by Ian Rankin
‘His father’s dead too, then?’
‘That’s right. I got his life story one night late in the bar. On a tour, I get everyone’s story sooner or later.’
Rebus flipped through the sheaf of photos a final time. Nothing new presented itself to him. ‘And you were at the castle between about half past eleven and quarter to one?’
‘Just as I told you.’
‘Oh well.’ Rebus sighed. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Inspector?’ It was the receptionist, her head peering around the door. ‘There’s a call for you.’
It was Superintendent Watson. He was concise, factual. ‘Withdrew five hundred pounds from each of four accounts, all on the same day, and in plenty of time for the rendezvous at the Café Royal.’
‘So presumably he paid up.’
‘But did he get the letters back?’
‘Mmm. Has Lady Scott had a look for them?’
‘Yes, we’ve been through the study–not thoroughly, there’s too much stuff in there for that. But we’ve had a look.’ That ‘we’ sounded comfortable, sounded as though Watson had already got his feet under the table. ‘So what now, John?’
‘I’m coming over, if you’ve no objection, sir. With respect, I’d like a look at Sir Walter’s office for myself…’
He went in search of Tony Bell, just so he could say thanks and goodbye. But he wasn’t in the musty conference room, and he wasn’t in the dining-room. He was in the bar, standing with one foot on the bar rail as he shared a joke with the woman he had called Mrs Eglinton. Rebus did not interrupt, but he did wink at the phone-bound receptionist as he passed her, then pushed his way out of the Castellain Hotel’s double doors just as the wheezing of a bus’s air brakes signalled the arrival of yet more human cargo.
There was no overhead lighting in Sir Walter Scott’s study, but there were numerous floor lamps, desk lamps, and anglepoises. Rebus switched on as many as worked. Most were antiquated, with wiring to match, but there was one newish anglepoise attached to the bookcase, pointing inwards towards the collection of Scott’s writings. There was a comfortable chair beside this lamp, and an ashtray on the floor between chair and bookcase.
When Watson put his head around the door, Rebus was seated in this chair, elbows resting on his knees, and chin resting between the cupped palms of both hands.
‘Margaret–that is, Lady Scott–she wondered if you wanted anything.’
‘I want those letters.’
‘I think she meant something feasible–like tea or coffee.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Maybe later, sir.’
Watson nodded, made to retreat, then thought of something. ‘They got him down in the end. Had to use a winch. Not very dignified, but what can you do? I just hope the papers don’t print any pictures.’
‘Why don’t you have a word with the editors, just to be on the safe side?’
‘I might just do that, John.’ Watson nodded. ‘Yes, I might just do that.’
Alone again, Rebus rose from his chair and opened the glass doors of the bookcase. The position of chair, ashtray and lamp was interesting. It was as though Sir Walter had been reading volumes from these shelves, from his namesake’s collected works. Rebus ran a finger over the spines. A few he had heard of; the vast majority he had not. One was titled Castle Dangerous. He smiled grimly at that. Dangerous, all right; or in Sir Walter’s case, quite lethal. He angled the light farther into the bookcase. The dust on a row of books had been disturbed. Rebus pushed with one finger against the spine of a volume, and the book slid a good two inches back until it rested against the solid wall behind the bookcase. Two uniform inches of space for the whole of this row. Rebus reached a hand down behind the row of books and ran it along the shelf. He met resistance, and drew the hand out again, now clutching a sheaf of papers. Sir Walter had probably thought it as good a hiding place as any–a poor testament to Scott the novelist’s powers of attraction. Rebus sat down in the chair again, brought the anglepoise closer, and began to sift through what he’d found.
There were, indeed, twelve letters, ornately fountain-penned promises of love with honour, of passion until doomsday. As with all such youthful nonsense, there was a lot of poetry and classical imagery. Rebus imagined it was standard private boys’ school stuff, even today. But these letters had been written half a century ago, sent from one schoolboy to another a year younger than himself. The younger boy was Sir Walter, and from the correspondence it was clear that Sir Walter’s feelings for the writer had been every bit as inflamed as those of the writer himself.
