Complaints by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2011-10-18T13:51:43+00:00

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 They were about three years out of date, but looked nice and official.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.

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