by Ian Rankin
The marching season, the season of the Protestant, was over for another year, give or take the occasional small fringe procession. Now it was the season of the International Festival, a festive time, a time to forget the small and insecure country you lived in. He thought again of the poor sods who’d decided to put on a show in the Gar-B.
St Leonard’s looked to be joining in the fun. They’d even arranged for a pantomime. Someone had owned up to the Billy Cunningham murder. His name was Unstable from Dunstable.
The police called him that for two reasons. One, he was mentally unstable. Two, he claimed he came from Dunstable. He was a local tramp, but not without resources. With needle and thread he had fashioned for himself a coat constructed from bar towels, and so was a walking sandwich-board for the products which kept him alive and kept him dying.
There were a lot of people out there like him, shiftless until someone (usually the police) shifted them. They’d been ‘returned to the community’ – a euphemism for dumped – thanks to a tightening of the government’s heart and purse-strings. Some of them couldn’t tighten their shoe laces without bursting into tears. It was a crying shame.
Unstable was in an interview room now with DS Holmes, being fed hot sweet tea and cigarettes. Eventually they’d turf him out, maybe with a couple of quid in his hand, his technicolor beercoat having no pockets.
Siobhan Clarke was at her desk in the Murder Room. She was being talked at by DI Alister Flower.
So someone had forgotten Rebus’s advice regarding the duty roster.
‘Well,’ Flower said loudly, spotting Rebus, ‘if it isn’t our man from the SCS. Have you brought the milk?’
Rebus was too slow getting the reference, so Flower obliged.
‘The Scottish Co-Operative Society. SCS, same letters as the Scottish Crime Squad.’
‘Wasn’t Sean Connery a milkman with the Co-Op,’ said Siobhan Clarke, ‘before he got into acting?’ Rebus smiled towards her, appreciating her effort to shift the gist of the conversation.
Flower looked like a man who had comebacks ready, so Rebus decided against a jibe. Instead he said, ‘They think very highly of you.’
Flower blinked. ‘Who?’
Rebus twitched his head. ‘Over at SCS.’
Flower stared at him, then narrowed his eyes. ‘Do tell.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘What’s to tell? I’m serious. The high hiedyins know your record, they’ve been keeping an eye on you … that’s what I hear.’
Flower shuffled his feet, relaxing his posture. He almost became shy, colour showing in his cheeks.
‘They told me to tell you …’ Rebus leaned close, Flower doing likewise, ‘… that as soon as there’s a milk round to spare, they’ll give you a call.’
Flower showed two rows of narrow teeth as he growled. Then he stalked off in search of easier prey.
‘He’s easy to wind up, isn’t he?’ said Siobhan Clarke.
‘That’s why I call him the Clockwork Orangeman.’
‘Is he an Orangeman?’
‘He’s been known to march on the 12th.’ He considered. ‘Maybe Orange Peeler would be a better name for him, eh?’ Clarke groaned. ‘What have you got for me from our teuchter friends?’
‘You mean the Orkneys. I don’t think they’d appreciate being called teuchters.’ She tried hard to pronounce the word, but being mostly English, she just failed.
‘Remember,’ said Rebus, ‘teuch is Scots for tough. I don’t think they’d mind me calling them tough.’ He dragged a chair over to her desk. ‘So what did you get?’
She flicked open a paper pad, finding the relevant page. ‘Zabriskie House is actually a croft. There’s a small cottage, one bedroom and one other room doubling as –’
‘I’m not thinking of buying the place.’
‘No, sir. The current owners didn’t know anything about its past history, but neighbours remembered a chap renting the place for a year or two back in the ’70s. He called himself Cuchullain.’
‘What?’
‘A mythical warrior, Celtic I think.’
‘And that was all he called himself?’
‘That was all.’
It fitted with the tone of the Floating Anarchy Factfile: Celtic hippy. Rebus knew that in the early ’70s a lot of young Scots had emulated their American and European cousins by ‘dropping out’. But then years later they tended to drop back in again, and did well for themselves in business. He knew because he’d almost dropped out himself. But instead he’d gone to Northern Ireland.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Bits and pieces. A description that’s twenty-odd years old now from a woman who’s been blind in one eye since birth.’
