by Ian Rankin
“The three regions involved . . . we couldn’t ask a detective from any one of them to act on our behalf.”
Rebus nodded slowly: because it might get back to the three men involved. So instead they’d asked Strathern if he could think of anyone.
And apparently he’d thought of Rebus.
“So these three,” Rebus said, “they’re going to be at Tulliallan?”
“By accident, yes, all three will be on the same course.” The way he said it, Rebus knew it was anything but an accident.
“And you want me in there with them?” Rebus watched Strathern nodding. “To do what exactly?”
“To find out what you can . . . gain their confidence.”
“You think they’ll suddenly open up to a complete stranger?”
“You won’t be a stranger to them, John. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Meaning I’m a bent cop, same as them?”
“Meaning your reputation precedes you,” Strathern repeated.
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. “You and your . . . ‘colleagues’ . . . do you have any evidence at all?”
Strathern shook his head. “The little investigating we’ve been able to do, we can’t find any trace of drugs or money.”
“You’re not asking much of me, are you, sir?”
“I appreciate it’s a tall order, John.”
“Tall? We’re talking Jack and the beanstalk.” Rebus chewed his bottom lip. “Give me one good reason why I should do this.”
“I think you like a challenge. Plus, I’m hoping you dislike dirty cops as much as the rest of us.”
Rebus looked at him. “Sir, there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a dirty cop.” He was thinking of Francis Gray, curious to meet the man.
“But we know they’re wrong, don’t we, John?” the chief constable said, rising to fetch Rebus another pint.
Tulliallan: no more Marber inquiry . . . a short break from the blackouts . . . and a chance to catch up with the man he’d once heard called “the Glasgow Rebus.” The chief constable was studying him from the bar. Rebus knew Strathern didn’t have long to go, retirement looming. Maybe the man was still hungry; unfinished business and all that . . .
Maybe Rebus would do it after all.
Now, in Andrea Thomson’s room, Strathern sat with his hands clasped. “So what’s so urgent?” he asked.
“I haven’t made much headway, if that’s what you’re wondering. Gray, McCullough and Ward act like they barely know each other.”
“They do barely know each other. There was just that one case they worked together.”
“They don’t act like they’ve got riches salted away.”
“How do you expect them to act? Drive around in Bentleys?”
“Have their bank accounts been checked?”
The chief constable was shaking his head. “There’s nothing tucked away in their bank accounts.”
“Maybe in a wife’s name . . . ?”
“Nothing,” Strathern stated.
“How long have they been under investigation?”
Strathern looked at him. “Is that any concern of yours?”
Rebus shrugged. “I just wondered if I was the straw you were clutching at.”
“We’re close to losing them,” Strathern admitted at last. “Gray’s up for retirement in less than a year; McCullough probably won’t be far behind him. And Allan Ward’s disciplinary record . . .”
“You think he’s looking for the early bath?”
“Maybe.” The chief constable was checking his watch, sliding the metal casing up and down his wrist. “I should be getting back.”
“There’s just one thing, sir . . .”
“About time.” Strathern took a deep breath. “Go on then.”
“They’ve got us working an old case.”
“Trying you out as a syndicate, eh? I dare say Archie Tennant’s in charge.”
“He is, yes. Thing is . . .” Rebus paused, considering just how much to tell his boss. “Well, both Gray and me tie to the case.”
Strathern looked interested.
“Gray worked it from his end, and I was liaison when two of Glasgow’s finest came through to Edinburgh on a recce. This was in ’ninety-five, same year as Bernie Johns . . .”
Strathern looked thoughtful. “It’s coincidence,” he said. “Pure and simple.”
“Tennant doesn’t know about . . . ?”
Strathern shook his head.
“And this case wasn’t foisted on him?”
Another shake of the head. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“Gray might think it’s more than just coincidence.”
“I agree, it’s awkward. On the other hand, if you play it right, it could get you closer to him. The pair of you already have something in common. D’you see what I mean?”
“Yes, sir. Do you think maybe somebody could ask?”
“Ask?”
“Ask DCI Tennant why he happened to choose that particular case.”
Strathern looked thoughtful again, pursing his lips. “I’ll see what I can do. That good enough for you?”
“That’s fine, sir,” Rebus said, but he wasn’t sure he believed his own words.
Strathern looked satisfied, and got up from the chair. The two men met by the door. “You first,” the chief constable said. Then he raised a hand and patted Rebus’s shoulder. “Templer’s mad at you, you know.”
“Because without my insights, the Marber case is doomed?”
Strathern accepted the joke. “Because of how hard you threw that mug. She’s taking it personally.”
“All part of the act, sir,” Rebus said, pulling open the door.
As he walked back along the corridor, he thought better of it and wandered downstairs instead to the break-out area. He needed a cigarette, but there were none in his pockets. Looking outside, he noted a distinct shortage of fellow addicts. There was a packet in his room, if he could be bothered walking there. Or he could linger in the hope that some Good Samaritan would come by.
