by Ian Rankin
‘Mr Blair-Fish?’ Rebus shook the brittle hand.
‘I’d like to apologise again. My great-nephew can be such a –’
‘No need to apologise, sir. Your great-nephew did us a favour. If he hadn’t gone down there with those two lassies, we wouldn’t have found the body so fast as we did. The quicker the better in a murder investigation.’
Blair-Fish inspected his oft-repaired shoes, then accepted this with a slow nod. ‘Still, it’s an embarrassment.’
‘Not to us, sir.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Now, if you’ll lead the way . . .?’
Mr Blair-Fish led the way.
He took them in through the door and down the flights of stairs, out of daylight and into a world of low-wattage bulbs beyond which lay the halogen glare of the builders. It was like looking at a stage-set. The workers moved with the studied precision of actors. You could charge a couple of quid a time and get an audience, if not a Fringe First Award. The gaffer knew police when he saw them, and nodded a greeting. Otherwise, nobody paid much attention, except for the occasional sideways and appraising glance towards Siobhan Clarke. Builders were builders, below ground as above.
Blair-Fish was providing a running commentary. Rebus reckoned he’d been the guide when the constable had come on the tour. Rebus heard about how the close had been a thriving thoroughfare prior to the plague, only one of many such plagues to hit Edinburgh. When the denizens moved back, they swore the close was haunted by the spirits of those who had perished there. They all moved out again and the street fell into disuse. Then came a fire, leaving only the first few storeys untouched. (Edinburgh tenements back then could rise to a precarious twelve storeys or more.) After which, the city merely laid slabs across what remained and built again, burying Mary King’s Close.
‘The old town was a narrow place, you must remember, built along a ridge or, if you enjoy legend, on the back of a buried serpent. Long and narrow. Everyone was squeezed together, rich and poor living cheek by jowl. In a tenement like this you’d have your paupers at the top, your gentry in the middle floors, and your artisans and commercial people at street level.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Holmes, genuinely interested.
‘The gentry got fed up,’ said Blair-Fish. ‘When the New Town was built on the other side of Nor’ Loch, they were quick to move. With the gentry gone, the old town became dilapidated, and stayed that way for a long time.’ He pointed down some steps into an alcove. ‘That was the baker’s. See those flat stones? That’s where the oven was. If you touch them, they’re still warmer than the stones around them.’
Siobhan Clarke had to test this. She came back shrugging. Rebus was glad he’d brought Holmes and Clarke with him. They kept Blair-Fish busy while he could keep a surreptitious eye on the builders. This had been his plan all along: to appear to be inspecting Mary King’s Close, while really inspecting the builders. They didn’t look nervous; well, no more nervous than you would expect. They kept their eyes away from the butcher’s shop, and whistled quietly as they worked. They did not seem inclined to discuss the murder. Someone was up a ladder dismantling a run of pipes. Someone else was mending brickwork at the top of a scaffold.
Further into the tour, away from the builders, Blair-Fish took Siobhan Clarke aside to show her where a child had been bricked up in a chimney, a common complaint among eighteenth-century chimney sweeps.
‘The Farmer asked a good question,’ Rebus confided to Holmes. ‘He said, why would you bring anyone down here? Think about it. It shows you must be local. Only locals know about Mary King’s Close, and even then only a select few.’ It was true, the public tour of the close was not common knowledge, and tours themselves were by no means frequent. ‘They’d have to have been down here themselves, or know someone who had. If not, they’d more likely get lost than find the butcher’s.’
Holmes nodded. ‘A shame there’s no record of the tour parties.’ This had been checked, the tours were informal, parties of a dozen or more at a time. There was no written record. ‘Could be they knew about the building work and reckoned the body would be down here for weeks.’
‘Or maybe,’ said Rebus, ‘the building work is the reason they were down here in the first place. Someone might have tipped them off. We’re checking everyone.’
‘Is that why we’re here just now? Giving the crew a once-over?’ Rebus nodded, and Holmes nodded back. Then he had an idea. ‘Maybe it was a way of sending a message.’
‘That’s what I’ve been wondering. But what kind of message, and who to?’
