by Val McDermid
‘I don’t know her that well. I’m Orla, by the way.’ Although it appeared as a friendly gesture, it was clearly a demand.
‘Jason. Look, I’m only around for the weekend, do you know where I can maybe find Dani?’
Orla sized him up again. ‘She runs a class on Saturday mornings. Watercolours for beginners. In the church hall up by Morrisons. You’ll catch her there until noon.’
Jason grinned. The boss would be proud of him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Really appreciate it.’ He sketched a wave and headed back to his car.
He was completely unaware that before the door had swung shut behind him, Orla was already making a phone call. Whoever the Scotch guy was, she’d have bet her Norton that he wasn’t any kind of artist. Except maybe a con artist.
‘Up by Morrisons’ covered an annoying number of side streets, Jason discovered. But at the third or fourth try, he found what he was looking for. The hall was a long brick building with a pitched roof and diamond-paned windows with protective metal gratings. He watched as half a dozen women and one man of indeterminate age gossiped their way inside, then cautiously followed. He paused by the noticeboard which announced, among Brownies, Cubs, Slimming World and Senior Choir, ‘Watercolours for Beginners with Professional Tuition from Dani. Saturdays 10-12. All welcome. £5 on door.’ He’d found the right place.
He walked the length of the street to consider his next step. He couldn’t just assume he’d found the right person. He’d need to see her, to compare her with the photographs. Nothing less than absolute confirmation would do for the boss. He turned back in time to see another trio of women enter the hall. He followed, but not too close. As he approached the tall wooden doors that stood open, he could see far enough inside to spot a pair of interior swing doors with small windows at head height. If he waited till the class started, he could peer through and with a bit of luck, get a good enough look at the teacher to make a positive ID.
He killed a few more minutes by walking to the end of the street again. Seven minutes after ten, he cautiously made his way back to the hall. This time he entered the stone-flagged vestibule and crept towards the windows in the door. He’d barely reached them when an elderly woman appeared at his elbow. ‘Don’t be shy, lad,’ she exclaimed. ‘We don’t bite, you know. Everybody’s nervous the first time.’
Jason stepped back, panicked. ‘I’m not . . . I didn’t . . . ’
But the woman was not to be put off. Now she had a hand in the small of his back, pushing him towards the door. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t wrestle a pensioner, and already she had one half of the doors open and was shoving him firmly forward. ‘We’ve got a new recruit,’ she called out. ‘A nice young lad, he’s going to give you a run for your money, Tony!’
Every head was turned towards him. Jason felt the heat rising in his face. He half-raised his hand in greeting and said, ‘Hello,’ in a squeak that surprised him. It wasn’t warm in the hall, but he could feel sweat springing out on the back of his neck. He looked around and saw a dozen people standing in front of simple easels with sheets of paper fixed to them. Sitting on the edge of the stage with a sardonic smile on her face was the teacher. Her hair was longer than in the photos, but there was no doubt in Jason’s mind that he was in the presence of his target.
‘Welcome to the group,’ she said, her Scottish accent still evident. ‘I’m Dani.’
No, you’re not. You’re Amanda. ‘I’m Jason,’ he said. ‘I’ve never done this before.’
‘You’re in the right place. Watercolours for beginners,’ she said, pushing off from the stage and heading towards him. She steered him through the group to a free easel at the opposite end of the room from the entrance. No chance of slipping out unnoticed, he thought gloomily. ‘OK, everybody, let’s get started. As usual, I’ve laid out a selection of images on the stage plus a still-life arrangement. Choose the one you want to have a go at and lay down your base wash while I get Jason here sorted out.’
‘Thanks,’ he muttered as the room broke into action.
‘You haven’t brought any paints or brushes with you,’ she observed. ‘The class costs £5 a session but for an extra £20 I supply a basic starter kit with some paints and brushes. It’ll get you going and when you get bitten by the bug, you can sort out what you prefer. Are you up for that?’
He nodded dumbly and took out his wallet and handed over £25, oblivious to the momentary shockwave that crossed her face when she spotted his Police Scotland ID. While he fretted over whether he’d be able to claim the money back without a receipt, Dani fetched a plastic box and a jam jar from a blue Ikea bag at the side of the stage.
‘You can fill up your jar in the kitchen, on the left through the door there.’ Dani opened the box of paints and selected the largest brush. ‘Go and choose an image to have a crack at, get some water and I’ll show you how to start.’ A brisk smile and she was off to tour the other easels.
Jason took off his jacket and hung it on a stack of chairs behind him. Then he headed for the stage. Almost everyone had picked their preferred picture but two of the women still hovered. He stared haplessly at half a dozen photographs, a mixture of landscapes and still life. One of the women nudged him and pointed to a bunch of party balloons against a blue sky. ‘If I was you, I’d make a start with that. It’s less of a bugger than the other ones.’
He studied it then gave her a pained smile. ‘Thanks. I’m really not sure this is for me.’
‘You don’t know until you try, lad. You’re Scotch, aren’t you? Like Dani?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Are you new around here?’
He found her questions oddly reassuring. He was used to nosy old women; they made up half of his extended family. ‘I’ve been here a few months, but I thought it was time to get out and meet some new people.’
