“No lights on,” he was saying. But he pressed the buzzer anyway. A face appeared at an upstairs window, and Siobhan waved.
“She’s in,” she said.
The next moment, the intercom crackled into life. “Yes?”
“DI Rebus and DS Clarke.” Rebus spoke into the grille. “There’s one thing we forgot to ask earlier.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“I need to show you something first. Can we come up?”
“I’m not dressed.”
“We won’t be staying, Miss Meikle. Two minutes will do it . . .”
There was a pause, then another crackle. “Very well,” the tinny voice said. The door buzzed to let them know the lock was off. They walked into the reception hall, then had to wait for Jan Meikle to unlock her door and lead them up a narrow flight of stairs. She was wearing a baggy yellow jumper over gray leggings. With her hair untied and falling in straggles either side of her face, she seemed younger. She’d applied a layer of night cream, making her cheeks and forehead glow. The upstairs was cluttered. Meikle was obviously something of a collector herself. Rebus could imagine her spending long hours rummaging in junk shops and haunting garage sales, buying eclectic pieces which appealed to her. There was no particular style or period on display — just masses of stuff. Rebus stubbed his toe on a plinth, atop which sat a large carved bird of prey. Lighting was provided only by a series of wall-mounted lamps, throwing long shadows in odd directions.
“It’s the Bates Motel,” Rebus muttered to Siobhan, who had to stifle a snort of laughter as Miss Meikle turned towards her.
“Just admiring your collection,” she managed to say.
“A few gewgaws,” Meikle answered. Rebus and Siobhan looked at one another, each wondering if the other knew what the word meant.
The living room was three parts Edwardian parlor to one part sixties kitsch and one part contemporary Scandinavian. Siobhan recognized the sofa as Ikea, but was that a lava lamp sitting in the ornately tiled fireplace? There was no carpet as such, just eight or nine rugs of different sizes and designs, causing bumps in the floor where they intersected.
Rebus walked over to the window, which had neither curtains nor shutters. All he could see was the darkened expanse of the links, a drunk meandering home, hands in pockets, stiff-legged.
“What is it you have to show me?” Meikle was asking. Good question, Siobhan thought. She, too, was keen to know. Rebus reached into his pocket and produced five photographs. They were passport-sized head-and-shoulders shots. Men unused to smiling were trying hard. Siobhan recognized them.
Francis Gray.
Jazz McCullough.
Allan Ward.
Stu Sutherland.
Tam Barclay.
They’d been cut from larger sheets, probably handed out at the start of the Tulliallan course. She knew now what Rebus had been doing during the Arden Street stopover. He’d been busy with a pair of scissors.
Rebus laid the five photos out on a round three-legged table, the kind their ancestors might have played a hand of cards at. There was a crystal fruit bowl there now, sitting on a white lace doily, but still room for the tiny photos. Miss Meikle peered at them closely.
“Ever seen any of these men?” Rebus was asking. “Take your time.”
Meikle showed every sign of taking him at his word. She studied each face as though this were an examination she must not only pass but score high marks in. Siobhan had lost interest in the room now. She could see all of a sudden where Rebus had been leading her. How much of it he’d known and how much was intuitive she couldn’t say. But he’d obviously felt for some time that the crew from Tulliallan were somehow connected to Edward Marber’s murder. And she got the feeling it went further than McCullough and Ellen Dempsey: Rebus had hinted as much. McCullough and Dempsey weren’t Bonnie and Clyde . . . so there had to be some other explanation.
“He was at the gallery that night,” Miss Meikle stated. She was touching the edge of one of the photos.
“Brown jacket?” Rebus guessed.
“I’m not sure what he was wearing, but I remember his face. He spent most of the time looking at the paintings. He had this smile on his face, but I got the feeling he didn’t really like any of them. He definitely wasn’t going to be buying . . .”
Siobhan leaned closer. It was DI Francis Gray. Similar in build and hairstyle to Big Ger Cafferty, but taller. Gray had managed more of a smile for the camera than his colleagues, pretending he hadn’t a care in the world. Siobhan looked at Rebus. The look on his face was one of grim satisfaction.
“Thank you, Miss Meikle,” he said, beginning to gather up the photos.
“Wait,” she ordered. Then she pointed to Jazz McCullough. “He’s been to the gallery, too. A very pleasant gentleman. I remember him well.”
“When did you last see him?”
She considered his question with the same amount of care she’d given to the photographs. “Probably a year ago.”
“Around the time Mr. Montrose was selling his collection?” Rebus guessed.
“I’m not sure . . . I suppose, yes, it would have been around the same time . . .”
“McCullough is Montrose?” Siobhan said when they got back outside.
“Montrose is all three of them.”
“Three?”
“Gray, McCullough, Ward.” He paused. “Though how much Ward has had to do with any of it I’m not sure . . .”
“The money from Bernie Johns bought all those paintings?”
Rebus nodded. “Hellish hard to prove it, though.”
“And Gray killed Marber?”
Rebus shook his head. “That wasn’t Gray’s job. All he had to do was keep an eye on Marber, see what his plans were after the show. When Marber said he needed a taxi, Gray called one for him . . .”
“Making sure it was an MG cab?”
Rebus nodded. “Then all Ellen Dempsey had to do was dispatch one of her drivers and let someone else know Marber was on his way home.”
Siobhan had it now. “McCullough was waiting for him?”
“Yes . . . Jazz McCullough.” Rebus tried to visualize it. Marber at the front door. Jazz calling to him. Marber recognizing both face and voice, relaxing. Maybe he’d been expecting a visit, because Jazz had some money for him. What had McCullough used? A rock? An implement of some kind? He would have got rid of it afterwards, knowing how to dispose of a weapon in such a way that it would very likely never be found. But before that, he had taken Marber’s keys, unlocked the door and turned off the alarm long enough to take the Vettriano. A matter of principle with him . . .
“Where do we begin?” Siobhan was asking.
“I’ve always favored the direct approach.”
She wasn’t sure she agreed, but she got in the car anyway.
At quarter to midnight, Francis Gray got a call on his mobile. He was in the bar at the police college. His tie was off, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. And he was smoking. He still had the cigarette in his mouth when he walked along the corridor and climbed the single flight of stairs to the mock-up courtroom. This was where fledgling officers learned how to present evidence and deal with hostile questions. It was scaled down, but correct in every detail. Rebus was sitting alone on the public benches.
“Bit melodramatic, John. You could have come and had a drink.”
“I tend not to mix with murderers if I can avoid it.”
“Jesus, not back to all that again . . .” Gray turned as if to leave.
“I don’t mean Dickie Diamond,” Rebus said coldly. The door opened and Jazz McCullough came in. “Not sleeping over at North Queensferry tonight?” Rebus asked him.
“No.” McCullough had the look of a man who’d been roused from bed, dressing quickly. He walked over to the desk beneath which sat the room’s recording apparatus — controls for video cameras and microphones.
“None of it’s switched on,” Rebus assured him.