by Ian Rankin
Andrew McPhail’s.
33
Rebus didn’t go near St Leonard’s for a couple of days, though he did get a message from Farmer Watson that Broderick Gibson was considering bringing an action against him, for harrying his son.
‘He’s been harrying himself for years,’ was Rebus’s only comment.
But he was waiting in his car when they released Andy Steele. The fisherman cum private eye blinked into the sun. Rebus sounded his horn, and Steele approached warily. Rebus wound down his window.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Steele. There was disappointment in his voice. Rebus had said he’d see what he could do for the young man, then had left him to languish, never coming near.
‘They let you out, then,’ said Rebus.
‘Aye, on bail.’
‘That’s because someone put up the money for you.’
Steele nodded, then started. ‘You?’
‘Me,’ said Rebus. ‘Now get in, I’ve got a job for you.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘Get in and I’ll tell you.’
There was a bit more life in Steele as he walked round to the passenger side and opened the door.
‘You want to be a private eye,’ stated Rebus. ‘Fair enough. I’ve got a job for you.’
Steele seemed unable to take it in for a moment, then cleared his head by shaking it briskly, rubbing his hands through his hair.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘So long as it’s not against the law.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing illicit. All I want you to do is talk to a few folk. They’re good listeners too, shouldn’t be any problem.’
‘What am I going to tell them?’
Rebus started the car. ‘That there’s a contract out on a certain individual.’
‘A contract?’
‘Come on, Andy, you’ve seen the films. A contract.’
‘A contract,’ Andy Steele mouthed, as Rebus pulled into the traffic.
There was still no sign of Andrew McPhail. Alex Maclean, Rebus discovered, was back in circulation though not yet back at work. When Rebus visited Mrs Mackenzie, she said she hadn’t seen a man with bandaged hands and face hanging around. But one of the neighbours had. Well, it didn’t matter, McPhail wouldn’t be coming back here again. He would probably write or telephone with a forwarding address, asking his landlady to send on his stuff. Rebus looked towards the school as he got back into his car. The children were in their own little world . . . and safe.
He did a lot of driving, visiting schools and playparks. He knew McPhail must be sleeping rough. Maybe he was well away from Edinburgh by now. Rebus had a vision of him climbing up onto a coal train headed slowly south. A hand reached out and helped McPhail into the wagon. It was Deek Torrance. The opening credits began to roll . . .
It didn’t matter if he couldn’t find McPhail; it would just be a nice touch. A nicely cruel touch.
Wester Hailes was a good place to get lost, meaning it was an easy place to get lost. Sited to the far west of the city, visible from the bypass which gave Edinburgh such a wide berth, Wester Hailes was somewhere the city put people so it could forget about them. The architecture was unenthusiastic, the walls of the flat-blocks finished off with damp and cracks.
People might leave Wester Hailes, or stay there all their lives, surrounded by roads and industrial estates and empty green spaces. It had never before struck Rebus that it would make a good hiding place. You could walk the streets, or the Kingsknowe golf course, or the roads around Sighthill, and as long as you didn’t look out of place you would be safe. There were places you could sleep without being discovered. And if you were of a mind, there was a school. A school and quite a few play-parks.
This was where, on the second day, he found Andrew McPhail. Never mind watching the bus and railway stations, Rebus had known where to look. He followed McPhail for three-quarters of an hour, at first in the car and then, when McPhail took a pedestrian shortcut, awkwardly on foot. McPhail kept moving, his gait brisk. A man out for a walk, that was all. A bit shabby maybe, but these days with unemployment what it was, you lost the will to shave every morning, didn’t you?
McPhail was careful not to draw attention to himself. He didn’t pause to stare at any children he saw. He just smiled towards them and went on his way. When Rebus had seen enough, he gained quickly and tapped him on the shoulder. He might as well have used a cattle-prod.
‘Jesus, it’s you!’ McPhail’s hand went to his chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘That would have saved Alex Maclean a job.’
