by Ian Rankin
‘My shout.’
‘Coffee, thanks. One sugar, no milk.’
Rebus nodded again and got to work. He sifted through some change from his jacket, then, with back turned, lifted the caddy and gave it a shake, so that its contents rattled, before returning the coins to his pocket.
‘No milk, one sugar,’ he said, placing the mug on the corner of the desk. Then he asked the young man’s name.
‘Alan Drake.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rebus stuck out his hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’
‘I know.’
‘Probably been warned off talking to me, eh? Big bad wolf and all that.’
‘No, it’s just . . . well, everybody knows you.’
‘You can ignore most of what you’ve heard.’ Rebus picked up his mug and scooped the tea bag into a bin.
‘You mentored DI Clarke,’ the young man stated.
‘No one “mentors” Siobhan – all she ever learned from me was what not to do.’ Rebus had come around to the side of the desk, so he could see what Drake was working on.
‘Deceased’s diary,’ the young officer obliged. ‘His office has been helpful . . .’
‘The Justice Minister was a busy man,’ Rebus commented. ‘What about the night prior to his death? Have we anything on that?’
‘A rare evening off,’ Drake conceded. ‘Watched a couple of episodes of a TV show called Spiral. Supper from the freezer and some preparatory work for the next day. Replied to a dozen e-mails – personal as well as business – and made a few calls.’
‘I see you’ve got the records.’ Rebus gestured towards the printouts.
Drake nodded. ‘Landline and mobile. I’ve got names for everyone he spoke to or texted.’
‘And they’ve been interviewed?’
‘Sometimes just by phone.’
‘Including this one?’ Rebus tapped a finger against Alice Bell’s name.
‘Shares a flat with the deceased’s son’s girlfriend. She’s studying art history and Mr McCuskey had arranged a tour of the Parliament for her – big collection there, apparently. Have you ever been?’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Years back, not long after it opened. Official business, though, I don’t recall seeing any paintings.’ He paused. ‘Any more calls between the two of them?’
‘Three or four over the space of a month.’
‘Setting up the Parliament tour?’
‘That’s right – have you spotted something I missed?’
‘Not at all – seems very thorough,’ Rebus said. ‘And you’ve shown the results to . . . ?’
‘DCI Ralph. It would have been DI Clarke, only she’s not here.’ Drake looked up at Rebus. ‘They’ve put her in charge of a real murder case.’
‘You never know, son – this might turn into one again.’ Rebus placed his half-empty mug on the nearest window ledge. ‘You just have to keep panning for gold . . .’
Rebus spent the rest of the late afternoon in the Central Library on George IV Bridge. A librarian showed him how to use the microfilm reader in the Edinburgh Room. He was interested in the local daily and evening papers for the four weeks leading up to Billy Saunders’s attack on Douglas Merchant. Having been through the police logs, he’d found nothing surprising or out of place – excepting that torn page from the custody ledger. As he spooled each day’s news across the large screen in front of him, he tried not to become distracted; difficult when there were so many reports and stories that triggered memories. Margaret Thatcher was planning a June general election, and Jimmy Savile was fronting an advertising campaign for train travel. Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen beat Real Madrid in extra time to lift the Cup Winners’ Cup. British Leyland was in trouble, as were Timex and Ravenscraig. There were moves to ban smoking from the upper decks of buses, and Annie was showing at the Playhouse – Rebus remembered Rhona and Sammy dragging him along so he could sleep through it. An ad for a Kensitas gift book reminded him that some of Sammy’s Christmas presents would have come from his cigarette coupons. Meantime, the Balmoral Hotel was still the North British and pirate videos were being seized. He thought he could recall a stash of them doing the rounds at Summerhall – Gandhi a popular choice. A business computer cost almost the same as a new car, and Bowie was due to play Murrayfield. Stefan Gilmour had blagged the Saints into the eventual gig, Rebus watching and listening through a haze of alcohol on a wet, grey June evening . . .
