by John Burke
‘Let them grub away,’ said Brigid, ‘and we’ll get on with our own work. Preferably somewhere away from here. Impossible to concentrate with all this going on.’
‘I doubt whether the police would be happy for us simply to slink off to Edinburgh,’ Greg cautioned.
‘Since when have I been in the habit of slinking?’
A distant mutter of voices came eerily out of the wall, followed by the squawk of a table being scraped along the floor.
‘You can put those files on it, out of our way.’ The voice of DI Gunn echoed up what Greg realised was the laird’s lug. Then a door shut, as she and her companion must have gone back into what had been the library and was now the incident room.
‘We’ll go and have words, shall we?’
DI Gunn was in the library with the white-coated man, bending over a photograph of what looked like whorled tree rings but were more likely to be fingerprints. ‘A bit wrinkled, thanks to the water. But it’s safe to say that so far we can’t match them with any of those from the housebreaking. And on the subject of water, once we’ve established whether the lungs were filled with water or not, we may find he could have been held under and drowned — and that would make a difference to the estimated time of death.’ He broke off as the newcomers confronted them. ‘Right, inspector, I’ll go and check on what data the PNC are calling up for us.’
‘We can safely leave you to it, then,’ said Brigid.
DI Gunn turned. ‘Leave us to it?’
‘Nothing much we can do here. But we certainly can’t get any work done. I think it makes sense for us to clear off to Edinburgh. I’ll leave you my number. But any further questions you have to ask, I’m sure my husband and Caroline can cope.’
‘Lady Crombie, you really can contemplate continuing with your … memoirs … with all these matters still unsettled?’
‘All these heirlooms, dry rot and rising damp — not my scene.’
Greg could see that the detective was marvelling at what to her must look like incredible callousness. She hadn’t known Brigid as long as he had: there was nothing here to be incredulous about.
‘It’s rather more than family heirlooms now, isn’t it? Your husband — ex-husband — has been murdered.’
‘As you say, my ex-husband. Ceased to be any concern of mine long before he was actually deceased.’
‘I’d prefer you to remain on the premises while our investigation continues. It is a murder investigation,’ DI Gunn stressed again.
‘And you’re about to charge me with complicity in this crime?’
‘Of course not, Lady Crombie.’
‘In that case I’m perfectly free to go where I choose.’
‘That’s true. But as a material witness —’
‘Witness? I didn’t see anything.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said DI Gunn very steadily, ‘it would seem to me that proper procedure demands your presence here until our inquiries are concluded. It will look very strange on the eventual record — very strange indeed, Lady Crombie — if your indifference to the death of a husband so soon after a major robbery plays any part in delaying or impeding the legal process.’
Greg let the splendid phrases resonate within his head. They really were superb. And the trim little CID wench was pretty impressive — pretty and impressive — when you came to look at her; and listen to her.
He realised that Brigid was glaring at him again, and looked away.
‘In the circumstances’ — good heavens, for once she was giving way to someone smaller and quieter and far less domineering than herself — ‘I shall yield to your judgment, inspector. Hoping that you will conclude these investigations very speedily.’ Reserving to herself, thought Greg, the right to make one hell of a fuss through police complaints procedure and any other available channel if things dragged on too long.
The sitting-room would have to serve, with the tape recorder and files which had been shifted there.
‘And,’ said Brigid, regaining her authority, ‘I’d be obliged if you’d not interrupt while we’re working.’
‘Unless I have some urgent question on a matter of life and death, I’ll try not to disturb you.’
Greg enjoyed the steely sarcasm in the voice, and thought that Brigid could hardly have missed it.
‘Well?’ Brigid swung towards him. ‘Are you ready to continue earning your percentage?’
From the corner of his eye Greg was aware of Caroline coming downstairs and standing briefly in the doorway, studying the two of them. He was unable to make out her expression, and thought that perhaps this was just as well.
They had only just closed the door to the small room when there was a peremptory tap on it. A WPG was outside.
‘Lady Crombie, we’ve got a phone call through for you in the incident room.’
‘I said I wasn’t to be disturbed. Your detective inspector promised me —’
‘I was told it was rather urgent and you’d want to know before you went any further.’
‘Any further?’
‘I gather it’s your publisher, Lady Crombie.’ Brigid was back in two minutes in a mood of raging exultation.
‘That call was from that creep Cowan.’
‘Back from his American fishing trip?’
‘Do you know what he’s decided?’
‘Not to publish the book.’
‘How did you guess?’
Greg tried to assume the suavely modest expression of a world-weary adept who foresaw every eventuality. A more vulgar gesture would have been to wink and tap the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘The obvious next step, after that meeting,’ he pronounced.
‘He’s been got at, of course. Change of editorial policy, says Cowan the craven. Doesn’t think my book will quite fit their new image. I’ll give him image!’ Her enthusiasm was rekindled. ‘We go right ahead. There’ll be plenty of other publishers glad to get their hands on it.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘The way this is going to work out, I’m well and truly sure of it.’
‘One thing, Brigid.’
He had so rarely used her Christian name. She stared. ‘Yes?’
‘Just where is Ishbel?’
