The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) (24 page)

‘Yes, we have guns. But it is not like in America. We have respect for guns. They are a way of life in the country. Every Frenchman is a hunter at heart.’

Rebus signalled, and drew in to the roadside. ‘Scotsmen, too,’ he said, opening his door. ‘And right now I’m going to hunt down a sandwich. This cafe does the best boiled ham in Edinburgh.’

Cluzeau looked dubious. ‘The famous Scottish cuisine,’ he murmured, unfastening his seatbelt.

They ate as they drove – ham for Rebus, salami for Cluzeau – and soon enough arrived outside the Heggarty Gallery. In fact, they arrived outside a wools and knitwear shop, which occupied the street-level. The gallery itself was up a winding stairwell, the steps worn and treacherous. They walked in through an unprepossessing door and found themselves in the midst of an argument. Fifteen or so women were crowded around Detective Constable Brian Holmes.

‘You can’t keep us here, you know!’

‘Look, ladies—’

‘Patronising pig.’

‘Look, I need to get names and addresses first.’

‘Well, go on then, what are you waiting for?’

‘Bloody cheek, like we’re criminals or something.’

‘Maybe he wants to strip-search us.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ There was some laughter at this.

Holmes had caught sight of Rebus and the look of relief on his face told Rebus all he needed to know. On a trellis table against one wall stood a couple of dozen wine bottles, mostly empty, and jugs of orange juice and water, mostly still full. Cluzeau lifted a bottle and wrinkled his nose. He sniffed the neck and the nose wrinkled even further.

The poster on the gallery door had announced an exhibition of paintings and sculpture by Serena Davies. The exhibition was entitled ‘Hard Knox’ and today was its opening. By the look of the drinks table, a preview had been taking place. Free wine all round, glasses replenished. And now a squabble, which might be about to turn ugly.

Rebus filled his lungs. ‘Excuse me!’ he cried. The faces turned from Brian Holmes and settled on him. ‘I’m Inspector Rebus. Now, with a bit of luck we’ll have you all out of here in five minutes. Please bear with us until then. I notice there’s still some drink left. If you’ll fill your glasses and maybe have a last look round, by the time you finish you should be able to leave. Now, I just need a word with my colleague.’

Gratefully, Holmes squeezed his way out of the scrum and came towards Rebus.

‘You’ve got thirty seconds to fill me in,’ Rebus said.

Holmes took a couple of deep breaths. ‘A sculpture in bronze, male figure. It was sitting in the middle of one of the rooms. Preview opens. Somebody starts yelling that it’s disappeared. The artist goes up the wall. She won’t let anybody in or out, because if somebody’s nicked it, that somebody’s still in the gallery.’

‘And that’s the state of play? Nobody in or out since it went missing?’

Holmes nodded. ‘Of course, as I tried telling her, they could have high-tailed it
before
she barricaded everyone else in.’ Holmes was looking at the man who had come to stand beside Rebus. ‘Can we help you, sir?’

‘Oh,’ said Rebus. ‘You haven’t been introduced. This is …’ But no, he still couldn’t make himself say the name. Instead, he nodded towards Holmes. ‘This is Detective Constable Holmes.’ Then, as Cluzeau shook hands with Holmes: ‘The inspector here has come over from France to see how we do things in Edinburgh.’ Rebus turned to Cluzeau. ‘Did you catch what Brian was saying? Only I know his accent’s a bit thick.’

‘I understood perfectly.’ He turned to Holmes. ‘Inspector Rebus forgot to say, but my name is Cluzeau.’ Somehow it didn’t sound so funny when spoken by a native. ‘How big is the statue? Do we know what it looks like?’

‘There’s a picture of it in the catalogue.’ Holmes took the small glossy booklet from his pocket and handed it to Cluzeau. ‘That’s it at the top of the page.’

While Cluzeau studied this, Holmes caught Rebus’s eye, then nodded down to the Frenchman’s pouch.

‘Nice handbag.’

Rebus gave him a warning look, then glanced at the catalogue. His eyes opened wide. ‘Good Christ!’

Cluzeau read from the catalogue. ‘“Monstrous Trumpet. Bronze and multi-media. Sixteen—” what do these marks mean?’

