A Good Hanging - Rankin: Short 01

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Bearded tits,’ Rebus said to himself. This time, he allowed himself a smile.

  ‘It’s your lucky day,’ Miss Hooper told him. ‘Normally I don’t come home for lunch, but today I just felt like it.’

  Lucky indeed. Rebus had knocked on the door of Miss Hooper’s first-floor flat but received no answer. Eventually, another door on the landing had opened, revealing a woman in her late forties, stern of face and form.

  ‘She’s not in,’ the woman had stated, unnecessarily.

  ‘Any idea when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘Police.’

  The woman pursed her lips. The nameplate above her doorbell, to the left of the door itself, read McKAY. ‘She works till four o’clock. She’s a schoolteacher. You’ll catch her at school if you want her.’

  ‘Thank you. Mrs McKay, is it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Could I have a word?’

  ‘What about?’

  By now, Rebus was standing at Mrs McKay’s front door. Past her, he caught sight of a dark entrance hall strewn with bits and pieces of machinery, enough to make up most, but not quite all, of a motorbike.

  ‘About Miss Hooper,’ he said.

  ‘What about her?’

  No, she was not about to let him in. He could hear her television blaring. Lunchtime game-show applause. The resonant voice of the questionmaster. Master of the question.

  ‘Have you known her long?’

  ‘Ever since she moved in. Three, four years. Aye, four years.’ She had folded her arms now, and was resting one shoulder against the door-jamb. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I suppose you must know her quite well, living on the same landing?’

  ‘Well enough. She comes in for a cuppa now and again.’ She paused, making it quite clear to Rebus that this was not an honour he was about to receive.

  ‘Have you heard about the fire?’

  ‘Fire?’

  ‘Across the back.’ Rebus gestured in some vague direction with his head.

  ‘Oh aye. The fire engine woke me right enough. Nobody hurt though, was there?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She shuffled now, unfolding her arms so one hand could rub at another. ‘Just ... what I heard.’

  ‘A man was injured, quite seriously. He’s in hospital.’

  ‘Oh.’

  And then the main door opened and closed. Sound of feet on stone echoing upwards.

  ‘Oh, here’s Miss Hooper now,’ said Mrs McKay. Said with relief, Rebus thought to himself. Said with relief ...

  Miss Hooper let him in and immediately switched on the kettle. She hoped he wouldn’t mind if she made herself a sandwich? And would he care for one himself? Cheese and pickle or peanut butter and apple? No, on second thoughts, she’d make some of both, and he could choose for himself.

  A teacher? Rebus could believe it. There was something in her tone, in the way she seemed to have to utter all of her thoughts aloud, and in the way she asked questions and then answered them herself. He could see her standing in her classroom, asking her questions and surrounded by silence.

  Alison Hooper was in her early thirties. Small and slim, almost schoolboyish. Short straight brown hair. Tiny earrings hooked into tiny ears. She taught in a primary school only ten minutes’ walk from her flat. The flat itself was scattered with books and magazines, from many of which had been cut illustrations, clearly intended to find their way into her classroom. Mobiles hung from her living-room ceiling: some flying pigs, an alphabet, teddy bears waving from aeroplanes. There were colourful rugs on her walls, but no rugs at all on the stripped floor. She had a breathy, nervous way with her and an endearing twitch to her nose. Rebus followed her into the kitchen and watched her open a loaf of brown sliced bread.

  ‘I usually take a packed lunch with me, but I slept in this morning and didn’t have time to make it. I could have eaten in the canteen, of course, but I just felt like coming home. Your lucky day, Inspector.’

  ‘You had trouble sleeping last night then?’

  ‘Well, yes. There was a fire in the tenement across the back.’ She pointed through her window with a buttery knife. ‘Over there. I heard sirens and the fire-engine’s motor kept rumbling away, so I couldn’t for the life of me get back to sleep.’