‘This is your source, is it?’
‘Mostly, yes. A police constable went sniffing. He also talked to the man who used to run the sub-post office, and a couple of boatmen. You need a boat to get provisions across to Rousay, and the postman comes by his own boat. He kept himself to himself, grew his own food. There was talk at the time, because people used to come and go at Zabriskie House, young women with no bras on, men with beards and long hair.’
‘The locals must’ve been mortified.’
Clarke smiled. ‘The lack of bras was mentioned more than once.’
‘Well, a place like that, you have to make your own entertainment.’
‘There’s one lead the constable is still following up. He’ll get back to me today.’
‘I won’t hold my breath. Have you ever been to the Orkneys?’
‘You’re not thinking of –’ She was interrupted by her telephone. ‘DC Clarke speaking. Yes.’ She looked up at Rebus and pulled her notepad to her, starting to write. Presumably it was the Old Policeman of Hoy, so Rebus took a stroll around the room. He was reminded again just why he didn’t fit, why he was so unsuited to the career life had chosen for him. The Murder Room was like a production line. You had your own little task, and you did it. Maybe someone else would follow up any lead you found, and then someone else after that might do the questioning of a suspect or potential witness. You were a small part of a very large team. It wasn’t Rebus’s way. He wanted to follow up every lead personally, cross referencing them all, taking them through from first principle to final reckoning. He’d been described, not unkindly, as a terrier, locking on with his jaws and not letting go.
Some dogs, you had to break the jaw to get them off.
Siobhan Clarke came up to him. ‘Something?’ he asked.
‘My constable friend found out Cuchullain used to keep a cow and a pig, plus some chickens. Part of the self-sufficiency thing. He wondered what might have happened to them when Cuchullain moved away.’
‘He sounds bright.’
‘Turns out Cuchullain sold them on to another crofter, and this crofter keeps records. We got lucky, Cuchullain had to wait for his money, and he gave the crofter a forwarding address in the Borders.’ She waved a piece of paper at him.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ warned Rebus. ‘We’re still talking a twenty year old address for a man whose name we don’t know.’
‘But we do know. The crofter had a note of that too. It’s Francis Lee.’
‘Francis Lee?’ Rebus sounded sceptical. ‘Wasn’t he playing for Manchester City in the ’70s? Francis Lee … as in Frank Lee? As in Frank Lee, my dear, I don’t give a damn?’
‘You think it’s another alias?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s get the Borders police to take a look.’ He studied the Murder Room. ‘Ach, no, on second thoughts, let’s go take a look ourselves.’
13
Whenever John Rebus had cause or inclination to drive through any town in the Scottish Borders, one word came to his mind.
Neat.
The towns were simply laid out and almost pathologically tidy. The buildings were constructed from unadorned stone and had a square-built no-nonsense quality to them. The people walking briskly from bank to grocer’s shop to chemist’s were rosy cheeked and bu
rsting with health, as though they scrubbed their faces with pumice every morning before sitting down to farmhouse fare. The men’s limbs moved with the grace of farm machinery. You could present any of the women to your own mother. She’d tell them you weren’t good enough for them.
Truth be told, the Borderers scared Rebus. He couldn’t understand them. He understood though, that placed many more miles from any large Scottish conurbation than from the English border, there was bound to be some schizophrenia to the towns and their inhabitants.
Selkirk however was definably Scots in character, architecture, and language. Its annual Lammas Fair was not yet just a memory to see the townfolk through the winter. There were still rows of pennants waiting to be taken down, flapping in the slightest breeze. There were some outside the house which abutted the kirkyard wall. Siobhan Clarke checked the address and shrugged.
‘It’s the manse, isn’t it?’ Rebus repeated, sure that they had something wrong.
‘It’s the address I’ve got here.’
