by Ian Rankin
Albert Simms seemed surprised to see him.
Simms had just finished one of his brewery tours. Rebus was sitting at a table in the sample room, nursing the best part of a pint of IPA. It had been a busy tour: eight guests in all. They offered Rebus half-smiles and glances but kept their distance. Simms poured them their drinks but then seemed in a hurry for them to finish, ushering them from the room. It was five minutes before he returned. Rebus was behind the pumps, topping up his glass.
‘No mention of Johnny Watt’s ghost,’ Rebus commented.
‘No.’ Simms was tidying the vests and hard-hats into a plastic storage container.
‘Do you want a drink? My shout.’
Simms thought about it, then nodded. He approached the bar and eased himself on to one of the stools. There was a blue folder lying nearby, but he tried his best to ignore it.
‘Always amazes me,’ Rebus said, ‘the way we humans hang on to things–records, I mean. Chitties and receipts and old photographs. Brewery’s got quite a collection. Same goes for the libraries and the medical college.’ He handed over Simms’s drink. The man made no attempt to pick it up.
‘Joseph Cropper’s wife never had a daughter,’ Rebus began to explain. ‘I got that from Joseph’s grandson, your current boss. He showed me the archives. So much stuff there…’ He paused. ‘When Johnny Watt died, how long had you been working here, Albie?’
‘Not long.’
Rebus nodded and opened the folder, showing Simms the photo from the Scotsman, the one of the brewery workers in the yard. He tapped a particular face. A young man, seated on a corner of the wagon, legs dangling, shoulders hunched. ‘You’ve not really changed, you know. How old were you? Fifteen?’
‘You sound as if you know.’ Simms had taken the photocopy from Rebus and was studying it.
‘The police keep records too, Albie. We never throw anything away. Bit of trouble in your youth–nicking stuff; fights. Brandishing a razor on one particular occasion–you did a bit of juvenile time for that. Was that when Joseph Cropper met you? He was the charitable type, according to his grandson. Liked to visit prisons, talk to the men and the juveniles. You were about to be released; he offered you a job. But there were strings attached, weren’t there?’
‘Were there?’ Simms tossed the sheet of paper on to the bar, picked up the glass and drank from it.
‘I think so,’ Rebus said. ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to say I know so.’ He rubbed a hand down his cheek. ‘Be a bugger to prove, mind, but I don’t think I need to do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you want to be caught. You’re an old man now, maybe only a short while left, but it’s been plaguing you. How many years is it, Albie? How long have you been seeing Johnny Watt’s ghost?’
Albert Simms wiped foam from his top lip with his knuckles, but didn’t say anything.
‘I’ve been to take a look at your house,’ Rebus continued. ‘Nice place. Semi-detached; quiet street off Colinton Road. Didn’t take much searching to come up with the transaction. You bought it new a couple of months after Johnny Watt died. No mortgage. I mean, houses were maybe more affordable back then, but on wages like yours? I’ve seen your pay slips, Albie–they’re in the company files too. So where did the money come from?’
‘Go on then–tell me.’
‘Joseph Cropper didn’t have a daughter. You told me he did because you knew fine well it would jar if I ever did any digging. I’d start to wonder why you told that particular lie. He had a wife, though, younger than him.’ Rebus showed Simms a copy of the photo from the cemetery. ‘See how her husband’s keeping a grip on her? She’s either about to faint or he’s just letting everyone know who the boss is. To be honest, my money would be on both. You can’t see her face, but there’s a photo she sat for in a studio…’ He slid it from the folder.
‘Very pretty, I think you’ll agree. This came from Douglas Cropper, by the way. Families keep a lot of stuff too, don’t they? She’d been at school with Johnny Watt. Johnny, with his eye for the ladies. Joseph Cropper couldn’t have his wife causing a scandal, could he? Her in her late teens, him in his early thirties…’ Rebus leaned across the bar a little, so that his face was close to that of the man with the sagging shoulders and face.