  Rebus went across to the window and looked out. John Brodie’s tenement stared back at him. It could have been any tenement anywhere in the city. Same configuration of windows and drainpipes, same railing-enclosed drying-green. He angled his head further to look into the back garden of Alison Hooper’s tenement. Movement there. What was it? A teenager working on his motorbike. The motorbike standing on the drying-green, and all the tools and bits and pieces lying on a piece of plastic which had been spread out for the purpose. The nearby garden shed stood with its door propped open by a wooden stretcher. Through the doorway Rebus could see yet more motorbike spares and some oil cans.

  ‘The fire last night,’ he said, ‘it was in a flat occupied by Mr John Brodie.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, her knife-hand pausing above the bread. ‘The peeping tom?’ Then she swallowed, not slow on the uptake. ‘That’s why you’re here then.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Brodie gave us your name, Miss Hooper. He thought perhaps -’

  ‘Well, he’s right.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I mean, I do have a grudge. I do think he’s a pervert. Not that I seem able to convince the police of that.’ Her voice was growing shriller. She stared at the slices of bread in a fixed, unblinking way. ‘No, the police don’t seem to think there’s a problem. But I know. I’ve talked to the other residents. We all know.’ Then she relaxed, smiled at the bread. She slapped some peanut butter onto one slice. Her voice was calm. ‘I do have a grudge, Inspector, but I did not set fire to that man’s flat. I’m even pleased that he wasn’t injured.’

  ‘Who says he wasn’t?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s in hospital.’

  ‘Is he? I thought someone said there’d been no — ’

  ‘Who said?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. One of the other teachers. Maybe they’d heard something on the radio. I don’t know. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Whatever you’re having.’

  She made two mugs of decaffeinated instant. ‘Let’s go through to the living-room,’ she said.

  There, she gave him the story of the phone calls, and the story of the man with the binoculars.

  ‘Bird-watching my eye,’ she said. ‘He was looking into people’s windows.’

  ‘Hard to tell, surely.’

  She twitched her nose. ‘Looking into people’s windows,’ she repeated.

  ‘Did anyone else see him?’

  ‘He stopped after I complained. But who knows? I mean, it’s easy enough to see someone during the day. But at night, in that room of his with the lights turned off. He could sit there all night watching us. Who would know?’

  ‘You say you spoke to the other residents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘One or two. That’s enough, word gets round.’

  I’ll bet, thought Rebus. And he had another thought, which really was just a word: tenementality. He ate the spicy sandwich and the sickly sandwich quickly, drained his mug and said he’d leave her to finish her lunch in peace. (‘Finish your piece in peace,’ he’d nearly said, but hadn’t, just in case she didn’t get the joke.) He walked downstairs, but instead of making along the passage to the front door, turned right and headed towards the tenement’s back door.

  Outside, the biker was fitting a bulb to his brake-light. He took the new bulb from a plastic box and tossed the empty box onto the sheet of plastic.

  ‘Mind if I take that?’ asked Rebus. The youth looked round at him, saw where he was pointing, then shrugged and returned to his work. There was a small cassette recorder playing on the grass beside him. Heavy Metal. The batteries were low and the sound
was tortuous.

  ‘Can if you like,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Rebus lifted the box by its edges and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘I use them to keep my flies in.’

  The biker turned and grinned.

  ‘Fishing flies,’ Rebus explained, smiling himself. ‘It’s just perfect for keeping my fishing flies in.’

  ‘No flies on you, eh?’ said the youth.

  Rebus laughed. ‘Are you Mrs McKay’s son?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’ The bulb was fitted, the casing was being screwed back into place.

  ‘I’d test that before you put the casing on. Just in case it’s a dud. You’d only have to take it apart again.’

  The boy looked round again. ‘No flies on you,’ he repeated. He took the casing off again.

  ‘I’ve just been up seeing your mum.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ The tone told Rebus that the boy’s parents were either separated, or else the father was dead. You’re her latest, are you? the tone implied. Mum’s latest fancy-man.

  ‘She was telling me about the fire.’

  The boy examined the casing closely. ‘Fire?’

  ‘Last night. Have you noticed any of your petrol-cans disappearing? Or maybe one’s got less in than you thought?’

  Now, the red see-through casing might have been a gem under a microscope. But the boy was saying nothing.

