by Ian Rankin
With most of the police having disappeared inside, the cameras had little to do but focus on the single detective left smoking a cigarette. And wouldn’t that picture appeal to Gill Templer if it found its way into the newspapers? Rebus turned his back and walked around the side of the house. There was a long, narrow garden at the rear, with a summerhouse and shed at the farthest corners. A strip of lawn, bordered with flagstones. Flower beds looking overgrown, but that could have been on purpose: a wild, rambling garden . . . counterpoint to the order provided by the rose beds. Rebus didn’t know enough about either gardening or Malcolm Neilson to be able to say. He walked down to the summerhouse. It looked fairly new. Varnished wooden slats, with wood-framed and glass-paneled doors. The doors were closed, but not locked. He pulled them open. Inside: deck chairs stacked against one wall, awaiting better weather; one fairly solid wooden chair, boasting wide armrests, one of which had been hollowed out to accommodate a cup or glass. Nice touch, Rebus thought, settling into the chair. He had a view across the garden to the house itself, and could imagine the artist sitting here, maybe with the rain falling outside, snug and cozy with a drink for company.
“Lucky bugger,” he muttered.
Shapes moved behind the upstairs and downstairs windows. They’d be working two to a room, the way Siobhan had instructed. Looking for what exactly? Anything incriminating or out of place . . . anything that gave them an inkling. Rebus wished them well. What he needed, he realized, was a place like this. It felt like a haven. Somehow, he didn’t think the placement of a summerhouse in the back garden of his tenement would have the same effect. He’d thought before of selling his flat, buying a little house just outside the city — commuting distance, but a place where he could find a bit of peace. Problem was, you could have too much of a good thing. In Edinburgh, he had twenty-four-hour shops, myriad pubs within a short walk, and the constant background hum of street life. In a place like Inveresk, he feared the silence would get to him eventually, drawing him deeper into himself — not a place he really wanted to be — and defeating the whole point of the exercise.
“No place like home,” he told himself, rising out of the chair. He wasn’t going to find any answers here. His troubles were his own, and a change of scenery couldn’t alter that. He wondered about Dickie Diamond, hopefully now in the process of scurrying out of Edinburgh. He’d given his Edinburgh address as his sister’s house in Newhaven. His permanent address was a high-rise in Gateshead. They’d sent a message south, requesting a check by the local force. He’d claimed he wasn’t currently working, but neither had he registered as unemployed. No bank account . . . didn’t have his driving license with him. He hadn’t mentioned his car, and neither had Rebus. If they knew about the car, they could get an address from his license plate. Rebus knew that the Gateshead address would be fake or out-of-date. The car might well be another matter. He got on his mobile, called the comms room at St. Leonard’s and asked if the Ford’s last known sighting — looking abandoned in the New Town — could be rechecked.
But the comms room already knew. “Car was lifted this morning,” the officer said. Which meant it would be in the pound, a hefty levy payable before it could be released. Rebus doubted Diamond would bother — the Ford was probably worth less than the charges now attached to it.
“Doesn’t take long for them to clear rubbish from the New Town, does it?” Rebus said into the phone.
“It was parked outside a judge’s front door, blocking the space for his own car,” the officer explained.
“Got the Ford’s registration address?”
The officer reeled it off: same one Diamond had given them in the interview room. Rebus ended the conversation, slipped the phone back into his pocket. Dickie Diamond would be leaving town by bus or train, always supposing he lacked the wherewithal to steal someone else’s car.
Either that or he’d be staying put, necessitating another meeting between them and some strong words from Rebus. Strong words and maybe strong actions to accompany them.
Was the gun hidden inside the car? He wondered if it was worth finding out, but shook his head. Dickie Diamond wasn’t the kind to shoot anyone. The gun had been a prop . . . the prop of a weak, scared man. A fine insight in retrospect.
He’d stopped to light another cigarette and was crossing the garden to the shed. This was a much older construction than the summerhouse, its wooden sides mildewed and spattered with bird droppings. Again, there was no lock on it, so Rebus pulled it open. A coiled hose, which had been attached to a nail on the inside of the door, slid off and fell with a clatter. There were shelves of DIY bits and pieces — screws and brackets, Rawl plugs, hinges . . . An old-style push-pull mower took up most of the floor space. But there was something tucked down beside it, something smothered in bubble wrap. Rebus looked back at the cottage. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but decided to pick it up all the same. It was a painting, or at any rate a frame. Heavier than he’d been expecting, probably the weight of the glass. He lifted it onto the lawn. Heard the sound of a window opening, then Siobhan’s voice: “What the hell are you doing?”
“Come take a look,” he called back. He was unfolding the wrapping. The painting showed a man in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He had long dark wavy hair, and was standing by a mantelpiece, atop which sat a mirror, which itself was reflecting a woman with long, lustrous black hair, the angles of her lower jaw picked out as though from firelight. Around the two figures all was shadow. The woman wore a black mask covering her eyes and nose. She had her hands behind her. Maybe they were tied together at the back. The artist’s surname was written in capitals at bottom left: Vettriano.
