Page 5

Finn pressed his foot lightly against the gas pedal, guiding the red Corvette around a narrow curve. Early afternoon light shone through the windshield, illuminating the dust specks that rested along the dashboard. He glanced at the passenger seat where Doctor Eleanor Matthews sat, her posture upright, eyes trained on the road ahead. Her blonde hair was swept into a low bun, but a few loose strands brushed her cheeks. She hadn't spoken much since they'd driven away from the crime scene. All Finn knew was that she clearly didn't like him so far.

He decided to try conversation, but he could only think of generic questions. “So,” he began, forcing a light note into his voice, “how long have you been an art expert? I mean, did you always want to do this, or was it a surprise career path?”

Eleanor kept her gaze forward. “I studied art history at university,” she said. “Traveled a bit, got involved in curation. One thing led to another.”

Finn nodded, though that was hardly the in-depth answer he’d hoped for. “Ever work in a museum, or mainly in private collections?”

She hesitated. “I spent a couple of years doing restoration work and authentication for various institutions. Private, public, a mix. Then I found myself consulting with certain agencies that needed my expertise.”

She left it at that. Finn glanced at her face—pale, composed, with no sign she wanted to elaborate. He cleared his throat. “And what about, uh, your personal life? Married, family…? I don’t want to pry, but we might be on the road for a while together. Helps to know each other.”

Her hands stiffened against her lap. “There’s nothing relevant to discuss on that front.”

He exhaled softly, wondering if he’d tread on a sore subject. “Look,” he said, “I’m not trying to cross any lines. Just thought we could pass time with some chat, that’s all.”

Eleanor turned her head slightly, her tone guarded. “We could also drive in silence.”

Finn felt a flicker of frustration but tried to keep things calm. “I guess that means I got off on the wrong foot.” He let out a short laugh, a forced attempt to ease the tension. “If so, I’m sorry. Really. I know I can come across as—”

“A man who uses jokes when a woman’s decapitated body is lying in front of him?” Eleanor cut in, voice icy. “Let’s just say that doesn’t sit well with me.”

His jaw clenched, recalling the moment back in that field when he’d made a quip about art or membership. “I didn’t mean to trivialize it,” he said quietly. “You have to understand, sometimes I crack jokes because otherwise I— Well, it’s a coping mechanism. Seeing something that horrific… I’m not sure how else to process it.”

She sighed, shifting in her seat. “I don’t like men talking down to me or dismissing the brutality of what we just witnessed. I’m not some fainting Victorian maiden. I can handle reality without humor.”

Finn nodded, letting that settle. “Ever been involved in many cases like this before?”

She kept her gaze on the road. “I’ve consulted on numerous investigations, yes.”

"What about… physically being at a scene?" he pressed. "With a victim so mutilated, you can barely look?"

For a second, she didn't respond as if weighing how much to divulge. Then: "I've been to a crime scene once, if you're asking whether I've witnessed a body firsthand. But nothing as savage as a decapitation."

Finn flicked his eyes at her profile. “So, no. Not like this.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“All right. Then… let me explain something, if I may.” He took a breath. “When you’re used to this—when you see gore and violence at levels that make most people ill—some of us crack jokes. Firefighters, paramedics, soldiers do it, too. It’s not to minimize the horror; it’s a shield. Helps them keep functioning, helps them stay sane.”

Eleanor’s lips pressed together. “I’m well-versed in human psychology. But fine. You don’t need to keep justifying it to me.”

He nodded, a bit relieved she hadn’t skewered him with another cutting remark. “So we can move on from that, yeah?” He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Because if we’re working this case together, I want us on the same page. It does the victim—and her family—no favors if we’re butting heads.”

She looked down at her lap, then lifted her chin, meeting his gaze for half a second. “Agreed on that count, at least.”

A slight tension eased in Finn’s shoulders. He decided to shift the mood. “So… you like old rock and roll?”

She blinked. “I don’t… mind it.”

Finn grinned, rummaging in the glove compartment. “Excellent. I’ve got a tape somewhere. Give me a second.” The car wobbled slightly on the lane, and Eleanor tensed.

“I would prefer you keep your eyes on the road.”

