‘We’re looking into the reasons why he would kill himself. You mentioned finances, and it’s just that Mr Brogan’s decision to sell his paintings might chime with that theory.’
Rennison nodded to himself, happy with this explanation.
‘Some pieces he sent to London; some he sold here. Three or four are actually consigned to our next auction. Naturally, we’ll hold them back until we know what his estate wants us to do.’
‘How many are we talking about in total?’
Rennison did a quick calculation. ‘Fourteen or fifteen.’
‘Worth…?’ Fox prompted.
Rennison puffed out his cheeks. ‘Half a million, maybe. Before the recession, it would have been closer to seven fifty.’
‘I hope he didn’t buy at the height of the market.’
‘Unfortunately, mostly he did. He was selling at a loss.’
‘Meaning he was desperate?’
‘I would say so.’
Fox thought for a moment. ‘Have you ever met Mr Brogan’s wife?’
‘She accompanied him to a sale once. I don’t think it was an experience she was keen to repeat.’
‘Not an art-lover, then?’
‘Not in so many words.’
Fox smiled and started getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for taking the trouble to talk to me, Mr Rennison.’
‘My pleasure, Inspector.’
As they shook hands, Fox took a final look at the Peploe.
‘You’re thinking of melted ice cream?’ Rennison guessed. Then, seeing the look on Fox’s face: ‘You’re by no means the first.’
‘Fifty grand buys a lot of Cornettos,’ Fox told the man.
‘Maybe so, but what would their resale value be, Inspector?’
Rennison led the way back to the ground floor.
17
Fox was parked fifty yards from Minter’s when Naysmith and Gilchrist arrived. They’d come by taxi, obviously intending to have more than just the one drink; no driving home for either of them. Fox gave it another twenty minutes, by which time Kaye, too, had arrived, parking on a double yellow and slapping his POLICE sign on the windscreen. He was checking messages on his phone as he headed inside. Fox was listening to Radio 2, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. But when a quiz was announced, two listeners vying for the ‘star prize’, he switched channels. There was some local news, so he listened to that without taking much of it in. More economic grief; more trams grief; a spell of good weather imminent. The travel report warned of long tail-backs on the Forth Road Bridge and eastbound on the ring road.
‘And the city centre is its usual rush-hour mayhem,’ the report concluded. Fox felt snug in the parked car, cosseted from chaos. But the time came to turn off the radio and get out. He’d finally plucked up the courage to send Annie Inglis a text message:
Hope u can forgive me. Wd like us 2 b pals.
He wasn’t sure now about the ‘pals’ bit. He was attracted to her, but had never had much luck with women, Elaine excepted – and even that had proved to be a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t Annie who intrigued him, but rather the combination of the woman and the career she had chosen. For the past half-hour he’d been hoping she might send a return message, or call him, and as he pushed open the door to the pub, his old phone started buzzing. He plucked it from his pocket and pressed it to his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ the voice said.
‘Annie… thanks for getting back to me.’ He had retreated to the pavement, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian. ‘Look, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened yesterday. I know I was stupid…’
‘Well, I’m sorry I blew up at you. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Duncan had got me wound up as usual.’ Fox waited for more, but she had come to a stop.
‘Doesn’t mean I wasn’t in the wrong,’ he said into the silence. ‘And I really enjoyed the meal and seeing you and everything. Maybe I can repay the favour?’
‘Cook for me, you mean?’
‘The word “cook” may be a bit strong…’ When she laughed, a weight fell from him. ‘But I’m an expert on the local carry-outs.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Any night this week is good for me.’
‘I’ll let you know, Malcolm.’ She paused. ‘That’s Duncan coming home.’
‘I came looking for you, to apologise in person,’ Fox told her.
‘At Fettes? I thought you were suspended?’
‘Grampian Complaints had me in for a chat.’
‘You’ve a lot you should be focusing on, Malcolm. Maybe we should give this week a miss.’
‘You’d be doing me a favour, Annie – honestly.’
‘Okay then, let me think about it. I’ve got to go now.’
‘Say hello to Duncan for me. Tell him I want to know what music he buys with that token.’
‘Trust me, you won’t want to hear any of it.’
The phone went dead, and Fox managed a smile as he stared at its tiny glowing screen. Then the screen went dark, and he took a deep breath, adjusting his demeanour before walking into the pub.
Tony Kaye saw him first. Kaye wasn’t at the usual table, but the one next to it, giving Naysmith and Gilchrist some space to themselves. He had been reading the evening paper, but with little apparent interest in it. His eyebrows lifted when he saw Fox, but then he bounded to his feet and reached the bar before him.
‘Let me get this one,’ he stated, delving into his trouser pocket for money.
‘Glad to see me?’ Fox asked.
‘You better believe it. I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.’ He twitched his head in the direction of the corner table. ‘Half the stuff they drone on about I can’t understand, and the other half bores the knackers off me.’ He paused and stared at Fox. ‘Just passing by, were you?’
‘Actually, I wanted a word with Gilchrist.’
Kaye thought about this. ‘That’s why you spoke to Naysmith? He’s baited the trap for you?’
Fox just shrugged and asked the landlord for a tomato juice. The man nodded and brought a bottle from the glass-fronted fridge, shaking it vigorously before pouring.
‘Did you see Deal or No Deal?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Dealt at seventeen and a half; had the hundred grand.’ He shook his head at the idiocy of some people.
‘I love it when they lose,’ Kaye commented, handing over the money and asking for a half-pint for himself.
‘Remember you’re driving,’ Fox chided him.
‘Pint and a half, that’s all I’m having.’
‘All the office needs now is for you to fail a breathalyser – McEwan would have a seizure. Besides which, are you sure you can trust Gilchrist not to clype?’
Kaye gave a snort, but changed his order to orange and lemonade. Naysmith and Gilchrist were watching them as they approached the table with their drinks. Kaye moved the newspaper and seated himself. Fox took the chair closest to Gilchrist.
‘All right, lads?’ he asked, noting that Gilchrist was near to finishing his first gin and tonic of the evening. ‘Settling in, are you?’
‘Look, I know it’s awkward…’
Fox cut Gilchrist off with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m fine with it; none of it’s your fault, is it?’ It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Fox’s eyes told a different story. Gilchrist held the man’s gaze, then shook his head slowly.
‘No,’ he eventually said.
‘No,’ Fox echoed. ‘So that’s all right, then. Makes things hard on DS Inglis, though…’ He took a sip of tomato juice.
‘Yes,’ Gilchrist agreed.
‘Bit sudden, too, the way you were plucked from the Chop Shop…’
‘They knew I was keen to try something different.’ Gilchrist paused. ‘It’s only temporary, after all.’
‘Course it is,’ Kaye stressed, while Naysmith nodded along.
Fox smiled at the show of support, but his eyes were still on Gilchrist. ‘What’s happening about Jamie Breck?’ he asked. Gilchrist gave a shrug. ‘Has the Aussie inquiry started crumbling?’