by Ian Rankin
“Can I phone a friend?” he asked gruffly.
“You can even ask the audience if you think it’ll help,” Hynds answered.
Neilson proffered a snort and the beginnings of a smile.
“Did you ever have a fight with Edward Marber?” Siobhan asked.
“Depends what you mean.”
“I mean a stand-up fight?”
“You never knew him, did you? He couldn’t punch his way through a prawn cracker.”
Looking at the empty tinfoil cartons on the floor, Siobhan deduced that Neilson’s last meal had been Chinese.
“Did you hit him?” Hynds asked.
“I just gave him a bit of a push, that’s all. Eddie always liked to get up close, didn’t seem to know the meaning of personal space.”
“Where was this?” Siobhan asked.
“In the chest.”
“I mean, was it here?”
“At his gallery.”
“After he’d turned you down for the exhibition?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s all it was — a push?”
“He stumbled back, fell over some canvases.” Neilson shrugged.
“And you haven’t been back to the gallery since?”
“Wouldn’t wipe my arse on the place.”
“Really?” The question came from Hynds. Something about his tone of voice alerted the artist.
“Okay, I went there the night of the opening.”
“Did you go in?” Siobhan asked quietly.
“I’m assuming someone saw me, so you know damned fine I didn’t.”
“What were you doing there, Mr. Neilson?”
“The specter at the feast.”
“You wanted to taunt Mr. Marber?”
The artist ran a hand through his hair, further disturbing it. “I don’t know what I wanted exactly.”
“To make a scene?” Hynds suggested.
“If I’d wanted one of those, I’d have gone inside, wouldn’t I?”
“How long were you there?”
“Not long. Five, ten minutes.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I saw fat people pouring champagne down their throats.”
“I meant anything suspicious.”
Neilson shook his head.
“Did you recognize any of the guests?” Siobhan asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“A couple of journalists . . . a photographer . . . a few of Eddie’s buyers.”
“Such as?”
“Sharon Burns . . . It was galling to see her there. She’s bought a few of my paintings in the past . . .”
“Anyone else?”
“Morris Cafferty . . .”
“Cafferty?”
“The businessman.”
Siobhan nodded. “Does he own any of your own works?”
“I think he’s got one, yes.”
Hynds cleared his throat. “Did you happen to see any other artists?”
Neilson glowered at him, while Siobhan seethed that they’d gone off the subject of Cafferty. “Joe Drummond was there,” the artist admitted. “I didn’t see Celine Blacker, but no way she’d pass up free booze and the chance to be fawned over.”
“What about Hastie?”
“Hastie doesn’t do many parties.”
“Not even when he has paintings to sell?”
“He leaves that to the dealer.” Neilson’s eyes narrowed. “You like his stuff?”
“It has its moments,” Hynds offered.
Neilson shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief.
“Can I ask one more thing, Mr. Neilson?” Siobhan interrupted. “You’ve said that Edward Marber was a cheat. I’m not sure who he was cheating.”
“Bloody everyone. He’d sell a painting for full whack, then tell the artist he had to knock a bit off to secure the sale.”
“And how did that cheat the buyer?”
“Because they could probably have got it for the cheaper price. And take something like the New Colorists, that’s just bloody marketing hype. Means he can bump up his prices again.”
“No one has to buy if they don’t want to,” Hynds said.
“But they do buy, especially after Eddie’s patter’s done its trick.”
“You sell your own works direct, Mr. Neilson?” Siobhan asked.
“Dealers have got the market sewn up,” Neilson spat. “Bloodsucking bastards that they are . . .”
“So who represents you?”
“A London gallery: Terrance Whyte. Not that he seems to have what it takes . . .”
Outside, after another fifteen minutes of fairly unproductive grumbling from the artist, Siobhan and Hynds stepped onto the pavement. Siobhan’s car was curbside, Hynds double-parked alongside.
“He’s still talking about Marber in the present tense,” Siobhan commented.
Hynds nodded. “As if the murder hasn’t really affected him.”
“Or maybe he’s read the same psychology books we have, and knows it looks good for him.”
Hynds considered this. “He saw Cafferty,” he said.
“Yes, I wanted to thank you for getting us away from that particular topic so promptly.”
Hynds paused to think back, then muttered an apology. “Why are you so interested in Cafferty?”
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard about Cafferty and DI Rebus.”
“What about them, Davie?”
“Just that they . . .” Hynds seemed finally to realize that he was digging himself into a hole. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You sure about that?”
He stared at her. “Why didn’t you take me with you to see Dominic Mann?”
She scratched at her ear, looking around before focusing on Hynds. “Know what his first question to me was? ‘Where’s your homophobic friend?’ That’s why I didn’t take you. I thought I might get more out of him if you weren’t there.” She paused. “And I did.”
“Fair enough,” Hynds said, his shoulders dropping, hands seeking the shelter of his pockets.
“What are Neilson’s paintings like, do you know?” Siobhan asked, keen to change the subject.
