Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“You think it was Cafferty?” Rebus didn’t sound so sure.

“Here we are,” Miss Meikle said, sounding proud that her system had already proved its usefulness.

Montrose — whoever he was — had purchased in bulk to start with. A quarter of a million pounds’ worth of paintings in a matter of a few months. In the years that followed, there were a few sales, a few more purchases. The sales were always at a profit. Although Montrose’s name appeared on the sales slips and buyers’ notes, his address was given as c/o Marber Galleries.

“All these years, and you never met him?” Rebus asked. Meikle shook her head. “You must have spoken to him on the phone?”

“Yes, but only to pass him over to Eddie.”

“How did he sound?”

“Curt, I’d say. A man of few words.”

“Scottish?”

“Yes.”

“Upper class?”

She thought about this. “No,” she said, drawing out the single syllable. “Not that I’m one to prejudge people . . .” Her own cadences were Edinburgh private school. She spoke as though dictating each utterance to some slow-witted foreigner.

“When Montrose bought a painting, it must have gone to some delivery address,” Rebus guessed.

“I think they always came here. I could certainly check . . .”

Rebus shook his head. “And after they arrived here, what then?”

“I really can’t say.”

He looked at her. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” she said, sounding peeved at his insinuation.

“Could Mr. Marber have kept them?”

She shrugged.

“You’re saying this Montrose character never actually kept any of his own paintings?” Siobhan sounded skeptical.

“Maybe, maybe not. Say he’d no interest in them, except as an investment.”

“He could still put them on his walls.”

“Not if people might suspect.”

“Suspect what?”

Rebus glanced towards Miss Meikle, letting Siobhan know this was a discussion they should carry on in private. The secretary was twisting her watchband, anxious to close up for the night.

“One last question,” Rebus told her. “What happened to Mr. Montrose?”

She showed him the final sheet of transactions. “He sold everything.”

Rebus looked down the list of paintings and prices fetched. Montrose had walked away with a third of a million, less commission.

“Did Mr. Marber put everything through the books?” Siobhan asked.

Meikle suddenly looked furious. “Of course!” she snapped.

“In which case, Inland Revenue will have been notified?”

Rebus saw her point. “I don’t suppose they’ve had any more luck tracking Mr. Montrose down than we have. And if they haven’t started looking by now, I think they’re whistling ‘Dixie.’ ”

“Because Montrose no longer exists?” Siobhan guessed.

Rebus nodded. “Know the best way to make someone disappear, Siobhan?”

She thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“If they’ve never been there in the first place,” Rebus told her, beginning to gather up the papers.

They stopped for a Chinese take-away and, already being on Siobhan’s side of town, went to her flat.

“I’m warning you,” she said, “it’ll look like a bomb’s hit it.”

And it did. Rebus could see how she’d spent her weekend: video rentals, a pizza box, crisp bags and chocolate wrappers, and a selection of CDs. As she went to fetch plates from the kitchen, he asked if he could put some music on.

“Be my guest.”

He perused the rack of titles, most of the names meaning nothing to him. “Massive Attack,” he called to her, opening the lid. “They any good?”

“Maybe not for our purposes. Try the Cocteau Twins.”

There were four to choose from. He opened one, dropped the CD onto the tray of the player, pressed the LOAD button. He was opening more of the cases when she came back through carrying a tray.

“You put your CDs back the right way up,” he commented.

“You’re not the first to notice. I should also tell you that I line up the tins in my cupboards with the labels facing out.”

“Profilers would have a field day with you.”

“Funny you should say that: Andrea Thomson offered me counseling after that attack on Laura.”

“You sound as though you liked her.”

“Thomson?” She was being obtuse.

“Laura,” Rebus corrected, accepting the plate and fork from her. They started prizing open the cartons of food.

“I did like her,” Siobhan confessed, pouring soy sauce onto her noodles. She sat down on the sofa. Rebus took the armchair. “What do you think of it?”

“I haven’t started yet,” Rebus said.

“I meant the music.”

“It’s fine.”

“They’re from Grangemouth, you know.”

“Must be all the chemicals in the water.” Rebus was thinking of the drive between Edinburgh and Tulliallan, passing the flare towers of Grangemouth in the distance, looking like some low-budget Blade Runner set. “You had a quiet weekend, then?”

“Mmm,” she said, mouth full of vegetables.

“Still seeing Brains?”

“His name’s Eric. We’re just friends. Did you see Jean at the weekend?”

“Yes, thanks.” He remembered the way it had turned out, with a patrol car leading him at speed through streets not far from here . . .

“Shall we call a truce on asking questions about one another’s love life?”

Rebus nodded his agreement, and they ate in silence. Afterwards, they cleared the coffee table and placed all the paperwork there. Siobhan said she had some lagers in the fridge. Turned out they were Mexican. Rebus frowned at the bottle, but Siobhan paid no attention; she knew he’d drink it anyway.

Then they got back to work.

“Who exactly was at the party that night?” Rebus asked. “Do we have a description of Montrose?”

“Always supposing he was there and the scribble didn’t belong to a Marlowe or Matthews . . .” She found the relevant pages in the folder. They’d interviewed everyone they could, but there were still some uncertainties. Bound to be, with the place so crowded and not all of the guests acquainted. She remembered Hood’s computer simulation. The gallery had sent out a hundred and ten invitations. Seventy-five had RSVP’d to accept, but not all of them had turned up on the night, and others, who hadn’t got round to replying, had turned up.

“Like Cafferty,” Rebus said.

“Like Cafferty,” Siobhan agreed.

“So how many were actually there on the night?”

She shrugged. “It’s not a precise science. If they’d bothered to sign the guest book, we might have had a better chance.”

“Montrose signed.”

“Or Matthews . . .”

He stuck out his tongue, then stretched his spine and groaned. “So what exactly did you do with all the guests?”

“We asked them who else they could remember being there: the names of anyone they’d known or talked to, physical descriptions of anyone else they could think of.”

Rebus nodded. It was the kind of painstaking detail that was oftentimes useless to a case, but very occasionally threw up some nugget. “And did you manage to put names to all the faces?”

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “One guest described someone in a tartan jacket. Nobody else seemed to have spotted it.”

“Sounds like they’d had a bit to drink.”

“Or had been to too many parties that night. There are a lot of vague descriptions . . . we did try to match each and every one of them . . .”

“Not easy,” Rebus admitted. “So what are we left with? Anyone put a name to Cafferty?”

“One or two, yes. He didn’t seem keen on striking up conversations.”

“You still see him as Montrose?”