The other woman gave a filthy chuckle. ‘You’ll not find a likely lass here, son. We’re all knocking on heaven’s door.’
‘Speak for yourself, Irene. I’ve still got a spark in my firebox.’ They elbowed each other and giggled like teenagers.
‘I’ve got a fiancée,’ he said quickly, before the banter got out of hand. It was almost the truth, after all. He grabbed the picture of the balloons and headed back to his easel. The next two hours dragged past in a nightmare of smudges and drips. Dani visited often with plenty of advice and tips, but it was soon clear to Jason that, whatever talents he possessed, painting wasn’t one of them.
Finally, the class came to an end. There was a corkboard in the hallway by the kitchen. It was already covered in paintings, but Dani swiftly took them down and replaced them with that morning’s offerings, still damp. The class picked out their own past offerings, then gathered coats and bags. Jason was about to make a break for the door when Dani snagged him.
‘Would you mind giving me a hand with the easels? I usually do it myself but I’m in a bit of a hurry today and I can’t really ask the oldies.’ She sounded apologetic and her smile was charming.
‘Sure.’ He watched her fold one of the easels then copied her as everyone else bustled out of the hall, full of chatter and laughter.
When he’d done three, Dani said, ‘I’ll show you where they go.’
He followed her down the hall past the kitchen and round a corner. Dani paused by an old-fashioned heavy wooden door and flicked a light switch. She unlocked the door and drew back bolts at top and bottom. She pulled it open to reveal a steep flight of stone stairs lit with a single bulb. ‘Down there,’ she said, stepping back to let him pass.
Jason felt a sharp push in his back, then he was tumbling down the stairs in a tangle of easels. And everything went black.
38
Nora stared at Karen across the table. ‘You think David Greig was behind those fakes?’
‘I wanted to know whether you believe it was possible that he could have painted them.�
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‘But you said it would have to be someone who had access to the Scotland Office headquarters. From everything I know about Greig, he didn’t move in those sorts of circles. Some artists, they let themselves become darlings of the establishment. They turn up at parties and openings like lapdogs, they’re totally tamed. Greig wasn’t like that. He was subversive and dangerous.’
‘Mmm.’ Karen didn’t want to show too much of her hand in spite of Nora’s promise to keep her counsel. ‘He does seem to have a reach beyond the grave, though. From what I understand, new paintings of his keep turning up.’
‘It’s not that surprising. He was very collectable even while he was still alive. Exactly the sort of artist who would attract a patron with deep pockets. The sort of person who views art as an investment as much as a pleasure. Greig wasn’t hugely prolific, so his value has held.’
‘And then there was that fire in Brighton,’ Karen said. ‘Some of Greig’s work went up in smoke there, didn’t it?’
‘That’s right, I think there were three or four of his portraits lost that night. Which would have been a bonus for anybody who had a stash of his work. The fewer surviving paintings there are, the more valuable the remaining ones become, so long as an artist’s rep doesn’t decline.’
‘So if he was making such good money, why would Greig conspire to perpetrate a fraud like this?’
Nora spread her hands in a shrug. ‘Karen, when it comes to money, for some people no amount is ever enough. And Greig was a notorious bad boy. He might have done it for fun, rather than greed. From what I’ve heard about him, he’d have loved to have put one over on the art establishment. The more I think about it, the more I reckon he did it for a lark.’
Karen took out a copy of the list she’d found in James Auld’s Paris apartment. ‘There’s a Greig listed here. Jarvis Cocker in the Year 2000. Almost three-quarters of a million dollars. Is that about the going rate for one of his?’
Nora shrugged. ‘I’m not an expert on valuation. But I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘How do I find out who sold that painting?’ Karen showed her the list. ‘There’s no gallery name here.’
‘If you look online, you should be able to find out quite readily.’
‘And they’d be able to tell me who they sold it on behalf of?’
‘If the seller wants to remain anonymous, they won’t tell you. Can’t you get a warrant for something like that?’
‘I’d have to have pretty good probable cause,’ Karen said.
‘And do you?’ Nora gave her a coquettish glance.
‘Don’t fish, it’s not a good look. So, there’s no easy way of finding out who’s benefiting from these newly released paintings?’
Nora took a large bite from a pain au chocolat and chewed vigorously. She swallowed hard then said, ‘Well, it’s not direct as such, but there might be a way. When a work of art is sold on in one of the countries in the European Economic Area, the gallery or the auction house has to pay what’s called the Artist’s Resale Royalty. It’s a percentage of the purchase price and it goes to the artist or, if they’re dead, to their estate. So the ARR from all of these David Greig paintings will be passed on to his estate. Whoever the beneficiary is, they might well know who the seller is. Because they might have been contacted about any documentation or personal knowledge that supports provenance.’
Karen seized on this. She immediately sensed it could be crucial in putting the pieces together in the right order. ‘How can I find that out?’
There are specialist organisations that administer the programme, I’ll find the details when I get home and pass them on to you. I’ve no idea whether they’ll hand over the info, or whether you’ll have to get one of those troublesome warrants again.’
