by Ian Rankin
Rebus put down the phone. It rang again and he picked it up.
‘John? It’s Gill, did you get my message?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Oh. I thought you might have tried to call me.’
‘Mmm.’
‘John? Is something wrong?’
He shook himself. ‘I don’t know. The CC Rider wants to see me.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Nobody’s saying.’
A sigh. ‘What have you been up to this time?’
‘Absolutely nothing, Gill, that’s the God’s honest truth.’
‘Made any enemies yet at your new posting?’ As she spoke, Bain and Maclay walked through the door. Rebus nodded a greeting.
‘No enemies. Do you think I’m doing something wrong?’ Maclay and Bain were shedding jackets, pretending not to be interested.
‘Listen, about that message I left . . .?’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ Maclay and Bain dropped the pretence.
‘Can we meet?’
‘I don’t see why not. Dinner tonight?’
‘Tonight . . . yes, why not?’
She lived in Morningside, Rebus in Marchmont . . . make it a Tollcross rendezvous.
‘Brougham Street,’ Rebus said, ‘that Indian place with the slat blinds. Half eight?’
‘Sure.’
‘See you there, Chief Inspector.’
Bain and Maclay went about their business, said nothing for a minute or two. Then Bain coughed, swallowed, spoke.
‘How was Raintown?’
‘I got out alive.’
‘Find out anything about Uncle Joe and Tony El?’ Bain’s finger went to the nick below his eye.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing.’
‘All right, don’t tell us,’ Maclay said. He looked funny, sitting at his desk. An inch had been sawn off each of the legs of his chair, so his thighs would fit under the lip of the desk. When Rebus had first arrived, he’d asked why Maclay hadn’t just lifted the table legs up an inch. Until then, Maclay hadn’t thought of it – sawing the chair legs had been Bain’s idea.
‘Nothing to tell,’ Rebus argued. ‘Except this – word is, Tony El’s a free agent, working out of the north-east, so we need to contact Grampian CID and ask about him.’
‘I’ll fax them his details,’ Maclay said.
‘I take it there’s been no sign?’ Rebus asked.
Bain and Maclay shook their heads.
‘I’ll let you into the secret though,’ Bain said.
‘What?’
‘There are at least two Indians on Brougham Street with slatted blinds.’
Rebus watched them have a good laugh about that, then asked what the background check on the decedent had produced.
‘Not much,’ Bain said, leaning back in his chair and waving a sheet of paper. Rebus got up, took the paper from him.
Allan Mitchison. Only child. Born in Grangemouth. His mother died in childbirth; his father went into decline, followed her two years later. Infant Allan was taken into care – no other kin found. Children’s home, then a foster family. Put up for adoption, but was an unruly kid, a trouble-maker. Screaming fits, tantrums, then long sulks. He always ran away eventually, always found his way back to the children’s home. Grew up into a quiet teenager, still prone to black sulks, the occasional outburst, but talented in some school subjects – English, geography, art, music – and mostly docile. Still preferred the children’s home to foster life. Left school at seventeen. Having seen a documentary on life on a North Sea platform, decided he liked the look of it. Miles from anywhere, and an existence not unlike the children’s home – regimented. He liked group life, dormitories, shared rooms. Painter. His work pattern was uneven – he’d spent time onshore as well as off – a spell of training at RGIT-OSC . . .
‘What’s RGIT-OSC?’
Maclay had been waiting for the question. ‘Robert Gordon Institute of Technology’s Offshore Survival Centre.’
‘Is that the same as Robert Gordon’s University?’
Maclay and Bain looked at one another, shrugged.
‘Never mind,’ Rebus said, thinking: Johnny Bible’s first victim had attended RGU.
Mitchison had also worked at the Sullom Voe terminal on Shetland, a few other locations. Friends and workmates: plenty of the latter, precious few of the former. Edinburgh had proved a dead end: none of his neighbours had ever clapped eyes on him. And the word from Aberdeen and points north was only a little more encouraging. A couple of names: one on a production platform, one at Sullom Voe . . .
