Resurrection Men

Hynds considered this. “He saw Cafferty,” he said.

“Yes, I wanted to thank you for getting us away from that particular topic so promptly.”

Hynds paused to think back, then muttered an apology. “Why are you so interested in Cafferty?”

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard about Cafferty and DI Rebus.”

“What about them, Davie?”

“Just that they . . .” Hynds seemed finally to realize that he was digging himself into a hole. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You sure about that?”

He stared at her. “Why didn’t you take me with you to see Dominic Mann?”

She scratched at her ear, looking around before focusing on Hynds. “Know what his first question to me was? ‘Where’s your homophobic friend?’ That’s why I didn’t take you. I thought I might get more out of him if you weren’t there.” She paused. “And I did.”

“Fair enough,” Hynds said, his shoulders dropping, hands seeking the shelter of his pockets.

“What are Neilson’s paintings like, do you know?” Siobhan asked, keen to change the subject.

Hynds’s right hand appeared from its pocket, clutching four postcards. They were works by Malcolm Neilson. They had titles like First Impressions Count Last and Seeing How You Already Know. The titles didn’t go with the paintings: field and sky; a beach with cliff face; moorland; a boat on a loch.

“What do you think?” Hynds asked.

“I don’t know . . . I suppose I’d expected something a bit more . . .”

“Abstract and angry?”

She looked at him. “Exactly.”

“Abstract and angry don’t sell,” Hynds explained. “Not to the people who decide which prints and postcards they’ll foist on the public.”

“How do you mean?”

Hynds took the postcards and waved them at her. “These are where the big money is. Greeting cards, framed prints, wrapping paper . . . Ask Jack Vettriano.”

“I would if I knew who he was.” She was thinking: hadn’t Dominic Mann mentioned him . . . ?

“He’s a painter. The couple dancing on the beach.”

“I’ve seen that one.”

“I’ll bet you have. He probably makes more from card sales and the like than he does from his paintings.”

“You’re joking.”

But Hynds shook his head, pocketing the postcards. “Art’s all about marketing. I was speaking to a journalist about it.”

“One of the ones from the viewing?”

Hynds nodded. “She’s art critic for the Herald.”

“And I wasn’t invited?” He looked at her, and she took the point: just like her and Dominic Mann. “Okay,” she said, “I asked for that. Go on about marketing.”

“You need to get artists’ names known. Plenty of ways to do that. The artist can cause a sensation of some kind.”

“Like whassername with her unmade bed?”

Hynds nodded. “Or you stir up interest in some new school or trend.”

“The New Scottish Colorists?”

“The timing couldn’t be better. There was a big retrospective last year of the original Colorists — Cadell, Peploe, Hunter and Fergusson.”

“You got all this from your art critic?”

He held up a single digit. “One phone call.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Siobhan dug into her pocket for her mobile, punched in a number and waited till it was answered. Hynds had taken the postcards out again and was flicking through them.

“Is anyone speaking to the competition?” Siobhan asked him.

Hynds nodded. “I think Silvers and Hawes did the interviews. They talked to Hastie, Celine Blacker and Joe Drummond.”

“Does this Hastie have a first name?”

“Not for professional purposes.”

There was no answer from the phone. Siobhan shut it off. “And did anything come of the interviews?”

“They went by the book.”

She looked at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning they didn’t know what questions to ask.”

“Unlike you, you mean?”

Hynds rested a hand against Siobhan’s car. “I’ve taken a crash course in Scottish art. You know it and I know it.”

“So speak to DCS Templer; maybe she’ll let you do a fresh lot of interviews.” Siobhan noted some reddening on Hynds’s neck. “You already spoke to her?” she guessed.

“Saturday afternoon.”

“What did she say?”

“She said it looked like I thought I knew better than her.”

Siobhan muffled a smile. “You’ll get used to her,” she said.

“She’s a ball-breaker.”

The smile disappeared. “She’s just doing her job.”

Hynds’s lips formed an O. “I forgot she’s a friend of yours.”

“She’s my boss, same as she is yours.”

“Way I heard it, she’s grooming you.”

“I don’t need grooming . . .” Siobhan paused, sucked in some air. “Who’ve you been talking to? Derek Linford?”

Hynds just shrugged. Problem was, it could have been anyone really: Linford, Silvers, Grant Hood . . . Siobhan punched the number back into her phone.

“DCS Templer’s got to be tough on you,” she said, controlling her voice. “Don’t you see? That’s her job. Would you call her a ball-breaker if she was a bloke?”

“I’d probably call her something worse,” Hynds said.

Siobhan’s call was picked up this time. “It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke here. I have an appointment with Mr. Cafferty . . . just wanted to check we were still okay.” She listened, glanced at her watch. “That’s great, thank you. I’ll be there.” She quit the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

“Morris Gerald Cafferty,” Hynds stated.

“Big Ger to those in the know.”

“Prominent local businessman.”

“With sidelines in drugs, protection and God knows what else.”

“You’ve had run-ins with him before?”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything. The run-ins had been between Cafferty and Rebus; at best she’d been a spectator.

“So what time are we seeing him?” Hynds asked.

“ ‘We’?”

“I assume you’ll want me to cast an expert eye over his art collection.”

Which made sense, even though Siobhan was loath to admit it. Hynds’s phone sounded now, and he answered it.

“Hello, Ms. Bessant,” he said, winking at Siobhan. Then he listened for a moment. “Are you sure?” He was staring at Siobhan now. “We’re not far away, actually. Yes, five minutes . . . see you there.” He finished the call.

“What is it?” Siobhan asked.