by Ian Rankin
Waters paused, lost in memory. His fingers had stretched out to touch a photo frame on his desk. Rebus could see only the back of it.
‘Is that …?’ He pointed to the frame.
‘This is afterwards. Me and Martha.’
‘Do you mind if I take a look?’
Waters’s shoulder twitched as he turned the photo round. It was black and white, and showed Colin Waters still not quite out of his teens. His sister looked four or five years younger, breasts just beginning to appear, hair still held in pigtails. They were seated on the staircase of what appeared to be a grand house – probably not dissimilar to Renshaw House. They were peering through the iron banisters. There was a painting on the wall behind them. Neither looked particularly happy, and the photographer had failed to get their faces in sharp focus. There was a ghostly quality to the whole. Rebus couldn’t help wondering why the photo was so important. To him, it seemed a daily reminder of something lost: the hopes and dreams of youth.
‘Interesting painting,’ he said, as Waters turned the photo back towards himself.
‘It’s still in the family.’
‘Is it a loch or a river?’
‘I think the artist invented it, whatever it is. Not too many clifftop castles in Scotland.’
‘Not that I know of.’ Rebus made to rise to his feet, Waters following suit.
‘I’m still not sure why you came, Inspector,’ he commented.
‘Me neither,’ Rebus told him. Then he slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Your brother just seemed so confused and lonely. I take it a visit from you would upset him?’
Waters shrugged. ‘I’m a ghost, remember.’
‘And your sister? Does she see him much?’
Waters shook his head. ‘It upsets her too much to see him like that.’ He gestured with an expansive right arm. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else …’
‘I appreciate your time, sir.’ Rebus didn’t bother mentioning the Saab; reckoned it would do him another year.
He decided that a further visit to Renshaw House was in order, but first drove towards his home in Marchmont, stopping at the local butcher’s shop. He was a known face here, and as with a good barman, the butcher knew what his regulars liked.
‘Steak pie, Mr Rebus?’ he was asking as Rebus walked over the threshold.
‘No thanks, Andy.’
‘Couple of nice pork chops, then?’
Rebus shook his head. There was sawdust on the floor – for show rather than anything else. Andy wore a striped apron and a straw boater. Photos on the white-tiled wall showed his father in the selfsame get-up. Rebus was struck again by what the photo on Waters’s desk must have meant to the car dealer.
‘Just a question actually, Andy,’ he said.
‘Is this me becoming a police informer? The Huggy Bear of Edinburgh?’
Rebus answered the laugh with a smile of his own. He’d never seen the butcher at rest. Even now, with no order to fill, Andy was sorting the display of various hams and sausages. ‘I was wondering if you knew about a butcher called Pakenham.’
‘Pakenham?’
Rebus spelled it for him. ‘They’d be local, I think. “Fresh Fleshing” is what it says on their van.’
‘Have they got a shop?’
‘I’ve only seen the van. It was delivering to an old folk’s home’
Andy pursed his lips.
‘What is it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Well, it’s not always top-grade, is it?’
‘Cheap cuts, you mean?’
‘Cheapest possible.’ Andy held his hands up. ‘I’m not saying they’re all like that …’
‘But some are?’ Rebus nodded to himself. ‘Got a phone book, Andy?’
The butcher fetched one from the back of the shop. Rebus checked, but there was no Pakenham Fresh Fleshing.
‘Thanks, Andy,’ he said, handing it back.
‘Sorry I can’t be more help. More Yogi Bear than Huggy, eh?’
‘Actually, you’ve been a big help. And maybe I will take one of those steak pies.’
‘Family size, as usual?’
‘As usual,’ Rebus confirmed. He would drop it home before his visit to Renshaw House.
He rang the bell and waited. It was late afternoon now, the sun low in the sky. The detached villa sat on Minto Street, a busy thoroughfare on the city’s south side. The house had a faded elegance, its stonework blackened by time and traffic. Most of the houses around it had become bed and breakfasts, but not this one. The name on the unpolished brass door plate was Waters, the letters picked out in verdigris. The sister, it seemed, had never married.
