Page 20

Finn trudged down the corridor of Constabulary HQ, an ache still pulsing at the back of his skull. It was mid-afternoon, and daylight filtered through the high windows, casting a dull glow on the polished linoleum floors. He kept one hand tucked into his pocket while the other adjusted the collar of his jacket. Every step jarred the faint bruise on his head, but he tried to ignore it—he had no time to be laid up.

Beside him, Amelia walked with a brisk pace that matched his. She was the picture of steady resolve, though her gaze flickered to him with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked softly, voice tinged with worry. “That was a nasty knock you took in the warehouse. You could have a concussion.”

Finn managed a crooked grin. “I’m fine. Had worse. Got to focus on stopping the next murder.”

Amelia pressed her lips together. “You should at least see a doctor. Just to be safe.”

He shook his head. “No time for that. The killer’s still out there planning something. And from what we’ve seen, it’s going to be big. If I lie in a hospital bed, we lose precious hours.”

She exhaled a breath. “All right, but at least promise me if you feel dizzy or nauseous, you’ll stop. You’re no good to anyone if you pass out mid-investigation.”

Finn dipped his chin in a small nod. “I can manage. Thanks, though.” He glanced at the thick file Amelia carried. “You planning to sit in on Gerard’s interview?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” Amelia replied, hugging the file to her chest. “Thought I might be of some use here.”

Finn grinned. “I’d appreciate the help. We’re hoping Gerard cracks about the forgeries. Maybe he’ll slip up, mention the killer’s identity, or at least reveal who’s forging these paintings.”

Amelia gave a determined nod. “Then let’s do it.”

They reached a set of double doors leading to the interview rooms. A brief hush enveloped them—the hallmark of the deeper recesses of a police station where tense interrogations and confessions happened daily. There, in the hallway outside Room 3, Eleanor stood waiting, arms folded, her face unreadable.

Amelia approached her first. “Hey, Eleanor. How are you… after everything?”

Eleanor looked up, brushing a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Mostly relieved. I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly, her eyes flicking to Amelia with a sincerity that softened her usually guarded expression. “You saved us back there.”

Amelia offered a faint smile. “All in a day’s work. But I’m glad I arrived in time.” She handed the file to Finn for a moment, then faced Eleanor fully. “I hear you’re about to interview Gerard with Finn?”

Finn nodded. “Yes, we’re going to see if he’ll talk about the forging ring.” He glanced between the two women. “Actually, Amelia was offering to sit in with us. The more, the merrier.” He tried to keep his tone light, though the stakes weighed heavily on all of them.

Eleanor’s face fell briefly, her lips tightening. “Oh… I thought it might just be me and Finn.” Then she caught herself, forcing a slight smile. “But if you want in, that’s fine too.”

Amelia sensed a flicker of disappointment in Eleanor’s eyes. She held up a conciliatory hand. “Not in place of you—just with you. We can tackle him together, the three of us. I’m sure you both already have your dynamic.”

Eleanor’s posture eased. “That… yes. That sounds good.” She seemed on the verge of saying something else when Amelia’s phone rang, the shrill tone echoing down the corridor.

Amelia pulled it out quickly. “Winters,” she answered, stepping aside. A short pause, then her eyes widened. “He’s been sighted? Where?” Another pause, and she let out a sharp exhale. “On my way.”

She hung up, turning to Finn. “They’ve just spotted Wendell Reed near Loughton. I need to go—could be our only chance to apprehend him.”

Finn gently squeezed her hand, a moment of silent support. “Stay safe. If you corner him, don’t take risks.” He locked eyes with her, fighting the urge to demand she wait for extra backup. But he knew Amelia well enough—she’d never slow her pursuit of Reed.

Amelia’s grip tightened. “I’ll be careful,” she promised. “Knock Gerard around a bit for me, all right?” With a final nod to Eleanor, she spun on her heel and strode briskly down the hall, disappearing past the double doors.

A beat of silence lingered. Finn exhaled, still feeling the faint sting in his head, but also anxious about Amelia’s chase. He forced himself to refocus. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing at the interview room door.

Eleanor squared her shoulders. “Yes, let’s see if Gerard wants to talk about the forgeries.”

