Beggars Banquet

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I’ve not held anything back.’

  ‘Matty, Matty.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s funny, I was just thinking tonight about that night we met. Do you remember?’

  How could he forget? A couple of drinks after work, a car borrowed from a friend who was away on holiday. Matty hadn’t been back long. Driving through the town was great, especially with a buzz on. Streets glistening after the rain. Late night, mostly taxis for company. He just drove and drove and, as the streets grew quieter, he pushed the accelerator a bit further, caught a string of green lights, then saw one turning red. He didn’t know how good the tyres were, imagined braking hard and skidding in the wet. Fuck it, he put his foot down.

  Just missed the cyclist. The guy was coming through on green and had to twist his front wheel hard to avoid contact, then teetered and fell on to the road. Matty’s foot eased off the accelerator, thought about the brake, then went back on the accelerator again.

  That’s when he saw the cop car. And thought: I can’t afford this.

  They’d breathalysed him and taken him to St Leonard’s, where he’d sat around and let the machinery chew him up. Would it come to a trial? Would there be a report in the papers? How could he keep his name from getting around? He’d worked himself up into a right state by the time Detective Inspector John Rebus had sat down across from him.

  ‘I can’t afford this,’ Matty had blurted out.

  ‘Sorry?’

  He’d swallowed and tried to find a story. ‘I work in a casino. Any black mark against me, they’ll boot me out. Look, if it’s a question of compensation or anything . . . like, I’ll buy him a new bike.’

  Rebus had picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Drunk driving . . . in a borrowed car you weren’t insured to drive . . . running a red light . . . leaving the scene of an accident . . . ’ Rebus had shaken his head, read the sheet through one more time and then put it down, and looked up at Matty. ‘What casino did you say you work for?’

  Later, he’d given Matty two business cards, both with his phone number. ‘The first one’s for you to tear up in disgust,’ he’d said. ‘The other one’s to keep. Have we got a deal?’

  ‘Look, Mr Rebus,’ Matty said now, as the car stopped for lights on Raeburn Place, ‘I’m doing the best I can.’

  ‘I want to know what’s happening behind the scenes at the Morvena.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Anything at all, it doesn’t matter how small it seems. Any stories, gossip, anything overheard. Ever seen the owner entertain people in his office? Maybe open the place for a private party? Names, faces, anything at all. Put your mind to it, Matty. Just put your mind to it.’

  ‘They’d skin me alive.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  Matty swallowed. ‘Mr Mandelson.’

  ‘He’s the owner, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘On paper at least. What I need to know is who might be pulling his strings.’

  ‘I can’t see anyone pulling his strings.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Hard bastard, is he?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Given you grief?’ Matty shook his head. ‘Do you see much of him?’

  ‘Not much,’ Matty said. Not, he might have added, until recently at any rate.

  Rebus dropped him at the foot of Broughton Street, headed back up to Leith Walk and along York Place on to Queen Street. He passed the casino again and slowed, a frown on his face. At the next set of lights, he did a U-turn so he could be sure. Yes, it was the Roller from Gaitanos, no doubt about it.

  Parked outside the Morvena.

  Six

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Rebus was eating breakfast in the canteen and wishing there was more caffeine in the coffee, or more coffee in the coffee come to that. He nodded to the empty chair and Siobhan sat down.‘Heavy night?’ she said.

  ‘Believe it or not, I was on orange juice.’

  She bit into her muffin, washing it down with milk. ‘Harry tells me you had him working a tape.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Our video wizard. He said it was a missing person. News to me.’

  ‘It’s not official. The son of an old schoolfriend of mine.’

  ‘Standing at a bar one minute and gone the next?’ Rebus looked at her and she smiled. ‘Harry’s a great one for gossip.’

  ‘I’m working on it in my own time.’

  ‘Need any help?’

  ‘Handy with a crystal ball, are you?’ But Rebus dug into his pocket and brought out the still from the video. ‘That’s Damon there,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘Who’s that with him?’

  ‘I wish I knew. She’s not with him. I don’t know who she is.’

  ‘You’ve asked around?’

  ‘I was at the club last night. A few punters remembered her.’