The meeting had failed to put his mind at rest. He wanted to be sure that the Rico Lomax case was just a coincidence. And he couldn’t shrug off the niggling suspicion that perhaps there was less to this than met the eye.
No cabal of worried chief constables.
No drug money.
No conspiracy between Gray, McCullough and Ward.
Just the Rico Lomax case . . . and his own involvement in it. Because John Rebus knew more about Rico Lomax than he was telling.
A hell of a lot more.
Did Strathern know? Was Gray working for Strathern . . . ?
Rebus took the stairs back up to CID two at a time, breathing hard as he made his way back down the corridor. He pushed open the door without knocking, but the chief constable wasn’t there. Andrea Thomson’s office was empty.
Strathern had to be headed to the original building, the castle itself. Rebus knew the way. Moved quickly, ignoring the young uniforms with their clipped “Sir”s. Strathern had paused for a moment to study one of the display cases which lined the main corridor, the corridor facing the now empty parade ground. No chair or parachute; no X-marks-the-spot.
“A moment of your time, sir,” Rebus said quietly.
Strathern’s eyes widened. He pushed open the nearest door. It led to a conference room, empty save for rows of chairs with writing trays attached.
“You want your cover blown?” Strathern spluttered.
“I need more background,” Rebus stated. “On all three of them.”
“I thought we’d discussed all that. The more you know, the more likely they are to suspect —”
“When did they take the money? How did they know about it? How come the three of them ended up working together?”
“John, nothing like that has exactly gone on the record . . .”
“But there must be notes. There must be something.”
Strathern looked wildly about him, as thoug
h fearing eavesdroppers. One thing Rebus knew: if the whole Bernie Johns story was a front, there could be no background, no notes . . .
“All right,” Strathern said, almost in a whisper. “I’ll get you what I can.”
“By tonight,” Rebus added.
“John, that might not —”
“I need it tonight, sir.”
Strathern almost winced. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
The two men locked eyes. Eventually, Rebus nodded. He wondered if he was giving Strathern enough time to concoct a fantasy case. He didn’t think so.
By tomorrow, he could be sure.
“Tonight if possible,” he said, heading for the door. This time, he made straight for his room and those cigarettes.
7
“Where’s your homophobic friend?” Dominic Mann asked.
Siobhan and Mann were seated opposite one another at a tiny window table in a west end café. He was stirring his skimmed decaf latte while she’d already sunk one shot of her double espresso. The inside of her mouth felt coated with a fine residue, and she reached into her bag for the bottle of water she kept there.
“You noticed,” she said.
“I noticed he didn’t want to make eye contact with me.”
“Maybe he’s just shy,” Siobhan offered. She took a mouthful of water, rinsed and swallowed. Mann was glancing at his watch, the face of which he kept on the inside of his wrist. She remembered that her father had done the same, and when she’d asked him why he’d said it was to stop the face getting scratched. Yet the glass itself had been almost opaque with abrasions.
“I have to open at ten,” the art dealer said.
“You didn’t feel like going to the funeral?” By which she meant Edward Marber’s funeral, which had started almost half an hour ago at Warriston Crematorium.
Mann shuddered. “I can’t stand them. I was actually relieved to have an excuse.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“So what is it I can do for you?” The top two buttons of Mann’s yellow shirt were undone, and he’d hooked a finger into the opening.
“I’m wondering about Edward Marber. If he’d been cheating . . . how would he have gone about it?”
“Depends who he was cheating: clients or artists?”
“Let’s try both.”
Mann took a deep breath and raised one eyebrow. “Five minutes, you said?”
Siobhan smiled. “Maybe it depends how fast you talk.”
Mann unhooked the finger from his shirt and went back to stirring his latte. It looked like he had no intention of actually drinking it. As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the window. Office staff were dragging their feet to work.
“Well, dealers can cheat potential buyers in all sorts of ways. You can exaggerate the importance of an artist, or the rarity and value of a piece by a deceased artist. You can offer fakes — those are the cases that usually make the headlines . . .”
“You don’t think Mr. Marber was dealing in fakes?”
Mann shook his head thoughtfully. “Nor was he passing along stolen works. But then, if he was, it’s unlikely anyone in Edinburgh would know.”
“How so?”
His eyes turned to her. “Because such transactions tend to be sub rosa.” He saw her eyes narrow. “Under the table,” he explained, watching her nod of understanding.
“And what about cheating the artists themselves?” she asked.
Mann shrugged. “That could mean several things. One would be charging too high a commission — hardly cheating, but an artist might not see it that way.”
“Commissions tend to be what?”
“Anywhere between ten and twenty-five percent. The better-known the artist, the lower the commission.”
“And someone like Malcolm Neilson . . . ?”
Mann pondered this. “Malcolm’s well enough known in the UK . . . and has his collectors in the States and the Far East . . .”
“He doesn’t live like a rich man.”
“You mean his pied-à-terre? The Stockbridge Colonies?” Mann smiled. “Don’t be fooled. He uses that place as a studio. He has a much larger house in Inveresk and recently added a home in the Perigord to his property portfolio, if rumors are to be believed.”
