Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“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.

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 people, 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.”