn’t quite as sure of this as he would once have been, media studies seeming to have overtaken the sciences, pure and applied.
    ‘I would have thought a butcher would do.’ Crosby sniffed.
    ‘Very probably but I must remind you, Crosby, that the Courts prefer expert witnesses.’ The fact that the superintendent held them in the deepest distrust, he felt was better kept from the constable’s young ears.
    ‘Or a vet,’ said Crosby mulishly.
    As far as Sloan was concerned he was willing to accept the great interest evinced by the police sniffer dog on site asincontrovertible evidence although he didn’t suppose any Court would.
    ‘What you want, Crosby,’ said Sloan neatly, ‘is not a vet but a Baronetage. And when you’ve found one, we’re going round to the bank.’

CHAPTER NINE
    The Calleshire and Counties Bank maintained their head office in the county town of Calleford. The fine Regency building, situated practically in the shadow of the