Still Waters Read Online Free PDF Page A

pointing him at the bag of King Edwards that sat waiting on the counter. By the time Teresa returned, a worn envelope in her hand, the sister had engaged Resnick in a discussion about New Labour and the pernicious spread of Social Democratic policies.
    â€œWhen I read that Billy Bragg had torn up his party membership card,” she said, “I had to fight hard to restrain myself from doing the same.” She topped and tailed two washed carrots and chopped them into a pot simmering on the stove. “After all the work that young man put into the cause. You remember Red Wedge, Inspector, naturally?”
    Resnick allowed that he might, though it was confused in his mind with Arthur Scargill and the miners’ strike. He knew if he got onto that subject with Sister Bonaventura, he would be there long enough not just to share supper, but to wash the pots as well.
    â€œHere,” Teresa said, rescuing him. “Are these what you’re referring to, I wonder?”
    These were a pair of photographs, Polaroids, both of the later Dalzeil painting, one clearly showing the surround of Miriam Johnson’s wall. Sister Teresa’s name and address were on the envelope, the postmark too smudged to read.
    â€œWhen did you get these?” Resnick asked.
    â€œIt would have been early May, the seventh or the eighth perhaps.”
    â€œAs if you didn’t know,” Sister Bonaventura said.
    Teresa ignored her.
    Reflected in one of the photographs, Resnick could now see, was the blurred image of the man taking the picture—Jerzy Grabianski at work. Resnick remembered the camera they had discovered in his bag.
    â€œWhy are you so interested in him?” Teresa asked. “I mean, why now?”
    â€œTwo paintings—this and another by the same artist—they’ve been stolen.”
    â€œAnd you think Jerry …”
    â€œI think it’s a strong possibility, don’t you? Given his proclivities.”
    â€œAs an art lover.”
    â€œAs a thief.”
    â€œYou didn’t get very far with those potatoes,” Sister Bonaventura remarked.
    â€œYou don’t know for certain that it was him?” Teresa said.
    Resnick shook his head.
    â€œOf course. If you did there would be no need to be shilly-shallying here with me. You’d have him somewhere under arrest. But since presumably all you have are suspicions, if he had been here and made contact with me that would be—what would you call it?—circumstantial evidence.”
    â€œIt might have helped to place him near the scene.”
    â€œOf the crime,” Sister Bonaventura said.
    â€œIt would be my duty, then,” Sister Teresa said a touch regretfully, “to help you if I could?”
    â€œWhat is a crime,” said Sister Bonaventura, “is that these paintings were ever in private hands in the first place. They should be on public view, available to all and sundry. Not just the privileged few.”
    â€œI don’t see our friend Grabianski,” Resnick said, “as some artistic Robin Hood.”
    â€œDon’t you?” Teresa asked.
    â€œMaidens in distress,” Sister Bonaventura said, now peeling the potatoes herself. “A different legend, surely.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ve got a number for him? Any kind of current address?” asked Resnick.
    Sister Teresa said that she did not.
    â€œAh, well …” With a sigh, Resnick rose to his feet.
    â€œYou’re not staying for supper, then?” Sister Bonaventura asked.
    â€œMaybe some other time.”
    Teresa escorted him to the door. “Do you need to borrow these?” she asked, glancing down at the envelope by her side. “If they’d be any help …”
    â€œI don’t think so. Not now, at least.” He looked at her handsome face, unflinching green eyes. “I doubt you’ll be getting rid of them, throwing them away.”
    When he turned back near the