by Ian Rankin
A member of the nursing staff was watching through a narrow vertical window in the doors to the ward. As they walked towards her, she pushed the doors open.
“We’re thinking of having her ejected,” she said.
“How about giving her a bit of news instead?”
The nurse glared at Gray. “When we have news, we’ll tell her.”
“How is he?” Rebus asked, trying to calm things down.
“He had a seizure of some kind. There’s paralysis down one side.”
“Would he be able to answer some questions?” Gray asked.
“Able, yes. Willing? I’m not so sure.”
She led them past beds filled with old men and young men. A few of the patients were on their feet, shuffling in carpet slippers along a polished linoleum floor the color of oxblood. There was a faint smell of fried food, mingled with disinfectant. The long, narrow room was stifling. Rebus was already beginning to feel the sweat cloying on his back.
The very last bed had been closed off by curtains, behind which lay a pasty-faced man, hooked up to machines and with a drip going into one arm. He was in his early fifties, a good ten years older than the woman outside. His hair was gray, combed back from the forehead. His chin and cheeks had been shaved erratically, silver stubble flecking the skin. Seated on a chair was a prison guard. He was leafing through a tattered copy of Scottish Field. Rebus noticed that one of Chib Kelly’s arms was hanging down the side of the bed. The wrist had been handcuffed to the iron frame.
“He’s that dangerous, is he?” Gray commented, eyeing the cuffs.
“Orders,” the guard said.
Rebus and Gray showed their ID, and the guard introduced himself as Kenny Nolan.
“Nice day out for you, eh, Kenny?” Gray said conversationally.
“Thrilling,” Nolan said.
Rebus walked around the bed. Kelly had his eyes closed. There didn’t seem to be any movement behind the lids, and the chest was rising and falling rhythmically.
“You asleep, Chib?” Gray said, leaning down over the bed.
“What’s all this?” a voice said behind them. A doctor in a white coat was standing there, stethoscope folded into one pocket, clipboard in his hand.
“CID,” Gray explained. “We’ve got a few questions for the patient.”
“Does he really need those handcuffs?” the doctor was asking Nolan.
“Orders,” Nolan repeated.
“Any particular reason?” Rebus asked the guard. He knew that Kelly could be a violent man, but he hardly looked an immediate threat to the public.
Nolan wasn’t about to answer the question, so Gray stepped in. “Barlinnie lost a couple of prisoners recently. They walked away from hospital wards just like this one.”
Rebus nodded his understanding, while Nolan reddened at his starched white shirt collar.
“How long till he wakes up?” Gray was asking the doctor.
“Who knows?”
“Will he be in a fit state to talk to us?”
“I’ve really no idea.” The doctor started moving away, checking a message on his pager.
Gray looked across to Rebus. “These doctors, eh, John? Consummate professionals.”
“The crème de la crème,” Rebus agreed.
“Mr. Nolan,” Gray said, “if I give you my number, any chance you could page me when the prisoner comes round?”
“I suppose so.”
“You sure?” Gray made eye contact. “Want to check first to make sure it’s not against orders?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Rebus advised Nolan. “He’s a sarky bugger when the mood takes him.” Then, to Gray: “Give the man your number, Francis. I’m melting in here . . .”
They told Fenella Lomax what little they could, leaving aside any mention of the handcuffs.
“He’s sleeping peacefully,” Rebus tried to reassure her, regretting his choice of words immediately. They were what you said just before someone died . . . But Fenella nodded silently and allowed them to lead her down to the ground floor, in search of something to drink. There was no cafeteria as such, just an ill-stocked kiosk. Rebus, who’d skipped breakfast, bought a dry muffin and an overripe banana to go with his tea. The surface of the liquid was the same gray color as all the patients they’d seen.
“You’re hoping he’ll die, aren’t you?” Fenella Lomax said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re cops. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary, Fenella,” Gray said. “We want to see Chib up and about. There are a few questions we’d like to ask him.”
“What sort of questions?”
Rebus swallowed a mouthful of crumbs. “We’ve reopened the case on your late husband.”
She looked shocked. “Eric? Why? I don’t understand . . .”
“No case is ever closed until it’s solved,” Rebus told her.
“DI Rebus is right,” Gray said. “And we’ve been given the job of dusting off the files, see if we can add anything new.”
“What’s Chib got to do with it?”
“Maybe nothing,” Rebus assured her. “But something came to light a day or so back . . .”
“What?” Her eyes darted between the two detectives.
“Chib owned your husband’s local, the one he’d been in the night he died.”
“So?”
“So we need to talk to him about it,” Rebus said.
“What for?”
“Just so the file’s complete,” Gray explained. “Maybe you could help by telling us a little yourself?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Well, Fenella, that’s not strictly true,” Rebus told her. “For a start, it didn’t seem to come out at the time that Chib owned the bar.” Rebus waited, but she just shrugged. A woman on crutches was trying to get past their table, and Rebus moved his chair, taking him a little closer to Fenella. “When did you and Chib become an item?”