She opened the door herself. No pigtails now, the hair grey and thin, scraped back from the forehead and tucked behind both ears. Her eyes were sunken, as were her cheeks. Colin Waters, it seemed, had stolen all the heartiest genes from his parents.
‘Martha Waters?’ Rebus said, realising that he was pitching his voice a little louder than was probably necessary – she was only ten or so years older than him.
‘Yes?’
He held open his warrant card. ‘I’m from the police, Miss Waters. Do you mind if I come in?’
She said nothing, her mouth forming a crumpled O. But she held the door open so he could pass into the hall. It wasn’t the same one as in the photograph. The banisters were wooden, darkly varnished. The only natural light came from a window on the upstairs landing. The carpet was ornate but as worn as its owner. She closed the door, adding to the pervasive gloom. Rebus noted an alarm panel on the wall beside the umbrella stand. The panel looked new, with a digital display. A sensor blinked in the far corner of the ceiling.
‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’ She spoke quietly, pronouncing each syllable. She had yet to ask him why he was here.
‘Is there somewhere we can sit, Miss Waters?’
She shuffled in her carpet slippers towards another door, opening it to reveal what she would probably call the parlour. It was like stepping back in time: antimacassars on the sofas, an empty three-tiered cake stand on a large embroidered doily. Little ornaments and knick-knacks covered every surface. A grandfather clock had ceased to work some time back, frozen for ever at one minute to twelve.
‘Did you say you wanted tea?’ she enquired.
‘No thanks.’ Rebus had strode over to the fireplace, admiring the large painting framed above the mantel. A bus sped past outside, causing some of the ornaments to rattle. Martha Waters sat herself down. Before his arrival, she’d been listening to the radio: a classical station, the sound barely audible. Nothing much wrong with her hearing, then … or she was just saving batteries.
‘This is a grand painting,’ Rebus told her.
‘I used to like it,’ she said. ‘I hardly see it any more.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. Nothing wrong with her eyes either; she meant something else entirely.
‘Who’s it by?’ he asked.
‘My brother says it’s a Gainsborough.’
‘Explains the alarm system … I take it Colin had that fitted?’
‘Do you know about art?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But I know the name. It must be quite old, then.’
‘Seventeen eighties.’
‘As old as that? And worth a bit, I dare say?’
‘Six figures, so Colin tells me.’
Rebus shook his head again, this time in apparent wonder. ‘I saw that photograph of it. You know the one I mean?’ He turned to her. ‘Colin keeps it on his office desk. It stares back at him every working day.’
Her eyes seemed to regain their focus. ‘What is it you want here?’
‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to see it in the flesh. I thought maybe you’d’ve sold it or something.’
‘We could never sell it.’
‘Not even after what you went through to get it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do, Miss Waters. I think it’s been your little secret all these
long years. I’ve just come from Renshaw House, had a nice long chat with Lionel.’
At the mention of her brother’s name, Martha stiffened, clasping her hands on her lap in front of her.
‘All those crazy stories he tells … about his treasure and how he killed his brother … and how you buried him. He keeps rambling about a boat and a castle.’ Rebus pointed to the painting. ‘And there they are: a castle on a hilltop, fishing boat on the water below it – Lionel’s treasure. My bet is, he loved that painting and your parents had decided he could have it. Maybe they were going to will it to him, I don’t know. But Colin wanted it, didn’t he? And you, young as you were, you wanted it too. Two greedy little kids.’ Rebus was standing in front of her now. He crouched so that she couldn’t escape his eyes. ‘Two brothers having a wrestle. Colin told me Lionel loved to wrestle, but Lionel says he never did: the wrestling was Colin’s idea.’ Rebus paused for effect. ‘And then one of them’s not moving, and he’s covered in blood. What was it, Martha – ketchup? Paint? Whatever it was, it did the trick, sent Lionel over the edge. Especially when you told him you’d buried Colin.’ Rebus stayed in a crouch, but Martha’s eyes had drifted to the painting.