“This’ll be the missing painting then,” Rebus said, as Siobhan stood over him.
She stared first at the canvas, then at the shed. “And it was just lying there?”
“Tucked down the side of the lawn mower.”
“The door wasn’t locked?”
Rebus shook his head. “Looks like he panicked. Brought the thing home, then didn’t want it in the house . . .”
“How heavy is it?” Siobhan was walking around the painting.
“It’s not light. What’s your point?”
“Neilson doesn’t own a car. No point, since he’s never learned to drive.”
“Then how did he get the painting back here?” Rebus knew the way her mind was working. He stood up, watching her nodding slowly. “Right now,” he told her, “what matters is that you’ve found the painting stolen from the victim’s house.”
“And isn’t that convenient?” she said, staring at him.
“Okay, I admit it . . . I had it hidden under my jacket . . .”
“I’m not saying you put it there.”
“But someone else did?”
“Plenty of people knew Malcolm Neilson was a suspect.”
“Maybe his prints will be all over the glass. Would that be enough to satisfy you, Siobhan? Or how about a bloodstained hammer? Could be there’s one tucked away in the shed, too . . . And by the way, I meant what I said.”
“About what?”
“It was you that found the painting. Me, I’m not even here, remember? You go telling Gill that it was John Rebus who found the crucial piece of evidence, she’s going to have both of us on the carpet. Get one of the woolly suits to give me a lift back into town . . . then let Gill know what you’ve found.”
She nodded, knowing he was right, but cursing the fact that she’d let him come here.
“Oh, and Siobhan?” Rebus was patting her on the arm. “Congratulations. Everyone’s going to start thinking you walk on water . . .”
Presented with the evidence of the stolen painting, Malcolm Neilson offered no explanation at first, then said it had been a gift from Marber, before changing his mind again and stating that he’d neither seen nor touched the painting. His fingerprints had already been taken, and the painting itself was sitting at Howdenhall police lab, being dusted for prints before undergoing other, more a
rcane tests.
“I’m curious, Mr. Neilson,” Bill Pryde asked. “Why that particular painting, when there were others more valuable right there under your nose?”
“I didn’t take it, I tell you!”
William Allison, Neilson’s solicitor, was rapidly jotting notes by his client’s side. “You say it was found in Malcolm Neilson’s garden shed, DCI Pryde? Can I ask whether there was a lock of any kind on the door?”
Elsewhere in the station, the success of the search at Inveresk was being trumpeted, the noise bringing the Wild Bunch out of their lair and up to the murder room.
“You got a result then?” Francis Gray asked Derek Linford, slapping him on the back.
“I didn’t,” Linford snapped back. “Too busy wading through three feet of shit in his studio the other side of town.”
“Still, a result’s a result, eh?”
The look Linford gave him seemed to dispute this. Gray just chuckled and moved away.
News was filtering down that fingerprints had been found on the picture frame. Problem was, they belonged to Edward Marber himself.
“At least we know we’ve got the right painting,” one officer said with a shrug. Which was true enough, though still not enough to satisfy Siobhan. She was wondering about the picture’s subject matter, wondering if in Marber’s eyes the woman in the mask had represented Laura. Not that the two shared physical similarities, but all the same . . . Did Marber place himself in the man’s role? The voyeur, or maybe even the possessor . . . thinking about the merchandise?
The painting had to mean something. There had to be a reason why it alone had been removed from Marber’s house. She remembered the sales chit for it, which had turned up among Marber’s effects. Five years back he had paid £8,500 for it. These days, according to Cynthia Bessant, it might fetch four or five times that, a more than decent return on the investment, but still some way short of other paintings in the dealer’s collection.
It had meant something to someone . . . something more than mere monetary value.
What could it have meant to Malcolm Neilson? Was he perhaps jealous of artists more successful than himself?
Another hand slapped Siobhan’s shoulder. “Good work . . . well done.” She’d already deflected a phone call from the assistant chief constable, Colin Carswell. She knew he would want to share in her glory, and had no intention of talking to him. Not that she wanted the glory all to herself; far from it.
She wanted nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Because to her mind it fell well short of glory . . . yet might end up putting an innocent man away.
One of the Tulliallan crew — Jazz McCullough — was standing beside her now.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Not joining in the fun and games? Case must be cut and dried, I’d’ve thought.”
“Maybe that’s why they sent you back to training school.” She saw a rapid change in his eyes. “Christ, sorry . . . I didn’t mean to say that.”
“I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. I just wanted to offer my congratulations.”
“Which I’ll gladly accept . . . after we get a conviction.” She turned and walked away, aware of McCullough’s eyes following her all the way to the door.
Rebus saw her go, too. He was catching a word with Tam Barclay, asking if he had a nickname for DCI Tennant.
“I can think of a few choice ones,” Barclay was saying. Rebus nodded slowly. He’d already spoken to Stu Sutherland, and knew damned well that “Half-Pint” was a name used only by Gray, Jazz and Allan Ward. Now Jazz was motioning to him. Rebus wrapped up his conversation with Barclay and made to follow. Jazz walked down the corridor and into the toilets. He was standing by the washbasins, hands in pockets.