‘You don’t go for the IRA idea?’
‘It’s plausible and implausible at the same time,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ve got nothing here to interest the paramilitaries.’
‘We’ve got Edinburgh Castle, Holyrood Palace, the Festival . . .’
‘He has a point.’
They turned towards the voice. Two men were standing in torchlight. Rebus recognised neither of them. As the men came forwards, Rebus studied both. The man who had spoken, the slightly younger of the two, had an English accent and the look of a London copper. It was the hands in the trouser pockets that did it. That and the air of easy superiority that went with the gesture. Plus of course he was wearing old denims and a black leather bomber-jacket. He had close cropped brown hair spiked with gel, and a heavy pockmarked face. He was probably in his late-thirties but looked like a fortysomething with coronary problems. His eyes were a piercing blue. It was difficult to meet them. He didn’t blink often, like he didn’t want to miss any of the show.
The other man was well-built and fit, in his late-forties, with ruddy cheeks and a good head of black hair just turning silver at the edges. He looked as if he needed to shave two or even three times a day. His suit was dark blue and looked straight off the tailor’s dummy. He was smiling.
‘Inspector Rebus?’
‘The same.’
‘I’m DCI Kilpatrick.’
Rebus knew the name of course. It was interesting at last to have a face to put to it. If he remembered right, Kilpatrick was still in the SCS, the Scottish Crime Squad.
‘I thought you worked out of Stuart Street, sir,’ Rebus said, shaking hands.
‘I moved back from Glasgow a few months ago. I don’t suppose it made the front page of the Scotsman, but I’m heading the squad here now.’
Rebus nodded. The SCS took on serious crimes, where cross-force investigations were necessary. Drugs were their main concern, or had been. Rebus knew men who’d been seconded to the SCS. You stayed three or four years and came out two things: unwillingly, and tough as second-day bacon. Kilpatrick was introducing his companion.
‘This is DI Abernethy from Special Branch. He’s come all the way from London to see us.’
‘That takes the biscuit,’ said Rebus.
‘My grandad was a Jock,’ Abernethy answered, gripping Rebus’s hand and not getting the joke. Rebus introduced Holmes and, when she returned, Siobhan Clarke. From the colouring in Clarke’s cheeks, Rebus reckoned someone along the way had made a pass at her. He decided to rule out Mr Blair-Fish, which still left plenty of suspects.
‘So,’ said Abernethy at last, rubbing his hands, ‘where’s this slaughterhouse?’
‘A butcher’s actually,’ Mr Blair-Fish explained.
‘I know what I mean,’ said Abernethy.
Mr Blair-Fish led the way. But Kilpatrick held Rebus back.
‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t like this bastard being here any more than you do, but if we’re tolerant we’ll get rid of him all the quicker, agreed?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kilpatrick’s was a Glaswegian accent, managing to be deeply nasal even when reduced to a whisper, and managing, too, to be full of irony and a belief that Glasgow was the centre of the universe. Usually, Glaswegians somehow added to all this a ubiquitous chip on their shoulder, but Kilpatrick didn’t seem the type.
‘So no more bloody cracks about biscuits.’
‘Unde
rstood, sir.’
Kilpatrick waited a moment. ‘It was you who noticed the paramilitary element, wasn’t it?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Good work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Yes, and Glaswegians could be patronising bastards, too.
When they rejoined the group, Holmes gave Rebus a questioning look, to which Rebus replied with a shrug. At least the shrug was honest.
‘So they strung him up here,’ Abernethy was saying. He looked around at the setting. ‘Bit melodramatic, eh? Not the IRA’s style at all. Give them a lock-up or a warehouse, something like that. But someone who likes a bit of drama set this up.’
Rebus was impressed. It was another possible reason for the choice of venue.
‘Bang-bang,’ Abernethy continued, ‘then back upstairs to melt into the crowd, maybe take in a late-night revue before toddling home.’
Clarke interrupted. ‘You think there’s some connection with the Festival?’
Abernethy studied her openly, causing Brian Holmes to straighten up. Not for the first time, Rebus wondered about Clarke and Holmes.