With a chuckle, he quickly snatched a battered cassette from the compartment and slid it into the ancient stereo. “This Corvette was built before CDs were a thing. Or at least before they became mainstream. She’s a classic, but it’s not always smooth sailing.”

He jabbed the stereo’s button. A scratchy riff of guitar blasted from the speakers, some classic rock tune nearly drowning out the engine’s hum. Finn turned the volume down a notch to be courteous. “Getting her to pass emissions was a nightmare, I’ll admit. But she’s got a soul, you know?”

Eleanor folded her arms. “She might have a soul, but I’d rather not end up dead because you’re fiddling with tapes.”

Finn patted the dashboard. “This baby will take us far. I promise.” He flashed a confident grin.

“Into a ditch, maybe,” Eleanor muttered. But she settled back, allowing the guitar solo to fill the silence. Whatever tension they’d had, at least it seemed to rest now in a truce of sorts.

For the next hour, they navigated the tangled London streets, heading toward the Blackthorn Gallery where Victoria Palmer had apparently been working just before her murder. Finn concentrated on the road, tapping his foot occasionally to the music. Eleanor gazed out the passenger window, silent. He noted the furrow of her brow, guessing she was lost in thought about the case—maybe the painting references at the crime scene.

Eventually, the traffic thickened as they neared a busy commercial district. Sizable buildings rose on either side, old brick facades interspersed with modern steel structures. A line of cabs sat at a curb, waiting for fares. Finn steered the Corvette onto a smaller side street, where the sign for the Blackthorn Gallery caught his eye. He eased the car along until he found a parking space.

The gallery sat in a Victorian-era brick building. Large, arched windows dominated the front, displaying tasteful posters of upcoming exhibitions. A carved sign reading BLACKTHORN GALLERY hung above the elegant double doors, each door inset with frosted glass panels. Potted plants flanked the entrance, though one looked wilted, as if neglected. Overall, it gave an air of quiet prestige, the sort of place that might host private showings for wealthy collectors.

“Well, here we are.” Finn pulled the key from the ignition, letting the engine sputter to a stop. The music clicked off abruptly. He patted the steering wheel. “Thanks for the ride, old girl.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow but said nothing, pushing open the door. Finn climbed out on his side, taking a moment to survey the street: a few pedestrians strolled by, a delivery truck idled near a loading bay, and a low murmur of city hustle formed a backdrop. He caught up to Eleanor as she reached the gallery’s front steps.

“So this is where Victoria Palmer last worked, right?” he said. “Authenticating some painting a few days ago.”

Eleanor nodded. “That’s what Rob said, and it’s in the files we have. She was finishing up an analysis for the gallery. Let’s see who we can talk to.”

They passed through the glass doors into a small foyer. To their right, a sleek reception desk stood beneath a hanging modern chandelier. The interior contrasted with the classic building exterior—spotlights illuminated abstract sculptures, while a large painting of a swirling galaxy took up most of one wall. A sign directed visitors to various exhibition rooms.

A young woman with pinned-up hair and a crisp blouse—likely in her late twenties—stepped forward, looking curiously at Finn and Eleanor. “Welcome to the Blackthorn Gallery. Can I help you?” Her tone was polite but guarded.

Finn cleared his throat. “I’m Finn Wright, a consultant with the Home Office. This is Doctor Matthews. We’re here about Victoria Palmer. She was here recently… We have some news about her.”

The woman’s expression tightened, something close to alarm flickering in her eyes. “Mary Whitmore,” she introduced herself briefly, voice dipping. “I’m Mr. Blackthorn's personal assistant.”

Eleanor glanced around the open space beyond Mary’s shoulder—display stands showcasing paintings and sculptures. Finn noticed the tension in Mary’s posture. He didn’t want to deliver the news harshly, but they needed honesty. “Miss Whitmore,” he said gently, “I’m afraid Victoria Palmer has been killed.”

Mary’s gasp was audible, and her face lost color. “Killed? That’s… That’s horrible. I had no idea.”

Finn studied her reaction, noting the genuine shock. But there was also an undercurrent of something else—apprehension, maybe. “We know Victoria was here a few days ago, authenticating a piece. We’d like to talk to anyone who interacted with her then. Maybe she mentioned something important about her work.”