“So just because he was left out of the Colorists doesn’t mean he’s hurting?”
“Not financially, at any rate.”
“Meaning?”
“Malcolm has an ego, same as any other artist. He doesn’t like to feel excluded.”
“You think that’s why he says Marber was cheating?”
Mann shrugged. He’d finally given up stirring the latte and was now testing the temperature of the tall glass cup with the tips of his fingers. “Malcolm doesn’t just think himself a Colorist: he feels he should be leading the group.”
“They came to blows apparently.”
“So the story goes.”
“You don’t believe it?”
He looked at her. “Have you asked Malcolm?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe you should. You might also ask him why he was at Edward’s gallery that night.”
Siobhan suddenly had trouble swallowing the last of her espresso. It felt like sludge. She reached for the water bottle again. “You were there?” she finally managed to ask.
Mann shook his head. “I wasn’t invited. But we dealers . . . we’re always keen to know how the competition’s doing. I just happened to be passing in a taxi. The place looked sadly busy.”
“And you saw Malcolm Neilson?”
Mann nodded slowly. “He was standing on the pavement outside, like a child at the window of a toy shop.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Mann grew thoughtful again, turning to face the outside world. “Maybe it was the company you were keeping,” he said.
Back in her car, Siobhan checked her messages: three from Davie Hynds. She called him at St. Leonard’s.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Just wondered how the funeral went.”
“I didn’t go.”
“That puts you in a distinct minority. Half of St. Leonard’s seems to be there.”
Siobhan knew they’d be on the lookout for possible suspects, taking names and addresses from anyone attending the ceremony. “Are you at the station?” she asked.
“Right now, I think I am the station. It was pretty much a skeleton crew over the weekend, too . . .”
“I didn’t know you were working this weekend.”
“Thought I’d show willing. Have you heard the news?”
“No.”
“Marber’s bank statements . . . seems he was renting a self-storage unit at a place down in Granton. Had been for the past month. I went there for a look-see, but it was empty. Owner says he doesn’t think Marber had been near the place.”
“So what was he planning to do with it?”
“Maybe use it for storing paintings?”
“Maybe.” But Siobhan sounded skeptical.
“Neither his secretary nor Cynthia Bessant knew anything about it.”
“Did you happen to drop by Madame Cyn’s again?” Siobhan asked archly.
“Had to put a few questions to her . . .”
“Over a glass or two of wine?”
“Don’t worry, I took a chaperone.” Hynds paused. “So if you gave the funeral a miss, whereabouts are you?”
“I’m in town. I was thinking of paying the artist another visit.”
“Malcolm Neilson? What for?”
“New information. Neilson went to the private viewing.”
“How come no one said?”
“I don’t think he went in, just loitered on the pavement.”
“Says who?”
“Dominic Mann.”
There was another pause. “You’ve been talking to him?”
“He called it in,” Siobhan lied. She didn’t want Hynds to know she’d gone to Mann without him. They might yet turn out to be partners
after all . . . More than that, she was aware that she needed an ally at St. Leonard’s. It wasn’t just the loss of Rebus or the appearance of Derek Linford. She knew she couldn’t be everywhere at once and would have to depend on others, forging alliances, not making enemies. The next step on the promotion ladder might be a way off, but that didn’t mean she could afford to relax . . .
“I didn’t see anything about it,” Hynds was saying.
“He got me on my mobile.”
“Funny, it’s been switched off whenever I’ve tried . . .”
“Well, he did.”
There was a longer silence between them. She knew he was working it out.
“Want me with you when you talk to Neilson?” Hynds asked quietly. He knew.
“Yes,” she replied, too quickly. “Want to meet me there?”
“All right. Half an hour?”
“Fine.” She thought of something. “Have the victim’s credit cards turned up yet?”
“Not a single transaction.”
Which was curious in itself: when you stole credit cards, you used them hard and fast before a stop could be put on them. Eric had been talking to her about Internet fraud: nowadays, shopping was twenty-four/seven. A credit-card thief could max out overnight, the purchases delivered to safe addresses. If you’d been on a night out and your cards were lifted, by the time you woke up and discovered they were gone, it was already too late. Why would an attacker take the cards and then not use them? Answer: to make the attack look like a simple robbery, when it was anything but . . .
“I’ll see you at Neilson’s,” she said. She was about to cut the call when something struck her. “Hang on, do you have Neilson’s number?”
“Somewhere.”
“Better phone first. He has another place out at Inveresk.”
“If he knows we’re coming, won’t he try setting his lawyer on us again?”
“I’m sure you could dissuade him. If he’s at Inveresk, call me back: I can pick you up on the way.”
But Malcolm Neilson wasn’t at Inveresk. He was in his row house, wearing the same clothes as before. Siobhan doubted he’d washed or shaved in the intervening time. Hadn’t tidied either.
“Just a couple more questions,” she said, keeping things brisk. She didn’t bother sitting down, and neither did Hynds. The painter had slumped between the loudspeakers again. His fingers were stained and smeared, and she could smell paint fumes coming from the attic.