Inside Interview Room 3, the walls were a dull beige, and a large mirror glinted on one side—obviously the observation window for any watchers. A small metal table and three chairs occupied the center of the room. Gerard Philips, the stocky man who seemed to be pulling the strings at the warehouse, sat with his arms crossed. A solicitor in a neat gray suit perched beside him, carefully reading some documents.

Finn and Eleanor entered, the door clicking shut behind them. Finn stepped forward, placing a slim file on the table. “Gerard Philips, just to keep everything official considering we have already met under the worst of circumstances, I’m Finn Wright, consultant detective working with the Met. This is Dr. Eleanor Matthews, who’s assisting us on an ongoing murder investigation.”

Gerard flicked his gaze between them, a spark of defiance in his eyes. “You’re the ones who crashed our warehouse and assaulted my men. Makes sense you’re not real police—just some half measure.”

Eleanor shot Finn a warning look but kept her voice steady. "We're authorized by the Home Office. You know that. So, let's not waste time with insults. You're in hot water after trying to have us killed."

Finn took a seat across from Gerard, motioning for Eleanor to sit beside him. The solicitor folded his arms, glaring. “My client is here under protest,” the solicitor said. “We’ll be making a formal complaint about your conduct at the warehouse and assaulting his men.”

Finn leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s your right. But let’s talk about the reason we were there in the first place: forged paintings stored on your premises. We found a crate containing fakes. Care to explain?”

Gerard smirked, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Don’t know anything about that. I run a legitimate shipping business.”

Eleanor let out a calm breath. “Gerard, we’re aware your warehouse has ties to an illicit operation forging and swapping out genuine artworks. We also have reason to believe these forgeries tie into three murders—where victims were posed to replicate famous paintings.”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “This is speculation. Unless you have conclusive evidence, my client denies any wrongdoing.”

Finn’s voice turned steely. “We do have evidence. We have the forgeries at the warehouse, and your veiled threats, followed up by Frankie Govan trying to shoot us. Enough to charge you with attempted murder, at least. You attacked us with lethal force. You're going away for years.”

Gerard’s eyes narrowed. “I never told anyone to shoot you. If some guard got overzealous, that’s not my fault.”

“Right,” Finn said, letting the sarcasm drip. “You specifically requested Frankie Govan to tie up loose ends.”

The solicitor bristled. “We’ll see about that. My client will not be answering any further questions. It’s highly irregular that his accusers should be the interviewers. We demand the interview be processed by someone who isn't directly involved.”

Finn exhaled through his nose. “I see. So no discussion about who’s forging these paintings? Who’s behind the operation? Because let me remind you: if we link these forgeries to homicide, you’re an accessory.”

Eleanor spoke up, voice controlled but urgent. “Gerard, people have been murdered in connection with these fakes. If you withhold information, you’re complicit. The Crown might offer a reduced sentence if you cooperate. But if you stay silent and more people die, the consequences could be severe.”

“We can give you a deal if you give us information,” Finn said.

Gerard’s jaw tightened. He shot the solicitor a look. The solicitor said blandly, “Let me speak with my client in private.”

Finn looked between them, then at Eleanor. He nodded. “Fine. Five minutes.” He and Eleanor stood, stepping out into the corridor, letting the door close.

In the hallway, Eleanor inhaled sharply. “He’s stonewalling us. If he doesn’t name the forger, we’re back to square one. But his solicitor knows he's going down one way or another.”

Finn rubbed the back of his neck, the bruise flaring a little. “Let’s hope he’s not just bluffing. If these murders keep escalating, we need a name—someone forging these classics, someone with access to the real paintings. It might be how the killer is picking targets.”

Eleanor’s expression darkened. “Yes. And if we can’t get that info from Gerard, we have no leads. Unless Blackthorn or someone else flips.”

Finn set a hand on the doorknob. “Let’s give them their five minutes. After that, we’ll see if the threat of prison time breaks him.”

They lingered, the corridor bustling with officers passing by. Voices drifted from other rooms—suspects, victims, all manner of police business. Time stretched painfully, each second a reminder that the killer could be finalizing the next murder.

Finally, Finn checked his watch. “All right,” he said softly, turning back to the interview room door. “Let’s do this.”