The house was large with several prominent gables. It was fashioned from dull grey stone, but boasted a lush and sweet-smelling garden. Siobhan Clarke pushed open the gate. She searched the front door for a bell but found none, so resorted to the iron knocker which was shaped like an open hand. No one answered. From nearby came the sound of a manual lawnmower, its pull and push as regular as a pendulum. Rebus looked in through the front window of the house, and saw no sign of movement.
‘We’re wasting our time,’ he said. A waste of a long car journey too. ‘Let’s leave a note and get out of here.’
Clarke peered through the letterbox, then stood up again. ‘Maybe we could ask around, now we’re here.’
‘Fine,’ said Rebus, ‘let’s go talk to the lawnmower man.’
They walked round to the kirkyard gate and took the red gravel path around the perimeter of the church itself. At the back of the soot-blackened building they saw an old man pushing a mower which in Edinburgh might have graced a New Town antique shop.
The gentleman stopped his work when he saw them crossing the trimmed grass towards him. It was like walking on a carpet. The grass could not have been shorter if he’d been using nail scissors. He produced a voluminous handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his suntanned brow. His face and arms were as brown as oak, the face polished with sweat. The elderly skin was still tight across the skull, shiny like a beetle’s back. He introduced himself as Willie McStay.
‘Is it about the vandalism?’ he asked.
‘Vandalism? Here?’
‘They’ve been desecrating the graves, daubing paint on the headstones. It’s the skinheads.’
‘Skinheads in Selkirk?’ Rebus was not convinced. ‘How many skinheads are there, Mr McStay?’
McStay thought about it, grinding his teeth together as though he were chewing tobacco or a particularly tough piece of phlegm. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s Alec Tunnock’s son for a start. His hair’s cropped awful short and he wears those boots wi’ the laces.’
‘Boots with laces, eh?’
‘He hasna had a job since he left school.’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘We’re not here about the headstones, Mr McStay. We were wondering about that house.’ He pointed towards it.
‘The manse?’
‘Who lives there, Mr McStay?’
‘The minister, Reverend McKay.’
‘How long has he lived there?’
‘Gracious, I don’t know. Fifteen years maybe. Before him it was Reverend Bothwell, and the Bothwells were here for a quarter century or more.’
Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke. A waste of time.
‘We’re looking for a man called Francis Lee,’ she said.
McStay chomped on the name, jaw chewing from side to side, cheekbones working. He reminded Rebus of a sheep. The old man shook his head. ‘Nobody I know of,’ he said.
‘Well, thanks anyway,’ said Rebus.
‘A minute,’ McStay ordered. Meaning that he wanted to think about it for a minute more. Finally he nodded. ‘You’ve got it the wrong way round.’ He leant a hand against the mower’s black rubber grip. ‘The Bothwells were a lovely couple, Douglas and Ina. Couldn’t do enough for this town. When they died, their son sold the house straight off. He wasn’t supposed to, Reverend Bothwell told me that often enough. He was supposed to keep it in the family.’
‘But it’s a manse,’ Clarke said. ‘Church of Scotland property. How could he sell it?’
‘The Bothwells loved the house so much, they bought it off the Church. They were going to live there when Reverend Bothwell retired. The thing is, the son sold it back to the Church. He was a wastrel, that one, took the money and ran. Nobody’d look after their grave if it wasn’t for me and a few other old folk here who remember them fondly.’ He shook his head. ‘Young people, they’ve no sense of history or commitment.’
‘What’s this got to do with Francis Lee?’ Siobhan Clarke asked. McStay looked at her like she was a child who’d spoken out of turn, and addressed his answer to Rebus.
‘Their son was called Lee. I think his middle name was Francis.’
Lee Francis Bothwell: Francis Lee. It was too close to be mere coincidence. Rebus nodded slowly.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea,’ he said, ‘where we might find –’ He broke off. ‘Frankie Bothwell? Thanks, Mr McStay, thanks for your help.’ And he walked towards the gate. It took Siobhan Clarke a moment to catch up with him.
‘So are you going to tell me?’
