Ian Rankin - A Good Hanging and other stories

‘And that’s the state of play? Nobody in or out since it went missing?’

Holmes nodded. ‘Of course, as I tried telling her, they could have high-tailed it before she barricaded everyone else in.’ Holmes was looking at the man who had come to stand beside Rebus. ‘Can we help you, sir?’

‘Oh,’ said Rebus. ‘You haven’t been introduced. This is...’ But no, he still couldn’t make himself say the name. Instead, he nodded towards Holmes. ‘This is Detective Constable Holmes.’ Then, as Cluzeau shook hands with Holmes: ‘The inspector here has come over from France to see how we do things in Edinburgh.’ Rebus turned to Cluzeau. ‘Did you catch what Brian was saying? Only I know his accent’s a bit thick.’

‘I understood perfectly.’ He turned to Holmes. ‘Inspector Rebus forgot to say, but my name is Cluzeau.’ Somehow it didn’t sound so funny when spoken by a native. ‘How big is the statue? Do we know what it looks like?’

‘There’s a picture of it in the catalogue.’ Holmes took the small glossy booklet from his pocket and handed it to Cluzeau. ‘That’s it at the top of the page.’

While Cluzeau studied this, Holmes caught Rebus’s eye, then nodded down to the Frenchman’s pouch.

‘Nice handbag.’

Rebus gave him a warning look, then glanced at the catalogue. His eyes opened wide. ‘Good Christ!’

Cluzeau read from the catalogue. ‘“Monstrous Trumpet. Bronze and multi-media. Sixteen -” what do these marks mean?’

‘Inches.’

‘Thank you. “Sixteen inches. Three thousand five hundred pounds.” C’est cher . It’s expensive.’

‘I’ll say,’ said Rebus. ‘You could buy a car for that.’ Well, he thought, you could certainly buy my car for that.

‘It is an interesting piece, don’t you think?’

‘Interesting?’ Rebus studied the small photograph of the statue called ‘Monstrous Trumpet’. A nude male, his face exaggeratedly spiteful, was sticking out his tongue, except that it wasn’t a tongue, it was a penis. And where that particular organ should have been, there was what looked like a piece of sticking-plaster. Because of the angle of the photo, it was just possible to discern something protruding from the statue’s backside. Rebus guessed it was meant to be a tongue.

‘Yes,’ said Cluzeau, ‘I should very much like to meet the artist.’

‘Doesn’t look as though you’ve got any choice,’ said Holmes, seeming to retreat though in fact he didn’t move. ‘Here she comes.’

She had just come into the room, of that Rebus was certain. If she’d been there before, he’d have noticed her. And even if he hadn’t Cluzeau certainly would have. She was just over six feet tall, dressed in long flowing white skirt, black boots, puffy white blouse and a red satin waistcoat. Her eye-makeup was jet black, matching her long straight hair, and her wrists fairly jangled with bangles and bracelets. She addressed Holmes.

‘No sign of it. I’ve had a thorough look.’ She turned towards Rebus and Cluzeau. Holmes started making the introductions.

‘This is Inspector Rebus, and Inspector Cl...’ he stumbled to a halt. Yes, thought Rebus, it’s a problem, isn’t it, Brian? But Cluzeau appeared not to have noticed. He was squeezing Serena Davies’ hand.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

She looked him up and down without embarrassment, gave a cool smile, and passed to Rebus. ‘Well, thank goodness the grown-ups are here at last.’ Brian Holmes reddened furiously. ‘I hope we didn’t interrupt your lunch, Inspector. Come on, I’ll show you where the piece was.’

And with that she turned and left. Some of the women offered either condolences over her loss, or else praise for what works remained, and Serena Davies gave a weak smile, a smile which said: I’m coping, but don’t ask me how.

Rebus touched Holmes’ shoulder. ‘Get the names and addresses, eh, Brian?’ He made to follow the artist, but couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘You’ve got your crayons with you, have you?’

‘And my marbles,’ Holmes retorted. By God, thought Rebus, he’s learning fast. But then, he had a good teacher, hadn’t he?

‘Magnificent creature,’ Cluzeau hissed into his ear as they passed through the room. A few of the women glanced towards the Frenchman. I’m making him look too good, Rebus thought. Pity I had to be wearing this old suit today.

The small galleries through which they passed comprised a maze, an artful configuration of angles and doorways which made more of the space than there actually was. As to the works on display, well, Rebus couldn’t be sure, of course, but there seemed an awful lot of violence in them, violence acted out upon a particular part of the masculine anatomy. Even the Frenchman was quiet as they passed red splashes of colour, twisted statues, great dollops of paint. There was one apparent calm centre, an extremely large and detailed drawing of the vulva. Cluzeau paused for a moment.

‘I like this,’ he said. Rebus nodded towards a red circular sticker attached to the wall beside the portrait.

‘Already sold.’

Cluzeau tapped the relevant page of the catalogue. ‘Yes, for one thousand five hundred pounds.’

‘In here!’ the artist’s voice commanded. ‘When you’ve stopped gawping.’ She was in the next room of the gallery, standing by the now empty pedestal. The sign beneath it showed no red blob. No sale. ‘It was right here.’ The room was about fifteen feet by ten, in the corner of the gallery: only one doorway and no windows. Rebus looked up at the ceiling, but saw only strip lighting. No trapdoors.

‘And there were people in here when it happened?’

Serena Davies nodded. ‘Three or four of the guests. Ginny Elyot, Margaret Grieve, Helena Mitchison and I think Lesley Jameson.’

‘Jameson?’ Rebus knew two Jamesons in Edinburgh, one a doctor and the other...

‘Tom Jameson’s daughter,’ the artist concluded.

The other a newspaper editor called Tom Jameson. ‘And who was it raised the alarm?’ Rebus asked.

‘That was Ginny. She came out of the room shouting that the statue had vanished. We all rushed into the room. Sure enough.’ She slapped a hand down on the pedestal.

‘Time, then,’ Rebus mused, ‘for someone to sneak away while everyone else was occupied?’

But the artist shook her mane of hair. ‘I’ve already told you, there’s nobody missing. Everyone who was here is here. In fact, I think there are a couple more bodies now than there were at the time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Moira Fowler was late. As usual. She arrived a couple of minutes after I’d barred the door.’

‘You let her in?’

‘Of course. I wasn’t worried about letting people in.’

‘You said “a couple of bodies”?’

‘That’s right. Maureen Beck was in the loo. Bladder trouble, poor thing. Maybe I should have hung a couple of paintings in there.’

Cluzeau frowned at this. Rebus decided to help him. ‘The toilets being where exactly?’

‘Next flight up. A complete pain really. The gallery shares them with the shop downstairs. Crammed full of cardboard boxes and knitting patterns.’

Rebus nodded. The Frenchman coughed, preparing to speak. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you have to leave the gallery actually to use the... loo?’

Serena Davies nodded. ‘You’re French,’ she stated. Cluzeau gave a little bow. ‘I should have guessed from the pochette. You’d never find a Scotsman carrying one of those.’

Cluzeau seemed prepared for this point. ‘But the sporran serves the same purpose.’

‘I suppose it does,’ the artist admitted, ‘but its primary function is as a signifier.’ She looked to both men. Both men looked puzzled. ‘It’s hairy and it hangs around your groin,’ she explained.