by Ian Rankin
Art, one of Mike’s advisers had advised, was a canny investment. He’d then gone on to suggest the name of a broker who would ensure that Mike bought wisely; ‘wisely and well’ had been his exact words. But Mike learned that this would mean buying paintings he didn’t necessarily like by feted artists whose coffers he didn’t really feel like filling. It would also mean being prepared to part with paintings he might admire, solely to comply with the fluctuations of the market. Instead of which, he had gone his own way, attending his first sale and finding a seat right at the front - surprised that a few chairs were still vacant while people seemed content to stand in a crush at the back of the room. Of course, he had soon learned the reason - those at the back had a clear view of all the bidders, and could revise their own bids accordingly. As his friend Allan confided afterwards, Mike had paid about three grand too much for a Bossun still life because a dealer had spotted him as a tyro and had toyed with him, edging the price upwards in the knowledge that the arm at the front of the room would be hoisted again.
‘But why the hell would he do that?’ Mike had asked, appalled.
‘He’s probably got a few Bossuns tucked away in storage,’ Allan had explained. ‘If prices for the artist look like they’re on the way up, he’ll get more interest when he dusts them off.’
‘But if I’d pulled out, he’d’ve been stuck with the one I bought.’
To which Allan had just shrugged and given a smile.
Allan was somewhere in the saleroom right now, catalogue open as he perused potential purchases. Not that he could afford much - not on a banking salary. But he had a passion for art and a good eye, and would become wistful on the day of the actual auction as he watched paintings he coveted being bought by people he didn’t know. Those paintings, he’d told Mike, might disappear from public view for a generation or more.
‘Worst case, they’re bought as investments and placed in a vault for safe keeping - no more meaning to their buyer than compound interest.’
‘You’re saying I shouldn’t buy anything?’
‘Not as an investment - you should buy whatever pleases you . . .’
As a result of which, the walls of Mike’s apartment were replete with art from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries - most of it Scottish. He had eclectic tastes, so that cubism sat alongside pastoral, portraiture beside collage. For the most part, Allan approved. The two had first met a year ago at a party at the bank’s investment arm HQ on George Street. The First Caledonian Bank - ‘First Caly’ as it was more usually called - owned an impressive corporate art collection. Large Fairbairn abstracts flanked the entrance lobby, with a Coulton triptych behind the reception desk. First Caly employed its own curator, whose job it was to discover new talent - often from degree shows - then sell when the price was right and replenish the collection. Mike had mistaken Allan for the curator, and they’d struck up a conversation.
‘Allan Cruikshank,’ Allan had said, shaking Mike’s hand. ‘And of course I already know who you are.’
‘Sorry about the mix-up,’ Mike had apologised with an embarrassed grin. ‘It’s just that we seem to be the only people interested in what’s on the walls . . .’
Allan Cruikshank was in his late forties and, as he put it, ‘expensively divorced’, with two teenage sons and a daughter in her twenties. He dealt with HNWs - High Net Worth individuals - but had assured Mike that he wasn’t angling for business. Instead, in the absence of the curator, he’d shown Mike as much of the collection as was open for general viewing.
‘MD’s office will be locked. He’s got a Wilkie and a couple of Raeburns . . .’
In the weeks after the party, they’d exchanged emails, gone out for drinks a few times, and become friends. Mike had come to the viewing this evening only because Allan had persuaded him that it might be fun. But so far he had seen nothing to whet his jaded appetite, other than a charcoal study by one of the major Scottish Colourists - and he already had three at home much the same, probably torn from the self-same sketchbook.
‘You look bored,’ Allan said with a smile. He held his dog-eared catalogue in one hand, and a drained champagne flute in the other. Tiny flakes of pastry on his striped tie showed that he had sampled the canapés.
‘I am bored.’
‘No gold-digging blondes sidling up to you with offers you’d be hard pressed to refuse?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Well, this is Edinburgh after all; more chance of being asked to make up a four for bridge . . .’ Allan looked around him. ‘Busy old night, all the same. Usual mix of freeloaders, dealers and the privileged.’
‘And which are we?’
‘We’re art lovers, Michael - pure and simple.’
‘So is there anything you’ll be bidding on come auction day?’
‘Probably not.’ Allan gave a sigh, staring into the depths of his parched glass. ‘The next lot of school fees are still on my desk, awaiting chequebook. And I know what you’re going to say: plenty of good schools in the city without needing to pay for one. You yourself attended a rough-hewn comprehensive and it didn’t do you any harm, but this is tradition we’re talking about. Three generations, all schooled at the same fusty establishment. My father would curdle in his grave if I put the boys elsewhere.’
‘I’m sure Margot would have something to say about it, too.’
At mention of his ex-wife, Allan gave an exaggerated shudder. Mike smiled, playing his part. He knew better than to offer financial assistance - he’d made that mistake once before. A banker, a man whose daily dealings involved some of the wealthiest individuals in Scotland, couldn’t be seen to accept handouts.