‘You don’t know Frankie Bothwell?’ He watched her try out the name in her mind. She shook her head furiously. ‘He owns the Crazy Hose Saloon.’
Now she nodded. ‘That Fringe programme in Billy Cunningham’s room.’
‘Yes, with a show at the Crazy Hose circled. Nice coincidence, eh?’ They were at the car now. Rebus opened the passenger door but didn’t get in. Instead he rested his elbow on the roof and looked across at her. ‘If you believe in coincidence.’
She’d driven them twenty or thirty yards when Rebus ordered her to stop. He’d been looking in his wing mirror, and now got out of the car and started back towards the gates. Siobhan cursed under her breath, drew the car in to the kerb, and followed him. Idling by the gates was a red estate car she’d seen parked further away when they were leaving. Rebus had stopped two men who’d been walking towards Willie McStay.
Neither of the two would have looked out of place in the back of a scrum. Siobhan was in time to catch the end of her superior’s argument.
‘– and if you don’t lay off, so help me, I’ll drop you so far in it you’ll wish you’d brought a diving bell.’ To reinforce this point, Rebus jabbed his finger into the larger man’s gut, all the way up to the second joint. The man didn’t look like he was enjoying it. His face was a huge ripe plum. But he kept his hands clasped behind his back throughout. He was showing such self control, Siobhan might have taken him for a Buddhist.
Only she’d yet to come across a Buddhist with razor scars carved down both cheeks.
‘And what’s more,’ Rebus was saying, ‘you can tell Cafferty we know all about him and the UVF, so he needn’t go on acting the innocent about terrorism.’
The bigger of the two men spoke. ‘Mr Cafferty’s getting very impatient. He wants a result.’
‘I don’t care if he wants world peace. Now get out of here, and if I hear you’ve been back asking questions, I’ll see you both put away, and I don’t care what I’ve got to do, understood?’
They didn’t look overly impressed, but the two men walked away anyway, back to the gates and through them.
‘Your fan club?’ Siobhan Clarke guessed.
‘Ach, they only want me for my body.’
Which, in a sense, was true.
It was late afternoon, and the Crazy Hose was doing no trade at all.
Those in the know just called it the Hose; those not in the know would say, ‘Shouldn’t it be Horse?’ But it was the Hose becau
se its premises were an old decommissioned fire station, left vacant when they built a new edifice just up the street. And it was the Crazy Hose Saloon because it had a wild west theme and country and western music. The main doors were painted gloss black and boasted small square barred windows. Rebus knew the place was doing no trade, because Lee Francis Bothwell was sitting on the steps outside smoking a cigarette.
Although Rebus had never met Frankie Bothwell, he knew the reputation, and there was no mistaking the mess on the steps for anything else. He was dressed like a Las Vegas act, with the face and hair of McGarrett in Hawaii 5–0. The hair had to be fake, and Rebus would lay odds some of the face was fake too.
‘Mr Bothwell?’
The head nodded without the hair moving one millimetre out of coiffeured place. He was wearing a tan-coloured leather safari jacket, tight white trousers, and an open-necked shirt. The shirt would offend all but the colour blind and the truly blind. It had so many rhinestones on it, Rebus was in no doubt the rhine mines were now exhausted as a result. Around Bothwell’s neck hung a simple gold chain, but he would have been better off with a neck-cast. A neck-cast would have disguised the lines, the wrinkles and sags which gave away Bothwell’s not insubstantial age.
‘I’m Inspector Rebus, this is Detective Constable Clarke.’ Rebus had briefed Clarke on the way here, and she didn’t look too stunned by the figure in front of her.
‘You want a bottle of rye for the police raffle?’
‘No, sir. We’re trying to complete a collection of magazines.’
‘Huh?’ Bothwell had been studying the empty street. Just along the road was Tollcross junction, but you couldn’t see it from the front steps of the Crazy Hose. Now he looked up at Rebus.
‘I’m serious,’ Rebus said. ‘We’re missing a few back issues, maybe you can help.’
‘I don’t get it.’