On the verge of taking a break and stepping outside for a cigarette, he noticed that the room was emptying, the students unplugging their laptops and packing their bags. Rebus walked across to the desk, and asked what time the place closed.
‘Five,’ he was told.
Giving him only another ten minutes. Instead of the break, he speeded up his reading. He had been doing little more than glancing at each day’s obituaries, concentrating instead on news stories. But then he saw a name he recognised.
Philip Kennedy.
Suddenly but peacefully at home . . . Funeral service . . . Family flowers only, please . . .
Wee Phil Kennedy. Slippery Phil. Rebus thought he remembered Stefan Gilmour at the time brushing his hands together at the news – one more scumbag who wouldn’t be clogging their in-tray. From the date of birth, he calculated that Kennedy had died just shy of his forty-third birthday. Rebus could see his face – pockmarked and florid and freckled. It was the sort of face you used to see in kids’ comics: slightly exaggerated, an overgrown child. Toothy and nervous and bad news. A housebreaker who always carried a knife with him on jobs, scaring the daylights out of anyone he happened to find at home. The elderly and frail a speciality; sheltered housing was never quite sheltered enough from one of Kennedy’s nocturnal visits. He would often follow his victims home from the post office on pension day, scope the place out, and then return later, a balaclava over his face and six inches of blade gripped tight. One woman died of fright, and another fell and broke her hip, leaving her in pain as well as fear for the rest of her days.
Suddenly but peacefully at home . . .
Some justice in that, perhaps. He skimmed back a few days, but found no reports of Kennedy’s body being found. Rebus gnawed at his bottom lip. Was it Frazer Spence who had come in one day, a bounce in his step, and announced the news? And had Stefan Gilmour really brushed his hands together, quite content to have heard it? Was Porkbelly Paterson in the office at the time? How had he reacted? Rebus couldn’t remember. But all of them would have pulled Kennedy in for questioning at one time or another, and some of them would have given evidence against him in court. He had passed away six days prior to the attack on Douglas Merchant – their bodies might well have lain in adjacent drawers at the mortuary. Professor Cuttle’s words again: we were so busy . . . a lot of lowlifes dropping dead . . . Rebus wondered what had happened to Slippery Phil. He could think of one man who might well have the answers. The same man who very probably had sliced him open on a slab . . .
It was dark by the time Clarke and Fox arrived at the canal bank, ducking below the crime-scene tape. The rain had finally stopped and the sky was clear, the temperature dropping rapidly. Arc lights had been set up to illuminate the area where the dive team were still searching. The bullet casing had been recovered from the water, but no weapon as yet. From their time in front of various streams of CCTV footage from the businesses based on the industrial estate, they now had a good notion that Saunders had been sleeping in an alley, covered by a roll of felt underlay and some flattened cardboard boxes. In the alley itself they had found scraps and wrappers indicating that he had indeed been eating from a local supermarket – whose CCTV was also now being checked for sightings. His phone had been dried out and was working. Once charged, it showed that he had made no calls, and had received only a few – predominantly from his wife and the Solicitor General’s office, both leaving messages asking him to get in touch.
‘Why didn’t he use it?’ Clarke had asked.
‘Because he was worried it could help trace him?’
Fox had suggested. ‘We have the technology to do that.’
‘You’re saying it was us he was afraid of?’
To which Fox had offered only a non-committal shrug. ‘Before he vanished, he had a call one morning – number withheld, and lasting all of half a minute. I’m guessing that was Stefan Gilmour. Certainly chimes with what Gilmour told Rebus and me.’
‘I need a full report from you, Malcolm – everything you can tell me about Summerhall and Saunders.’
‘Including John Rebus?’
‘Yes. No room for favours here, understood?’
‘Understood. Do you mind me asking something?’
‘What?’
‘Is this your first time in charge of a Major Incident Team?’
‘What if it is?’
‘Nothing – I just want to thank you for making me feel useful.’
‘You’ll be useful once I get that report.’ They were clambering up the bank towards the canal path, but Clarke stopped suddenly, turning to face him. ‘Summerhall was dirty, wasn’t it?’ She watched him nod, his eyes on hers. ‘And John?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘He might not be implicated at all.’