They re-entered the room. Gerard's solicitor stood beside his client, arms folded. "We're prepared to cooperate," he said, though his tone suggested reluctance. "But only if the Crown offers a deal regarding charges. If we deliver names, we want a lesser sentence."

Finn resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “We can discuss that with the CPS. Right now, we need to know who’s forging these paintings. That’s our priority.”

Gerard swallowed, then let out a slow breath. “Fine. I’ll give you what I know. But trust me, it’s not just one guy or gal. There’s a whole ring of them—at least twenty artists working in secret studios. They replicate artworks to near perfection, then swap them out under cover of legitimate shipping. All above my pay grade, but I get a cut for letting them store the crates in my warehouse.”

Eleanor’s jaw clenched, absorbing the revelation. “Twenty forgers? That’s a huge operation. We need names.”

The solicitor gestured. “They’ll have them as soon as the deal is signed. We’re not turning them over for free.”

Finn narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see about that. But we’ll start drafting the paperwork with the prosecutors. In the meantime, you’ll remain in custody. Understood?”

Gerard nodded, eyes flicking away.

Sighing, Finn closed the file on the table. “All right. We’ll make arrangements. Let’s go, Eleanor.”

They exited the interview room, leaving Gerard and his solicitor behind. Once in the corridor, Finn shut the door gently, relief and frustration mingling in his chest. “So we’ll have to wait a day or so for them to finalize an agreement,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

Eleanor offered a grim nod. “Yes. Meanwhile, we don’t know if the person who’s orchestrating these murders is potentially one of those twenty forgers. The killer might be someone else connected to the ring, or a victim of it. Someone who bought an expensive dud, for example, or some middleman who never got paid for being involved and wants revenge.”

Finn paused by a bulletin board lined with mugshots. "I had a thought: maybe it's not the forgers themselves killing people. Possibly, it's someone who discovered the truth about the forgeries, or was involved in verifying them, or ironically trying to hide them. Revenge or fear of exposure, something along those lines."

Eleanor’s eyes flickered with realization. “True. But who else might be involved in the process besides the shippers and the forgers? Who…" She toyed with the end of her sleeve. "Hang on! We're looking at this the wrong way round. Who are the victims ? Victoria Palmer was specifically asked to authenticate The Cornfield . She found something off—remember they argued? Was she killed because she knew the painting was fake?”

Finn snapped his fingers, epiphany sparking. “Yes! And the second victim, Edmund Garner, also had dealings with the gallery. Townsend, the third victim, too. Could be all of them discovered the paintings were forgeries at some point. And the killer needed them silenced.”

Eleanor frowned. “But who else authenticated the paintings? It can’t just be Victoria Palmer in every case.”

“Exactly.” Finn yanked out his phone, pressing speed dial for the Blackthorn Gallery. “Let’s see if we can confirm who handled authentication for some of the other works we’ve found. If it’s the same person that worked on the paintings connected to the case, that’s a direct lead.”

Eleanor nodded. “Yes. That’s a good angle.”

After a couple rings, a male voice answered. “Blackthorn Gallery, David Smythe speaking.”

“David, it’s Finn Wright, the consultant working with the Met on the murder case,” Finn said, glancing at Eleanor. “I need to know: for the paintings suspected of being fakes, who authenticated them besides Victoria Palmer? Do you keep records of that?”

David’s voice wavered. “Um, yes, we do keep records, but we can’t release—”

"Murders, David," Finn cut him off firmly. "We're dealing with a serial killer. Either help us, or we'll get a warrant. Who's the authenticator?"

A flustered pause. “Okay, okay. I see… We had a second authenticator for two of the suspicious paintings—Ely Abrams. He’s an independent specialist the gallery sometimes hires.”

Finn shot Eleanor a triumphant look. “Thank you, David. Text me his contact details. This might be critical.”

David hesitated. “Sure, I’ll do it now. Good luck.”

Finn ended the call, exhaling. "We've got a name: Ely Abrams. Another authenticator, possibly the one who verified or flagged these paintings as forgeries. He might be a target, or he might have answers."

Eleanor’s eyes sparked with renewed purpose. “Then let’s find Ely Abrams.”