Ah, the writer. Rebus tried to remember if he was still an MP. He had the feeling he had either lost his seat, or else had retired. Maybe he was still on the go; Rebus paid little attention to politics. His attitude had always been: don’t vote, it only encourages them. So, here was the presumed scandal. Hardly a scandal, but just about enough to cause embarrassment. At worst a humiliation. But then Rebus was beginning to suspect that humiliation, not financial profit, was the price exacted here.
And not even necessarily public humiliation, merely the private knowledge that someone knew of these letters, that someone had possessed them. Then the final taunt, the taunt Sir Walter could not resist: come to the Scott Monument, look across to the castle, and you will see who has been tormenting you these past weeks. You will know.
But now that same taunt was working on Rebus. He knew so much, yet in effect he knew nothing at all. He now possessed the ‘what’, but not the ‘who’. And what should he do with the old love letters? Lady Scott had said she wasn’t sure she wanted to find them. He could take them away with him–destroy them. Or he could hand them over to her, tell her what they were. It would be up to her either to destroy them unread or to discover this silly secret. He could always say: It’s all right, it’s nothing really… Mind you, some of the sentences were ambiguous enough to disturb, weren’t they? Rebus read again. ‘When you scored 50 n.o. and afterwards we showered…’ ‘When you stroke me like that…’ ‘After rugger practice…’
Ach. He got up and opened the bookcase again. He would replace them. Let time deal with them; he could not. But in placing his hand back down behind the line of books, he brushed against something else, not paper but stiff card. He hadn’t noticed it before because it seemed stuck to the wall. He peeled it carefully away and brought it into the light. It was a photograph, black and white, ten inches by eight and mounted on card. A man and woman on an esplanade, arm in arm, posing for the photographer. The man looked a little pensive, trying to smile but not sure he actually wanted to be caught like this. The woman seemed to wrap both her arms round one of his, restraining him; and she was laughing, thrilled by this moment, thrilled to be with him.
The man was Sir Walter. A Sir Walter twenty years older than the schoolboy of the love letters, mid thirties perhaps. And the woman? Rebus stared long and hard at the woman. Put the photograph down and paced the study, touching things, peering through the shutters. He was thinking and not thinking. He had seen the woman before somewhere… but where? She was not Lady Scott, of that he was certain. But he’d seen her recently, seen that face… that face.
And then he knew. Oh yes, he knew.
He telephoned the Castellain, half listening as the story was given to him. Taken ill suddenly… poorly… decided to go home… airport… flying to London and catching a connection tonight… Was there a problem? Well, of course there was a problem, but no one at the hotel could help with it, not now. The blackmail over, Rebus himself had inadvertently caused the blackmailer to flee. He had gone to the hotel hoping–such a slim hope–for help, not realising that one of the Grebe Tours party was his quarry. Once again, he had sacrificed his queen too early in the game.
He telephoned Edinburgh Airport, only to be told that the flight had already taken off. He asked to be rerouted to Security, and asked them for the name of the security chief at Heathrow. He was calling Heathrow when Watson appeared in the hall.
‘Making qui
te a few calls, aren’t you, John? Not personal, I hope.’
Rebus ignored his superior as his call was connected. ‘Mr Masterson in Security, please,’ he said. And then: ‘Yes, it is urgent. I’ll hold.’ He turned to Watson at last. ‘Oh, it’s personal all right, sir. But it’s nothing to do with me. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. Then we can decide what to tell Lady Scott. Actually, seeing as you’re a friend of the family and all, you can tell her. That’d be best, wouldn’t it, sir? There are some things only your friends can tell you, after all, aren’t there?’
He was through to Heathrow Security, and turned away from Watson the better to talk with Masterson. The superintendent stood there, dimly aware that Rebus was going to force him to tell Margaret something she would probably rather not hear. He wondered if she would ever again have time for the person who would tell her… And he cursed John Rebus, who was so good at digging yet never seemed to soil his own hands. It was a gift, a terrible, destructive gift. Watson, a staunch believer in the Christian God, doubted Rebus’s gift had come down from on high. No, not from on high.
