Resurrection Men

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.

“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 her 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.