‘How is he?’
‘Minor burns. He’s up and about and on the warpath.’
‘Christ’s sake! We’re talking about something that happened years ago!’
‘And it’s not going to happen again?’
‘No!’
‘And it was an accident you ended up living across from a primary school?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I was wrong to think I’d find you somewhere near a school or a playground . . .?’
McPhail opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. ‘No, you weren’t wrong. I still like kids. But I never . . . I’d never do anything to them. I won’t even speak to them these days.’ He looked up at Rebus. ‘I’m trying, Inspector.’
Everyone wanted a second chance: Michael, McPhail, even Black Aengus. Sometimes, Rebus could help. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘There are programmes for past offenders. You could go into one of them, not in Edinburgh, somewhere else. You could sign on for social security and look for a job.’ McPhail looked ready to say something. ‘I know it takes money, a wee bit of cash to get you on your feet. But I can help with that too.’
McPhail blinked, one eye staying half closed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to. And afterwards, you’ll be left alone, I promise. I won’t tell anyone where you are or what’s happened to you. Is it a deal?’
McPhail thought about it – for two seconds. ‘A deal,’ he said.
‘Fine then.’ Rebus put his hand on McPhail’s shoulder again, drawing him a little closer. ‘There’s just one small thing I’d like you to do for me first . . .’
It had been quiet in the social club, and Chick Muir was thinking of heading home when the young chap at the bar asked if he could buy him a drink. Chick readily agreed.
‘I don’t like drinking on my own,’ the young man explained.
‘Who can blame you?’ said Chick agreeably, handing his empty glass to the barman. ‘Not from round here?’
‘Aberdeen,’ said the young man.
‘A long way from home. Is it still like Dallas up there?’
Chick meant the oil-boom, which had actually disappeared almost as quickly as it had begun, except in the mythology of those people not living in Aberdeen.
‘Maybe it is,’ said the young man, ‘but that didn’t stop them sacking me.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’ Chick really was too. He’d been hoping the young man was off the oil rigs with cash to burn. He was planning to tap him for a tenner, but now shrugged away the idea.
‘I’m Andy Steele, by the way.’
‘Chick Muir.’ Chick placed his cigarette in his mouth so he could shake Andy Steele’s hand. The grip was like a rubbish-crusher.
‘The money didn’t bring much luck to Aberdeen, you know,’ Steele was reminiscing. ‘Just a load of sharks and gangsters.’
‘I’ll believe it.’ Muir was already halfway through his drink. He wished he’d been drinking a whisky instead of the half-pint when he’d been asked about another. It didn’t look good exchanging a half-pint for a nip, so he was stuck with a half.
‘That’s mostly why I’m here,’ said Steele.
‘What? Gangsters?’ Muir sounded amused.
‘In a way. I’m visiting a friend, too, but I thought while I was here I might pick up a few bob.’
‘How’s that?’ Chick was beginning to feel uncomfortable, but also distinctly curious.
>
Steele dropped his voice, though they were alone at the bar. ‘There’s word going around Aberdeen that someone’s out to get a certain individual in Edinburgh.’
The barman had turned on the tape machine behind the bar. The low-ceilinged room was promptly filled with a folk duet. They’d played the club last week, and the barman had made a tape of them. It sounded worse now than it had then.
‘In the name of Auld Nick, turn that down!’ Chick didn’t have a loud voice, but no one could say it lacked authority. The barman turned the sound down a bit, and when Chick still glared at him turned it even lower. ‘What was that?’ he asked Andy Steele. Andy Steele, who had been enjoying his drink, put down the glass and told Chick Muir again. And a little while later, mission accomplished, he bought Chick a final drink and then left.
Chick Muir didn’t touch this fresh half pint. He stared past it at his own reflection in the mirror behind the row of optics. Then he made a few phone calls, again roaring at the barman to ‘turn that shite off!’ The third call he made was to St Leonard’s, where he was informed, a bit too light-heartedly, he thought, that Inspector Rebus had been suspended from duty pending enquiries. He tried Rebus at his flat, but no joy there either. Ach well, it wasn’t so important. What mattered was that he’d talked to the big man. Now the big man owed him, and that was quite enough for the penniless Chick Muir to be going on with.
