“You noticed,” she said.
“I noticed he didn’t want to make eye contact with me.”
“Maybe he’s just shy,” Siobhan offered. She took a mouthful of water, rinsed and swallowed. Mann was glancing at his watch, the face of which he kept on the inside of his wrist. She remembered that her father had done the same, and when she’d asked him why he’d said it was to stop the face getting scratched. Yet the glass itself had been almost opaque with abrasions.
“I have to open at ten,” the art dealer said.
“You didn’t feel like going to the funeral?” By which she meant Edward Marber’s funeral, which had started almost half an hour ago at Warriston Crematorium.
Mann shuddered. “I can’t stand them. I was actually relieved to have an excuse.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“So what is it I can do for you?” The top two buttons of Mann’s yellow shirt were undone, and he’d hooked a finger into the opening.
“I’m wondering about Edward Marber. If he’d been cheating . . . how would he have gone about it?”
“Depends who he was cheating: clients or artists?”
“Let’s try both.”
Mann took a deep breath and raised one eyebrow. “Five minutes, you said?”
Siobhan smiled. “Maybe it depends how fast you talk.”
Mann unhooked the finger from his shirt and went back to stirring his latte. It looked like he had no intention of actually drinking it. As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the window. Office staff were dragging their feet to work.
“Well, dealers can cheat potential buyers in all sorts of ways. You can exaggerate the importance of an artist, or the rarity and value of a piece by a deceased artist. You can offer fakes — those are the cases that usually make the headlines . . .”
“You don’t think Mr. Marber was dealing in fakes?”
Mann shook his head thoughtfully. “Nor was he passing along stolen works. But then, if he was, it’s unlikely anyone in Edinburgh would know.”
“How so?”
His eyes turned to her. “Because such transactions tend to be sub rosa.” He saw her eyes narrow. “Under the table,” he explained, watching her nod of understanding.
“And what about cheating the artists themselves?” she asked.
Mann shrugged. “That could mean several things. One would be charging too high a commission — hardly cheating, but an artist might not see it that way.”
“Commissions tend to be what?”
“Anywhere between ten and twenty-five percent. The better-known the artist, the lower the commission.”
“And someone like Malcolm Neilson . . . ?”
Mann pondered this. “Malcolm’s well enough known in the UK . . . and has his collectors in the States and the Far East . . .”
“He doesn’t live like a rich man.”
“You mean his pied-à-terre? The Stockbridge Colonies?” Mann smiled. “Don’t be fooled. He uses that place as a studio. He has a much larger house in Inveresk and recently added a home in the Perigord to his property portfolio, if rumors are to be believed.”
“So just because he was left out of the Colorists doesn’t mean he’s hurting?”
“Not financially, at any rate.”
“Meaning?”
“Malcolm has an ego, same as any other artist. He doesn’t like to feel excluded.”
“You think that’s why he says Marber was cheating?”
Mann shrugged. He’d finally given up stirring the latte and was now testing the temperature of the tall glass cup with the tips of his fingers. “Malcolm doesn’t just think himself a Colorist: he feels he should be leading the group.”
“They came to blows apparently.”
“So the story goes.”
“You don’t believe it?”
He looked at her. “Have you asked Malcolm?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe you should. You might also ask him why he was at Edward’s gallery that night.”
Siobhan suddenly had trouble swallowing the last of her espresso. It felt like sludge. She reached for the water bottle again. “You were there?” she finally managed to ask.
Mann shook his head. “I wasn’t invited. But we dealers . . . we’re always keen to know how the competition’s doing. I just happened to be passing in a taxi. The place looked sadly busy.”
“And you saw Malcolm Neilson?”
Mann nodded slowly. “He was standing on the pavement outside, like a child at the window of a toy shop.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Mann grew thoughtful again, turning to face the outside world. “Maybe it was the company you were keeping,” he said.
Back in her car, Siobhan checked her messages: three from Davie Hynds. She called him at St. Leonard’s.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Just wondered how the funeral went.”
“I didn’t go.”
“That puts you in a distinct minority. Half of St. Leonard’s seems to be there.”
Siobhan knew they’d be on the lookout for possible suspects, taking names and addresses from anyone attending the ceremony. “Are you at the station?” she asked.
“Right now, I think I am the station. It was pretty much a skeleton crew over the weekend, too . . .”
“I didn’t know you were working this weekend.”
“Thought I’d show willing. Have you heard the news?”
“No.”
“Marber’s bank statements . . . seems he was renting a self-storage unit at a place down in Granton. Had been for the past month. I went there for a look-see, but it was empty. Owner says he doesn’t think Marber had been near the place.”
“So what was he planning to do with it?”
“Maybe use it for storing paintings?”
“Maybe.” But Siobhan sounded skeptical.
“Neither his secretary nor Cynthia Bessant knew anything about it.”
“Did you happen to drop by Madame Cyn’s again?” Siobhan asked archly.
“Had to put a few questions to her . . .”
“Over a glass or two of wine?”
“Don’t worry, I took a chaperone.” Hynds paused. “So if you gave the funeral a miss, whereabouts are you?”
“I’m in town. I was thinking of paying the artist another visit.”
“Malcolm Neilson? What for?”
“New information. Neilson went to the private viewing.”
“How come no one said?”
“I don’t think he went in, just loitered on the pavement.”
“Says who?”
“Dominic Mann.”
There was another pause. “You’ve been talking to him?”
“He called it in,” Siobhan lied. She didn’t want Hynds to know she’d gone to Mann without him. They might yet turn out to be partners after all . . . More than that, she was aware that she needed an ally at St. Leonard’s. It wasn’t just the loss of Rebus or the appearance of Derek Linford. She knew she couldn’t be everywhere at once and would have to depend on others, forging alliances, not making enemies. The next step on the promotion ladder might be a way off, but that didn’t mean she could afford to relax . . .
“I didn’t see anything about it,” Hynds was saying.
“He got me on my mobile.”
“Funny, it’s been switched off whenever I’ve tried . . .”
“Well, he did.”
There was a longer silence between them. She knew he was working it out.
“Want me with you when you talk to Neilson?” Hynds asked quietly. He knew.
“Yes,” she replied, too quickly. “Want to meet me there?”
“All right. Half an hour?”
“Fine.” She thought of something. “Have the victim’s credit cards turned up yet?”
“Not a single transaction.”
Which was curious in itself: when you stole credit cards, you used them hard and fast before a stop could be put on them. Eric had been talking to her about Internet fraud: nowadays, shopping was twenty-four/seven. A credit-card thief could max out overnight, the purchases delivered to safe addresses. If you’d been on a night out and your cards were lifted, by the time you woke up and discovered they were gone, it was already too late. Why would an attacker take the cards and then not use them? Answer: to make the attack look like a simple robbery, when it was anything but . . .