Karen ate the last mouthfuls of the brunch she’d amazingly let grow lukewarm. Her brain was motoring as she tried to process this latest information. ‘Maybe not. Presumably that information will have been in his will? He’d have had to designate whoever benefits from the ARR? Or at least have a residuary legatee?’
Nora’s eyebrows rose again. ‘I imagine so. You’d know more about that than me.’ She reached slyly for a piece of baklava.
Karen spoke slowly, thinking aloud. ‘Greig lived and died in England. He’ll have owned stuff in his own right even if it was work in progress. So whoever his executor was will have had to get a Grant of Probate and that means the will is public.’
‘Really? You can see anybody’s will? Who knew?’
‘Thank you, Nora, you’ve given me lots to think about.’ Karen pushed her chair back. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to go and do some online trawling. Take your time, order more coffee, whatever. When all of this is over, we’ll have dinner, I promise.’ And she was gone, pausing only to stuff two twenties in the charity box by the till.
It was so dark when he first came round that Jason thought he’d gone blind. He tried to get up but the pain in his leg made his head swim and nausea gripped him. Gradually the agony subsided. As long as he didn’t move, he could bear it. He wanted to run a hand over his leg, to isolate the source of the pain but he was too afraid of what he might discover there.
At first he couldn’t work out where he was or what had happened to him. But slowly his head cleared and he remembered being at the top of the cellar steps and feeling a hand in his back. Then tumbling. Then nothing.
There had been a light on the stairs. There had definitely been a light. But now he was in pitch darkness. And something was pinning him down. He’d been carrying easels, that was it. They’d been light enough to manage three of them, but they were a lot more cumbersome now they were lying across his body.
Slowly, gingerly, gasping as fresh waves of pain shot through him, he managed to push the easels to one side. He lay there, panting. He had no idea how long he’d been down there on what felt like – his fingers explored – a stone floor. He was cold enough for it to have been a while. What chilled him even more was the realisation that nobody knew where he was, and his phone was in the pocket of the jacket he’d left draped over a pile of chairs in the church hall.
Jason groaned. Reflexively, he tapped the fitness tracker on his wrist. It said 12:46. He’d been out for around half an hour. Maybe there was still someone upstairs. Ever the optimist, he took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Help,’ as loudly as he could. There was no echo; whatever was in the basement had swallowed the sound whole. ‘I’m so fucked,’ he whispered.
He shifted slightly, whimpering at the pain from his leg. Broken, he had to admit it. When he’d broken his ankle, it had been exactly this kind of excruciation. But this was bigger, deeper. It was worse.
The movement made something dig into his thigh. His keys, he realised. There was a wee LED torch on his keyring, wasn’t there? Eagerly, he shoved his hand in his pocket and managed to fish them out with only one moment of panic when he felt them slip. He swallowed hard and fumbled with the button on the torch. A slim beam of white light illuminated a slice of the cellar. Trestle tables were stacked along one wall. Beyond them was a tall stack of cardboard cartons. Toilet rolls and paper towels, according to the box sides. A pile of what looked like velvet stage curtains occupied the far corner. And to one side, the easels he’d shifted off his body. What he could see of the walls was whitewashed brick. There was nothing resembling a toolbox or anything useful.
Jason craned his neck and moved the slender cone of light so he could see the flight of stairs. He could see more than a dozen steps leading up, but not as far as the door. He’d have to try and drag himself up there if he was to have any chance of being rescued.
Why had this happened? Obviously the art teacher wasn’t Dani Gilmartin because Dani Gilmartin was dead. And the only person who could have assumed Dani’s identity and who had a motive to shove him down a flight of stone steps with no regard for the consequences was Amanda McAndrew. Besid
es, he’d recognised her from the photos Karen had shown him. But how had she known who he was? He hadn’t identified himself either at the studios or in the art class. Was it that obvious that he was a polis?
The only thing he could imagine was that the woman he’d spoken to at the studios had called Amanda and told her a guy called Jason that she used to know was looking to catch up with her. And when he showed up at the class, she knew that was a lie. And that was enough to send her into full-on flight mode. She must have been waiting for something like this for three years now. She probably had a bag packed ready to run. Even if he did get out of here, she’d be long gone.
But why had she done this to him? She could have let him walk out with all the oldies and then done a runner. She must have been terrified he was going to arrest her then and there. And that meant she definitely did have something to hide. And that was pretty much proof that she’d killed Dani. So he’d managed to let a killer get the better of him and escape.
The boss wasn’t going to like this one bit.
But even if all he was facing was the worst bollocking of his career, he still had to get out of here. Jason checked where he was in relation to the bottom step then turned off the torch and put his keys back in his pocket. He needed both hands for this. With infinite care and glacial slowness, he put his palms on the floor, straightened his arms and inched backwards. He screamed but he didn’t stop his efforts. At last, sweating and swearing, he got his backside on the bottom step.
It was a start.
39
As Karen turned up Leith Walk, the rain came sheeting down in what would have been a tropical downpour had it not been a bare degree or two above freezing. She ran for the nearest bus stop and huddled beneath its limited shelter. She’d barely boarded a 25 when her phone rang.