  ‘Male punters?’ She waited till Rebus nodded. ‘You were asking the wrong sex. Any man would have given her the once-over, but only superficially. A woman, on the other hand, would have seen her as competition. Have you never noticed women in nightclubs? They’ve got eyes like lasers. Plus, what if she visited the loo?’

  Rebus was interested now. ‘What if she did?’

  ‘That’s where women talk. Maybe someone spoke to her, maybe she said something back. Ears would have been listening.’ Siobhan stared at the photo. ‘Funny, it’s almost like she’s got an aura.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Like she’s shining.’

  ‘Interior light.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No, that’s what your friend Harry said. It’s the interior lighting that gives that effect.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know what he was saying.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Some religions believe in spirit guides. They’re supposed to lead you to the next world.’

  ‘You mean this one’s not the end?’

  She smiled. ‘Depends on your religion.’

  ‘Well, it’s plenty enough for me.’ He looked at the photo again.

  ‘I was sort of joking, you know, about her being a spirit guide.’

  ‘I know.’

  He met with Helen Cousins that night. They spoke over a drink in the Auld Hoose. Rebus hadn’t been in the place in quarter of a century, and there’d been changes. They’d installed a pool table.

  ‘You weren’t invited along that night?’ Rebus asked her.She shook her head. She was twenty, three years younger than Damon. The fingers of her right hand played with her engagement ring, rolling it, sliding it off over the knuckle and then back down again. She had short, lifeless brown hair, dark, tired eyes, and acne around her mouth.

  ‘I was out with the girls. See, that was how we played it. One night a week the boys would go off on their own, and we’d go somewhere else. Then another night we’d all get together.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who was at Gaitanos that night? Apart from Damon and his pals?’

  She chewed her bottom lip while considering. The ring came off her finger and bounced once before hitting the floor. She stooped to pick it up.

  ‘It’s always doing that.’

  ‘You better watch it, you’re going to lose it.’

  She pushed the ring back on. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Corinne and Jacky were there.’

  ‘Corinne and Jacky?’ She nodded. ‘Where can I find them?’

  A phone call brought them to the Auld Hoose. Rebus got in the round: Bacardi and Coke for Corinne, Bacardi and blackcurrant for Jacky, a second vodka and orange for Helen and another bottle of no-alcohol lager for himself. He eyed the optics behind the bar. His mean little drink was costing more than a whisky. Something was telling him to indulge in a Teacher’s. Maybe it’s my spirit guide, he thought, dismissing the idea.

  Corinne had long black hair crimped with curling tongs. Her pal Jacky was tiny, with dyed platinum hair. When he got back to the table, they were in a huddle, exchanging gossip. Re
bus took out the photograph again.

  ‘Look,’ Corinne said, ‘there’s Damon.’ So they all had a good look. Then Rebus touched his finger to the strapless aura.

  ‘Remember her?’

  Helen prickled visibly. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Yeah, she was there,’ Jacky said.

  ‘Was she with anyone?’

  ‘Didn’t see her up dancing.’

  ‘Isn’t that why people go to clubs?’

  ‘Well, it’s one reason.’ All three broke into a giggle.

  ‘You didn’t speak to her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even in the toilets?’

  ‘I saw her in there,’ Corinne said. ‘She was doing her eyes.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘She seemed sort of . . . stuck-up.’

  ‘Snobby,’ Jacky agreed.

  Rebus tried to think of another question and couldn’t. They ignored him for a while as they exchanged news. It was like they hadn’t seen each other in a year. At one point, Helen got up to use the toilet. Rebus expected the other two to accompany her, but only Corinne did so. He sat with Jacky for a moment, then, for want of anything else to say, asked her what she thought of Damon. He meant about Damon disappearing, but she didn’t take it that way.

  ‘Ach, he’s all right.’

  ‘Just all right?’

  ‘Well, you know, Damon’s heart’s in the right place, but he’s a bit thick. A bit slow, I mean.’

  ‘Really?’ The impression Rebus had received from Damon’s family had been of a genius-in-waiting. He suddenly realised just how superficial his own portrait of Damon was. Siobhan’s words should have been warning - so far he’d heard only one side of Damon. ‘Helen likes him though?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘They’re engaged.’