‘We could never sell it, not after that. We never meant …’ She broke off, took a deep breath. ‘We didn’t stop to think.’
‘You were just a girl, Martha. How were you supposed to know it wasn’t a game, some sort of joke? But Colin was that bit older than you … old enough to know exactly what he was doing. More than half a century Lionel’s been kept shut up.’
‘It would have happened anyway,’ she said in a whisper, a tear trickling from one eye. ‘We couldn’t have coped. He was driving our parents demented … nice as ninepence one minute, flying off the handle the next. Schizophrenic, the doctors said. He was turning us into pariahs.’
‘You mean the local kids called him names?’
‘Not just Lionel … all of us. We were “the weird ones”, “the loonies”.’ She wiped a hand across her face. ‘Do you know how much he’s cost us? All the family money, soaked up by care for Lionel.’
‘Soaked up by guilt, if you ask me. That’s why neither of you could let the painting go.’ He rose to his feet. ‘All these years …’ He let the words hang in the dusty air. His whole body felt dried out by this house, as if the life were being drained from him.
‘What will happen to us?’ she asked, her voice trembling.
‘Lionel’s not going to be in that home much longer – nobody is. So you’ll offer him a room here, with his painting above his bed. And if you die before him, you’ll make sure the painting goes to him.’
She looked up. ‘That’s all?’
Rebus offered a shrug. ‘Anything you’ve just told me, Colin will deny – he’s got too much to lose. I’d be delighted to see the pair of you in court, but I don’t think that will happen. I could dig into your parents’ wills, any changes in them, see if the painting was to be Lionel’s at any stage, but I’m not sure I’d get anywhere. So … yes, Miss Waters, that’s all.’ He started to walk towards the door, but paused.
‘You could own up, of course, tell Lionel what the two of you did. But I wouldn’t, if I were you. It might be too much for him. So don’t think of letting Colin near him … and pray Lionel stays in good health, because if I hear otherwise … well, I might have to do that digging after all.’
The Suruchi restaurant was Rebus’s idea – and his treat.
‘Felt I short-changed you last night,’ he explained to Siobhan.
After ordering their starters and main courses, they snapped off pieces of poppadom from a central shared plate, dipping them in chutney and biting down on them.
And Rebus told his story.
‘Amazing,’ she said as he finished. He was drinking lager for a change, while she stuck to mineral water. ‘But you’re not going to explain it all to Lionel?’
‘Even if I got through to him, would it change anything?’
‘His whole life’s been …’ She couldn’t quite find the right words.
‘How does that old song go? “If I could turn back time …” If I could, believe me, I would.’
‘It would be handy,’ she conceded. ‘We’d solve the crimes before they were ever committed.’
‘Didn’t do Tom Cruise much good in that film.’ Their waiter had appeared at the table to clear away the empty plate. Siobhan brushed crumbs from her lap. ‘Something else I did today,’ Rebus was adding.
‘What?’
‘Solved Ken Flatley’s little mystery.’
She looked at him. ‘Who’s been a busy boy then?’
He shrugged. ‘Easy enough once I remembered the face driving the meat van. Belongs to a guy called Bernie Cable. I arrested him once at Ingliston Market.’
‘A Trading Standards bust?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Cable was selling dodgy meat from a van.’
‘Is this something I should be hearing prior to dinner?’
‘Chicken breasts past their sell-by … that sort of stuff.’
‘And now he’s selling meat to care homes?’
‘Until today he was. I’ve been on to Environmental Health … the council … Trading Standards.’
‘You have been busy.’
‘That’s not the half of it. When I asked the Records Office to look up Cable, I gave them Donald Morrison’s name too.’
‘That suspicious mind of yours.’ Siobhan leaned back as a clean plate was placed before her. Another waiter stood ready with orders of pakora and kebab.
‘It was the way Morrison addressed me,’ Rebus explained. ‘He kept calling me “Inspector”, even though I’d made it clear I wasn’t there in any official capacity.’