‘Why not?’ Abernethy said. ‘It’s every bit as feasible as anything else I’ve heard.’
‘But it was a six-pack.’ Rebus felt obliged to defend his corner.
‘No,’ Abernethy corrected, ‘a seven-pack. And that’s not paramilitary style at all. A waste of bullets for a start.’ He looked to Kilpatrick. ‘Could be a drug thing. Gangs like a bit of melodrama, it makes them look like they’re in a film. Plus they do like to send messages to each other. Loud messages.’
Kilpatrick nodded. ‘We’re considering it.’
‘My money’d still be on terrorists,’ Rebus added. ‘A gun like that –’
‘Dealers use guns, too, Inspector. They like guns. Big ones to make a big loud noise. I’ll tell you something, I’d hate to have been down here. The report from a nine-millimetre in an enclosed space like this. It could blow out your eardrums.’
‘A silencer,’ Siobhan Clarke offered. It wasn’t her day. Abernethy just gave her a look, so Rebus provided the explanation.
‘Revolvers don’t take silencers.’
Abernethy pointed to Rebus, but his eyes were on Clarke’s. ‘Listen to your Inspector, darling, you might learn something.’
Rebus looked around the room. There were six people there, four of whom would gladly punch another’s lights out.
He didn’t think Mr Blair-Fish would enter the fray.
Abernethy meantime had sunk to his knees, rubbing his fingers over the floor, over ancient dirt and husks.
‘The SOCOs took off the top inch of earth,’ Rebus said, but Abernethy wasn’t listening. Bags and bags of the stuff had been taken to the sixth floor of Fettes HQ to be sieved and analysed and God knew what else by the forensics lab.
It occurred to Rebus that all the group could now see of Abernethy was a fat arse and brilliant white Reeboks. Abernethy turned his face towards them and smiled. Then he got up, brushing his palms together.
‘Was the deceased a drug user?’
‘No signs.’
‘Only I was thinking, SaS, could be Smack and Speed.’
Again, Rebus was impressed, thoroughly despite himself. Dust had settled in the gel of Abernethy’s hair, small enough motes of comfort.
‘Could be Scott and Sheena,’ offered Rebus. In other words: could be anything. Abernethy just shrugged. He’d been giving them a display, and now the show was over.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said. Kilpatrick nodded with relief. It must be hard, Rebus reflected, being a top cop in your field, a man with a rep, sent to act as tour guide for a junior officer . . . and a Sassenach at that.
Galling, that was the word.
Abernethy was speaking again. ‘Might as well drop in on the Murder Room while I’m here.’
‘Why not?’ said Rebus coldly.
‘No reason I can think of,’ replied Abernethy, all sweetness and bite.
5
St Leonard’s police station, headquarters of the city’s B Division, boasted a semi-permanent Murder Room. The present inquiry looked like it had been going on forever. Abernethy seemed to favour the scene. He browsed among the computer screens, telephones, wall charts and photographs. Kilpatrick touched Rebus’s arm.
‘Keep an eye on him, will you? I’ll just go say hello to your Chief Super while I’m here.’
‘Right, sir.’
Chief Inspector Lauderdale watched him leave. ‘So that’s Kilpatrick of the Crime Squad, eh? Funny, he looks almost mortal.’
It was true that Kilpatrick’s reputation – a hard one to live up to – preceded him. He’d had spectacular successes in Glasgow, and some decidedly public failures too. Huge quantities of drugs had been seized, but a few terrorist suspects had managed to slip away.
‘At least he looks human,’ Lauderdale went on, ‘which is more than can be said for our cockney friend.’
Abernethy couldn’t have heard this – he was out of earshot – but he looked up suddenly towards them and grinned. Lauderdale went to take a phone call, and the Special Branch man sauntered back towards Rebus, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.
‘It’s a good operation this, but there’s not much to go on, is there?’
‘Not much.’
‘And what you’ve got doesn’t make much sense.’
‘Not yet.’
‘You worked with Scotland Yard on a case, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘With George Flight?’
‘Right again.’