‘What you don’t know, you can’t blab.’
11
‘Inspector, there’s a call for you from a Dr Smutek.’
The name was a respected one in the art world. Smutek, a D.Litt of the Charles University in Prague, had fled Czechoslovakia during the Communist days when his work in cataloguing and restoring artworks in the Hradcany collection was being officially distorted for propaganda purposes. By the time the Communist régime collapsed, he was too well established in Britain to want to return.
In London he had worked at the Courtauld Institute before marrying a Scots girl and being persuaded by her to move to Edinburgh, where he set up on his own account in an art gallery off Thistle Street. Profit always came second to the all-round satisfaction of authenticity. His judgments came to be regarded almost as Holy Writ among his contemporaries. When he spoke, people listened. When he wrote to you or phoned you, there was never any likelihood of his wasting your time. Lesley Gunn had more than once relied on his opinions on questionable artworks and the probable destination of skilful thefts.
‘Dr Smutek.’
‘Detective Inspector Gunn.’ Over all the length of their acquaintanceship his language had remained formal, yet with a faint chuckle of personal affection. ‘First, may I express my regrets at the vandalism at Baldonald House. It must have been a great blow for Lord and Lady Crombie, and is doubtless giving you a considerable headache, yes?’
‘Yes.’ But she knew he wouldn’t have rung her simply with condolences. Smutek was invariably polite, but never time-wasting. ‘You’ve got some news for me?’
‘About one of the missing Crombie pieces, yes, I have.’ His accent had softened and adapted to create a strange musical mixture of flat Czech diction and Lothian lilt. ‘But it puzzles.’
‘Join the club. Everything about this case is puzzling.’
‘You know, of course, that my wife acts as adviser to Stephanos Souflias.’
Lesley did indeed know that Janet Smutek had a lucrative part-time job looking after the Greek shipping millionaire’s collections. When he was due to spend a few days or a week in Scotland, he would ring up and instruct her to get certain pictures and pieces of porcelain out of store and instal them in his permanent suite in an exclusive hotel behind Charlotte Square.
‘Also Mr Souflias consults me from time to time regarding purchases.’
With any other couple it might all too easily have been a cosy fiddle. The wife knew the millionaire’s tastes, and could have steered him her husband’s way. Might even have persuaded him to pay over the odds for something a bit suspect, difficult to unload elsewhere. But not with the Smuteks. They had not built up their reputation by letting themselves be tempted in that direction.
‘Come on,’ Lesley prodded. ‘What’s all this leading up to?’
Smutek laughed. ‘I make it dramatic, yes?’
‘Yes. Now let’s have the crunch, please.’
‘Something has come into Mr Souflias’s hands which he wished me to verify. I am able to do so. It is the Sargent painting of Lady Arabella Crombie from Baldonald House. I saw it a couple of years ago on a visit. And it is on the list your people circulated last week to the trade.’
‘And it’s genuine?’
‘Oh, it is genuine. Most assuredly.’
‘But where did it come from? If some crook has shown up offering it around, we need to —’
‘It came from a colleague,’ said Smutek very earnestly. ‘Not in my immediate circle, and we have dealt only infrequently with him.’
‘You mean he’s a bit dodgy?’
‘That is not what I said. He claims that ownership is well authenticated. And I have always found him honest. But the problem is …’ He was tantalising her again, keeping her waiting. ‘It has been in his hands now for three months. And the robbery was only a couple of weeks ago, yes?’
Lesley tried to grasp the implications. ‘But someone would have noticed its absence here. Lady Crombie … and Caroline … they both confirmed it was one of the items that went missing that day.’
‘Strange.’ She could almost see the complacent twinkle in his velvety brown eyes.
She struggled on. ‘You don’t suppose that the one you saw is a fake? Someone at some time made a copy, and then eased it out into the market?’
Smutek drew a slow, indignant breath. ‘No, detective inspector. I have told you. This was genuine. The canvas, the texture of the paint, the brush strokes. No, this is the real thing.’
‘Dr Smutek, I’m most grateful. Truly I am. Though I’m damned if I know how this fits in. How did it come into the hands of this colleague of yours?’
‘Oh, that is simple.’
‘I’m glad something is.’
‘I told you that title was well authenticated. It was Lady Crombie herself who put it into his hands. But asked that he should be very discreet when it came to selling it on. Preferably to someone who would keep it secure in a private collection — a very private collection. And now he reads your list, and the dates do not fit, and he is very worried. My wife, too, she worries.’
‘Lady Crombie? But why on earth …?’
‘I think that is what you are paid to find out, yes? I have said enough.’
But somebody else, thought Lesley grimly, had a lot more to say. And the sooner it was all said, the better.
*
Greg switched on the tape recorder. The physical presence of Alastair Blake was still large and sweatily real in his mind. He felt this was a good time to add some of his personal impressions to the chapter they had already sketched out. Before Brigid could protest that she had already said as much about Blake as needed saying, he spoke to her across the microphone. In his head he was not so much consulting her as embarking on a political column for a newspaper exposé.