Andy Steele gave the same performance in a meanly lit pub and a betting shop, and that evening was at Powderhall for the greyhound racing. He recited to himself the description Rebus had given him, and eventually spotted the man tucking into a meal of potato crisps at a window-seat in the bar.
‘Are you Shuggie Oliphant?’ he asked.
‘That’s me,’ said the huge thirtyish man. He was poking a finger into the farthest corner of the crisp-bag in search of salt.
‘Somebody told me you might be interested in a bit of information I’ve got.’
Oliphant still hadn’t looked at him. The bag emptied, he folded it into a thin strip, then tied it in a knot and placed it on the table. There were four other granny knots just like it in a row. ‘You don’t get paid till I do,’ Oliphant informed him, sucking on a greasy finger and smacking his lips.
Andy Steele sat down across from him. ‘That’s okay by me,’ he said.
On Sunday morning Rebus waited at the top of a blustery Calton Hill. He walked around the observatory, as the other Sunday strollers were doing. His leg was definitely improving. People were pointing out distant landmarks. Broken clouds were moving rapidly over a pale blue sky. Nowhere else in the world, he reckoned, had this geography of bumps and valleys and outcrops. The volcanic plug beneath Edinburgh Castle had been the start of it. Too good a place not to build a fortress. And the town had grown around it, grown out as far as Wester Hailes and beyond.
The observatory was an odd building, if functional. The folly, on the other hand, was just that, and served no function at all save as a thing to clamber over and a place to spraypaint your name. It was one side of a projected Greek temple (Edinburgh, after all, being ‘the Athens of the north’). The all-too-eccentric brain behind the scheme had run out of money after completion of this first side. And there it stood, a series of pillars on a plinth so tall kids had to stand on each other’s shoulders to climb aboard.
When Rebus looked towards it, he saw a woman there swinging her legs from the plinth and waving towards him. It was Siobhan Clarke. He walked over to her.
‘How long have you been here?’ he called up.
‘Not long. Where’s your stick?’
‘I can manage fine without it.’ This was true, though by ‘fine’ he meant that he could hobble along at a reasonable pace. ‘I see Hibs got a result yesterday.’
‘About time.’
‘No sign of himself?’
But Siobhan pointed to the car park. ‘Here he comes now.’
A Mini Metro had climbed the road to the top of the hill and was squeezing into a space between two shinier larger cars. ‘Give me a hand down,’ said Siobhan.
‘Watch for my leg,’ Rebus complained. But she felt almost weightless as he lifted her down.
‘Thanks,’ she said. Brian Holmes had watched the performance before locking his car and coming towards them.
‘A regular Baryshnikov,’ he commented.
‘Bless you,’ said Rebus.
‘So what’s this all about, sir?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Why the secrecy?’
‘There’s nothing secret,’ Rebus said, starting to walk, ‘about an Inspector wanting to talk with two of his junior colleagues. Trusted junior colleagues.’
Siobhan caught Holmes’s eye. Holmes shook his head: he wants something from us. As if she didn’t know.
They leaned against a railing, enjoying the view, Rebus doing most of the talking. Siobhan and Holmes added occasional questions, mostly rhetorical.
‘So this would be off our own bats?’
‘Of course,’ Rebus answered. ‘Just two keen coppers with a little bit of initiative.’ He had a question of his own. ‘Will the lighting be difficult?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘I’ll ask Jimmy Hutton about that. He’s a professional photographer. Does calendars and that sort of thing.’
‘It’s not going to be wee kittens or a Highland glen,’ replied Rebus.
‘No, sir,’ said Holmes.
‘And you think this’ll work?’ asked Siobhan.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Let’s wait and see.’