  ‘My name’s Rebus, by the way, Inspector Rebus.’

  Rebus had a little courtroom conversation with himself on the way back to the station.

  And did the suspect drop anything when you revealed your identity to him?

  Yes, he dropped his jaw.

  Dropped his jaw?

  That’s right. He looked like a hairless ape with a bad case of acne. And he lost his nut.

  Lost his nut?

  A nut he’d been holding. It fell into the grass. He was still looking for it when I left.

  What about the plastic box, Inspector, the one in which the new brake-light bulb had been residing? Did he ask for it back?

  I didn’t give him the chance. It’s my intention never to give a sucker an even chance.

  Back at the station, comfortable in his chair, the desk solid and reliable in front of him, the heater solid and reliable behind, Rebus thought about fire, the easy assassin. You didn’t need to get your hands on a gun. Didn’t even need to buy a knife. Acid, poison, again, difficult to find. But fire ... fire was everywhere. A disposable lighter, a box of matches. Strike a match and you had fire. Warming, nourishing, dangerous fire. Rebus lit a cigarette, the better to help him think. There wouldn’t be any news from the lab for some time yet. Some time. Something was niggling. Something he’d heard. What was it? A saying came to mind: prompt payment will be appreciated. You used to get that on the bottom of invoices. Prompt payment.

  Probably pays his rent promptly, too.

  Well, well. Now there was a thing. Owner-occupier. Not every owner did occupy, and not every occupier was an owner. Rebus recalled that Detective Sergeant Hendry of Dunfermline CID was a keen bird-watcher. Once or twice, on courses or at conferences, he’d collared Rebus and bored him with tales of the latest sighting of the Duddingston bittern or the Kilconquhar red-head smew. Like all hobbyists, Hendry was keen to have others share his enthusiasm. Like all anti-hobbyists, Rebus would yawn with more irony than was necessary.

  Still, it was worth a phone-call.

  ‘I’ll have to call you back, John,’ said a busy DS Hendry. ‘It’s not the sort of thing I could tell you offhand. Give me your number at home and I’ll ring you tonight. I didn’t know you were interested.’

  ‘I’m not, believe me.’

  But his words went unheeded. ‘I saw siskins and twite earlier in the year.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve never been one for country and western music. Siskins and Twite, eh? They’ve been around for years.’

  By the following morning, he had everything he needed. He arrived as Mrs McKay and her son were eating a late breakfast. The television was on, providing the noise necessary to their lives. Rebus had come accompanied by two other officers, so that there could be no doubting he meant business. Gerry McKay’s jaw dropped again as Rebus began to speak. The tale itself was quickly told. John Brodie’s front door had been examined, the metal letterbox checked for fingerprints. Some good, if oily, prints had been found, and these matched those found on the plastic box Rebus had taken from Gerry McKay. There could be no doubting that Gerry McKay had pushed open John Brodie’s letterbox. If Gerry would accompany the officers to the station.

  ‘Mum!’ McKay was on his feet, yelling, panicky. ‘Mum, tell them! Tell them!’

  Mrs McKay had a face as dark as ketchup. Rebus was glad he had brought the other officers. Her voice trembled when she spoke. ‘It wasn’t Gerry’s idea,’ she said. ‘It was mine. If there’s anyone you want to talk to about it, it should be me. It was my idea. Only, I knew Gerry’d be faster getting in and out of the stairwell. That’s all. He’s got nothing to do with it.’ She paused, her face turning even nastier. ‘Besides, that wee shite deserved all he got. Dirty, evil little runt of a man. You didn’t see the state Alison was in. Such a nice wee girl, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and to be got into a state like that. I couldn’t let him get away with it, hell. And if it were up to you lot, he’d have gotten off scot-free, wouldn’t he? It’s nothing to do with Gerry.’

  ‘It’ll be taken into account at the trial,’ Rebus said quietly.

  John Brodie looked not to have moved since Rebus had left him. His arms still lay on the top of the bed-cover, and he was still propped up against a pillow.

  ‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said. ‘Back again.’

  ‘Back again,’ said Rebus, placing a chair by the bed and seating himself. ‘The doctor says you’re doing fine.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brodie.