‘Are these two willing to be interviewed?’
Bain: ‘Christ, you’re not thinking of going up there? First Glasgow, now teuchter-land – didn’t you get a holiday this year?’
Maclay’s high-pitched laughter.
Rebus: ‘I seem to be a sitting target down here. I had a thought today – whoever picked out that flat knew the area. I’m thinking a local. Either of you have snitches in Niddrie?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then get talking to them, a man answering Tony El’s description, he might’ve been hanging around the pubs and clubs, looking for local talent. Is there anything on decedent’s employer?’
Bain lifted another sheet, waved it, smiling. Rebus had to get up again, go fetch it.
T-Bird Oil got its name from Thom Bird, who had been co-founder with ‘Major’ Randall Weir.
‘Major?’
Bain shrugged. ‘That’s what they call him: Major Weir.’
Weir and Bird were both Americans, but with strong Scottish roots. Bird had died in 1986, leaving Weir in charge. It was one of the smaller companies hoovering up oil and gas from below the sea bed . . .
Rebus realised that he knew almost nothing about the oil industry. He had some pictures in his head, mostly disasters – Piper Alpha, the Braer.
T-Bird had its UK base in Aberdeen, near Dyce Airport, but the global HQ was in the US, and the company held other oil and gas interests in Alaska, Africa, and the Gulf of Mexico.
‘Boring, eh?’ Maclay offered.
‘Is that meant to be a joke?’
‘Just making conversation.’
Rebus got to his feet, put his jacket on. ‘Well, much as I could listen to your dulcet tones all day . . .’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Station to station.’
No one seemed very interested in his return to St Leonard’s; a couple of woolly suits stopped to say hello – it turned out they didn’t even know he’d been transferred.
‘I don’t know who that says more about – me or you.’
In the CID offices he saw Siobhan Clarke at her desk. She was on the phone, and waved her pen at him as he passed. She wore a white short-sleeved blouse, and her bare arms were deeply tanned, as were her neck and face.
Rebus kept looking, and acknowledged a few lukewarm greetings. Jings, but it was rare to be ‘home’. He thought of Allan Mitchison and his empty flat: he’d come back to Edinburgh because it was as close to a home as he had.
Eventually he spotted Brian Holmes, chatting up a WPC, giving it plenty.
‘Hello, Brian, how’s the wife?’
The WPC turned red, mumbled some excuse and left.
‘Ha fucking ha,’ Holmes said. Now that the WPC had gone, he looked dead done in, shoulders slumped, skin grey, specks of stubble left behind by a too-casual razor.
‘That favour . . .’ Rebus prompted.
‘I’m on it.’
‘And?’
‘I’m on it!’
‘Go easy, son, we’re all friends here.’
Holmes seemed to deflate. He rubbed his eyes, clawed fingers through his hair.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m beat, that’s all it is.’
‘Would coffee help?’
‘Only if you can buy it by the vat.’
The canteen could stretch to an ‘Extra Large’. They sat down, Holmes tearing open sachets of sugar and pour
ing them in.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘about the other night, Mental Minto . . .’
‘We don’t talk about that,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘It’s history.’
‘Too much history around here.’
‘What else have the Scots got?’
‘You two look about as happy as nuns on a Club 18–30.’ Siobhan Clarke pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘Nice holiday?’ Rebus asked.
‘Relaxing.’
‘I see the weather was lousy.’
She ran a hand up one arm. ‘Took hours of work on the beach to get this.’
‘You’ve always been conscientious.’
She sipped Diet Pepsi. ‘So why’s everyone so down in the dumps?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Two tired, grey men; one young woman, tanned and brimming with life. Rebus knew he’d have to gee himself up for his evening date.
‘So,’ he asked Holmes casually, ‘that thing I asked you to look into . . .?’