  ‘It happens, doesn’t it? I’ve got friends who got engaged just so they could throw a party.’ She looked around the bar, then leaned towards him. ‘They used to have some mega arguments.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Jealousy, I suppose. She’d see him notice someone, or he’d say she’d been letting some guy chat her up. Just the usual.’ She turned the photo around so it faced her. ‘She looks like a dream, doesn’t she? I remember she was dressed to kill. Made the rest of us spit.’

  ‘But you’d never seen her before?’

  Jacky shook her head. No, no one seemed to have seen her before, nobody knew who she was. Unlikely then that she was local.

  ‘Were there any buses in that night?’

  ‘That doesn’t happen at Gaitanos,’ she told him. ‘It’s not “in” enough any more. There’s a new place in Dunfermline. That gets the busloads.’ Jacky tapped the photo. ‘You think she’s gone off with Damon?’

  Rebus looked at her and saw behind the eyeliner to a sharp intelligence. ‘It’s possible,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t be interested, and he wouldn’t have had the guts.’

  On his way home, Rebus dropped into St Leonard’s. The amount he was paying in bridge tolls, he was thinking about a season ticket. There was a fax on his desk. He’d been promised it in the afternoon, but there’d been a delay. It identified the owner of the Rolls-Royce as a Mr Richard Mandelson, with an address in Juniper Green. Mr Mandelson had no criminal record outstanding, whether for motoring offences or anything else. Rebus tried to imagine some poor parking warden trying to give the Roller a ticket with the fat man behind the wheel. There were a few more facts about Mr Mandelson, including last known occupation.

  Casino manager.

  Seven

  Matty and Stevie Scoular saw one another socially now. Stevie would sometimes phone and invite Matty to some party or dinner, or just for a drink. At the same time as Matty was flattered, he did wonder what Stevie’s angle was, had even come out and asked him.

  ‘I mean,’ he’d said, ‘I’m just a toe-rag from the school playground, and you . . . well, you’re SuperStevie, you’re the king.’‘Aye, if you believe the papers.’ Stevie had finished his drink - Perrier, he had a game the next day. ‘I don’t know, Matty, maybe it’s that I miss all that.’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘Schooldays. It was a laugh back then, wasn’t it?’

  Matty had frowned, not really remembering. ‘But the life you’ve got now, Stevie, man. People would kill for it.’

  And Stevie had nodded, looking suddenly sad.

  Another time, a couple of kids had asked Stevie for his autograph, then had turned and asked Matty for his, thinking that whoever he was, he had to be somebody. Stevie had laughed at that, said something about it being a lesson in humility. Again, Matty didn’t get it. There were times when Stevie seemed to be on a different planet. Maybe it was understandable, the pressure he was under. Stevie seemed to remember a lot more about school than Matty did: teachers’ names, the lot. They talked about Gullane, too, what a boring place to grow up. Sometimes they didn’t talk much at all. Just took out a couple of dolls: Stevie would always bring one along for Matty. She wouldn’t be quite as gorgeous as Stevie’s, but that was all right. Matty could understand that. He was soaking it all up, enjoying it while it lasted. He had half an idea that Stevie and him would be best friends for life, and another that Stevie would dump him soon and find some other distraction. He thought Stevie needed him right now much more than he needed Stevie. So he soaked up what he could, started filing the stories away for future use, tweaking them here and there . . .

  Tonight they took in a couple of bars, a bit of a drive in Stevie’s Beamer: he preferred BMWs to Porsches, more space for passengers. They ended up at a club, but didn’t stay long. Stevie had a game the next day. He was always very conscientious that way: Perrier and early nights. Stevie dropped Matty off outside his flat, sounding the horn as he roared away. Matty hadn’t spotted the other car, but he heard a door opening, looked across the road and recognised Malibu straight off. Malibu was Mr Mandelson’s driver. He’d eased himself out of the Roller and was holding open the back door while looking over to Matty.

  So Matty crossed the street. As he did so, he walked into Malibu’s shadow, cast by the sodium street lamp. At that moment, though he didn’t know what was about to happen, he realised he was lost.

