by Ian Rankin
Before leaving, Gilmour slapped his fist against the interview room door. It was only afterwards that Clarke realised what he’d done. She pointed out the sticker to Fox. BETTER TOGETHER, it read. VOTE NO.
‘The man has a sense of humour,’ Fox said, peeling it off with a fingernail. ‘I wonder how big a bill he’s just run up with that lawyer of his.’
‘Whatever it is, it won’t be funny. And by the way, that parting shot of yours?’
‘Yes?’
‘Worthy of Rebus himself.’
‘Is that a good thing, do you think?’
They returned to the office and watched as a taxi drew up, lawyer and client fighting their way through the melee and the questions before clambering into the back. One particularly stubborn photographer ran down the road after the cab, firing off a few more shots through its rear window.
‘Those private investigators will only give us whatever story Gilmour tells them to,’ Fox cautioned.
Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Do you think we let him off too lightly?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Fox reassured her. ‘But is he right about the others — will they merit the same attention?’
‘None of them spoke to Billy Saunders,’ Clarke stated.
‘Not on his phone, at any rate,’ Fox added by way of qualification. ‘But whoever met him on the canal path that night, they didn’t just stumble upon him. It was an arrangement.’
‘Arranged how?’
‘I suppose a few of the public phone boxes in the city still work.’
‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Clarke said.
‘Needle in a haystack,’ Fox agreed.
An hour later, the team crammed into the office so Clarke could inform them of the initial findings regarding the firearm found in the canal. She was reading from a printed e-mail, sent from the ballistics unit in Glasgow. A rush job had been ordered, so the report was not comprehensive. But it did include the crucial information that the bullet removed from Billy Saunders’s spine had been fired from the gun.
‘The gun itself,’ Clarke intoned, ‘is a Browning L9A1 nine-millimetre pistol, probably dating back to the early 1980s. Standard British Army issue from the 1950s until just recently. Apparently a lot of them went walkies after the Falklands War. The serial number has been filed off, and no usable prints have been found on the grip or barrel. Three bullets remain in the clip and again these seem to date back a few decades. The gun hasn’t been kept in the best condition, and probably hadn’t been used in quite some time. Accurate only at short range.’ Clarke looked up from the sheet and realised Fox had ducked out of the room at some point. The other members of the team were jotting notes to themselves or frowning in a show of concentration.
‘Thoughts, please,’ she said, scanning the faces in front of her.
‘We need to trace the gun back. .’
‘Someone must know where it came from. .’
‘Worth contacting army bases in the city. .?’
‘Do we know who the underworld would go to if they needed firearms. .?’
‘Are we treating the shooting as an assassination? If it was a pro, they could be ex-army themselves. .’
‘Except a pro wouldn’t just chuck the weapon, would they? They’d break it up, dispose of it in bits and pieces. .’
‘Could the gun have belonged to the victim. .?’
‘Any further tests we could run. .?’
After listening, arms folded, for a few minutes, Clarke broke the meeting up, handing out fresh chores to those who needed them. Then she went in search of Fox, and found him in an adjoining room, going through boxes of folders.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked.
‘The Summerhall files,’ he explained. ‘They arrived this morning with the Solicitor General’s blessing.’
‘And?’
‘And this.’ He had found what he was looking for. He placed the relevant documents on the nearest desk. ‘It was when you mentioned the Falklands.’
Clarke peered at the report. It was dated October 1982 and concerned an army veteran who had been making too much noise late at night in his council flat. Neighbours had complained and — not for the first time — police officers had arrived to deal with the disturbance. The officers had found a small amount of cannabis and, lying on the coffee table in full view, a Browning pistol.
Clarke stopped and looked at Fox. Fox nodded and gestured for her to read on. The ex-soldier’s name was Laurie Martin. He was eventually charged with possession of drugs, but let off with a caution and the advice that he should enter a course of counselling.
‘Don’t suppose anyone had heard of post-traumatic stress back then,’ Fox commented.
‘Am I missing something?’ Clarke had turned the sheet over, but it was blank. ‘The gun didn’t make it on to the charge sheet.’
‘No,’ Fox said.
‘How come?’
He offered only a shrug. ‘Coincidence?’ he suggested.
‘You obviously don’t think so. A pistol — same make and probable vintage as the one used to kill Billy Saunders. .’ She was shaking her head slowly.
‘Should we bring Stefan Gilmour back in?’
‘What’s the point? I don’t see his name here.’ Clarke scanned the report again. ‘This is all there is? No record of the weapon going into an evidence locker? No mention of it in the courtroom?’
‘I could try doing a bit more digging — courts will have their own records. .’
‘Sounds like another haystack to me.’ She had taken out her phone and was finding a number on it.
‘Let me guess,’ Malcolm Fox said.
Rebus was seated in his car on Great King Street when he got the call.
‘Hiya, Siobhan,’ he said.
‘Where are you?’
‘The car park at Gayfield Square,’ he lied. ‘Trying to work up the energy for an hour or two of DCI Page’s company.’
‘Have you heard we found the weapon?’
‘The one used on Billy Saunders? Yes, congratulations and all that. .’