‘Could he?’ he repeated.
‘You can’t prove anything, you said as much yourself.’
‘But you wanted someone to find out. When you found out I was a cop, you zeroed in on me. You wanted to whet my appetite, because you needed to be found out, Albie. That’s at the heart of this, always has been. Guilt gnawing away at you down the decades.’
‘Not down the decades–just these past few years.’ Simms took a deep breath. ‘It was only meant to be the frighteners. I was a tough kid but I wasn’t big. Johnny was big and fast, and that bit older. I just wanted him on the ground while I gave him the warning.’ Simms’s eyes were growing glassy.
‘You hit him too hard,’ Rebus commented. ‘Did you push him in or did he fall?’
‘He fell. Even then, I didn’t know he was dead. The boss… when he heard…’ Simms sniffed and swallowed hard. ‘That was the both of us, locked together… We couldn’t tell. They were still hanging people back then.’
‘They hanged a man at Perth jail in ’48,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘I read it in the Scotsman.’
Simms managed a weak smile. ‘I knew you were the man, soon as I saw you. The kind who likes a mystery. Do you do crosswords?’
‘Can’t abide them.’ Rebus paused for a mouthful of IPA. ‘The money was to hush you up?’
‘I told him he didn’t need to–working for him, that was what I wanted. He said the money would get me a clean start anywhere in the world.’ Simms shook his head slowly. ‘I bought the house instead. He didn’t like that, but he was stuck with it–what was he going to do?’
‘The two of you never talked about it again?’
‘What was there to talk about?’
‘Did Cropper’s wife ever suspect?’
‘Why should she? Post-mortem was what we had to fear. Once they’d declared it an accident, that was that.’
Rebus sat in silence, waiting until Albert Simms made eye contact, then asked a question of his own. ‘So what are we going to do, Albie?’
Albert Simms exhaled noisily. ‘I suppose you’ll be taking me in.’
‘Can’t do that,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m retired. It’s up to you. Next natural step. I think you’ve already done the hard part.’
Simms thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘No more ghosts,’ he said quietly, almost to himself, as he stared up at the ceiling of the sample room.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Rebus said.
‘Been here long?’ Siobhan Clarke asked as she entered the Oxford Bar.
‘What else am I going to do?’ Rebus replied. ‘Now I’m on the scrapheap. What about you–hard day at the office?’
‘Do you really want to hear about it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know what you’re like. Soon as you get a whiff of a case–mine or anyone else’s–you’ll want to have a go at it yourself.’
‘Maybe I’m a changed man, Siobhan.’
‘Aye, right.’ She rolled her eyes and told the landlord she’d have a gin and tonic.
‘Double?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Same again? Then you can make me jealous by telling me stories of your life of leisure.’
‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ said Rebus, raising his pint glass and draining it to the very last drop.
Cinders
The Fairy Godmother was dead.
Rebus had had to fight his way through the throng of rubber-neckers outside the Theatre Royal. It was early evening, dark and drizzling, but they didn’t seem to mind. He showed his warrant card to a uniformed officer at the cordon, and then again as he entered the red-carpeted foyer. The doors to the auditorium were open, the remaining audience members grumbling in that Ed
inburgh way as they queued to give their contact details before being allowed to leave. The curtain had been raised for the show’s second act, revealing the kitchen of some grand house or castle, all fake stone walls and glowing fireplace.
‘Apparently,’ a voice next to Rebus announced, ‘there’s a bit of slapstick with Buttons as he tries baking a cake.’
‘Shaving-foam in the face?’ Rebus guessed.
‘That sort of thing.’ Detective Inspector Siobhan Clarke managed a thin smile.
The youngest members of the audience were setting up cries of protest, their annual panto treat ruined. Parents looked numbed, some of the mothers dabbing away tears.
‘They know?’ Rebus said.
‘Second half doesn’t start, police arrive–I’d say they’ve guessed there’s no happy ending.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Easier if I show you.’ She turned back into the foyer and pushed open a door marked Private. Stairs up, a narrow corridor, then another door, more stairs, and turns to left and right.
