“That couple arrived. I did try to leave, but the man told me I lould stay. If I'd scarpered, it'd have looked bad for me, wouldn't t? And he could've given you my description.'
, True enough,' Clarke admitted. 'What made you think it might Sol?'
“When you deal drugs, you make enemies.'
Such as?'
'The bastard who knifed him outside the pub.'
Clarke was nodding thoughtfully. 'Any others?'
Sievewright saw what she was getting at. “You think maybe they killed the poet by mistake?'
'I'm not sure.' How much sense did it make? The trail of blood led back to the multistorey, meaning whoever had attacked Todorov must've known he wasn't Sol Goodyear. But as for the coup de grace… Well, it could have been the same person, but not necessarily.
And Sievewright was spot on – dealers made enemies. Maybe she would put that point to Sol himself, see if he had any names for her.
Likelihood was, of course, that he'd keep them to himself, maybe intent on exacting his own revenge. She imagined Sol rubbing at the ragged line of stitches, as if trying to erase them. Imagined the two boys growing up, Sol and his wee brother Todd, grandad dead in jail and parents going to pieces. At what point had Todd decided to cut his brother adrift? And had Sol suffered as a result?
'Can I get another?' Sievewright was asking, lifting her empty mug.
'Your turn to pay,' Clarke reminded her.
'I've got no money.'
Clarke sighed and handed her a fiver. 'And get me another cappuccino,'
she said.
29
'He's a hard man to pin down,' Terence Blackman said, fluttering his hands.
Blackman ran a gallery of contemporary art on William Street in the city's west end. The gallery consisted of two rooms with white walls and sanded wooden flooring. Blackman himself was barely five feet tall, skinny with a slight paunch, and was probably thirty or forty years older than he dressed. The thatch of brown hair looked dyed, and might even have been an expensive weave-job. An assortment of nips and tucks had stretched the skin tight over the face, so that Blackman's range of expressions was limited. According to the web, he acted as Roddy Denholm's agent.
'So where is he now?' Rebus asked, stepping around a sculpture which looked like a mass brawl of wire coat hangers.
'Melbourne, I think. Could be Hong Kong.'
'Any of his stuff here today?'
There's actually a waiting list. Half a dozen buyers, money no object.'
'Russians?' Rebus guessed.
Blackman stared at him. 'I'm sorry, Inspector, why was it you wanted to see Roddy?'
'He's been working on a project at the Parliament.'
'An albatross around all our necks,' Blackman sighed.
'Mr Denholm needed bits and pieces of recording done, and the responsible has turned up dead.'
'What?'
TUb name's Charles Riordan.'
'Dead?'
'I'm afraid so. There was a fire…'
Blackman slapped his palms to his cheeks. 'Are the tapes all right?'
Rebus stared at him. 'Nice of you to show concern, sir.'
'Oh, well, yes, of course it's a terrible tragedy for the family and… um…'
'I think the recordings are fine.'
Blackman gave silent thanks and then asked what this had to do with the artist.
'Mr Riordan was murdered, sir. We're wondering if he'd recorded something he shouldn't have.'
'At the Parliament, you mean?'
'Any reason why Mr Denholm chose the Urban Regeneration Committee for his project?'
'I've not the faintest idea.'
'Then you see why I need to talk to him. Maybe you've got a number for his mobile?'
'He doesn't always answer.'
'Nevertheless, a message could be left.'
'I suppose so.' Blackman didn't sound keen.
'So if you could give me the number,' Rebus pressed. The dealer sighed again and gestured for Rebus to follow him, unlocking a door at the back of the room. It was a cramped office, the size of a box room and with unframed canvases and uncanvased frames everywhere.
Blackman's own phone was charging, but he unplugged it and pressed the keys until the artist's number showed on the screen. Rebus punched it into his own phone, while asking how much Denholm's work tended to fetch.
'Depends on size, materials, man-hours…'
'A ballpark figure.'
'Between thirty and fifty…'
'Thousand pounds?' Rebus awaited the dealer's nodded confirmation.
'And how many does he knock out each year?'
Blackman scowled. 'As I told you, there's a waiting list.'
'So which one did Andropov buy?'
'Sergei Andropov has a good eye. I'd happened to acquire an early example of Roddy's work in oils, probably painted the year he left Glasgow School of Art.' Blackman lifted a postcard from the desk.
It was a reproduction of the painting. 'It's called Hopeless.'
To Rebus, it looked as if a child had taken a line for a walk.
Hopeless just about summed it up.
'Fetched a record price for one of Roddy's pre-video works,' the dealer added.
'And how much did you pocket, Mr Blackman?'
'A percentage, Inspector. Now if you'll excuse me…'
But Rebus wasn't about to let go. 'Nice to see my taxes going into your pocket.'
'If you mean the Parliament commission, you've no need to worry -First Albannach Bank is underwriting the whole thing.'
'As in paying for it?'
Blackman nodded abruptly. 'Now you really must excuse me…'
'Generous of them,' Rebus commented.
'FAB is a tremendous patron of the arts.'
It was Rebus's turn to nod. 'Just a couple more questions, sir -any idea why Andropov is moving into Scottish art?'
'Because he likes it.'
'Is the same true of all these other Russian millionaires and billionaires?'
'I've no doubt some are buying for investment, others for pleasure.'
'And some as a way of letting everyone else know how rich they are?'
Blackman offered the thinnest of smiles. 'There may be an element of that.'