‘It’s slow going. If you want my opinion,’ he looked up at Rebus, ‘whoever wrote up the notes was a master of circumlocution. There’s a lot of circling around the subject. I’d guess most casual readers would give up rather than plough on.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Why would the writer have done that?’
‘To put people off reading it. He probably thought they’d flick to the summing-up, miss out all the rubbish in the middle. Thing is, you can lose things that way, bury them in the text.’
‘Excuse me,’ Siobhan said, ‘have I walked into a masonic meeting by mistake? Is this some code I’m not supposed to get?’
‘Not at all, Brother Clarke,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘Maybe Brother Holmes will tell you about it.’
Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘Only if you promise not to show me any holiday snaps.’
‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Siobhan straightened her back. ‘I know naturist beaches aren’t your thing.’
Rebus was purposely early for the rendezvous. Bain hadn’t been lying: there were two restaurants with wood-slatted blinds. They were eighty yards apart, and Rebus walked relays between the two. He saw Gill rounding the corner at Tollcross and waved to her. She hadn’t over-dressed for the occasion: new-looking denims, plain cream blouse, and a yellow cashmere jumper tied around her neck. Sunglasses, gold-chain necklace, and two-inch heels – she liked to make a noise when she walked.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Hiya, Gill.’
‘Is this the place?’
He looked at the restaurant. ‘There’s another one just up the road if you’d prefer. Or there’s French, Thai . . .’
‘This is fine.’ She pulled open the door, walked in ahead of him. ‘Did you book a table?’
‘Didn’t think they’d be busy,’ Rebus said. The restaurant wasn’t empty, but there was a spare table for two by the window, directly beneath a distorting loudspeaker. Gill removed her brown leather shoulder-bag and laid it under her chair.
‘Something to drink?’ their waiter asked.
‘Whisky and soda for me,’ Gill said.
‘Whisky, no additives,’ Rebus ordered. As the first waiter left, another appeared with menus, popadums and pickles. After he’d gone, Rebus looked around, saw that no one at the other tables was paying attention, and reached up to tug at the speaker-cable, disconnecting it. The music above them stopped.
‘Better,’ Gill said, smiling.
‘So,’ Rebus said, laying his napkin across his thighs, ‘is this business or social?’
‘Both,’ Gill admitted. She broke off as the drinks arrived. The waiter knew something was wrong, eventually placed it. He looked up at the silent speaker.
‘It can be easily mended,’ he told them. They shook their heads, then studied the menus. Having ordered, Rebus raised his glass.
‘Slàinte.’
‘Cheers.’ Gill took a gulp of her drink, exhaled afterwards.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘niceties taken care of . . . to business.’
‘Do you know how many women make chief inspector in the Scottish force?’
‘I know we’re talking the fingers of a blind carpenter’s hand.’
‘Exactly.’ She paused, realigned her cutlery. ‘I don’t want to screw up.’
‘Who does?’
She glanced at him, smiled. Rebus: world’s supply of fuck-ups, his life a warehouse filled to the rafters with them. Harder to shift than eight-track cartridges.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘so I’m an authority.’
‘And that’s good.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Because I’m still fucking up.’
She smiled. ‘Five months, John, and I haven’t made a good collar yet.’
‘But that’s about to change?’
‘I don’t know.’ Another gulp of courage. ‘Someone’s passed me some information about a drug deal . . . a biggie.’
‘Which protocol dictates you should pass on to the Scottish Crime Squad.’
She gave him a look. ‘And hand those lazy bastards the glory? Come on, John.’
‘I’ve never been a great believer in protocol myself. All the same . . .’ All the same: he didn’t want Gill fucking up. He could see this was important to her: maybe too important. She needed perspective, same as he needed on Spaven.
‘So who passed you the info?’
‘Fergus McLure.’
‘Feardie Fergie?’ Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Wasn’t he one of Flower’s snitches?’
Gill nodded. ‘I took over Flower’s list when he moved.’