‘Inches.’

‘Thank you. “Sixteen inches. Three thousand five hundred pounds.”
C’est cher
. It’s expensive.’

‘I’ll say,’ said Rebus. ‘You could buy a car for that.’ Well, he thought, you could certainly buy
my
car for that.

‘It is an interesting piece, don’t you think?’

‘Interesting?’ Rebus studied the small photograph of the statue called ‘Monstrous Trumpet’. A nude male, his face exaggeratedly spiteful, was sticking out his tongue, except that it wasn’t a tongue, it was a penis. And where that particular organ should have been, there was what looked like a piece of sticking-plaster. Because of the angle of the photo, it was just possible to discern something protruding from the statue’s backside. Rebus guessed it was meant to be a tongue.

‘Yes,’ said Cluzeau, ‘I should very much like to meet the artist.’

‘Doesn’t look as though you’ve got any choice,’ said Holmes, seeming to retreat though in fact he didn’t move. ‘Here she comes.’

She had just come into the room, of that Rebus was certain. If she’d been there before, he’d have noticed her. And even if he hadn’t Cluzeau certainly would have. She was just over six feet tall, dressed in long flowing white skirt, black boots, puffy white blouse and a red satin waistcoat. Her eye make-up was jet black, matching her long straight hair, and her wrists fairly jangled with bangles and bracelets. She addressed Holmes.

‘No sign of it. I’ve had a thorough look.’ She turned towards Rebus and Cluzeau. Holmes started making the introductions.

‘This is Inspector Rebus, and Inspector Cl …’ he stumbled to a halt. Yes, thought Rebus, it’s a problem, isn’t it, Brian? But Cluzeau appeared not to have noticed. He was squeezing Serena Davies’s hand.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

She looked him up and down without embarrassment, gave a cool smile, and passed to Rebus. ‘Well, thank goodness the grown-ups are here at last.’ Brian Holmes reddened furiously. ‘I hope we didn’t interrupt your lunch, Inspector. Come on, I’ll show you where the piece was.’

And with that she turned and left. Some of the women offered either condolences over her loss, or else praise for what works remained, and Serena Davies gave a weak smile, a smile which said: I’m coping, but don’t ask me how.

Rebus touched Holmes’s shoulder. ‘Get the names and addresses, eh, Brian?’ He made to follow the artist, but couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘You’ve got your crayons with you, have you?’

‘And my marbles,’ Holmes retorted. By God, thought Rebus, he’s learning fast. But then, he had a good teacher, hadn’t he?

‘Magnificent creature,’ Cluzeau hissed into his ear as they passed through the room. A few of the women glanced towards the Frenchman. I’m making him look too good, Rebus thought. Pity I had to be wearing this old suit today.

The small galleries through which they passed comprised a maze, an artful configuration of angles and doorways which made more of the space than there actually was. As to the works on display, well, Rebus couldn’t be sure, of course, but there seemed an awful lot of violence in them, violence acted out upon a particular part of the masculine anatomy. Even the Frenchman was quiet as they passed red splashes of colour, twisted statues, great dollops of paint. There was one apparent calm centre, an extremely large and detailed drawing of the vulva. Cluzeau paused for a moment.

‘I like this,’ he said. Rebus nodded towards a red circular sticker attached to the wall beside the portrait.

‘Already sold.’

Cluzeau tapped the relevant page of the catalogue. ‘Yes, for one thousand five hundred pounds.’

‘In here!’ the artist’s voice commanded. ‘When you’ve stopped gawping.’ She was in the next room of the gallery, standing by the now empty pedestal. The sign beneath it showed no red blob. No sale. ‘It was right here.’ The room was about fifteen feet by ten, in the corner of the gallery: only one doorway and no windows. Rebus looked up at the ceiling, but saw only strip lighting. No trapdoors.

‘And there were people in here when it happened?’

Serena Davies nodded. ‘Three or four of the guests. Ginny Elyot, Margaret Grieve, Helena Mitchison and I think Lesley Jameson.’

‘Jameson?’ Rebus knew two Jamesons in Edinburgh, one a doctor and the other …

‘Tom Jameson’s daughter,’ the artist concluded.