‘You should get Margot to pay her share,’ Mike teased. ‘You’re always saying she earns as much as you do.’
‘And used that purchasing power to good effect when she chose her lawyers.’ Another tray of undercooked pastry was coming past. Mike shook his head while Allan asked if the fizz could be pointed in their direction. ‘Not that it’s worth the effort,’ he muttered to Mike. ‘Ersatz, if you ask me. That’s why they’ve wrapped those white cotton napkins around the bottles. Means we can’t read the label.’ He took another look around the chatter-filled room. ‘Have you pressed the flesh with Laura yet?’
‘A glance and a smile,’ Mike replied. ‘She seems popular tonight. ’
‘The winter auction was the first one she’d fronted,’ Allan reminded him, ‘and it didn’t exactly catch fire. She needs to woo potential buyers.’
‘And we don’t fit the bill?’
‘With due respect, Mike, you’re fairly transparent - you lack what gamblers would call the “poker face”. That little glance you say you exchanged probably told her all she needed to know. When you see a painting you like, you stand in front of it for minutes on end, and then you go up on your tiptoes when you’ve made up your mind to buy it.’ Allan attempted the movement, rocking on his heels and his toes, while holding out his glass towards the arriving champagne.
‘You’re good at reading people, aren’t you?’ Mike said with a laugh.
‘Comes with the job. A lot of HNWs want you to know what they’re thinking without them having to spell it out.’
‘So what am I thinking now?’ Mike held a hand over his own glass and the waiter gave a little bow before moving on.
Allan made a show of screwing shut his eyes in thought. ‘You’re thinking you can do without my smart-arsed remarks,’ he said, opening his eyes again. ‘You’re wishing you could stand in front of our charming hostess for minutes on end - tiptoes or no tiptoes.’ He paused. ‘And you’re just about to suggest a bar where we can get ourselves a real drink.’
‘That’s uncanny,’ Mike pretended to admit.
‘What’s more,’ Allan added, raising his glass in a toast, ‘one of your wishes is about to be granted . . .’
Yes, because Mike had seen her, too: Laura Stanton, squeezing her way through the throng, heading straight towards them. Almost six feet tall in her heels
, auburn hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She wore a sleeveless knee-length black dress, cut low to show the opal pendant hanging at her throat.
‘Laura,’ Allan drawled, pecking her on both cheeks. ‘Congratulations, you’ve put together quite a sale.’
‘Better tell your employers at First Caly - I’ve got at least two brokers in the room scouting on behalf of rival banks. Everyone seems to want something for the boardroom.’ She had already turned her attention towards Mike. ‘Hello, you,’ she said, leaning forward for another exchange of kisses. ‘I get the feeling nothing’s quite caught your fancy tonight.’
‘Not strictly true,’ Mike corrected her, causing her cheeks to redden.
‘Where did you find the Matthewson?’ Allan was asking. ‘We’ve one from the same series outside the lifts on the fourth floor.’
‘It’s from an estate in Perthshire. Owner wants to buy some adjacent land so developers can’t spoil the view.’ She turned towards him. ‘Would First Caly be interested . . . ?’
Allan offered little more than a shrug and the puffing out of his cheeks.
‘Which is the Matthewson?’ Mike asked.
‘The snowy landscape,’ Laura explained, pointing towards the far wall. ‘Ornate gilt frame . . . not really your thing, Mike.’
‘Nor mine,’ Allan felt compelled to add. ‘Highland cattle and sheep huddled together for warmth beneath trees with no leaves.’
‘Funny thing about Matthewson,’ Laura added for Mike’s benefit, ‘is that they fetch more if you can see the faces of the animals.’ It was the sort of titbit she knew would interest him, and he nodded his appreciation.
‘Any sniffs from overseas?’ Allan was asking.
Laura gave a thoughtful pout, measuring her response. ‘Russian market is strong . . . same goes for China and India. I reckon we’ll have plenty of telephone bidders come sale day.’
‘But no pre-emptives?’
Laura pretended to swipe at Allan with her catalogue. ‘Now you’re just fishing,’ she chided him.
‘Incidentally,’ Mike began, ‘I’ve hung the Monboddo.’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Just inside the front door.’ The Albert Monboddo still life had been his only purchase at the winter auction. ‘You said you’d come see it,’ he reminded her.
‘I’ll email you.’ Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘But meantime, feel free to quash a rumour I’ve been hearing.’
‘Uh-oh,’ Allan said, snorting into his glass.
‘What rumour?’
‘That you’ve been cosying up to the city’s other, less likeable auction houses.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ Mike asked her.
‘Small world,’ she replied. ‘And gossipy with it.’
‘I’ve not bought anything,’ Mike said defensively.
‘Poor swine’s actually blushing,’ Allan added.
‘You don’t want me visiting the Monboddo,’ Laura went on, ‘and have to turn on my heel because there’s half of Christie’s and Sotheby’s hanging next to it. Well, do you?’
