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“Come and sit down,” Tom said, opening the door to the residents’ lounge. Twin black leather sofas and matching armchairs were arranged in a square around a smoked glass coffee table. The carpet was a deep grey, and the only colour came from the scatter cushions, which were liberally scattered. Dilys appeared to have bought a cushion every time she saw one she liked, regardless of colour or design. A sideboard held the makings of tea and coffee, and a plate of foil-wrapped chocolate biscuits. Tom had switched on a standard lamp by one of the armchairs, and the gentle light, after the buzzing fluorescents in the police station, was a balm for Charlie’s aching head.
Tom was dressed in jeans and a dark purple sweater that brought out the colour of his eyes. The room was warm, so he’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing enticing and half-hidden tattoos. There was an open book face down on one of the armchairs; Charlie saw it was something to do with expressionist art, whatever that was. Tom picked the book up and closed it. “I’m supposed to review the blasted thing. I don’t like the pictures and the author can’t write,” he said.
“Why are you here?” Charlie asked. The words came out more sharply than he intended, but he was tired.
“Three reasons. First, I wanted to see you. Second, I want to tell you about the painting students, and third, I need to explain some things.”
Charlie hadn’t entirely given up his hope of a shower and sleep, but this was Tom. Off-limits, family-man Tom. Tom who talked about art and people, rather than about crime. Tom, whose life was not bounded by criminals and sexual assault and dirty cops.
Charlie took his coat off and sat down on one of the sofas, at right angles to Tom.
“Here I am, so that’s one thing off your list.”
“So you are,” Tom said with a smile. “And my evening is all the better for it.” He spoke with such sincerity that Charlie laughed.
“I haven’t been having that effect on many people today,” he said.
“You look exhausted,” Tom said. “I’m sorry, this can all wait until the morning.”
“Tell me about the painting students. Please tell me something solid that I can work with. Show me the money trail. Because everything else is nebulous and fucked-up.”
Tom leaned forward in his armchair and picked up Charlie’s hand. Charlie didn’t stop him, because Tom’s hand was warm, and large, and comforting. Tom’s face was in shadow, but Charlie could smell the Old Spice and the scent of clean clothes.
“I can’t give you anything concrete,” Tom said. “I’m no more a detective than I am a college principal, but I did talk to the two painting tutors. I didn’t want to say too much, so I pretended that there had been complaints about the quality of this year’s intake, especially the new international students. They agreed with every word. Most of the new international students are keen as mustard, but none of them scream talent.”
“How many are there, and what about the other disciplines?” Charlie scoured his brain for what the other disciplines might be. He thought 'making things with junk' probably wasn’t a department. “Sculpture? Photography?”
“There are eight international students who came here intending to specialise in painting, including Kaylan and Rico. My colleagues say that the only one with any talent was Rico. The others are competent, and work hard, but nothing more. Both the tutors I talked to joined the College quite recently, three years ago if memory serves. They thought it was normal to have sub-standard international students,”
“If every one of them paid an extra fifty-thousand dollars …” “… and it had been going on for a few years …”
“Exactly my thoughts,” Tom said. “That’s why I wanted you to know. Not all the international students are from the US, so the amounts might be different, and sometimes we have more or fewer international students. If I can trust David from Finance, the college has never seen a penny of that money.”
Charlie’s mind was racing. It wasn’t the Hatton Garden robbery, or Brinks Mat, but the fraud could be bringing someone, or several someones, getting on for half a million dollars a year, every year for at least the last three.
“The Pepperdines are on their way from Los Angeles,” Charlie said. “We need to know exactly how that money was paid. Did it go into college funds and then disappear, or was it diverted before you ever got it? Do you trust David in Finance?”
Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been principal for a week. I don’t not trust him, or anyone else. I just don’t know. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. If it wasn’t for you and Ann, I would have sat there in that office, wishing I was back in New York, and missed a major fraud, as well as more attacks on our students.” He shook his head despairingly.
Without thinking, Charlie dropped to his knees in front of Tom and held his other hand.
“You’re doing well from where I’m sitting. Being a better detective than me.”
Tom smiled and winked. He had the most flirtatious wink Charlie had ever seen.
“I like where you’re sitting,” he said, and then held his hand out to stop Charlie getting up. “Wait a sec, there’s something else, and it’s probably made it all much worse.”
“Go on.”
“Vitruvious came in while I was talking to David. I didn’t hear him, but he must have heard the tail end of the conversation. He went spare. People come here to learn to paint, Tomos. Proper painting, not cartoon etchings.”
“That would be you, then?”
Tom nodded. “Oh yes. I got the whole lecture. Painting should be passionate whereas I am merely whimsical. It should have a message, blah, blah. He’s obsessed with the poetry of Byron and French Romantic painting. The clue is in the name: Romantic. I’m not against romance, or passion you understand, or indeed messages, but the public today don’t get a message from nineteenth century oil paintings. I shouldn’t let him rile me.”
Charlie had absolutely no idea what any of it meant. It must have shown on his face.
“Sorry,” Tom said. “You’re not interested in my arguments with Vitruvious.”