‘You’re not just saying that because he’s my friend?’
‘We both know Rebus has sailed close to the wind – more times than either of us can count. I’m sure you’ve helped him out of a few jams, as have a lot of his other colleagues down the years, and some of them came to grief. I don’t know what kind of body armour Rebus wears, but it’s done its job up to now. Could be that when he arrived at Summerhall he took with him the idealism of youth. But by the time he left, he’d learned bad lessons.’
‘From Gilmour, Blantyre and Paterson?’
Fox nodded again, and watched as Clarke let out a hissed exhalation between gritted teeth. ‘The question is,’ he asked, ‘how much of all that Saints mumbo-jumbo does he still believe? Is he going to cover up for them?’
‘Misguided loyalty, you mean?’ It was Clarke’s turn to nod. Her phone buzzed and she checked the screen. It was a text from Laura Smith: We’ll call it quits if you brief me on William Saunders.
‘Something important?’ Fox enquired.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘David Galvin?’
Clarke glared at him. ‘He’s history, Malcolm.’
She turned her head sharply, alerted by a cry from the canal. One of the frogmen was standing in the water, which reached only to his chest. He was waving something, a small, dark shape draped with strands of slimy green weed.
‘That looks to me very like a gun,’ Fox commented. Then watched as a relieved smile broke across Siobhan Clarke’s face.
Day Nine
16
Next morning, Rebus went back to the nursing home in Colinton. Professor Cuttle, he was told, was under the weather, staff fearing he had caught a chill from too much time spent in the garden.
‘He had visitors the other day,’ the staff member informed Rebus. ‘They kept him outside longer than they should.’
‘Some people, eh?’ Rebus sympathised, making a tutting sound and shaking his head.
‘He’s in his room, tucked up in bed. Can I fetch you a cup of tea . . . ?’
Rebus said he would be fine, and followed her along a corridor which held the faint aroma of talcum powder. She knocked on a door and opened it.
‘Visitor for you,’ she trilled, stepping back to allow Rebus past her. He nodded his thanks and, once inside, closed the door gently on her.
Cuttle looked paler and thinner than ever. It took him a moment to place Rebus.
‘Seems Inspector Fox and me kept you too long in the cold,’ Rebus apologised, lowering himself on to a folding chair next to the bed.
‘Fresh air is supposed to be good for a body,’ Cuttle said with a shrug. He had been reading a tabloid newspaper with the help of a magnifying glass.
‘Anything interesting?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the paper.
‘That shooting in the city – they’ve found the gun.’
Rebus nodded. ‘They’ve certainly fished out a gun – I dare say a few items of interest have been tossed into the canal down the years.’ He crossed one leg over the other, trying to get comfortable on a chair ill suited to the task. ‘Did you ever have to deal with shootings?’ he enquired.
Cuttle grew thoughtful. ‘Once or twice – the first when I was still a young pup. Professor Donner was very much my teacher in those days.’ He paused. ‘Is my memory playing tricks, or did you once end up with a bullet in you?’
‘Lucky I didn’t end up on a slab,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘That was 1987 – I’d not long been promoted detective sergeant. Took a bullet to the shoulder.’
‘Donner and I did the autopsy on the shooter.’ Cuttle was nodding to himself.
‘I’m impressed you remember so many of the bodies.’
‘That’s because they were never just “bodies” – they were human beings, each one with a life story, an identity.’
‘Well I’m hoping you’ll maybe be able to tell me about one more – Philip Kennedy. He died suddenly at home in Moredun at the age of forty-two. This was the week before you had Douglas Merchant in your mortuary.’
‘Suddenly at home?’ Cuttle echoed. ‘Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy . . .’ He was searching for the memory.
‘Also known as Slippery Phil.’
‘Ah, yes. Known to the Lothian and Borders Police. I’m pretty sure CID attended that particular post-mortem exam. They wanted to make sure the man really was dead and wouldn’t be slipping out of their clutches again.’
‘CID meaning . . . ?’