‘And that got your antennae clicking?’
‘Made me think I might not be the first cop he’d ever had dealings with.’
‘And?’
‘And his name’s not really Morrison – that’s one of his many aliases. Real name’s Charles Kirkup. He’s been done for fraud.’
‘You reckon he was in cahoots with Cable?’
‘I contacted the hospital about those poor old sods who died. Food poisoning didn’t show up on the original autopsies, but they’re going to check again. It’s like Ken said: the pathologists aren’t always so rigorous when the corpse was on its last legs anyway.’
‘So he was right, after a fashion?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And you’ve told the council this?’ Another nod. ‘So now he’ll be closed down?’
‘Bound to be.’
‘And where will Ken go?’
‘I told him you had a spare room.’ Rebus bit into a kebab.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Siobhan said, spooning sauce over her pakora. ‘Colin Waters will know an investment when he sees one. He could keep the place open, maybe just promote one of the staff to manage it.’
Rebus saw those hazel eyes again. ‘And why would he do that?’
‘You could tell him there’s a Gainsborough resting on it,’ Siobhan said coyly. ‘And after all, if he owns Renshaw House, he won’t have to pay for Lionel’s care any more. I’m sure you could get Martha to argue your case for you.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Maybe I could at that.’
‘Atonement, I think it’s called.’
‘Whatever it’s called, I’ll drink to it,’ Rebus said, raising his glass.
Not Just Another Saturday
It had taken Rebus longer than usual to get to the barber’s shop on Rose Street. He’d known about the Make Poverty History march, of course; just hadn’t reckoned with the barriers going up so early. Melville Drive had been filling with buses from all over: church congregations from Derbyshire; anti-nuclear pensioners; African drummers; Fair Trade and Christian Aid and Water Aid and Farm Aid … everything but the one thing Rebus needed – Lucozade. He’d only drunk four pints the previous night, but one of them must have been bad.
There was a stage erected on the Meadows, along
with tents and vans preparing to sell food to the hungry masses. Someone was doling out Palestinian flags. The Sunday Mail had provided placards saying ‘Drop the Debt’. People were dropping the placards instead, then tearing off the newspaper’s name before picking them up again. Maybe they were southerners, confusing the Scottish paper with its near-namesake. Rebus was handed a plastic carrier bag. Inside he found a Help the Aged T-shirt. First kid he saw, he passed the bag along. He knew George IV Bridge would be impossible, so headed for South Bridge instead, feeling like a salmon swimming against the prevailing current. Families passed him, the kids with their faces painted. People were smiling in the sun, ready to be seen if not heard. At Fettes HQ, the High Hiedyins had guessed 175,000, but to Rebus it looked likely there’d be more: 200, maybe 250. A quarter of a million people, more than half the city’s population. Scale it up, it became four million on the streets of London. Maybe that was why everyone was smiling. They had no need to shout. Their very presence would be louder than that.
Teams of uniforms milled around. Rebus didn’t recognise any of them. Their accents were foreign. One sported Metropolitan Police insignia; others were from Cardiff, Liverpool, Middlesbrough … every bit as varied as the marchers. Rebus didn’t stop to say hello. He looked the way he felt: like a civilian. When the cops bothered to meet his eyes, he saw no recognition there. Just mistrust, mixed with controlled adrenalin. They’d been warned to expect trouble. Looked to Rebus as though a few of them might even welcome it. A couple of police motorbikes were controlling traffic on Buccleuch Street, making sure drivers followed the diversions. Not much for them to do, the roads unnaturally quiet for a Saturday. But then this wasn’t just another Saturday. He did a double-take when he saw what was written on the back of one yellow protective jacket: London Transport Police. Nice overtime, but he couldn’t help feeling the officer would be more use on his own patch, chasing muggers and fare-dodgers. More diversions, more police checkpoints. Some of his colleagues were loving it, looking forward to the whole week. They’d get to tear around the city like they owned it. Courts and cells had been cleared, ready for action. Everyone was poised.