‘It’s a Browning pistol, probably brought home from the Falklands War. Ring any bells?’
‘Should it?’
‘Serial number has been removed at some point too, if that helps jog the memory.’
‘I’m not sure I. .’
‘Laurie Martin, John. Ex-army and failing to fit back into Civvy Street. He was brought to Summerhall by two patrol officers after a disturbance.’
‘Hang on, when was this?’
‘October ’82.’
‘I didn’t start at Summerhall until November.’
‘Laurie Martin’s name means nothing to you?’
‘No.’
‘He was being disruptive, so officers went to his door. He let them in and they found the pistol sitting in his living room.’
‘So?’
‘At some point in the story, the gun stops being a character. Doesn’t even look as though it was marked as evidence.’
‘Bit of a stretch to say the same gun was used on Saunders.’
‘And this is all coming as news to you?’
‘Scout’s honour.’
‘Is it worth me bringing it up with any of the others?’
‘The Saints, you mean?’
‘We had Gilmour in here earlier.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘He’s sticking to his version of events.’
‘That’s his privilege, I suppose.’
‘John. .’
‘I’m not the enemy here, Siobhan. Whatever happens, bear that in mind.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Fox is all over this, isn’t he? He’s been through every bit of paperwork from Summerhall and memorised the lot. Be careful he doesn’t lead you a dance. .’
Rebus ended the call and got a cigarette lit, flicking ash from the window. Then he called Eamonn Paterson.
‘It’s John,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’
‘At a loose end, as per
,’ Paterson replied. ‘What’s troubling you?’
‘They took Stefan in for questioning.’
‘About Billy Saunders? Stands to reason.’
‘Thing is, they’ve got the gun.’
‘Yes, I heard on the radio.’
‘What you didn’t hear is that they think it originally belonged to an old soldier called Laurie Martin.’ Rebus listened for a response, but there was silence on the line. ‘Now, Laurie Martin was before my time, but I do remember the Browning. It sat in your drawer and after a few drinks it might come out for a bit of a joke. Laurie Martin’s handgun, yes?’
‘The man was a war hero, John. Yomped halfway across those bloody islands and got almost no thanks for it. He told us the stories that night — the custody sergeant came and fetched us so we could listen. Man needed psychiatric help more than anything, and he wasn’t going to get much of that in the clink.’
‘So you spirited away the gun? Shame you forgot to scratch it from the arrest report.’
‘What do you want me to say, John?’
‘I want you to tell me what happened to it.’
‘The gun? I haven’t the faintest notion. When we were leaving Summerhall, it just wasn’t in my drawer any more.’
‘Someone took it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Paterson paused. ‘There’s no way they can tie it to Saunders’s murder, is there?’
‘You tell me. Even if it’s circumstantial, it’s another piece of the jigsaw as far as Fox is concerned. And it’s a murder inquiry now, Eamonn — so don’t think it isn’t serious.’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘Neither am I. You’d be wise to remember that. Okay, change of subject — fill me in on Slippery Phil Kennedy.’
‘Now there’s a name from the vaults. What’s Kennedy got to do with anything?’
‘You tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell — died in his house after a day’s boozing. Sleekit wee shite, too. We should have put him away, but we didn’t. “Not proven” was the verdict, that one time we got him to trial.’
Not proven: the ‘bastard verdict’ available to a Scottish jury when they thought the Crown had not done quite enough to convince of the accused’s guilt. You walked out of court a free man, no official stain on your character. The words stuck in every detective’s craw: you nearly got me, but not quite. Rebus had seen absolute villains swaggering from court after a not proven, with a grin and a wink for the law officers who had racked up hundreds of hours building the case — the case that didn’t quite stack up in the jury’s collective mind.
Better luck next time, those grins and winks said.
‘Were you at the autopsy?’ Rebus asked.
‘No.’
‘How about Gilmour or Blantyre?’
‘It was a long time ago, John.’ Paterson fell silent, as though thinking. ‘I’m fairly sure it was Frazer Spence. Aye, Frazer drew the short straw that day.’
Liar, thought Rebus. Why do that? Professor Cuttle had already supplied the names — Gilmour and Blantyre — names Paterson was choosing to ignore.
‘I still don’t see where Kennedy fits into anything, though,’ Paterson was now saying.
‘I don’t think he does.’ Here, have one of mine — fair exchange is no robbery.
Rebus ended the call and finished his cigarette, flicking it from the car window. He stared up towards the top floor of the building across from him, then got out, marched to its front door, and pressed the bell marked TRAYNOR/BELL.
‘Hello?’
He recognised the voice, and leaned in towards the intercom. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Rebus,’ he announced.
‘Jessica doesn’t want to see you.’
‘It’s not her I’m here to talk to, Alice — it’s you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If Jessica’s up there, probably best if you come down here.’
‘Why? What have I done?’
‘Does she know about you and our dear-departed Justice Minister? Come to that, does Forbes know you were seeing his old man?’
‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘Just go away and leave us alone.’
‘Can’t do that, Alice. Not until I get a few answers.’