The phone call was ending. Rebus put down the receiver and nodded towards Sir Walter’s study.
‘If you’ll step into the office, sir,’ he said, ‘there’s something I’d like to show you…’
Shaw Berkely was arrested at Heathrow, and, despite protestations regarding his health and cries for consular aid, was escorted back to Edinburgh, where Rebus was waiting, brisk and definitive, in Interview Room A of Great London Road police station.
Berkely’s mother had died two months before. She had never told him the truth about his birth, spinning instead some story about his father being dead. But in sorting through his mother’s papers, Shaw discovered the truth–several truths, in fact. His mother had been in love with Walter Scott, had become pregnant by him, but had been, as she herself put it in her journal, ‘discarded’ in favour of the ‘better marriage’ provided by Margaret Winton-Addams.
Shaw’s mother accepted some money from Scott and fled to the United States, where she had a younger sister. Shaw grew up believing his father dead. The revelation not only that he was alive, but that he had prospered in society after having caused Shaw’s mother misery and torment, led to a son’s rage. But it was impotent rage, Shaw thought, until he came across the love letters. His mother must at some point have stolen them from Scott, or at least had come out of the relationship in possession of them. Shaw decided on a teasing revenge, knowing Scott would deduce that any blackmailer in possession of the letters was probably also well informed about his affair and the bastard son.
He used the tour party as an elaborate cover (and also, he admitted, because it was a cheap travel option). He brought with him to Britain not only the letters, but also the series of typed notes. The irony was that he had been to Edinburgh before, had studied there for three months as part of some exchange with his American college. He knew now why his mother, though proud of the scholarship, had been against his going. For three months he had lived in his father’s city, yet hadn’t known it.
He sent the notes from London–the travel party’s base for much of its stay in England. The exchange–letters for cash–had gone ahead in the Café Royal, the bar having been a haunt of his student days. But he had known his final note, delivered by hand, would tempt Sir Walter, would lead him to the top of the Scott Monument. No, he said, he hadn’t just wanted Sir Walter to see him, to see the son he had never known. Shaw had much of the money on him, stuffed into a money belt around his waist. The intention had been to release wads of money, Sir Walter’s money, down on to Princes Street Gardens.
‘I didn’t mean for him to die… I just wanted him to know how I felt about him… I don’t know. But Jesus’–he grinned–‘I still wish I’d let fly with all that loot.’
Rebus shuddered to think of the ramifications. Stampede in Princes Street! Hundreds dead in lunchtime spree! Biggest scooroot ever! No, best not to think about it. Instead, he made for the Café Royal himself. It was late morning, the day after Berkely’s arrest. The pub was quiet as yet, but Rebus was surprised to see Dr Jameson standing at the bar, fortifying himself with what looked suspiciously like a double whisky. Remembering how he had left the doctor in the lurch regarding Sir Walter’s body, Rebus grinned broadly and offered a healthy slap on the back.
‘Morning, Doc, fancy seeing you in here.’ Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar. ‘We mustn’t be keeping you busy enough.’ He paused. There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. ‘Here, let me get you a stiff one…’ And he laughed so hard even the waiters from the Oyster Bar came to investigate. But all they saw was a tall, well-built man leaning against a much smaller, more timid man, and saying as he raised his glass: ‘Here’s to mortality, to old mortality!’
So all in all it was just another day in the Café Royal.
In the Frame
Inspector John Rebus placed the letters on his desk.
There were three of them. Small, plain white envelopes, locally franked, the same name and address printed on each in a careful hand. The name was K. Leighton. Rebus looked up from the envelopes to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. He was in his forties, frail-looking and restless. He had started talking the moment he’d entered Rebus’s office, and didn’t seem inclined to stop.
