‘Maybe some of that rebel glamour will rub off on me.’ Kaye placed two mugs on a tray. ‘Still haven’t seen hide or hair of DS Inglis,’ he admitted. ‘What did you do to her?’
Fox ignored this. His old phone was buzzing, so he held up a finger to let Kaye know he was taking it. Turning away and walking towards the windows, he pressed the ‘receive’ button.
‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said.
‘It’s Dearborn.’
‘Max – can I assume you’ve got something for me?’
‘My boss is apoplectic. He gets a call from Gordon Lovatt, complaining about a D Division cop called Fox. The only Fox anyone has heard of is you, and when Lovatt is given the description, he says it’s spot-on.’
‘After we’d had our little chat,’ Fox explained, ‘I saw Joanna Broughton looking up and down the street for a non-existent taxi. She seemed a bit distraught so I offered her a lift. She must have assumed I was stationed in Leith.’
‘So it was you she gave her husband’s diary to?’
‘Happy to help, Max.’
Fox listened as Dearborn expelled some air. Kaye had taken the tray to one of the tables, having added two chocolate bars to his purchases. He was already unwrapping one of them.
‘Is there anything else?’ Fox asked into the phone. ‘Any news of Charlie Brogan?’
‘Give me a break,’ Dearborn muttered, hanging up. Fox called him straight back.
‘One last thing,’ he said, by way of warning. ‘Grampian Complaints may come sniffing around. Best if you don’t tell them we shared breakfast.’
‘You’re bad news, Fox.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Fox managed to end the call before Dearborn could, then went over to the table and seated himself opposite Kaye. He tried to work out if he’d been bought tea or coffee. The look and aroma weren’t giving much away.
Kaye had stopped chewing. He was looking over Fox’s shoulder. When Fox turned his head, he saw why. Mason and Wilson had just entered the canteen.
‘Bugger,’ Kaye said through a mouthful of chocolate. Fox, however, waved the two men over. They seemed to discuss it for a moment, then shook their heads and took a table as far away from Fox’s as possible. Each man had opted for a bottle of still water and a piece of fresh fruit.
‘They’re bound to tell Stoddart,’ Kaye commented.
‘Nobody’s banned us from seeing one another, Tony. It’s not like we have ASBOs or anything. You can say you were already here… the whole thing just a chance meeting.’
‘She won’t believe it.’
‘But she’ll have to accept it – same as we would if we were doing her job.’
‘I’m a bollock-hair away from joining you on the subs’ bench.’
‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Tony.’
‘But I’m like you, Foxy – guilty until proven otherwise. And all because everybody hates us.’
‘Do you want this?’ Fox was offering Kaye the spare chocolate bar. Kaye took it and put it in his pocket. ‘And answer me something – what the hell is it we’re drinking?’
Kaye stared down at his mug. ‘I thought it was tea.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘Maybe I asked for coffee…’
Having handed his pass back to Frank at the front desk, Fox went out to the car park. He passed his own Volvo and kept walking. There were spaces at the furthest corner of the compound, next to the playing fields. They were marked for the use of visitors, and that was where he found the black Astra and the green Ka, parked side by side. The stickers on their back windows identified them as having been bought at garages in Aberdeen. There was a fresh-looking graze to the metallic paintwork on the Ka, and Fox hoped that local traffic was to blame.
He returned to his own car, exited the car park and crawled up the long steep slope back into town until he reached Queen Street. An auction house had its headquarters there, and Fox seemed to remember they specialised in paintings. He didn’t have any trouble finding a parking bay. Drivers were either counting the pennies or else had been dissuaded from coming into town by the tram works. Fox put a pound coin in the parking meter, attached the sticker to his windscreen and headed inside. There was a long counter in the main reception area, and at the end of it a couple of windows resembling the tellers’ positions in a bank. A customer was standing at one of the windows, writing out a cheque for a recent purchase.
‘Can I help?’ the woman behind the counter asked.
‘I hope so,’ Fox said. ‘I’m a police officer.’ In lieu of a warrant card, he offered her one of his printed business cards. They were about three years out of date, but looked nice and official. ‘I’ve got a problem I’m hoping one of your experts can help me with.’
The woman, having studied his card, asked him to wait while she fetched someone. The man who eventually appeared was younger than Fox had been expecting. He wore a pinstriped shirt and pale yellow tie and shook hands vigorously, introducing himself as Alfie Rennison. His voice was educated Scots. He, too, was pleased to receive one of Fox’s business cards.
‘What is it I can do for you?’ Rennison asked.
‘It’s about some paintings.’
‘Modern or classical?’
‘Modern, I think.’
Rennison lowered his voice. ‘Fakes?’ he hissed.
‘Nothing like that,’ Fox assured him. The young man looked relieved.
‘It happens, you know,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘People try to offload all kinds of stuff on us. Follow me, will you?’
He led Fox towards the back of the premises until they reached a stairwell. A red rope provided the sole deterrent to anyone wishing to descend to the next level, and Rennison unhooked it long enough for both men to pass through. Fox followed him down into the bowels of the building, which proved far less grand than the public areas. They squeezed past canvases stacked against walls, and manoeuvred between busts and statues and grandfather clocks.
‘Sale coming up,’ Rennison explained. ‘Viewing’s next week.’
They reached his office, which consisted of two rooms knocked into one. Fox had believed them below ground, but there were frosted windows, albeit barred on the outside.
‘This was somebody’s house at one time,’ Rennison was saying. ‘I’m guessing the kitchen, laundry and servants’ quarters would have been down here. Four upper storeys of Georgian elegance, but with the engine room hidden below.’ He smiled and gestured for Fox to take a seat. Rennison’s desk was disappointingly bland. Fox reckoned it was an IKEA kit-build. On it sat a laptop computer, hooked up to a laser printer. There was only one painting in the whole room. It measured about six inches by four and sat on the wall behind Rennison’s chair.
‘Exquisite, isn’t it? A French plage by Peploe. I can hardly bear to part with it.’
Fox knew next to nothing about art, but he liked the thick swirls of paint. They reminded him of melting ice cream. ‘Is it going into the sale?’
Rennison nodded. ‘Should fetch fifty to sixty.’
‘Thousand?’ Fox gazed at the work with new respect, mixed with a stunned sense that this was a world he was going to have trouble comprehending.
Rennison had clasped his hands together, elbows on the desk. ‘So tell me about these paintings.’
‘Have you heard of a man called Charles Brogan?’
‘Alas, yes – the latest victim of our challenging times.’
‘But you knew of him before he drowned?’
Rennison was nodding. ‘There are several auction houses in the city, Inspector. We work hard to maintain a client’s fidelity.’
‘You’re saying he bought from you?’
‘And from some of the city’s actual galleries,’ Rennison felt duty-bound to add.
‘You’ve seen his collection?’
‘Much of it.’
‘Had he started selling it off?’
Rennison studied him, resting his chin against the tips of his fingers. ‘Might I ask why you’re interested?’