‘Should we be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs?’ Rebus inquired.
‘Wrong story,’ Clarke answered.
She had to knock at a final door. It was opened by a uniformed officer. They were in another corridor with doors off.
‘Make-up, wardrobe, dressing rooms,’ Clarke intoned.
‘The business of show.’ Rebus peered into some of the rooms as they passed them. Rails festooned with gaudy clothing, strip-lit mirrors, props and wigs. There were loudspeakers set into the walls, broadcasting the sounds from the auditorium. The Scene of Crime crew were bagging and tagging.
‘We’re not worried about contamination?’ Rebus checked.
‘Twenty or thirty people pass this way a dozen or more times per show. Maxtone doesn’t think we’d be adding much to the mix.’
‘Doug Maxtone is in charge?’
‘How do you not know that?’ Clarke stopped in her tracks.
‘I was just passing, Siobhan.’
‘Just passing?’
‘Well, maybe I heard something at the station…’
‘But you’re not on the team?’ She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of her own question. ‘Of course not–Doug Maxtone’s hardly in your fan club.’
‘I can’t understand it–we’ve got badges and everything.’
‘This is a murder inquiry, John. You don’t just walk in.’
‘Yet here I am.’ Rebus gave a shrug. ‘So why not show me where it happened?’
She sighed as she made up her mind, then led the way. ‘We can’t go in, not without being suited up.’
‘Understood.’
So they stood at the threshold instead. The interior seemed frozen in the moment. Vases of flowers and good luck cards. Bottles of water and blackcurrant cordial. A bowl of fruit. A small suitcase, lying open. A chair tipped over. A dark stain on the pale blue carpet.
‘I smell smoke.’
‘Not quite enough to set off the alarm,’ Clarke said. ‘A metal waste-bin.’ She nodded to where it had once sat. ‘Off to the lab.’
‘Was she a smoker?’
‘It was paper of some kind–plus sandwich wrappers and who knows what else.’
‘A blow to the head, I heard.’
‘Probably when she was seated, facing the mirror. She didn’t have the biggest of roles–pops up with the gown and glass slippers, then the coach. Comes on again near the end–or would have.’
‘So it’s the interval and she’s changed out of her sparkly gown and wings?’ Rebus mused. ‘Meaning the costume department would have been lurking.’
‘We’re interviewing them.’
‘How long is the interval?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘Lots of people backstage?’
‘Lots.’
‘She would have seen them.’ He nodded towards the mirror. ‘She’d have seen whoever walked in.’
‘Baron Hardup has the next dressing room along. Didn’t hear any screams. Then again, he had the radio on, listening to some horse race.’
‘And through the other wall?’
‘Stairwell.’
‘No security cameras?’
‘Not here, no.’ Clarke paused. ‘Did you know her?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She was on TV in the 70s and 80s. A couple of sitcoms, even a few films.’
‘I saw her face on the poster outside. Didn’t ring any bells.’
‘And the name? Celia Jagger?’ She watched Rebus shrug. ‘You’ve not asked about the weapon.’
Rebus scanned the dressing room but came up empty. ‘Enlighten me,’ he said.
‘The glass slipper,’ Clarke said. ‘The one left behind at the Ball…’
Not that it was a real glass slipper. It was Perspex or something similar. And it wasn’t the one from the performance. The production kept two spares. One of these had been removed from the props department and used in the attack, its stiletto heel piercing Jagger’s skull and killing her instantly.
The props department was basically a large walk-in cupboard with shelves. The door had a lock, but was always open during performances. There were storage boxes bearing the name of each character along with a list of contents. Rebus held one of the remaining slippers in his hand. It was heavier than he had anticipated. Nicely made, but scuffed from use. Not that an audience would notice, not with a spotlight making it shine.