‘One-time placement guru Alastair Blake has come a long way from his days as an Edinburgh journalist, and right now is in bullish mood. There have been times when rivals predicted that his move into executive placement would overstretch his resources and he would come down heavily. But he is a heavyweight in every sense of the word, not just bearing testimony to the lunches and dinners which he is known to have shared with every aspirant to power in the forthcoming Holyrood assembly, but —’
‘What on earth are you on about?’ said Brigid. ‘The man’s no guru. And there’s no such thing as a placement guru. All right, so everybody in the business knows he’s fat. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘In a book of this kind the reader does like to get a physical impression of a character. And now I’ve actually met him, I can flesh him out.’
‘He doesn’t need an ounce more flesh. There’s already a surplus on that slob.’
‘That’s just it. The comparison needs bringing out.’
‘All right, all right. But do cut out the gossip column style. We belong in the financial pages.’
‘I thought this was to be a book of gossip.’
‘Revelations, not gossip.’ But Brigid was in benevolent mood. The death of her second husband had cast no shadow. Rather, she was hyped up and eager to use every minute to its full. ‘Nasty, discreditable facts,’ she said with relish.
Greg wondered if she was in a mood to turn her attention immediately to the chapter concerning Simon Pringle. At least she could dictate what she liked now, with no fear of comebacks. But at the same time no scope for hurting, the way she wanted to hurt the others, savage them. Simon was beyond revenge now.
Instead, she went on: ‘Now, since you’ve made his acquaintance as well, what about Hill? Time we took the business of asset management apart. And he’s a good target. After that time he overreached himself securitising a bond of copyright between a record company and a pop star — and cheating them both — the regulators put him on a sort of parole for a couple of years. But now he emerges again all squeaky clean. They’re letting him play games with corporate mandates all over again. But one more black mark will finish him. And finish the regulator who wangled things for him. And I know exactly where to place that black spot.’
‘Hold on a minute. Before we switch to Hill, let me wrap up a few things about Blake in my own mind.’
‘There’s not a lot more to say.’
‘Between ourselves, it was this Holyrood business he wanted to lure you into, wasn’t it? Not just a consultancy, or a placement agency, but setting up a new lobbying organisation ahead of everybody else, ready for the new Scottish parliament?’
‘He could never have handled it.’
‘Not on his own. But that’s why he wanted you and two of your top staff in, right?’
‘Right. But it wouldn’t have worked. He hasn’t got the style for it. He’d already jumped the gun. I knew it. That’s why I refused to go in with him.’
The recollection made her look even more feral and greedy than before. Greg suspected that even more than launching her missile of a book at her enemies she was itching to get back into the real cut and thrust of her old world. She had scorned Hill’s suggestion that she might be taken back in if she dropped the whole idea of the book. When she did go back in, it would be on her own terms.
‘You know,’ she said, obviously half in that other world of hers, ‘there could be a job for you in the new set-up. You’d make a far shrewder lobbyist than blunderers like Blake. Capable of adopting whatever face is the current one, the way you’ve been doing it as a writer. I know exactly where I could place you.’
He couldn’t resist it. ‘Knowing what’s happened to the last husband you found a placement for, I think I’ll give that a miss.’ She laughed. Her enthusiasm embraced him, the way she hadn’t embraced him since long, long ago.
‘Now Simon’s gone, how do we deal with him? Make a much more topical chapter after
what’s happened.’ She got up and paced about the room. As she passed close to Greg, a warm smell came off her — a smell he suddenly remembered, at its most intoxicating in the nape of her neck. Turning at the window, she said: ‘It wasn’t you, was it? You didn’t kill Simon?’
‘How the hell could I have done?’
‘If it was you, I’d forgive you. Come on, Gregory, tell me how you did it. I’ll offer you an alibi if necessary.’
‘We already have an alibi. We were in Edinburgh together.’
‘Yes, but they only have our word for that. My word, your word. At the crucial time, either of us might have slipped away.’
Dizzily he tried to recall the exact timing of a couple of her absences, leaving him in the flat alone. No, he couldn’t see that she had ever been away for long enough at any one time.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You don’t believe for a moment that I had anything to do with it.’
‘Pity.’
She could not stay still. She made another circuit of the room, and stopped this time by the door. She was wearing white linen slacks and a white jacket over a crisp, turquoise blouse. Her eyes shimmered as brightly as the blouse.
Greg said: ‘Did you ever go to bed with Blake?’
‘Certainly not.’ She leaned back against the door with her hands behind her head, tightening the blouse and jacket over her breasts. ‘Look, forget Blake. Let’s just talk about you for a while.’
‘I don’t fancy ghosting a chapter about myself.’
‘You’re so good at being other people. Easing your way into their skin. Under their skin. Can’t you see you have the perfect qualifications for a lobbyist? Not just smooth talk, but genuine stuff from the nerve endings. No more waiting for commissions, arguing advances and royalties. Name your own price.’
‘For what?’
‘For introductions. For deals. Never mind the likes of Blake. He’s not even Marzipan Layer. Never make it above the currants and the candied peel. Whereas you … I mean, that London business. Quite heroic. Didn’t know you had it in you.’
‘Heroic? Life’s mainly plausible pretences, not heroics — wouldn’t you say?’