But before Mike could answer, a meaty hand landed on his shoulder. He turned his head and was staring into the dark, piercing eyes of Robert Gissing. The older man’s huge dome of a head gleamed with sweat. His tweed tie was askew, his blue linen jacket creased and stretched beyond saving. All the same, he carried real presence, and his booming voice took no prisoners.
‘I see the playboys have arrived, just in time to save me from this awful hooch!’ He wafted his empty champagne flute like a conductor’s baton. His eyes fixed on Laura. ‘I don’t blame you, my dear, it is your job after all . . .’
‘Actually, it’s Hugh who orders in the catering.’
Gissing shook his head theatrically. ‘I’m talking about the paintings, child! Don’t know why I come to these tragic affairs.’
‘The free booze?’ Allan pretended to guess, but Gissing ignored him.
‘Dozens and dozens of works, representing the best each artist could muster . . . a story behind each brush stroke, each carefully considered placement of object or subject . . .’ Gissing had pinched his thumb and forefinger together, as though holding a tiny brush. ‘They belong to us all, part of our collective consciousness, our nation’s narrative . . . our history.’ He was in his element now. Mike caught Laura’s eye and offered a wink: they’d both heard the speech - or variations on its central theme - plenty of times in the past. ‘They don’t belong in boardrooms,’ Gissing went on, ‘where only a security pass will get you into the building. Nor do they belong in some insurance company’s vault or a captain of industry’s hunting lodge . . .’
‘Or a self-made millionaire’s apartment,’ Allan teased, but Gissing wagged a finger as fat as a sausage at him.
‘You lot at First Caly are the worst offenders - overpaying for undeveloped young talent that then gets too big for its boots!’ He paused for breath, and slapped a hand down on Mike’s shoulder again. ‘But I won’t hear a word said against young Michael here.’ Mike flinched as Gissing’s grip tightened. ‘Especially as he’s just about to buy me a pint-pot of whisky.’
‘I’ll leave you boys to it,’ Laura said, fanning out the fingers of her free hand as she waved goodbye. ‘Sale’s a week today . . . make sure it’s in your diaries.’ There was, it seemed to Mike, a final smile just for him as she moved away.
‘The Shining Star?’ Gissing was offering. It took Mike a moment to realise he was talking about the wine bar along the street.
2
It was a low-ceilinged, windowless basement with mahogany slats on the walls and brown leather furnishings. In the past, Gissing had complained that it felt like being in a well-upholstered coffin.
After private viewings and the auctions themselves, it had become their custom to drop into the Shining Star for what Gissing called ‘post-match analysis’. Tonight, the place was half full - students by the look of it, albeit of the well-heeled variety.
‘Living in daddy’s Stockbridge pied-à-terre,’ Gissing muttered.
‘But still your bread and butter,’ Allan teased him.
They found an empty booth and waited for the staff to take their order - whisky for Gissing and Mike, the house champagne for Allan.
‘Need a glass of the real McCoy to wash away the memory,’ he explained.
‘I mean it, you know,’ Gissing was saying, rubbing his hands together as if soaping them. ‘About all those paintings in purdah . . . meant every bloody word.’
‘We know,’ Allan told him. ‘But you’re preaching to the converted. ’
Robert Gissing was head of the city’s College of Art, but not for much longer. Retirement was only a month or two away - at the end of the summer term. It seemed, however, that he was determined to argue his various points to the very last.
‘I can’t believe it’s what the artists themselves would have wanted,’ Gissing persisted.
‘In the past,’ Mike felt obliged to ask, ‘didn’t they all crave patrons?’
‘Those same patrons often loaned out important works,’ Gissing shot back, ‘to the national collections and elsewhere.’
‘First Caly does the same,’ Mike argued, looking to Allan for support.
‘That’s true,’ Allan agreed. ‘We send paintings all over the place.’
‘But it’s not the same,’ Gissing growled. ‘It’s all about commerce these days, when it should be about taking pleasure in the works themselves.’ He balled one hand into a fist, thumping the table for effect.
‘Steady there,’ Mike said. ‘Staff’ll think we’re impatient.’ He noticed that Allan’s gaze was fixed on the bar. ‘Good-looking waitress? ’ he guessed, starting to turn his head.
‘Don’t!’ Allan warned, lowering his voice and leaning across the table, as if for a huddle. ‘Three men at the bar, necking a bottle of what looks suspiciously like Roederer Cristal . . .’
‘Art dealers?’
Allan was shaking his head. ‘I think one of t
hem’s Chib Calloway.’
‘The gangster?’ Gissing’s words coincided with the end of a music track, seeming even louder in the sudden silence, and as he craned his neck to look, the man called Calloway caught the movement and stared back at the trio. His bulbous shaved head rested on huge hunched shoulders. He wore a black leather jacket and a distended black T-shirt. The champagne glass looked like it was being choked by his fist.