‘Jesus, how much did he screw out of you?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Most of Flower’s grasses are worse than anyone they could possibly snitch on.’
‘Nevertheless, he gave me his list.’
‘Feardie Fergie, eh?’
Fergus McLure had been in and out of private hospitals half his life. A nervous wreck, he drank nothing stronger than Ovaltine, and couldn’t watch anything more exciting than Pets Win Prizes. His constant supply of prescription drugs bolstered the profits of the British pharmaceutical industry. This said, he ran a nice little empire which just bordered on the legal: jeweller by trade, he also put on sales of Persian rugs, fire-damaged and water-damaged merchandise, receivership auctions. He lived in Ratho, a village on the edge of the city. Feardie Fergie was a known homosexual, but lived quietly – unlike some judges of Rebus’s acquaintance.
Gill crunched on a popadum, dribbled chutney on the remaining piece.
‘So what’s the problem?’ Rebus asked.
‘How well do you know Fergus McLure?’
Rebus shrugged, lied. ‘Reputation only. Why?’
‘Because I want this watertight before I act on it.’
‘Problem with snitches, Gill, you can’t always have corroboration.’
‘No, but I can have a second opinion.’
‘You want me to talk to him?’
‘John, for all your flaws –’
‘For which I am famous.’
‘– you’re a good judge of character, and you know enough about informers.’
‘My back-up subject for Mastermind.’
‘I just want to know if you think he’s on the level. I don’t want to go to all the trouble and effort of opening an investigation, maybe setting up surveillance, taps, even a sting operation, only to have the carpet pulled out from under me.’
‘Understood, but you know the Squaddies will be peeved if you keep them in the dark. They’ve got the manpower and experience for this sort of thing.’
She just stared at him. ‘Since when did you start going by the book?’
‘We’re not talking about me. I’m the L&B bad apple – doubtless they think one’s more than enough.’
Their food arrived, the table filling with platters and dishes, a nan bread big enough to be plotting world domination. They looked at one another, realising they didn�
��t feel that hungry any more.
‘A couple more of the same,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. To Gill: ‘So tell me Fergie’s story.’
‘It’s sketchy. Some drugs are coming north in a consignment of antiques. They’re going to be handed over to the dealers.’
‘The dealers being . . .?’
She shrugged. ‘McLure thinks they’re Americans.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Who? The sellers?’
‘No, the buyers. The sellers are German.’
Rebus went through the major Edinburgh dealers, couldn’t think of a single American.
‘I know,’ Gill said, reading his thoughts.
‘New boys trying to break in?’
‘McLure thinks the stuff’s headed further north.’
‘Dundee?’
She nodded. ‘And Aberdeen.’
Aberdeen again. Jesus. A town called malice. ‘So how’s Fergie involved?’
‘One of his sales would be the perfect cover.’
‘He’s fronting?’
Another nod. She chewed on a piece of chicken, dipped nan bread into the sauce. Rebus watched her eat, remembering little things about her: the way her ears moved when she chewed, the way her eyes flicked over the different dishes, the way she rubbed her fingers together afterwards . . . There were rings around her neck that hadn’t been there five years ago, and maybe when she visited her hairdresser they added some colour to her roots. But she looked good. She looked great.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘Is that all he told you?’
‘He’s scared of these dealers, too scared to tell them to get lost. But the last thing he wants is us catching on and putting him in jail as an accessory. That’s why he’s grassing.’
‘Even though he’s scared?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘When’s all this supposed to happen?’
‘When they phone him.’
‘I don’t know, Gill. If it were a peg, you couldn’t hang a fucking hankie on it, never mind your coat.’
‘Colourfully put.’
She was staring at his tie as she said it. It was a loud tie, purposely so: it was supposed to distract attention from his unironed shirt with the missing button.
‘OK, I’ll go talkies tomorrow, see if I can wring any more out of him.’
‘But gently.’
‘He’ll be putty in my hands.’