‘The first one arrived on Tuesday, last Tuesday. A crank, I thought, some sort of malicious joke. Not that I could think of anyone who might do that sort of thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘My neighbours over the back from me… well, we don’t always see eye to eye, but they wouldn’t resort to this.’ His eyes glanced up towards Rebus for a second. ‘Would they?’
‘You tell me, Mr Leighton.’
As soon as he’d said this, Rebus regretted the choice of words. Undoubtedly, Kenneth Leighton would tell him. Rebus opened the first envelope’s flap, extracted the sheet of writing-paper and unfolded it. He did the same with the second and third letters and laid all three before him.
‘If it had been only the one,’ Kenneth Leighton was saying, ‘I wouldn’t have minded, but it doesn’t look as though they’re going to stop. Tuesday, then Thursday, then Saturday. I spent all weekend worrying about what to do…’
‘You did the right thing, Mr Leighton.’
Leighton wriggled pleasurably. ‘Well, they always say you should go to the police. Not that I think there’s anything serious. I mean, I’ve not got anything to hide. My life’s an open book…’
An open book and an unexciting one, Rebus would imagine. He tried to shut out Leighton’s voice and concentrated instead on the first letter.
Mr Leighton,
We’ve got photos you wouldn’t want your wife to see, believe us. Think about it. We’ll be in touch.
Then the second:
Mr Leighton,
£2,000 for the photos. That seems fair, doesn’t it? You really wouldn’t want your wife to see them. Get the money. We’ll be in touch.
And the third:
Mr Leighton,
We’ll be sending one reprint to show we mean business. You’d better get to it before your wife does. There are plenty more copies.
Rebus looked up, and caught Leighton staring at him. Leighton immediately looked away. Rebus had the feeling that if he stood behind the man and said ‘boo’ quite softly in his ear, Leighton would melt all down the chair. He looked like the sort of person who might make an enemy of his neighbours, complaining too strenuously about a noisy party or a family row. He looked like a crank.
‘You haven’t received the photo yet?’
Leighton shook his head. ‘I’d have brought it along, wouldn’t I?’
‘And you’ve no idea what sort of photo it might be?’
‘None at all. The last time somebody took my picture was at my niece’s wedding.’
‘And when was that?’
‘Three years ago. You see what I’m saying, Inspector? This doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It must make sense t
o at least one person, Mr Leighton.’ Rebus nodded towards the letters.
They had been written in blue ball-point, the same pen which had been used to address the envelopes. A cheap blue ball-point, leaving smears and blots of ink. It was anything but professional-looking. The whole thing looked like a joke. Since when did blackmailers use their own handwriting? Anyone with a rudimentary education in films, TV cop shows and thriller novels knew that you used a typewriter or letters cut out of newspapers, or whatever; anything that would produce a dramatic effect. These letters were too personal to look dramatic. Polite, too: that use of ‘Mr Leighton’ at the start of each one. A particular word caught Rebus’s attention and held it. But then Leighton said something interesting.
‘I don’t even have a wife, not now.’
‘You’re not married?’
‘I was. Divorced six years ago. Six years and one month.’
‘And where’s your wife now, Mr Leighton?’
‘Remarried, lives in Glenrothes. I got an invite to the wedding, but I didn’t go. Can’t remember what I sent them for a present…’ Leighton was lost in thought for a moment, then collected himself. ‘So you see, if these letters are written by someone I know, how come they don’t know I’m divorced?’
It was a good question. Rebus considered it for a full five seconds. Then he came to his conclusion.
‘Let’s leave it for now, Mr Leighton,’ he said. ‘There’s not much we can do till this photo arrives… if it arrives.’
Leighton looked numb, watching Rebus fold the letters and replace them in their envelopes. Rebus wasn’t sure what the man had expected. Fingerprints lifted from the envelopes by forensic experts? A tell-tale fibre leading to an arrest? Handwriting identified… saliva from the stamps and the envelope-flaps checked… psychologists analysing the wording of the messages themselves, coming up with a profile of the blackmailer? It was all good stuff, but not on a wet Monday morning in Edinburgh. Not with CID’s case-load and budget restrictions.