‘Just — sod — off!’ A click told him the intercom had died. He stood up straight, waited a few seconds, then retreated to his car, making himself comfortable behind the steering wheel. He was about to occupy himself with a fresh cigarette when Alice Bell yanked open the door to her building, stepped out and looked up and down the street. She was fretting, hands clasped. When she saw the Saab, her eyes narrowed, her lips forming a thin determined line. Rebus gestured for her to come join him, and she did, opening the passenger-side door and getting in, slamming the door closed after her.
‘You’re vile,’ she said.
‘When the investigation team called you, you told them Forbes’s dad was showing you around the Scottish Parliament. As far as I know, they’ve accepted that story.’ He paused. ‘I wasn’t so sure, and you sitting here seals it for me.’ Another pause. ‘So do you want to tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
Rebus leaned back against the headrest, face half turned towards hers. ‘So far they’ve only been looking at Pat McCuskey’s most recent phone records. I can go back a bit further and work out when it started. .’
‘Three months,’ she eventually said. ‘Three and a half.’
‘How did the two of you meet?’
‘Forbes took Jessica and me to the house. His parents were there. When I said I was interested in Alison Watt, Pat told me there was a painting by her hanging in the Parliament building.’ It was Alice Bell’s turn to pause. ‘That was the start, I suppose.’
‘Forbes and Jessica. .?’
‘Don’t know anything about it.’
‘How often did you meet, you and him?’
‘Eight times.’ She sounded almost proud that she could be so specific.
‘At his house?’
She shook her head. ‘Never there.’
‘Where, then?’
‘He has a friend with a flat on Holyrood Road. The friend is away in London a lot. .’ She had begun to blush. ‘I know he’s a lot older than me, and. . and he’s Forbes’s dad and everything, but. .’
‘You’re not in the confessional, Alice.’
‘You don’t think. .?’
‘That his death had anything to do with you?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Not unless you want to tell me otherwise.’
‘Then I don’t see. .’
Rebus twisted his body towards her. ‘I need information, Alice. I need to know what happened the night of the crash. My gut tells me Jessica will have confided in you.’
‘She hasn’t.’
‘I think you’re lying.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Well if that’s how we’re playing this, I might have to share your little secret with a few mutual friends — Jessica and Forbes to start with, then the team investigating Mr McCuskey’s demise. .’
Her eyes had grown fiery. ‘You are vile,’ she said, voice trembling with rage.
‘I prefer the phrase “hard but fair”.’
‘What’s fair about this?’
‘Look, I’ll make it easy for you. Forbes was the go-to guy for student drugs. My theory is a deal went bad that night and he totalled the car getting away. Then he kept on running, leaving Jessica in the lurch. Now I ask you: is that fair, do you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’ She blinked a few times, as though having trouble bringing the immediate world into focus. Then she took a deep breath, composing herself. Rebus bided his time, knowing she was about to offer him something.
‘Forbes gets the stuff from a bar.’
‘In the city centre?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s called the Gimlet. I think it’s in Gorgie or nearby.’
‘Nearby,’ Rebus agreed quietly. ‘Who’s his contact? The owner? A man named Darryl Chr
istie?’
She was still shaking her head. ‘One of the doormen. Deano? A name like that.’
‘Deano,’ Rebus agreed.
‘That’s as much as I know.’
‘No whispered conversations between Forbes and Jessica since the crash? No muffled phone calls when she doesn’t know you’re listening?’
‘Nothing,’ Alice Bell said, her eyes drilling into his.
‘Is she upstairs just now?’
Bell nodded. ‘On the phone to her father — talking about tomorrow’s funeral.’
‘What about it?’
‘Her father wanted to put in an appearance. Jessica’s persuading him otherwise. Apparently he called Forbes and accused him of nearly killing Jess. She’s worried he’d make a scene. .’ Her look hardened. ‘It was you who put the idea in his head.’
‘We both know Forbes was driving that car, Alice.’
She had reached for the door handle, pushing it outwards. ‘You’re hacking your way through a lot of innocent lives, you know. And I sense you get a kick out of it, too.’ She was on the pavement now. He watched her cross the street and enter her building. Once she was inside, he noticed she had left the passenger-side door wide open. No way he could reach that far. He would have to get out and walk around to close it. As payback went, it was petty but effective.
Rebus couldn’t help but admire her for it.
17
‘You Deano?’
‘Who’s asking?’
It was eight p.m. and music was blaring from within the Gimlet. A chalkboard outside announced that it was 80s Night. The bouncer on the door wore a long black woollen coat and a black polo neck. His hands were in his coat pockets and his feet were splayed.
‘Detective Sergeant Rebus,’ Rebus said, flipping open his warrant card. ‘Is your boss indoors?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Any idea where I can catch him?’
‘No.’
Rebus pretended to be stymied, even going so far as to scratch his head.
‘Looks like you’re out of luck,’ the bouncer stated. ‘Not me, Deano,’ Rebus replied. ‘You.’
The man was a couple of inches taller than Rebus and carried a similar amount of heft, the difference being one of muscle tone. One look at Deano’s neck told Rebus he was a gym regular. Nicks to both eyebrows meant he had probably boxed at one time, or still did. The small, wary eyes met Rebus’s.