Mary hesitated, eyes darting toward the corridor leading deeper into the gallery. “Well,” she began slowly, “Victoria mostly spoke to Mr. Blackthorn and I. It was strictly about the painting she was examining. There wasn’t… anything else, to my knowledge.”

Eleanor stepped in. “We’d still like to hear specifics of those conversations. And we’d like to speak with Harrison Blackthorn, too.”

Mary’s mouth pulled tight. “He’s very busy today. A new shipment of works came in, plus we have a private viewing tonight.”

Finn felt a flicker of impatience. “Mary, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I can call in twenty officers and forensic teams, and we’ll have them crawling all over your gallery. That wouldn’t look good for anyone’s reputation, would it?” He slipped his Home Office ID from his pocket, flashing it just enough to underscore his point.

Mary seemed to shrink slightly, swallowing. “All right. One moment, please. I’ll see if he can spare a few minutes.”

She retreated down the corridor, her footsteps echoing on polished flooring. Finn let out a breath. “Sorry to strong-arm her,” he said quietly to Eleanor. “We do need answers.”

Eleanor crossed her arms. “Do you always threaten people?”

He offered a lopsided grin. “Only when my charm doesn’t do the trick.”

She shook her head, turning her attention to a few framed paintings that lined the foyer's walls. Finn watched her move from piece to piece, leaning in to read the small placards describing each artist and date. Despite her aloof manner, she examined the artwork with sincere interest, her head tilting slightly to capture the details. He had to admit she looked calm and competent despite having been unsettled earlier.

Before Finn could comment, footsteps approached again. Mary led a tall man in a tailored navy suit, neatly combed dark hair shot through with silver at the temples. He wore designer glasses with thin frames. His posture conveyed self-assurance—borderline arrogance—and he had a certain polished handsomeness that might appeal to wealthy patrons. This was Harrison Blackthorn, presumably.

He extended a hand, though his expression remained guarded. "Harrison Blackthorn, I understand you're here about Victoria Palmer?"

Finn shook his hand. “Yes, I’m Finn Wright, with the Home Office, and this is Doctor Eleanor Matthews. We’re investigating Victoria Palmer’s death.”

Harrison’s lips parted in a momentary gasp. “But… She was just here a few… This is terrible news! Victoria… What happened to her…?” He trailed off, letting the question dangle, but Finn suspected he wasn’t as clueless as he appeared.

Finn opted for brevity. “She was murdered.”

Harrison’s eyes flickered with something—shock, or perhaps something well-performed. “That’s… appalling. I can’t imagine.”

Eleanor stepped forward. “We’d like more information about her recent work here. She was authenticating a painting, correct?”

“Yes,” Harrison replied, clearing his throat. “A piece we acquired not long ago. We wanted her confirmation before announcing it for display. Unfortunately, she left abruptly, and we never got a final verdict.”

Finn caught the slight twitch at Harrison’s jaw, as though recalling an uncomfortable memory. “Why abruptly?” he asked.

The gallery owner’s mouth thinned. “We had a… disagreement. She suggested it might be a forgery, which, given the funds we’d spent, was not something I wanted to hear. We’d just paid a considerable amount to put it on show soon. Victoria left in frustration, I believe.”

Eleanor nodded. “Would it be possible to see that painting?”

Harrison glanced at Mary, who stood behind him. She gave a small nod, and he sighed. “Fine, follow me. It’s in a private room.”

They trailed him past a series of lit alcoves featuring modern artwork, then down a short hallway to a door marked PRIVATE. Inside was a narrow storage and preparation space with tall easels and racks of paintings. Spotlights on adjustable arms provided focused illumination. A single canvas sat in prominence on a large easel: the piece in question, presumably.

Harrison led them to it. “It’s titled God’s Hand, the Puppet Master . Allegedly a work of the mid-19th century by Elias Balcombe, an English artist known for dark, philosophical themes.”

Finn eyed the painting. It depicted an enormous white hand descending from the top frame, each finger connected to thin strands that dangled downward, manipulating tiny human figures below. The background was a cloudy, muted sky, and the human figures looked anguished, their arms and legs contorted as if controlled by invisible strings.