‘He’s gone for retraining, you know. I mean, at his age. Got interested in computers, I don’t know, maybe he’s got a point. They’re the future of crime, aren’t they? Day’s coming, the big villains won’t have to move from their living rooms.’
‘The big villains never have.’
This earned a smile from Abernethy, or at least a lopsided sneer. ‘Has my minder gone for a jimmy?’
‘He’s gone to say hello to someone.’
‘Well tell him ta-ta from me.’ Abernethy looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think DCI Kilpatrick will be sorry to see the back of me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Abernethy chuckled. ‘Listen to you. If your voice was any colder you could store cadavers in it. Still think you’ve got terrorists in Edinburgh?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Well, it’s your problem. I’m well shot of it. Tell Kilpatrick I’ll talk to him before I head south.’
‘You’re supposed to stay here.’
‘Just tell him I’ll be in touch.’
There was no painless way of stopping Abernethy from leaving, so Rebus didn’t even try. But he didn’t think Kilpatrick would be happy. He picked up one of the phones. What did Abernethy mean about it being Rebus’s problem? If there was a terrorist connection, it’d be out of CID’s hands. It would become Special Branch’s domain, M15’s domain. So what did he mean?
He gave Kilpatrick the message, but Kilpatrick didn’t seem bothered after all. There was relaxation in his voice, the sort that came with a large whisky. The Farmer had stopped drinking for a while, but was back off the wagon again. Rebus wouldn’t mind a drop himself . . .
Lauderdale, who had also just put down a telephone, was staring at a pad on which he’d been writing as he took the call.
‘Something?’ Rebus asked.
‘We may have a positive ID on the victim. Do you want to check it out?’ Lauderdale tore the sheet from the pad.
‘Do Hibs fans weep?’ Rebus answered, accepting it.
Actually, not all Hibs fans were prone to tears. Siobhan Clarke supported Hibernian, which put her in a minority at St Leonard’s. Being English-educated (another minority, much smaller) she didn’t understand the finer points of Scottish bigotry, though one or two of her fellow officers had attempted to educate her. She wasn’t Catholic, they explained patiently, so she should support Heart of Midlothian. Hibernian were the Catholic team. Look at their name, look at their gree
n strip. They were Edinburgh’s version of Glasgow Celtic, just as Hearts were like Glasgow Rangers.
‘It’s the same in England,’ they’d tell her. ‘Wherever you’ve got Catholics and Protestants in the same place.’ Manchester had United (Catholic) and City (Protestant), Liverpool had Liverpool (Catholic) and Everton (Protestant). It only got complicated in London. London even had Jewish teams.
Siobhan Clarke just smiled, shaking her head. It was no use arguing, which didn’t stop her trying. They just kept joking with her, teasing her, trying to convert her. It was light-hearted, but she couldn’t always tell how light-hearted. The Scots tended to crack jokes with a straight face and be deadly serious when they smiled. When some officers at St Leonard’s found out her birthday was coming, she found herself unwrapping half a dozen Hearts scarves. They all went to a charity shop.
She’d seen the darker side of football loyalty, too. The collection tins at certain games. Depending on where you were standing, you’d be asked to donate to either one cause or the other. Usually it was for ‘families’ or ‘victims’ or ‘prisoners’ aid’, but everyone who gave knew they might be perpetuating the violence in Northern Ireland. Fearfully, most gave. One pound sterling towards the price of a gun.
She’d come across the same thing on Saturday when, with a couple of friends, she’d found herself standing at the Hearts end of the ground. The tin had come round, and she’d ignored it. Her friends were quiet after that.
‘We should be doing something about it,’ she complained to Rebus in his car.
‘Such as?’
‘Get an undercover team in there, arrest whoever’s behind it.’
‘Behave.’
‘Well why not?’
‘Because it wouldn’t solve anything and there’d be no charge we could make stick other than something paltry like not having a licence. Besides, if you ask me most of that cash goes straight into the collector’s pocket. It never reaches Northern Ireland.’
‘But it’s the principle of the thing.’
‘Christ, listen to you.’ Principles: they were slow to go, and some coppers never lost them entirely. ‘Here we are.’