Hynds’s right hand appeared from its pocket, clutching four postcards. They were works by Malcolm Neilson. They had titles like First Impressions Count Last and Seeing How You Already Know. The titles didn’t go with the paintings: field and sky; a beach with cliff face; moorland; a boat on a loch.
“What do you think?” Hynds asked.
“I don’t know . . . I suppose I’d expected something a bit more . . .”
“Abstract and angry?”
She looked at him. “Exactly.”
“Abstract and angry don’t sell,” Hynds explained. “Not to the people who decide which prints and postcards they’ll foist on the public.”
“How do you mean?”
Hynds took the postcards and waved them at her. “These are where the big money is. Greeting cards, framed prints, wrapping paper . . . Ask Jack Vettriano.”
“I would if I knew who he was.” She was thinking: hadn’t Dominic Mann mentioned him . . . ?
“He’s a painter. The couple dancing on the beach.”
“I’ve seen that one.”
“I’ll bet you have. He probably makes more from card sales and the like than he does from his paintings.”
“You’re joking.”
But Hynds shook his head, pocketing the postcards. “Art’s all about marketing. I was speaking to a journalist about it.”
“One of the ones from the viewing?”
Hynds nodded. “She’s art critic for the Herald.”
“And I wasn’t invited?” He looked at her, and she took the point: just like her and Dominic Mann. “Okay,” she said, “I asked for that. Go on about marketing.”
“You need to get artists’ names known. Plenty of ways to do that. The artist can cause a sensation of some kind.”
“Like whassername with he
r unmade bed?”
Hynds nodded. “Or you stir up interest in some new school or trend.”
“The New Scottish Colorists?”
“The timing couldn’t be better. There was a big retrospective last year of the original Colorists — Cadell, Peploe, Hunter and Fergusson.”
“You got all this from your art critic?”
He held up a single digit. “One phone call.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Siobhan dug into her pocket for her mobile, punched in a number and waited till it was answered. Hynds had taken the postcards out again and was flicking through them.
“Is anyone speaking to the competition?” Siobhan asked him.
Hynds nodded. “I think Silvers and Hawes did the interviews. They talked to Hastie, Celine Blacker and Joe Drummond.”
“Does this Hastie have a first name?”
“Not for professional purposes.”
There was no answer from the phone. Siobhan shut it off. “And did anything come of the interviews?”
“They went by the book.”
She looked at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning they didn’t know what questions to ask.”
“Unlike you, you mean?”
Hynds rested a hand against Siobhan’s car. “I’ve taken a crash course in Scottish art. You know it and I know it.”
“So speak to DCS Templer; maybe she’ll let you do a fresh lot of interviews.” Siobhan noted some reddening on Hynds’s neck. “You already spoke to her?” she guessed.
“Saturday afternoon.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it looked like I thought I knew better than her.”
Siobhan muffled a smile. “You’ll get used to her,” she said.
“She’s a ball-breaker.”
The smile disappeared. “She’s just doing her job.”
Hynds’s lips formed an O. “I forgot she’s a friend of yours.”
“She’s my boss, same as she is yours.”
“Way I heard it, she’s grooming you.”
“I don’t need grooming . . .” Siobhan paused, sucked in some air. “Who’ve you been talking to? Derek Linford?”
Hynds just shrugged. Problem was, it could have been anyone really: Linford, Silvers, Grant Hood . . . Siobhan punched the number back into her phone.
“DCS Templer’s got to be tough on you,” she said, controlling her voice. “Don’t you see? That’s her job. Would you call her a ball-breaker if she was a bloke?”
“I’d probably call her something worse,” Hynds said.
Siobhan’s call was picked up this time. “It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke here. I have an appointment with Mr. Cafferty . . . just wanted to check we were still okay.” She listened, glanced at her watch. “That’s great, thank you. I’ll be there.” She quit the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“Morris Gerald Cafferty,” Hynds stated.
“Big Ger to those in the know.”
“Prominent local businessman.”
“With sidelines in drugs, protection and God knows what else.”
“You’ve had run-ins with him before?”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything. The run-ins had been between Cafferty and Rebus; at best she’d been a spectator.
“So what time are we seeing him?” Hynds asked.
“ ‘We’?”
“I assume you’ll want me to cast an expert eye over his art collection.”
Which made sense, even though Siobhan was loath to admit it. Hynds’s phone sounded now, and he answered it.
“Hello, Ms. Bessant,” he said, winking at Siobhan. Then he listened for a moment. “Are you sure?” He was staring at Siobhan now. “We’re not far away, actually. Yes, five minutes . . . see you there.” He finished the call.
“What is it?” Siobhan asked.
“One of Marber’s own paintings. Looks like someone’s walked off with it. And guess what: it’s a Vettriano . . .”
They drove to Marber’s gallery, where Cynthia Bessant was waiting for them, still dressed in black from the funeral and with her eyes reddened from crying.
“I drove Jan back here . . .” She nodded towards the back office, where Marber’s secretary was fussing with paperwork. “She said she wanted to get straight back to work. That’s when I noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Siobhan asked.