“It’s… unsettling,” Finn remarked.

Harrison clasped his hands behind his back. “Precisely why certain collectors like it. Symbolic, thought-provoking.”

“But Victoria suspected a forgery,” Finn prompted.

“Yes. Said some details were inconsistent with the period. We hired another expert who authenticated it afterward, though. So presumably, it’s genuine.”

Eleanor stepped closer, leaning in. The overhead lamp revealed textures of paint, cracks along the canvas. She narrowed her eyes. “Well, I’d suggest you get a third opinion.” She pointed at a patch of bright turquoise in the corner. “That pigment looks suspiciously modern. If this was truly mid-1800s, Balcombe wouldn’t have had access to that particular synthetic dye.”

Harrison’s lips tightened. “Are you questioning our second expert’s credentials, Doctor?”

“I’m questioning the painting,” Eleanor shot back calmly. “And, by extension, the gallery that might be promoting a forged piece.”

Finn watched Harrison’s face darken. “We wouldn’t intentionally display a forgery,” he said. “We’re a reputable institution. And I certainly didn’t threaten Victoria over it, if that’s going to be your next question.” A forced smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Finn folded his arms. “So you’re aware the stakes are high, yes? Your gallery’s reputation… finances. If Victoria was right, that means you wasted a fortune, or perhaps risked a scandal.”

Harrison’s eyes flashed. “Are you insinuating I’d harm her to cover embarrassment? Please. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Eleanor gave a faint snort. “Unless your gallery’s reputation were under threat. People do desperate things when money and image are on the line.”

That seemed to push Harrison over the edge. He turned abruptly, stepping away from the painting. "You're both done here. I've answered your questions enough. This is harassment."

Finn raised both palms. “We’re just trying to figure out if Victoria’s suspicion caused friction. That friction could be motive for—”

Harrison cut him off. “Out. Now. I have real work to do.” He waved his hand, nearly dismissing them.

Mary, hovering in the background, appeared anxious, stepping aside to let them leave. Finn caught her eye—she looked torn but said nothing.

Eleanor turned on her heel without a word, heading out the door. Finn lingered an extra moment. “We’ll be in touch, Harrison,” he said quietly. “For now, good day.”

Harrison responded with a tight, forced smile. “Yes, good day.” Then he turned back to the painting, ignoring them.

Finn followed Eleanor down the hallway and past a set of modern sculptures. She didn’t speak until they were outside in the crisp afternoon air. The gallery door clicked shut behind them, leaving them on the sidewalk once more. Cars passed by, a few pedestrians bustled. Finn inhaled, shaking off the confrontation.

“He’s on edge,” Finn muttered. “As if we scraped something raw. I’m guessing he knows more than he’s letting on. But it might be worth not pushing people's buttons unnecessarily.”

Eleanor set her jaw. “But it's okay when you do it? He obviously despises the idea that his expensive painting might be fake. But would he be desperate enough to murder Victoria? That’s the question.”

Finn nodded, stepping toward the Corvette. “True. We should look into him. His background, his finances. See if he had motives beyond bruised pride.”

She glanced up at the gallery’s tall windows. “Agreed.” Her gaze dropped to meet Finn’s. “Let’s not dismiss it.”

Finn ran a hand over his hair, still bristling from the tense exchange. “We’ll dig deeper. Let’s give Rob a heads-up.”

He unlocked the car, Eleanor slipped into the passenger seat, and he settled behind the wheel. As the engine roared to life, he cast one last look at the gallery’s facade. Something about Harrison’s controlled fury made him suspect that beneath the polished exterior, there was a man capable of doing quite a bit to protect his status.

He shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb, thoughts churning. The memory of Victoria Palmer’s decapitated body lingered in his mind, and now the added complication of a potentially forged painting. He knew how greed and reputation could drive people to extremes. If Harrison was hiding a secret, Finn intended to find it, no matter how carefully it was concealed behind the gallery’s sophisticated walls.

As they merged back into the main road, Eleanor said nothing, lost in her own thoughts. Finn respected the silence this time. In their own ways, they were both steeling themselves for the next steps in this case, uncertain just how many twisted turns they’d take before uncovering who had truly cut Victoria’s life short.