  ‘Anything I can get you?’ Brodie shook his head. ‘No? Juice? A bit of fruit maybe? How about something to read? I notice you like girlie mags. I saw one in your flat. I could get you a few of those if you like.’ Rebus winked. ‘Readers’ wives, eh? Amateurs. That’s your style. All those blurry Polaroid shots, heads cut off. That’s what you like, eh, John?’

  But John Brodie was saying nothing. He was looking at his arms. Rebus drew the chair closer to the bed. Brodie flinched, but could not move.

  ‘Panurus biarmicus,’ Rebus hissed. Now Brodie looked blankly at him. Rebus repeated the words. Still Brodie looked blank. ‘Go on,’ Rebus chided, ‘take a guess.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No?’ Rebus was wide-eyed. ‘Curious that. Sounds like the name of a disease, doesn’t it? Maybe you know it better as the bearded tit.’

  ‘Oh.’ Brodie smiled shyly, and nodded. ‘Yes, the bearded tit.’

  Rebus smiled too, but coldly. ‘You didn’t know, you didn’t have a clue. Shall I tell you something about the bearded tit? No, better yet, Mr Brodie, you tell me something about it.’ He sat back and folded his arms expectantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Look, what’s all this about?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, you see.’ Rebus sat forward again. ‘The bearded tit isn’t commonly found in Scotland. I got that from an expert. Not commonly found, that’s what he said. More than that, its habitat — and I’m quoting here - is “extensive and secluded reed-beds”. Do you see what I’m getting at? You’d hardly call Easter Road a reed-bed, would you?’

  Brodie raised his head a little, his thin lips very straight and wide. He was thinking, but he wasn’t talking.

  ‘You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? You told those two constables that you were watching bearded tits from your window. But that’s just not true. It couldn’t possibly be true. You said the name of the first bird that came into your head, and it came into your head because there was a drawing on your living-room wall. I saw it myself. But it’s not you that’s the bird-watcher, John. It’s yo
ur landlord and landlady. You rented the place furnished and you haven’t changed anything. It’s their drawings on the wall. They got in touch about the insurance, you see. Wondering whether the fire was accidental. They saw a bit about it in the newspaper. They could appreciate that they hadn’t heard from you, what with you being in hospital and all, but they wanted to sort out the insurance. So I was able to ask them about the birds on the wall. Their birds, John, not yours. It was quick thinking of you to come up with the story. It even fooled those two PCs. It might have fooled me. That book about zoom photography, even that had a picture of birds on the front.’ He paused. ‘But you’re a peeper, John, that’s all. That’s what you are, a nasty little voyeur. Miss Hooper was right all the time.’

  ‘Was it her who -?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘It’s all lies, you know. Hearsay, circumstantial. You’ve no proof.’

  ‘What about the photos?’

  ‘What photos?’

  Rebus sighed. ‘Come on, John. All that gear in your bedroom. Tripod, camera, zoom lenses. Photographing birds, were you? I’d be interested to see the results. Because it wasn’t just binoculars, was it? You took piccies, too. In your wardrobe, are they?’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘With luck I’ll have the search warrant inside the hour. Then I intend to take a good look round your flat, John. I intend taking a very good look.’

  ‘There’s nothing there.’ He was shaking now, his arms moving painfully in their gauze bandages. ‘Nothing. You’ve no right. Someone tried to kill ... No right. They tried to kill me.’

  Rebus was willing to concede a point. ‘Certainly they tried to scare you. We’ll see what the courts decide.’ He rose to his feet. Brodie was still twittering on. Twit, twit, twit. It would be a while before he’d be able to use a camera again.

  ‘Do you want to know something else, John?’ Rebus said, unable to resist one of his parting shots. ‘Something about the bearded tit? It’s classified as a babbler.’ He smiled a smile of warm sunshine. ‘A babbler!’ he repeated. ‘Looks to me like you’re a bit of a babbler yourself. Well,’ he picked up the chair and pretended to be considering something, ‘at any rate, I’d certainly classify you as a tit.’