He was already halfway out of the door. “Oh, you know . . . loose ends.”
He walked into the murder room and stood next to Phyllida Hawes’s desk. There were only a couple of officers around. Rebus crouched down so his head was the same level as hers.
“Where was it you found me?” he asked quietly.
She caught his meaning. “Anywhere but IR1?” she guessed. He nodded slowly, stood back up.
“Anyone else know?”
She shook her head.
“Let’s keep it that way,” he said.
Back downstairs, Siobhan had finished her drink. “Vettriano?” she prompted him. “I’m not seeing it.”
He sat down, picked up his pen. “Why take that particular painting?”
“Like you said, it meant something to someone.”
“Exactly. Say Marber had blackmailed somebody, used some or maybe all the money to buy himself a painting. He wouldn’t be the first person to get greedy later on, decide he could get himself a little extra . . .”
“Nor would he be the first to die for his efforts.” Siobhan pressed the tips of her fingers together. “He was thinking of leaving the country anyway, so decided he might as well try an extra squeeze on whoever it was he’d blackmailed. They didn’t like that, so they had him killed, taking the painting because they knew he’d bought it with money taken from them.”
“But the painting didn’t mean anything to them other than that,” Rebus added. “Stealing it was a gesture — and a pretty rash one. So when Neilson started to look good as a suspect, the killer decided it could be the final nail in his coffin.”
“Something the Procurator Fiscal said,” Siobhan mused. “The money Marber had paid Neilson . . . no one knew about it but us.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the only people who knew how firmly Neilson was fitting the picture . . .”
“Were cops?” Rebus guessed, watching her nod.
“But we still don’t know who it was Marber was blackmailing,” she said.
Rebus shrugged. “I’m not so sure he’d blackmailed anyone . . . not the first time round.”
“Explain.” She narrowed her eyes. But Rebus shook his head.
“Not yet. Let’s keep digging . . .”
When Siobhan took a break to fetch more coffees, she returned with news.
“Have you heard the rumor?”
“Is it about me?” Rebus guessed.
“For once, no.” She put their cups down. “Moves afoot at the Big House.”
“Do tell.”
“Word is, Carswell’s moving on.”
“Really?”
“And there’s some shake-up at the SDEA.”
Rebus whistled, but his act was failing to convince her. “You already knew,” she stated.
“Says who?”
“Come on, John . . .”
“Siobhan, cross my heart, I didn’t know a thing about it.”
She stared at him. “Linford’s looking boot-faced. I think he’d gotten used to Carswell’s protection.”
“It’s a cold world at the Big House if no one’s looking out for you,” Rebus agreed.
They pondered this for a moment, then broke into smiles.
“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving bloke,” Rebus said. “Now let’s get back to the
They decided some foot slogging was necessary, so left the station — bundling the folder and all their notes into the shoulder bag again — and made for the self-storage facility, where the owner wasn’t able to add much. Marber had arranged for a standing order to pay for the unit. He hadn’t said why he might need it. Back at Marber’s gallery, they found his secretary trying to clear out the office. She was on a retainer from the estate until the work was complete, and didn’t seem in a hurry to hit the dole queue.
Her name was Jan Meikle. She was in her early forties, with tied-back hair and thick oval glasses, her frame seeming needle-thin amidst the haystack of boxes, papers and artifacts in the overheated room. The gallery itself was empty, the walls denuded of the pictures which had given it its personality. Rebus asked where they were.
“Gone to auction,” Jan Meikle replied. “All monies to accrue to the estate.” It sounded like the line she’d been given by Marber’s solicitor.
“Were Mr. Marber’s affairs in order at the time of his death?” Rebus asked. He was standing with Siobhan in the doorway, there being no floor space worth mentioning inside the room itself, apart from two small patches which were currently being occupied by Miss Meikle’s sandaled feet.
“As much as could have been expected,” she replied automatically. It wasn’t the first time a police detective had asked the question.
“You didn’t get the sense that the business was winding down in any way?” Rebus pressed.
She shook her head, but didn’t look at him.
“Sure about that, Miss Meikle?”
She mumbled something neither of them caught.
“Sorry?” Siobhan said.
“Eddie was always getting ideas into his head,” the secretary repeated.
“He told you he was selling up, didn’t he?” Rebus asked.
She shook her head again, defiantly this time. “Not selling up, no.”
“Taking time off then?”
This time she nodded. “His place in Tuscany . . .”
“Did he mention anyone he might have been taking with him?”
She looked up, working hard to keep the tears from flowing. “Why must you
“It’s our job,” Siobhan stated. “You know Malcolm Neilson’s in custody, charged with Mr. Marber’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You want it to be him because it brings all this to an end,” Siobhan said quietly. “But wouldn’t it be better to get the person who was really responsible?”
Meikle blinked at her. “Not Malcolm Neilson?”
“We don’t think so,” Rebus said. “Did you know about Laura Stafford, Miss Meikle?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew she was a prostitute?”
The woman nodded, unwilling to speak.
“Did Eddie say he was going to go to Tuscany with Laura Stafford?”
Another nod.
“Do you know if he’d actually asked her?”
“As I say, Eddie was always getting ideas . . . This wasn’t the first time he’d spoken of it.” She paused. “And
From her tone, Rebus guessed that maybe Miss Meikle had at one time thought herself one of those candidates.
“Could he have meant it this time?” he asked quietly. “He was putting his paintings into mothballs. He’d rented a storage unit . . .”
“He’d done that before, too,” she snapped.
Rebus thought for a moment. “The Vettriano that went missing, would there be any records here about its
