Ian Rankin - The Complaints

The woman, having studied his card, asked him to wait while she fetched someone. The man who eventually appeared was younger than Fox had been expecting. He wore a pinstriped shirt and pale yellow tie and shook hands vigorously, introducing himself as Alfie Rennison. His voice was educated Scots. He, too, was pleased to receive one of Fox’s business cards.

‘What is it I can do for you?’ Rennison asked.

‘It’s about some paintings.’

‘Modern or classical?’

‘Modern, I think.’

Rennison lowered his voice. ‘Fakes?’ he hissed.

‘Nothing like that,’ Fox assured him. The young man looked relieved.

‘It happens, you know,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘People try to offload all kinds of stuff on us. Follow me, will you?’

He led Fox towards the back of the premises until they reached a stairwell. A red rope provided the sole deterrent to anyone wishing to descend to the next level, and Rennison unhooked it long enough for both men to pass through. Fox followed him down into the bowels of the building, which proved far less grand than the public areas. They squeezed past canvases stacked against walls, and manoeuvred between busts and statues and grandfather clocks.

‘Sale coming up,’ Rennison explained. ‘Viewing’s next week.’

They reached his office, which consisted of two rooms knocked into one. Fox had believed them below ground, but there were frosted windows, albeit barred on the outside.

‘This was somebody’s house at one time,’ Rennison was saying. ‘I’m guessing the kitchen, laundry and servants’ quarters would have been down here. Four upper storeys of Georgian elegance, but with the engine room hidden below.’ He smiled and gestured for Fox to take a seat. Rennison’s desk was disappointingly bland. Fox reckoned it was an IKEA kit-build. On it sat a laptop computer, hooked up to a laser printer. There was only one painting in the whole room. It measured about six inches by four and sat on the wall behind Rennison’s chair.

‘Exquisite, isn’t it? A French plage by Peploe. I can hardly bear to part with it.’

Fox knew next to nothing about art, but he liked the thick swirls of paint. They reminded him of melting ice cream. ‘Is it going into the sale?’

Rennison nodded. ‘Should fetch fifty to sixty.’

‘Thousand?’ Fox gazed at the work with new respect, mixed with a stunned sense that this was a world he was going to have trouble comprehending.

Rennison had clasped his hands together, elbows on the desk. ‘So tell me about these paintings.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Charles Brogan?’

‘Alas, yes – the latest victim of our challenging times.’

‘But you knew of him before he drowned?’

Rennison was nodding. ‘There are several auction houses in the city, Inspector. We work hard to maintain a client’s fidelity.’

‘You’re saying he bought from you?’

‘And from some of the city’s actual galleries,’ Rennison felt duty-bound to add.

‘You’ve seen his collection?’

‘Much of it.’

‘Had he started selling it off?’

Rennison studied him, resting his chin against the tips of his fingers. ‘Might I ask why you’re interested?’

‘We’re looking into the reasons why he would kill himself. You mentioned finances, and it’s just that Mr Brogan’s decision to sell his paintings might chime with that theory.’

Rennison nodded to himself, happy with this explanation.

‘Some pieces he sent to London; some he sold here. Three or four are actually consigned to our next auction. Naturally, we’ll hold them back until we know what his estate wants us to do.’

‘How many are we talking about in total?’

Rennison did a quick calculation. ‘Fourteen or fifteen.’

‘Worth…?’ Fox prompted.

Rennison puffed out his cheeks. ‘Half a million, maybe. Before the recession, it would have been closer to seven fifty.’

‘I hope he didn’t buy at the height of the market.’

‘Unfortunately, mostly he did. He was selling at a loss.’

‘Meaning he was desperate?’

‘I would say so.’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘Have you ever met Mr Brogan’s wife?’

‘She accompanied him to a sale once. I don’t think it was an experience she was keen to repeat.’

‘Not an art-lover, then?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Fox smiled and started getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for taking the trouble to talk to me, Mr Rennison.’

‘My pleasure, Inspector.’

As they shook hands, Fox took a final look at the Peploe.

‘You’re thinking of melted ice cream?’ Rennison guessed. Then, seeing the look on Fox’s face: ‘You’re by no means the first.’

‘Fifty grand buys a lot of Cornettos,’ Fox told the man.

‘Maybe so, but what would their resale value be, Inspector?’

Rennison led the way back to the ground floor.

Fox was parked fifty yards from Minter’s when Naysmith and Gilchrist arrived. They’d come by taxi, obviously intending to have more than just the one drink; no driving home for either of them. Fox gave it another twenty minutes, by which time Kaye, too, had arrived, parking on a double yellow and slapping his POLICE sign on the windscreen. He was checking messages on his phone as he headed inside. Fox was listening to Radio 2, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. But when a quiz was announced, two listeners vying for the ‘star prize’, he switched channels. There was some local news, so he listened to that without taking much of it in. More economic grief; more trams grief; a spell of good weather imminent. The travel report warned of long tail-backs on the Forth Road Bridge and eastbound on the ring road.

‘And the city centre is its usual rush-hour mayhem,’ the report concluded. Fox felt snug in the parked car, cosseted from chaos. But the time came to turn off the radio and get out. He’d finally plucked up the courage to send Annie Inglis a text message:

Hope u can forgive me. Wd like us 2 b pals.

He wasn’t sure now about the ‘pals’ bit. He was attracted to her, but had never had much luck with women, Elaine excepted – and even that had proved to be a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t Annie who intrigued him, but rather the combination of the woman and the career she had chosen. For the past half-hour he’d been hoping she might send a return message, or call him, and as he pushed open the door to the pub, his old phone started buzzing. He plucked it from his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ the voice said.

‘Annie… thanks for getting back to me.’ He had retreated to the pavement, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian. ‘Look, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened yesterday. I know I was stupid…’

‘Well, I’m sorry I blew up at you. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Duncan had got me wound up as usual.’ Fox waited for more, but she had come to a stop.

‘Doesn’t mean I wasn’t in the wrong,’ he said into the silence. ‘And I really enjoyed the meal and seeing you and everything. Maybe I can repay the favour?’

‘Cook for me, you mean?’

‘The word “cook” may be a bit strong…’ When she laughed, a weight fell from him. ‘But I’m an expert on the local carry-outs.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Any night this week is good for me.’

‘I’ll let you know, Malcolm.’ She paused. ‘That’s Duncan coming home.’

‘I came looking for you, to apologise in person,’ Fox told her.

‘At Fettes? I thought you were suspended?’

‘Grampian Complaints had me in for a chat.’

‘You’ve a lot you should be focusing on, Malcolm. Maybe we should give this week a miss.’