The other a newspaper editor called Tom Jameson. ‘And who was it raised the alarm?’ Rebus asked.

‘That was Ginny. She came out of the room shouting that the statue had vanished. We all rushed into the room. Sure enough.’ She slapped a hand down on the pedestal.

‘Time, then,’ Rebus mused, ‘for someone to sneak away while everyone else was occupied?’

But the artist shook her mane of hair. ‘I’ve already told you, there’s nobody missing. Everyone who was here
is
here. In fact, I think there are a couple more bodies now than there were at the time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Moira Fowler was late. As usual. She arrived a couple of minutes after I’d barred the door.’

‘You let her in?’

‘Of course. I wasn’t worried about letting people
in
.’

‘You said “a couple of bodies”?’

‘That’s right. Maureen Beck was in the loo. Bladder trouble, poor thing. Maybe I should have hung a couple of paintings in there.’

Cluzeau frowned at this. Rebus decided to help him. ‘The toilets being where exactly?’

‘Next flight up. A complete pain really. The gallery shares them with the shop downstairs. Crammed full of cardboard boxes and knitting patterns.’

Rebus nodded. The Frenchman coughed, preparing to speak. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you have to leave the gallery actually to use the … loo?’

Serena Davies nodded. ‘You’re French,’ she stated. Cluzeau gave a little bow. ‘I should have guessed from the
pochette
. You’d never find a Scotsman carrying one of those.’

Cluzeau seemed prepared for this point. ‘But the sporran serves the same purpose.’

‘I suppose it does,’ the artist admitted, ‘but its primary function is as a signifier.’ She looked to both men. Both men looked puzzled. ‘It’s hairy and it hangs around your groin,’ she explained.

Rebus stayed silent, but pursed his lips. Cluzeau nodded to himself, frowning.

‘Maybe,’ said Rebus, ‘you could explain your exhibition to us,
Ms
Davies?’

‘Well, it’s a comment on Knox of course.’

‘Knocks?’ asked Cluzeau.

‘John Knox,’ Rebus explained. ‘We passed by his old house a little way back.’

‘John Knox,’ she went on, principally for the Frenchman’s benefit, but perhaps too, she thought, for that of the Scotsman, ‘was a Scottish preacher, a follower of Calvin. He was also a misogynist, hence the title of one of his works –
The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women
.’

‘He didn’t mean all women,’ Rebus felt obliged to add. Serena Davies straightened her spine like a snake rising up before its kill.

‘But he did,’ she said, ‘by association. And, also by association, these works are a comment on
all
Scotsmen. And all men.’

Cluzeau could feel an argument beginning. Arguments, to his knowledge, were always counter-productive even when enjoyable. ‘I think I see,’ he said. ‘And your exhibition responds to this man’s work. Yes.’ He tapped the catalogue. ‘“Monstrous Trumpet” is a pun then?’

Serena Davies shrugged, but seemed pacified. ‘You could call it that. I’m saying that Knox talked with one part of his anatomy –
not
his brain.’

‘And,’ added Rebus, ‘that at the same time he talked out of his arse?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

Cluzeau was chuckling. He was still chuckling when he asked: ‘And who could have reason for stealing your work?’

The mane rippled again. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

‘But you suspect one of your guests,’ Cluzeau continued. ‘Of course you do: you have already stated that there was no one else here. You were among friends, yet one of them is the Janus figure, yes?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Much as I hate to admit it.’

Rebus had taken the catalogue from Cluzeau and seemed to be studying it. But he’d listened to every word. He tapped the missing statue’s photo.

‘Do you work from life?’

‘Mostly, yes, but not for “Monstrous Trumpet”.’

‘It’s a sort of … ideal figure then?’

She smiled at this. ‘Hardly ideal, Inspector. But in that it comes from up here—’ she tapped her head, ‘from an idea rather than from life, yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Does that go for the face, too?’ Rebus persisted. ‘It seems so lifelike.’

She accepted the compliment, studying the photo with him. ‘It’s not any one man’s face,’ she said. ‘At most it’s a composite of men I know.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Maybe.’