by Ian Rankin
‘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 because 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.’
‘The Floating Anarchy Factfile.’
Frankie Bothwell took off his sunglasses and squinted at Rebus. Then he ground his cigarette-end under the heel of a cowboy boot. ‘That was a lifetime ago. How do you know about it?’ Rebus shrugged. Frankie Bothwell grinned. He was perking up again. ‘Christ, that was a long time ago. Up in the Orkneys, peace and love, I had some fun back then. But what’s it got to do with anything?’
‘Do you know this man?’ Rebus handed over a copy of the photo Murdock had given him, the one from the party. It had been cropped to show Billy Cunningham’s face only. ‘His name’s Billy Cunningham.’
Bothwell took a while studying the photo, then shook his head.
‘He came here to see a country and western show a couple of weeks back.’
/> ‘We’re packed most nights, Inspector, especially this time of year. I can ask the bar staff, the bouncers, see if they know him. Is he a regular?’
‘We don’t know, sir.’
‘See, if he’s a regular, he’ll carry the Cowpoke Card. You get one after three visits in any one month, entitles you to thirty per cent off the admission.’ Rebus was shaking his head. ‘What’s he done anyway?’
‘He’s been murdered, Mr Bothwell.’
Bothwell screwed up his face. ‘Bad one.’ Then he looked at Rebus again. ‘Not the kid in that underground street?’
Rebus nodded.
Bothwell stood up, brushing dirt from his backside. ‘Floating Anarchy hasn’t been in circulation for twenty years. You say this kid had a copy?’
‘Issue number three,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.
Bothwell thought about it. ‘Number three, that was a big printing, a thousand or so. There was momentum behind number three. After that . . . not so much momentum.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Can I keep the photo? Like I say, I’ll ask around.’
‘Fine, Mr Bothwell. We’ve got copies.’
‘Secondhand shops maybe.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The magazine, maybe he got it secondhand.’
‘That’s a thought.’
‘A kid that age, Christ.’ He shook his head. ‘I love kids, Inspector, that’s what this place is all about. Giving kids a good time. There’s nothing like it.’
‘Really, sir?’
Bothwell spread his hands. ‘I don’t mean anything . . . you know . . . nothing like that. I’ve always liked kids. I used to run a football team, local youth club thing. Anything for kids.’ He smiled again. ‘That’s because I’m still a kid myself, Inspector. Me, I’m Peter bloody Pan.’
Still holding the photo, he invited them in for a drink. Rebus was tempted, but declined. The bar would be an empty barn; no place for a drink. He handed Bothwell a card with his office number.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Bothwell said.
Rebus nodded and turned away. He didn’t say anything to Siobhan Clarke till they were back in her car.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Creepy,’ she said. ‘How can he dress like that?’
‘Years of practice, I suppose.’
‘So what do you reckon to him?’
Rebus thought about this. ‘I’m not sure. Let me think about it over a drink.’
‘That’s very kind, sir, but I’m going out.’ She made a show of checking her watch.
‘A Fringe show?’ She nodded.
‘Early Tom Stoppard,’ she said.
‘Well,’ Rebus sniffed, ‘I didn’t say you were invited anyway.’ He paused. ‘Who are you going with?’
She looked at him. ‘I’m going on my own, not that it’s any of your business . . . sir.’
Rebus shifted a little. ‘You can drop me off at the Ox.’
As they drove past, there was no sign of Frankie Bothwell on the steps of the Crazy Hose Saloon.
The Ox gave Rebus a taste. He phoned Patience, but got the answer-phone. He seemed to remember she was going out tonight, but couldn’t recall where. He took the slow route home. In Daintry’s Lounge, he stood at the bar listening in on its tough wit. The Festival only touched places like Daintry’s insofar as providing posters to advertise the shows. These were as much decoration as the place ever had. He stared at a sign above the row of optics. It said, ‘If arseholes could fly, this place would be an airport’.
‘Ready for take-off,’ he said to the barmaid, proffering his empty glass.
A little later, he found himself approaching Oxford Terrace from Lennox Street, so turned into Lennox Street Lane. What had once been stables in the Lane had now become first floor homes with ground floor garages. The place was always dead. Some of the tenements on Oxford Terrace backed onto the lane. Rebus had a key to Patience’s garden gate. He’d let himself in the back door to the flat. As shortcuts went, it wasn’t much of one, but he liked the lane.
He was about a dozen paces from the gate when somebody grabbed him. They got him from behind, pulling him by the coat, keeping the grip tight so that he might as well have been wearing a straitjacket. The coat came up over Rebus’s head, trapping him, binding his arms. A knee came up into his groin. He lashed out with a foot, which only made it all the easier to unbalance him. He was shouting and swearing as he fell. The attacker had released his grip on the coat. While Rebus struggled to get out of it, a foot caught him on the side of the head. The foot was wearing a plimsoll, which explained why Rebus hadn’t heard his attacker following him. It also explained why he was still conscious after the kick.