Clarke had gone off somewhere, with a warning that he should ‘keep his head down’. Some of the chaos had subsided. Fewer headless chickens as the inquiry found its rhythm. Twelve dressing rooms, three of them to accommodate the chorus (who doubled as dancers). The theatre had no orchestra pit–the music was pre-recorded. Two technicians ran everything from a couple of laptops. Everyone would be asked about their movements during the interval. Statements would have to be verified. As yet, no one seemed to be asking the most basic question of all: who would want Celia Jagger dead? Her killing was the end of a story, and for stories you went to people. Which was why Rebus placed the shoe back in the box marked Cinders, and walked towards the exit.
The sign said Stage Door, and that was where he eventually found himself. There was an antechamber of sorts, with a list of actors and crew fixed to its wall. Like clocking in to some old-fashioned factory job, when you arrived you slid a wooden slat along to show you were IN. From behind a glass partition, the man in the security booth watched Rebus.
‘I like this,’ Rebus said, pointing to the wall.
‘It’s been here almost as long as the building.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I used to build the sets. Everything was custom-made in those days.’
‘And now?’
‘Mostly from stock. Newcastle or somewhere does Cinderella one year, we’ll take what we need from them the next, while our Aladdin might head to Aberdeen. We built the tram from scratch, mind.’
‘The tram?’
‘Director’s idea–instead of a carriage. Big puff of smoke and there’s an Edinburgh tram. Pretty clever really–means we don’t need any horses. Couple of the stage hands use a pulley and Cinders is off to the ball.’ The man’s smile faded. ‘How long will we be closed?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘Theatre can’t go on without it. Same for a lot of these old places–a full house for a few months means you can afford to run the rest of the year.’
‘Is that what happens?’
The guard nodded. He was in shirt-sleeves, a mug of tea on the desk next to him. CCTV screens showed the alleyway outside, empty auditorium, and front of house.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rebus, by the way,’ Rebus said.
‘Willie Mearns.’
‘How long have you been doing this job, Mr Mearns?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Ever since you retired from the workshop?’ Making Mearns seventy-five, maybe even eighty. He looked sprightly though. Rebus reckoned the man’s memory would be sha
rp. ‘Have you been questioned yet?’
‘Not formally–just asked if I’d seen anyone suspicious.’
‘I’m guessing you said no.’
‘Quite right.’
‘And Celia Jagger–did you know her to talk to?’
‘Oh aye. I had to remind her that I built the set when she appeared in a play here back in her heyday.’
‘Did you use the word “heyday”?’
‘I’m not that daft.’
‘She had a bit of an ego then?’
‘Most of them do. Don’t get me wrong–they’re lovely with it. But Celia was miffed she didn’t get one of the big dressing rooms.’
‘They all looked much the same to me.’
‘A few inches can make all the difference.’
‘You say she was “miffed”–is that as far as it went?’
‘More or less.’
Rebus studied the man for a few seconds. ‘There’s a pub across the street. Do you know it?’
‘I might have passed through its door on occasion.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Well, tonight we’ve got half a dozen of Police Scotland’s finest keeping watch on the Theatre Royal. I think you can maybe call it a day, Mr Mearns.’
The man made show of considering his options, then started rising to his feet. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.
The interviews were taking place at St Leonard’s police station. Rebus found Clarke pacing a corridor, scanning transcripts.
‘Who have we got?’ he asked her.
She nodded in turn towards four doors. ‘Tracy Sidwell, John Carrier, Robert Tennant, Jamie Salter.’
‘So that’s Cinderella, Baron Hardup, Prince Charming and Buttons.’
‘You’re well informed.’
‘I just spent an hour in a pub with a man who likes to talk. Hardup’s a bit too fond of the horses apparently. Always needing to borrow a few quid to tide him over. Meantime, Prince Charming left his wife and two kids for Cinderella–not quite a fairy tale.’
Clarke stared at him. ‘Anything else?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘There are whispers about Buttons and the Wicked Stepmother. Giggles and whispers behind closed dressing-room doors. Who else have we got?’