‘We haven’t said we’ll do it, sir.’
‘No,’ said Rebus, turning away, ‘but you will.’
34
Off their own initiative then, Holmes and Siobhan decided to spend Monday evening doing a surveillance shift on Operation Moneybags. Without heating, the room they crouched in was cold and damp, and dark enough to attract the odd mouse. Holmes had set the camera up, after taking advice from the calendar man. He’d even borrowed a special lens for the occasion, telephoto and night-sighted. He hadn’t bothered with his Walkman and his Patsy Cline tapes: in the past, there’d always been more than enough to talk about with Siobhan. But tonight she didn’t seem in the mood. She kept gnawing on her top and bottom lips, and got up every now and then to do stretching exercises.
‘Don’t you get stiff?’ she asked him.
‘Not me,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘I’ve been in training for this – years of being a couch potato.’
‘I thought you kept pretty fit.’
He watched her bend forward and lay her arms down the length of one leg. ‘And you must be double-jointed.’
‘Not quite. You should’ve seen me in my teens.’ Holmes’ grin was illuminated by the street light’s diffuse orange glow. ‘Down, Rover,’ said Siobhan. There was a scuttling overhead.
‘A rat,’ said Holmes. ‘Ever cornered one?’ She shook her head. ‘They can jump like a Tummel salmon.’
‘My parents took me to the hydro dam when I was a kid.’
‘At Pitlochry?’ She nodded. ‘So you’ve seen the salmon leaping?’ She nodded again. ‘Well,’ said Holmes, ‘imagine one of those with hair and fangs and a long thick tail.’
‘I’d rather not.’ She watched from the window. ‘Do you think he’ll come.’
‘I don’t know. John Rebus isn’t often wrong.’
‘Is that why everyone hates him?’
Holmes seemed a little surprised. ‘Who hates him?’
She shrugged. ‘People I’ve talked to at St Leonard’s . . . and other places. They don’t trust him.’
‘He wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s thrawn.’ He was remembering the first time Rebus had used him in a case. He’d spent a cold frustrating evening watching for a dog-fight that never took place. He was hoping tonight would be better.
The rat was moving again, to the back of the room now, over by the door.
‘Do you think he’ll come?’ Siobhan asked again.
‘He’ll come, lass.’ They both turned towards the shape in the doorway. It was Rebus. ‘You two,’ he said, ‘blethering like sweetiewives. I could have climbed those stairs in pit boots and you’d not have heard me.’ He came over to the window. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
Rebus angled his watch towards the light. ‘I make it five to.’
The display on Siobhan’s digital watch was backlit. ‘Ten to, sir.’
‘Bloody watch,’ muttered Rebus. ‘Not long now. There’ll be some action by the top of the hour. Unless that daft Aberdonian’s put the kibosh on it.’
But the ‘daft Aberdonian’ wasn’t so daft. Big Ger Cafferty paid for information. Even if it was information he already knew, he tended to pay: it was a cheap way of making sure everything got back to him. For example, even though he’d already heard from two sources that the teuchters were planning to muscle in on him, he still paid Shug Oliphant a few notes for his effort. And Oliphant, who liked to keep his own sources sweet, handed over ten quid to Andy Steele, this representing two-fifths of Oliphant’s reward.
‘There you go,’ he said.
‘Cheers,’ said Andy Steele, genuinely pleased.
‘Found anything you like?’
Oliphant was referring to the videotapes which surrounded them in the small rental shop which he operated. The area behind the narrow counter was so small, Oliphant only just squeezed in there. Every time he moved he seemed to knock something off a shelf onto the floor, where it remained, since there was also no room for him to bend over.
‘I’ve got some bits and pieces under the counter,’ he went on, ‘if you’re interested.’
‘No, I don’t want a video.’
Oliphant grinned unpleasantly. ‘I’m not sure the gentleman really believed your story,’ Oliphant told Andy. ‘But I’ve heard the rumour a few times since, so maybe there’s something in it.’
