purchase? The when and where?”
“The police took them.”
“Did they take any other records?” Rebus was looking towards two four-drawer filing cabinets in a corner of the room. “We’re interested in sales and purchases, between six and five years ago.”
“All in there,” the secretary said, nodding not in the direction of the cabinets but towards two large boxes on the floor beside the desk. “I’ve spent the last two days sorting them out. Lord knows why . . . it’ll all probably go to the dump.”
Rebus tiptoed gingerly into the room, removing the lid from one of the boxes. There were bundles of invoices and receipts, wrapped in clear plastic envelopes and elastic bands, page markers sticking out, showing relevant dates. He looked up at Miss Meikle.
“You’ve done a grand job,” he said.
An hour later, Rebus and Siobhan were seated on the floor of the gallery, the paperwork spread out and divided between them. A few curious passersby had stopped to watch, perhaps thinking themselves spectators at some new style of art installation. Even when Siobhan had raised two fingers at a studenty couple, they’d just smiled, as if in appreciation that this, too, must be part of the performance. Rebus had his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, back resting against the wall. Siobhan sat with her legs folded beneath her, until pins and needles set her hopping across the whitewashed wooden floor. Silently, Rebus was blessing Miss Meikle. Without her organizational skills, their task might have taken days.
“Mr. Montrose seems to have been a good customer,” Rebus said, watching Siobhan rubbing the circulation back into her foot.
“No shortage of those,” she said. “I didn’t realize people in Edinburgh had so much money to burn.”
“They’re not burning it, Siobhan, they’re investing it. Much nicer to hang your cash on the drawing room wall than have it molder in a bank vault.”
“You’ve convinced me. I’m closing my savings account and buying an Elizabeth Blackadder.”
“I didn’t know you had that much tucked away . . .”
She flopped down beside him so she could study Mr. Montrose’s purchases. “Wasn’t there a Montrose at the opening?”
“Was there?”
She reached over for her shoulder bag and produced the Marber folder, busying herself flipping through its many sections. Rebus called through to Miss Meikle, who appeared in the doorway.
“I was thinking of heading home soon,” she warned him.
“All right if we take this lot with us?” Rebus indicated the sprawl of paperwork. The secretary looked disappointed at what had become of her careful filing. “Don’t worry,” Rebus assured her, “we’ll put it all back together again.” He paused. “It’s either that or leave it lying here till we can come back . . .”
This was the clincher. Miss Meikle nodded her agreement, and made to turn back into the office.
“Just one thing,” Rebus called out. “Mr. Montrose: how well do you know him?”
“Not at all.”
Rebus frowned. “Wasn’t he at the preview?”
“If he was, we weren’t introduced.”
“Buys a lot of paintings, though . . . Or he did four, five years ago.”
“Yes, he was a good client. Eddie was sorry to lose him.”
“How did that happen?”
She shrugged, came towards him and dropped to a crouch. “The numbers on these page markers refer to other transactions.” She started sifting through the paperwork, plucking out this sheet and that.
“List of people at the party,” Siobhan said, brandishing a sheet of her own. “We were dealing with signatures, remember, some more legible than others. One particularly nasty squiggle is down here as possibly Marlowe, Matthews or Montrose. I remember Grant Hood showing it to me.” She handed him a photocopy of the relevant page in the gallery’s visitors’ book. No first name, unless the squiggle
“Miss Meikle says Montrose stopped being a client of Mr. Marber’s.” He handed back the photocopy, which Siobhan now studied. “Would he turn up at a preview?”
“He didn’t get an invite,” the secretary stated. “I never knew his address. Eddie always dealt with him direct.”
“Was that unusual?”
“A little. Some clients didn’t want to be identified. Famous people, or the aristocracy, wanting a valuation and not wishing anyone to know they were needing to sell . . .” She drew out another sheet of paper, checked its page marker, then started looking again.
“Makes sense,” Siobhan was saying. “We had Montrose down as being Cafferty. I can’t imagine him courting publicity.”
“You think it was Cafferty?” Rebus didn’t sound so sure.
“Here we are,” Miss Meikle said, sounding proud that her system had already proved its usefulness.
Montrose — whoever he was — had purchased in bulk to start with. A quarter of a million pounds’ worth of paintings in a matter of a few months. In the years that followed, there were a few sales, a few more purchases. The sales were always at a profit. Although Montrose’s name appeared on the sales slips and buyers’ notes, his address was given as c/o Marber Galleries.
“All these years, and you never met him?” Rebus asked. Meikle shook her head. “You must have spoken to him on the phone?”
“Yes, but only to pass him over to Eddie.”
“How did he sound?”
“Curt, I’d say. A man of few words.”
“Scottish?”
“Yes.”
“Upper class?”
She thought about this. “No,” she said, drawing out the single syllable. “Not that I’m one to prejudge people . . .” Her own cadences were Edinburgh private school. She spoke as though dictating each utterance to some slow-witted foreigner.
“When Montrose bought a painting, it must have gone to some delivery address,” Rebus guessed.
“I think they always came here. I could certainly check . . .”
Rebus shook his head. “And after they arrived here, what then?”
“I really can’t say.”
He looked at her. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t,” she said, sounding peeved at his insinuation.
“Could Mr. Marber have kept them?”
She shrugged.
“You’re saying this Montrose character never actually kept any of his own paintings?” Siobhan sounded skeptical.
“Maybe, maybe not. Say he’d no interest in them, except as an investment.”
“He could still put them on his walls.”
“Not if people might suspect.”
“Suspect what?”
Rebus glanced towards Miss Meikle, letting Siobhan know this was a discussion they should carry on in private. The secretary was twisting her watchband, anxious to close up for the night.
“One last question,” Rebus told her. “What happened to Mr. Montrose?”
She showed him the final sheet of transactions. “He sold everything.”
Rebus looked down the list of paintings and prices fetched. Montrose had walked away with a third of a million, less commission.
“Did Mr. Marber put everything through the books?” Siobhan asked.
Meikle suddenly looked furious. “Of course!” she snapped.
“In which case, Inland Revenue will have been notified?”