“What is it?” Rebus asked.
The door opened again and Gray came in. He nodded a greeting and checked that no one was lurking in the cubicles.
“When are you going to recon the merchandise?” Jazz asked quietly. “Only, if there’s a chance it may be moved, best get your arse in gear.” His voice was cold and calculating, and Rebus felt his liking for the man start to ebb.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Why not today?” Gray said.
“There’s not much of today left,” Rebus told him, making a show of consulting his watch.
“There’s enough,” Jazz persisted. “If you went there right now. We could cover for you.”
“It’s not like we’re unused to you bunking off,” Gray continued. “Funny you shot back here just before they found that picture . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s focus on something else,” Jazz warned both men. “We’ll call it the big picture, if you like.”
Gray grinned at this.
“We need some fast info, something we can work from,” Jazz went on.
“What about Allan?” Rebus asked. “Is he in or out?”
“He’s in,” Gray said. “Though he didn’t like the way you teased him.”
“Does he know what’s involved?”
“Less Allan knows, better he likes it,” Gray explained.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Rebus was angling . . . hoping for a bit more.
“Allan does what he’s told,” Jazz said.
“The three of you . . .” Rebus hoped he sounded naive enough. “You have done something like this before?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Gray told him.
“I need to know,” Rebus stated.
“Why?” The question came from Jazz.
“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” Gray said into the silence. “How about your friends in the SDEA? Are you going to pay them a visit or not?”
“What option do I have?” Rebus tried to sound disgruntled. He could feel Jazz’s eyes still on him.
“It’s still your show, John,” Jazz reminded him quietly. “All we’re saying is that it can’t be put off forever.”
“I know that,” Rebus conceded. Then: “Okay, I’ll talk to them.” He grew thoughtful. “We need to discuss the split.”
“The split?” Gray growled.
“It was my idea,” Rebus stressed, “and so far I’m the only one doing anything about it . . .”
Jazz’s air of absolute calm now seemed almost threatening. “The split will be in your favor, John,” he said. “Don’t fret.”
Gray looked set to dispute this, but the words failed to come out. As Rebus turned towards the door, however, Jazz’s hand landed softly on his arm.
“Just don’t go getting greedy on us,” he said. “Remember: you invited us in. We’re here because you asked.”
Rebus nodded, made good his escape. Outside in the corridor, he could feel his heart pounding, the blood sizzling in his ears. They didn’t trust him, yet they were ready to follow him.
Why? Were they setting him up? And when was the time to tell Strathern? His head told him “now,” but his gut said otherwise. Still, he decided to pay a little trip to the Big House.
It was past six, and he half expected that the SDEA offices would be empty, but Ormiston was hunched over a computer, the keys of the keyboard just too small for his oversized fingers to manage. As he cursed and pressed the DELETE key, Rebus walked into the room.
“Hiya, Ormie.” Trying to sound chatty, breezy. “They’ve got you working late.”
The big man grunted, didn’t raise his eyes from the screen.
“Is Claverhouse about?” Rebus went on, leaning his backside against a desk.
“Warehouse.”
“Oh, aye? Still got the stuff stashed there?” Rebus had picked up a stick of gum from the desk and unwrapped it, folding it into his mouth.
“What’s it to you?”
Rebus shrugged. “Just wondered if you wanted me to have another go at the Weasel.”
Ormiston glared at him, then turned back to his work.
“Fair enough,” Rebus said. Ormiston’s look
meant they’d given up on the Weasel. “Bet Claverhouse would love to know why the Weasel visited me that night.”
“Maybe.”
Rebus had started pacing the room. “Would you like to know, Ormie? I’d tell you before I’d tell your partner.”
“That gives me a warm glow all over.”
“Not that it was anything much . . .” Ormiston wasn’t about to take the bait. Rebus decided to sweeten the hook. “It was just something about Cafferty and the warehouse.”
Ormiston stopped typing but kept his eyes on the screen.
“You see,” Rebus pressed on, “the Weasel says Cafferty might be planning a hit on the warehouse.”
“We know he knows about it.”
“But that’s just the word on the street.”
Ormiston turned his head, but it was no good. Rebus had stopped directly behind him. The big man had to swing around 180 degrees in his chair.
“On the other hand,” Rebus continued, “I got it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t the horse’s arse?”
Rebus just shrugged. “That’s for you and your compadre to decide.”
Ormiston folded his arms. “And why in God’s name would the Weasel rat his boss out to you?”
“That’s what I want to talk to Claverhouse about.” Rebus paused. “I want to apologize.”
Ormiston’s eyebrows rose slowly. Then he unfolded his arms and reached for the phone.
“This I have to see,” he said.
“You’re shipping it out?” Rebus guessed. He was in the warehouse. The carcass of the lorry had already been removed. Now the warehouse was more than half filled with new-looking wooden packing crates. They were nailed closed and stacked two high across most of the floor. “Does that mean you’re splitting the glory with Customs and Excise?”