Another kick dug into his side. And then, just as his head was emerging from his coat, the foot caught him on the chin, and all he could see were the setts beneath him, slick and shining from what light there was. The attacker’s hands were on him, rifling pockets. The man was breathing hard.
‘Take the money,’ Rebus said, trying to focus his eyes. He knew there wasn’t much money to take, less than a fiver, all of it in small change. The man didn’t seem happy with his haul. It wasn’t much for a night’s work.
‘A’m gonny put you in the hospital.’ The accent was Glaswegian. Rebus could make out the man’s build – squat – but not yet his face. There was too much shadow. He was rearing up again, coins spilling from his hands to rain down on Rebus.
He’d given Rebus just enough time to shake off the alcohol. Rebus sprang from his crouch and hit the man square in the stomach with his head, propelling his assailant backwards. The man kept his balance, but Rebus was standing too now, and he was bigger than the Glaswegian. There was a glint in the man’s hand. A cutthroat razor. Rebus hadn’t seen one in years. It flashed in an arc towards him, but he dodged it, then saw that there were two other figures in the lane. They were watching, hands in pockets. He thought he recognised them as Cafferty’s men, the ones from the churchyard.
The razor was swinging again, the Glaswegian almost smiling as he went about his business. Rebus slipped his coat all the way off and wrapped it around his left arm. He met the blade with his arm, feeling it cut into the cloth, and lashed out with the sole of his right foot, connecting with the man’s knee. The man took a step back, and Rebus struck out again, connecting with a thigh this time. When the man attempted to come back at him, he was limping and easy to sidestep. But instead of aiming with the razor he barrelled into Rebus, pushing him hard against some garage doors. Then he turned and ran.
There was only one exit from the alley, and he took it, running past Cafferty’s men. Rebus took a deep breath, then sank to his knees and threw up onto the ground. His coat was ruined, but that was the least of his problems. Cafferty’s men were strolling towards him. They lifted him to his feet like he was a bag of shopping.
‘You all right?’ one asked.
‘Winded,’ Rebus said. His chin hurt too, but there was no blood. He puked up more alcohol, feeling better for it. The other man had stooped to pick up the money. Rebus didn’t get it.
‘Your man?’ he said. They were shaking their heads. Then the bigger one spoke.
‘He just saved us the bother.’
‘He was trying to hospitalise me.’
‘I think I’d have done the same,’ said the big man, holding out Rebus’s coins. ‘If this is all I’d found.’
Rebus took the money and pocketed it. Then he took a swing at the man. It was slow and tired and didn’t connect. But the big man connected all right. His punch took all the remaining fight out of Rebus. He fell to his knees again, palms on the cold ground.
‘That’s by way of an incentive,’ the man said. ‘Just in case you were needing one. Mr Cafferty’ll be talking to you soon.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ spat Rebus, sitting with his back to the garage. They were walking away from him, back towards the mouth of the lane.
‘He’ll be talking to you.’
Then they were gone.
&n
bsp; A Glaswegian with a razor, Rebus thought to himself, happy to sit here till the pain went away. If not Cafferty’s man, then whose?
And why?
14
Rebus struggled towards consciousness, even as he picked up the telephone.
‘Heathen!’ he gasped into it.
‘Pardon?’
‘To call at this ungodly hour.’ He’d recognised DCI Kilpatrick’s voice. He ran the palm of his hand down his face, pulling open his eyelids. When he could focus, he tried finding the time on the clock, but in his struggle for the receiver he’d knocked it to the floor. ‘What do you want . . . sir?’
‘I was hoping you could come in a bit early.’
‘What? Cleaners on strike and you’re looking for a relief?’
‘He sounds like the dead, but he’s still cracking jokes.’
‘When do you want me?’
‘Say, half an hour?’
‘You say it, I’ll do what I can.’ He put down the receiver and found his watch. It was on his wrist. The time was five past six. He hadn’t so much slept as drifted into coma. Maybe it was the drink or the vomiting or the beating. Maybe it was just too many late nights catching up with him. Whatever, he didn’t feel the worse for it. He checked his side: it was bruised, but not badly. His chin and face didn’t feel too bad either, just grazed.
‘Who the hell was that?’ Patience growled sleepily from beneath her pillow.
‘Duty calls,’ said Rebus, swinging his unwilling legs out of bed.
They were seated in Kilpatrick’s office, Rebus and Ken Smylie. Rebus held his coffee cup the way a disaster victim would, cradling this smallest of comforts. He couldn’t have looked worse if there’d been a blanket around his shoulders and a reporter in front of him asking how he felt about the plane crash. His early morning buzz had lasted all the way from the bed to the bathroom. It had been an effort to look in the mirror. Unshaven, you hardly noticed the bruises, but he could feel them on the inside.
Smylie seemed alert enough, not needing the caffeine. And Rebus shouldn’t have been drinking it either; it would play merry hell with him later.