‘DI Gilmour, I believe. And probably DS Blantyre. Victim had fallen down a flight of stairs at his home. Head injuries and, I think, a broken neck. Professor Donner did the cutting that day. I was on hand for corroboration.’ Cuttle broke off, eyes narrowing.
‘What is it?’
But Cuttle shook his head. ‘The man had been drinking heavily. Fumes from his stomach had us reeling.’ He broke off again, lost in thought. ‘He’d been a housebreaker, hadn’t he? With violence – “hamesucken”, as the law has it. DI Gilmour was glad to see the back of him . . .’
Rebus’s phone was vibrating. He took it out and checked caller ID: DCI James Page. Doubtless wondering why Rebus had failed to turn up for work. Rebus put the phone away again.
‘That man Fox,’ Cuttle was saying, ‘the one who was with you the other day . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s investigating Summerhall?’
‘He is.’
‘Specifically the death of Douglas Merchant at the hands of William Saunders?’ Cuttle watched Rebus nod. ‘So why your interest in Philip Kennedy? You wouldn’t be trying to wrong-foot him?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Because Saunders has turned up dead, hasn’t he? Hard not to see a connection.’
Rebus glared at the old man. ‘Would your report of the Kennedy autopsy be held somewhere?’
‘Professor Donner wrote it up, not me. And to answer your question, it’s very doubtful. Accidental death – not likely to be of interest to posterity.’
‘Then I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?’ Rebus rose to his feet.
‘Glad I could be of help in that, Detective Inspector Rebus.’
‘Detective Sergeant, actually.’
‘Same rank as 1987?’ Cuttle asked with a cold smile. The question sliced into Rebus like a scalpel.
Stefan Gilmour had been brought from Glasgow to Wester Hailes police station in a patrol car. He’d looked furious as he was led into the building, past the stunned journalists and trigger-happy photographers.
‘The Yes campaign will have a field day with this,’ he had complained to anyone who would listen, including, eventually, Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox. All three sat in a makeshift interview room, with recording equipment standing by. They were awaiting the arrival of Gilmour’s expensive lawyer.
‘You’re not b
eing cautioned or anything,’ Clarke had sought to reassure him.
‘Nevertheless,’ Gilmour had replied. He kept casting looks towards Malcolm Fox, as if wondering how much Fox might have told Clarke about the meeting in Glasgow.
The solicitor, when he arrived, introduced himself as Alasdair Traquair and apologised for his ‘tardiness’, before handing an embossed business card to both Clarke and Fox. The cards smelled of sandalwood aftershave.
‘Bit of a circus out there,’ he commented. ‘Not particularly helpful – and such a charming part of town . . .’
Traquair rested a black leatherbound notebook on the table and opened it, unscrewing the top from a fountain pen before checking his watch and marking the time.
‘Let’s make a start, shall we?’ he suggested.
‘Your client,’ Clarke obliged, ‘has already been questioned – in a more informal manner – concerning the disappearance of a former acquaintance called William Saunders. Mr Saunders has since turned up dead, so we thought it would make sense to have an official record of events.’
‘As I understand it, Detective Inspector,’ Traquair drawled, ‘there are no events – merely a single, abbreviated phone call from Mr Gilmour to the deceased.’
‘Is that correct, Mr Gilmour?’ Clarke asked. Gilmour glanced towards the solicitor before answering.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘You had William Saunders’s number?’
‘Hard to make the call otherwise.’
‘How did you happen to have it? I was under the impression the two of you had lost touch . . .’
Another glance towards the lawyer, who merely indicated with a twitch of the mouth that Gilmour could answer if he wished.
‘It wasn’t hard,’ Gilmour conceded. ‘There’s a company I use.’ He leaned forward in his seat, as if to take them into his confidence. ‘In business, sometimes it helps to have an edge over whoever you happen to be dealing with.’
‘And this company helps with that?’
Gilmour nodded. ‘They’re private investigators. Give them a name, a car licence plate or a business address and it’s quite gobsmacking what they can dig up.’
