“One of Marber’s own paintings. Looks like someone’s walked off with it. And guess what: it’s a Vettriano . . .”
They drove to Marber’s gallery, where Cynthia Bessant was waiting for them, still dressed in black from the funeral and with her eyes reddened from crying.
“I drove Jan back here . . .” She nodded towards the back office, where Marber’s secretary was fussing with paperwork. “She said she wanted to get straight back to work. That’s when I noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Siobhan asked.
“Well, there was a painting Eddie liked. He’d kept it at home for a while, then decided to hang it in his office here. That’s where I thought it was, which is why I didn’t say anything when it wasn’t with the rest of his collection at home. But Jan says he decided it might get stolen from the gallery, so he took it home again.”
“Could he have sold it?” Hynds asked.
“I don’t think so, David,” Bessant said. “But Jan is checking . . .”
Hynds’s neck was reddening, knowing Siobhan’s eyes were on him, amused by Bessant’s use of his first name.
“What sort of painting was it?”
“Fairly early Vettriano . . . self-portrait with a nude behind him in the mirror.”
“How large?” Hynds had taken his notebook out.
“Maybe forty inches by thirty . . . Eddie bought it five or so years ago, just before Jack went stratospheric.”
“So what would it be worth now?”
She shrugged. “Maybe thirty . . . forty thousand. You think whoever killed Eddie stole it?”
“What do you think?” Siobhan asked.
“Well, Eddie had Peploes and Bellanys, a minor Klee and a couple of exquisite Picasso prints . . .” She seemed at a loss.
“So this painting wasn’t the most valuable in the collection?”
Bessant shook her head.
“And you’re sure it’s missing?”
“It’s not here, and it wasn’t in the house . . .” She looked at them. “I don’t see where else it could be.”
“Didn’t Mr. Marber have a place in Tuscany?” Siobhan asked.
“He only spent a month a year out there,” Bessant argued.
Siobhan was thoughtful. “We need to circulate this information. Would there be a photo of the painting anywhere?”
“In a catalogue probably . . .”
“And do you think you could go to Mr. Marber’s house again, Miss Bessant, just to make doubly sure?”
Cynthia Bessant nodded, then glanced in Hynds’s direction. “Would I need to go on my own?”
“I’m sure David would be happy to accompany you,” Siobhan told her, watching as the blood started creeping up Hynds’s neck all over again.
8
When Rebus got back to the syndicate room, the team were gathered around Archie Tennant. Tennant was seated, the others standing behind him, peering over his shoulders at the sheaf of papers from which he was reading.
“What’s that?” Rebus said, shrugging his arms out of his jacket.
Tennant broke off his recital. “The file on Richard ‘Dickie’ Diamond. Your amigos at Lothian and Borders just faxed it over.”
“That’s strangely efficient of them.” Rebus watched from the window as a car drove down the access road. It could have been Strathern, heading home. Driver in front, passenger in the back.
“A bit of a lad, your Dickie,” Francis Gray said.
“He wasn’t my Dickie,” Rebus responded.
“You knew him, though? Pulled him in a few times?”
Rebus nodded. No use denying it. He sat down at the opposite side of the table from the others.
“I thought you said you’d hardly heard of him, John?” Gray said, eyes twinkling. Tennant turned another sheet.
“I hadn’t finished that,” Tam Barclay said.
“That’s because you’ve the reading age of a Muppet,” Gray complained as Tennant handed the sheet to Barclay.
“I think I said I barely knew him,” Rebus stated, answering Gray’s question.
“You arrested him twice.”
“I’ve arrested a lot of people, Francis. They don’t all become bosom buddies. He stabbed some guy in a nightclub, then poured petrol into someone else’s letter-box. Except the latter never made it as far as court.”
“You’re not telling us anything we don’t know,” Jazz McCullough commented.
“Maybe that’s because you’re so fucking brainy, Jazz.”
McCullough looked up. They
“What’s wrong, John? Is it your time of the month or something?” This from Stu Sutherland.
“Maybe Andrea’s not falling for John’s charms after all,” Francis Gray offered.
Rebus looked at the eyes watching him, then released a pent-up breath, following it with a smile of contrition. “Sorry, lads, sorry. I was out of order.”
“Which is why you’re here in the first place,” Tennant reminded him. He prodded the file with a finger. “This guy never turned up again?”
Rebus shrugged.
“And did a runner just before the Glasgow CID could come calling?”
Rebus shrugged again.
“Did a runner
“You still here, Allan?” Gray said. Rebus studied both men. There didn’t seem to be much love lost. He wondered if Allan Ward was ripe to rat out his fellow conspirators. He doubted it. On the other hand, of the three supposed miscreants, he was definitely the wettest behind the ears . . .
“Allan’s right,” Tam Barclay said. “Diamond could have got himself killed. But whichever it was, it looks likely that he knew something . . . or was scared someone would think he did.”
Rebus had to concede, Barclay had taken his brainy pills this morning. Tennant was prodding the file again.
“This is just deadwood. It doesn’t tell us anything about what’s happened to Diamond in the years since.”
“We could circulate his description, see if he’s turned up on another force’s turf.” The suggestion came from Jazz McCullough.
“Good thinking,” Tennant conceded.
“The one thing this file
“You want to talk to his accomplices?” Tennant said.
“Can’t do any harm. Years go by, stories start to get told . . .”
“We could ask Lothian and Borders to —”
Stu Sutherland’s suggestion was cut short by Gray. “I believe our friends in the east are a bit tied up.” He glanced towards Rebus. “Isn’t that right, John?”
Rebus nodded. “The Marber inquiry’s on the go.”
“Pretty high-profile, too,” Gray added. “Which turned out not to be John’s cup of tea.”
There were smiles at this. Gray had come around the table so that he could lock eyes with Tennant.