“Well, there was a painting Eddie liked. He’d kept it at home for a while, then decided to hang it in his office here. That’s where I thought it was, which is why I didn’t say anything when it wasn’t with the rest of his collection at home. But Jan says he decided it might get stolen from the gallery, so he took it home again.”
“Could he have sold it?” Hynds asked.
“I don’t think so, David,” Bessant said. “But Jan is checking . . .”
Hynds’s neck was reddening, knowing Siobhan’s eyes were on him, amused by Bessant’s use of his first name.
“What sort of painting was it?”
“Fairly early Vettriano . . . self-portrait with a nude behind him in the mirror.”
“How large?” Hynds had taken his notebook out.
“Maybe forty inches by thirty . . . Eddie bought it five or so years ago, just before Jack went stratospheric.”
“So what would it be worth now?”
She shrugged. “Maybe thirty . . . forty thousand. You think whoever killed Eddie stole it?”
“What do you think?” Siobhan asked.
“Well, Eddie had Peploes and Bellanys, a minor Klee and a couple of exquisite Picasso prints . . .” She seemed at a loss.
“So this painting wasn’t the most valuable in the collection?”
Bessant shook her head.
“And you’re sure it’s missing?”
“It’s not here, and it wasn’t in the house . . .” She looked at them. “I don’t see where else it could be.”
“Didn’t Mr. Marber have a place in Tuscany?” Siobhan asked.
“He only spent a month a year out there,” Bessant argued.
Siobhan was thoughtful. “We need to circulate this information. Would there be a photo of the painting anywhere?”
“In a catalogue probably . . .”
“And do you think you could go to Mr. Marber’s house again, Miss Bessant, just to make doubly sure?”
Cynthia Bessant nodded, then glanced in Hynds’s direction. “Would I need to go on my own?”
“I’m sure David would be happy to accompany you,” Siobhan told her, watching as the blood started creeping up Hynds’s neck all over again.
8
When Rebus got back to the syndicate room, the team were gathered around Archie Tennant. Tennant was seated, the others standing behind him, peering over his shoulders at the sheaf of papers from which he was reading.
“What’s that?” Rebus said, shrugging his arms out of his jacket.
Tennant broke off his recital. “The file on Richard ‘Dickie’ Diamond. Your amigos at Lothian and Borders just faxed it over.”
“That’s strangely efficient of them.” Rebus watched from the window as a car drove down the access road. It could have been Strathern, heading home. Driver in front, passenger in the back.
“A bit of a lad, your Dickie,” Francis Gray said.
“He wasn’t my Dickie,” Rebus responded.
“You knew him, though? Pulled him in a few times?”
Rebus nodded. No use denying it. He sat down at the opposite side of the table from the others.
“I thought you said you’d hardly heard of him, John?” Gray said, eyes twinkling. Tennant turned another sheet.
“I hadn’t finished that,” Tam Barclay said.
“That’s because you’ve the reading age of a Muppet,” Gray complained as Tennant handed the sheet to Barclay.
“I think I said I barely knew him,” Rebus stated, answering Gray’s question.
“You arrested him twice.”
“I’ve arrested a lot of peopl
e, Francis. They don’t all become bosom buddies. He stabbed some guy in a nightclub, then poured petrol into someone else’s letter-box. Except the latter never made it as far as court.”
“You’re not telling us anything we don’t know,” Jazz McCullough commented.
“Maybe that’s because you’re so fucking brainy, Jazz.”
McCullough looked up. They all looked up.
“What’s wrong, John? Is it your time of the month or something?” This from Stu Sutherland.
“Maybe Andrea’s not falling for John’s charms after all,” Francis Gray offered.
Rebus looked at the eyes watching him, then released a pent-up breath, following it with a smile of contrition. “Sorry, lads, sorry. I was out of order.”
“Which is why you’re here in the first place,” Tennant reminded him. He prodded the file with a finger. “This guy never turned up again?”
Rebus shrugged.
“And did a runner just before the Glasgow CID could come calling?”
Rebus shrugged again.
“Did a runner or got himself disappeared,” Allan Ward said.
“You still here, Allan?” Gray said. Rebus studied both men. There didn’t seem to be much love lost. He wondered if Allan Ward was ripe to rat out his fellow conspirators. He doubted it. On the other hand, of the three supposed miscreants, he was definitely the wettest behind the ears . . .
“Allan’s right,” Tam Barclay said. “Diamond could have got himself killed. But whichever it was, it looks likely that he knew something . . . or was scared someone would think he did.”
Rebus had to concede, Barclay had taken his brainy pills this morning. Tennant was prodding the file again.
“This is just deadwood. It doesn’t tell us anything about what’s happened to Diamond in the years since.”
“We could circulate his description, see if he’s turned up on another force’s turf.” The suggestion came from Jazz McCullough.
“Good thinking,” Tennant conceded.
“The one thing this file does tell us, though,” Francis Gray said, “is who Dickie Diamond hung around with. Someone like him goes walkies, there’s always someone who knows. Back then, they may not have wanted to say anything, but time’s passed . . .”
“You want to talk to his accomplices?” Tennant said.
