Resurrection Men

Siobhan was looking puzzled, so Hynds stepped in. “I like his stuff. Self-taught, too.”

“Some of the galleries don’t like him — jealous, if you ask me. But as I always say, you can’t argue with success. I’d have represented him like a shot.”

Siobhan had turned her attention to a nearby painting. It was bright orange, titled Incorporation, and priced at a very reasonable £8,975, which was just a shade more than her car had cost. “How about Malcolm Neilson?”

Mann rolled his eyes. He was in his mid-forties, with bottle-blond hair and a tight little two-piece suit in a color Siobhan would have called puce. Green slip-on shoes and a pale-green T-shirt. The west end was probably the only safe place for him. “Malcolm is a nightmare to work with. He doesn’t understand words like ‘cooperation’ and ‘restraint.’ ”

“You’ve represented him then?”

“Only the once. A mixed show. Eleven artists, and Malcolm quite ruined the private view, pointing out imagined defects to the clients.”

“Does anyone represent him now?”

“Probably. He still sells overseas. I imagine there’s someone somewhere taking their cut.”

“Ever come across a collector called Cafferty?” Siobhan asked innocently.

Mann angled his head thoughtfully. “Local, is he?”

“Fairly.”

“Only he sounds Irish, and I have a few enthusiastic clients in the Dublin area.”

“Edinburgh-based.”

“In that case, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Would he be interested in joining my mailing list?”

Hynds, who had been flicking through a catalogue, closed it. “I’m sorry if this sounds callous, sir, but would Edward Marber’s demise benefit other art dealers in the city?”

“How so?”

“Well, his clients will have to go somewhere . . .”

“I see what you mean.”

Siobhan locked eyes with Hynds. They could almost hear the working of Dominic Mann’s brain as the simple truth of this hit home. He’d probably be busy late into the evening, enlarging his mailing list.

“Every cloud,” he said at last, not bothering to finish the sentence.

“Do you know the art dealer Cynthia Bessant?” Siobhan asked.

“My dear, everyone knows Madame Cyn.”

“She seems to have been Mr. Marber’s closest friend.”

Dominic Mann appeared to pout. “That could be true, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound too sure, sir.”

“Well, it’s true they were great friends . . .”

Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. There was something Mann wasn’t saying, something he wanted to have prized out of him. Suddenly he clapped his hands.

“Does Cynthia inherit?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” But she did know: Marber’s will left portions of his estate to various charities and friends — including Cynthia Bessant—and the residue to a sister and two nephews in Australia. The sister had been contacted but had said that it would be difficult for her to come to Scotland, leaving Marber’s solicitor and accountant to deal with everything. Siobhan was hoping they’d charge well for their services.

“I suppose Cyn deserves it more than most,” Mann was musing. “Sometimes Eddie treated her like his bloody servant.” He looked at Siobhan, then at Hynds. “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but Eddie wasn’t the easiest friend anyone could have. The occasional tantrum or rudeness.”

“But people put up with it?” The question came from Hynds.

“Oh, he was charming, too, and he could be generous.”

“Mr. Mann,” Siobhan said, “did Mr. Marber have any close friends? Closer than Ms. Bessant, I mean.”

Mann’s eyes twinkled. “You mean lovers?”

Siobhan nodded slowly. This was what Mann had wanted to be asked. His whole body seemed to writhe with pleasure.

“Well, Eddie’s tastes . . .”

“I think we can guess at Mr. Marber’s proclivities,” Hynds interrupted, aiming for levity. Siobhan fixed him with a stare: No guesses, she wanted to hiss.

Mann was looking at Hynds too. He held his hands against his cheekbones. “My God,” he gasped, “you think Eddie was gay, don’t you?”

Hynds’s face sagged. “Well, wasn’t he?”

The art dealer forced a smile. “My dear, wouldn’t I have known if he was?”

Now Hynds looked to Siobhan.

“We got the impression from Ms. Bessant . . .”

“I don’t call her Madame Cyn for nothing,” Mann said. He’d stepped forward to straighten one of the paintings. “She was always good at protecting Eddie.”

“Protecting him from what?” Siobhan asked.

“From the world . . . from prying eyes . . .” He looked around, as though the gallery were filled with potential eavesdroppers, then leaned in towards Siobhan. “Rumor was, Eddie only liked short-term relationships. You know, with professional women.”

Hynds opened his mouth, ready with a question.

“I think,” Siobhan told him, “Mr. Mann means prostitutes.”

Mann started nodding, moistening the corners of his mouth with his tongue. The secret was out, and he couldn’t have been more thrilled . . .

“I’ll do it,” the Weasel said.

He was a small, gaunt man, always dressed just this side of ragged. On the street, he’d be taken for a transient, someone not worth bothering or bothering about. This was his skill. Chauffeured Jaguars took him around the city, doing Big Ger Cafferty’s work. But as soon as he stepped from them, he got in character again and became as conspicuous as a piece of litter.

Normally, he worked out of Cafferty’s cab-hire office, but Rebus knew they couldn’t meet there. He’d called from his mobile, asked to speak with the Weasel. “Just tell him it’s John from the warehouse.”

They’d arranged to meet on the towpath of the Union Canal, half a mile from the cab office. It was a route Rebus hadn’t taken in many a year. He could smell yeast from the local brewery. Birds were paddling in the canal’s oily water. Coots? Moorhens? He’d never been good with names.

“Ever do any ornithology?” he asked the Weasel.

“I was only in hospital once, appendicitis.”

“It means bird-watching,” Rebus said, though he suspected the Weasel knew this as well as he did, the two-short-planks routine part of his image, inviting the unwary to underestimate him.

“Oh aye,” he said now, nodding. Then: “Tell them I’ll do it.”

“I haven’t told you what they want.”

“I know what they want.”

Rebus looked at him. “Cafferty’ll have you killed.”

“If he can, yes, I don’t doubt it.”

“You and Aly must be pretty close.”

“His mum died when he was twelve. Shouldn’t happen to someone that young.” The way he was staring out over the narrow, debris-strewn stretch of water, he might have been a tourist in Venice. A bicycle came towards them along the path, the rider nodding a greeting as they made room for her to pass.

At twelve, Rebus’s own daughter had been living with her mother, the marriage over.

“I always did the best I could,” the Weasel was saying. There was no emotion in the voice, but Rebus didn’t think the man was acting any longer.

“Did you know he was dealing?”

“Course not. I’d have stopped him otherwise.”