  ‘Get in, Matty.’

  The voice, of course, was Mandelson’s. Matty got into the car and Malibu closed the door after him, then kept guard outside. They weren’t going anywhere.

  ‘Ever been in a Roller before, Matty?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’d remember if you had. I could have had one years back, but only by buying secondhand. I wanted to wait until I had the cash for a nice new one. That leather smell - you don’t get it with any other car.’ Mandelson lit a cigar. The windows were closed and the car started filling with sour smoke. ‘Know how I came to afford a brand new Roller, Matty?’

  ‘Hard work?’ Matty’s mouth was dry. Cars, he thought: Rebus’s, Stevie’s, and now this one. Plus, of course, the one he’d borrowed that night, the one that had brought him to this.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. My dad worked thirty years in a shop, six days a week and he still couldn’t have made the down-payment. Faith, Matty, that’s the key. You have to believe in yourself, and sometimes you have to trust other people - strangers some of them, or people you don’t like, people it’s hard to trust. That’s the gamble life’s making with you, and if you place your bet, sometimes you get lucky. Except it’s not luck - not entirely. See, there are odds, like in every game, and that’s where judgment comes in. I like to think I’m a good judge of character.’

  Only now did Mandelson turn to look at him. There seemed to Matty to be nothing behind the eyes, nothing at all.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, for want of anything better.

  ‘That was Stevie dropped you off, eh?’ Matty nodded. ‘Now, your man Stevie, he’s got something else, something we haven’t discussed yet. He’s got a gift. He’s had
to work, of course, but the thing was there to begin with. Don’t ask me where it came from or why it should have been given to him in particular - that’s one for the philosophers, and I don’t claim to be a philosopher. What I am is a businessman . . . and a gambler. Only I don’t bet on nags or dogs or a turn of the cards, I bet on people. I’m betting on you, Matty.’

  ‘Me?’

  Mandelson nodded, barely visible inside the cloud of smoke. ‘I want you to talk to Stevie on my behalf. I want you to get him to do me a favour.’

  Matty rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He knew what was coming but didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘I saw a recent interview,’ Mandelson went on, ‘where he told the reporter he always gave a hundred and ten per cent. All I want is to knock maybe twenty per cent off for next Saturday’s game. You know what I’m saying?’

  Next Saturday . . . An away tie at Kirkcaldy. Stevie expected to run rings around the Raith Rovers defence.

  ‘He won’t do it,’ Matty said. ‘Come to that, neither will I.’

  ‘No?’ Mandelson laughed. A hand landed on Matty’s thigh. ‘You fucked up in London, son. They knew you’d end up taking a croupier’s job somewhere else, it’s the only thing you know how to do. So they phoned around, and eventually they phoned me. I told them I’d never heard of you. That can change, Matty. Want me to talk to them again?’

  ‘I’d tell them you lied to them the first time.’

  Mandelson shrugged. ‘I can live with that. But what do you think they’ll do to you, Matty? They were pretty angry about whatever scheme it was you pulled. I’d say they were furious.’

  Matty felt like he was going to heave. He was sweating, his lungs toxic. ‘He won’t do it,’ he said again.

  ‘Be persuasive, Matty. You’re his friend. Remind him that his tab’s up to three and a half. All he has to do is ease off for one game, and the tab’s history. And Matty, I’ll know if you’ve talked to him or not, so no games, eh? Or you might find yourself with no place left to hide.’

  Eight

  Rebus searched his flat, but came up with only half a dozen snapshots: two of his ex-wife Rhona, posing with Samantha, their daughter, back when Sammy was seven or eight; two further shots of Sammy in her teens; one showing his father as a young man, kissing the woman who would become Rebus’s mother; and a final photograph, a family grouping, showing uncles, aunts and cousins whose names Rebus didn’t know. There were other photographs, of course - at least, there had been - but not here, not in the flat. He guessed Rhona still kept some, maybe his brother Michael had the others. But they could be anywhere. Rebus hadn’t thought of himself as the kind to spend long nights with the family album, using it as a crutch to memory, always with the fear that remembrance would yield to sentiment.