“It was months after Eric died,” she stressed. She was a pro, knew where they were going with this.
“But you were friendly before?”
Her eyes burned into his. “How do you mean, ‘friendly’?”
Gray sat forward. “I think he’s wondering if you and Chib were maybe a bit more than friends, Fenella?” Then he leaned back again. “It’s not the sort of thing you can hide, is it? Tight-knit community like that . . . I’m guessing we’d just have to ask around and we’d find out the score.”
“Ask all you like,” she said, folding her arms. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You must have known, though,” Gray persisted. “Women always do, in my experience.”
“Known what?”
“Whether Chib fancied you. That’s all we’re talking about.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said coldly. “You’re talking about framing Chib for something he didn’t do.”
“We just need to be sure of the relationships involved,” Rebus said quietly. “That way, we don’t go jumping to conclusions or heading off down the wrong road.” He tried to inject a bit of hurt into his voice. “We thought you might like to help with that.”
“Eric’s death is ancient history,” she stated, unfolding her arms, reaching for her cup.
“Maybe we’ve just got longer memories than some,” Gray said, his tone gaining more edge as his patience waned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She lifted the cup, as if to drink from it.
“I’m sure DI Gray didn’t mean to suggest . . .” But Rebus didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence. She’d hurled the tea into Gray’s face, and was on her feet now, walking purposefully away.
Gray was on his feet too. “Fucking hell!” He held a handkerchief to his face, rubbing it dry. His white shirt was stained. He glanced in Fenella’s direction. “We could have her for that, couldn’t we?”
Rebus was thinking back to his own tea incident . . . “If you want to,” he said.
“Jesus, it’s not like I . . .” Gray realized his pager was sounding. He checked it. “Patient’s awake,” he said.
The lifts were at the far end of the building. Both men left the table and started walking, Rebus glad to see the back of his muffin and banana.
“Let’s hope she doesn’t beat us to it,” he said.
Gray was nodding, shaking drips from his shoes.
In fact, there was no sign of Fenella Lomax on the ward. Someone had put some pillows behind Chib Kelly’s head, and he was accepting sips of water from a nurse. Nolan stood up when Rebus and Gray approached.
“Thanks for letting us know,” Gray said. “That’s a favor I owe you.”
Nolan just nodded. He’d noticed the stained shirt, but didn’t ask. Chib Kelly had finished drinking and was resting his head against the pillows, eyes closed.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Kelly?” Rebus asked.
“You’re CID,” the voice croaked. “I can practically smell it off you.”
“That’s because they make us all wear the same deodorant.” Rebus sat down, watching the nurse. She was saying something to Gray about letting the doctor know Kelly was awake. Gray just nodded, but as she moved away he touched Nolan’s arm.
“Go keep her talking, Kenny. Give us a few extra minutes.” He winked. “You might even get a date.”
Nolan seemed happy with the challenge. Kelly had opened one eye. Gray sat down in the guard’s vacated seat.
“We need to get those cuffs off you, Chib. I’ll have a word when he comes back.”
“What do you want?”
“We want to talk about a pub you used to own: the Claymore.”
“I sold it three years ago.”
“Wasn’t it making you any money?” Rebus asked.
“It didn’t fit my portfolio,” Kelly said, closing the eye again. Rebus had thought his voice hoarse from sleep, but it wasn’t. Something had affected it, so that only one side of the mouth was operating a hundred percent.
“They keep telling me a portfolio’s a good thing to have,” Gray said, eyes on Rebus. “Money we make, we may never get the chance to find out.” He winked. Rebus wondered if he was trying to tell him something . . .
“My heart’s bleeding,” Kelly slurred.
“Well, you’re in the right place.”
“Rico Lomax used to drink in the Claymore, didn’t he?” Rebus asked the patient.
Kelly opened both eyes. He didn’t look surprised, just curious. “Rico?”
“We’re doing some housework on his case,” Rebus explained. “Just a few loose ends to tidy up . . .”
Kelly was quiet for a moment. Rebus could see Nolan at the far end of the ward, engaging the nurse in conversation.
“Rico drank in the Claymore,” Kelly acknowledged.
“And as the owner, you’d drink there too sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
Rebus nodded, even though the patient’s eyes were closing again.
“So you’d have met him?” Gray chipped in.
“I knew him.”
“And Fenella, too?” Rebus added.
Kelly opened his eyes again. “Look, I don’t know what it is you think you’re trying to pull . . .”
“Like we said, it’s housekeeping.”
“And what if I told you to take your feather dusters elsewhere?”
“Well, obviously we’d find that highly amusing,” Rebus said.
“About as amusing as a stroke,” Gray added. Kelly looked at him, eyes narrowing.
“I know you, don’t I?”
“We’ve met once or twice.”
“You’re based out at Govan.” Gray nodded. “With all the other bent cops.” Kelly tried his best to smile with both sides of his face.
“I hope you’re not suggesting that my colleague is less than honest,” Rebus said, angling for details.
“They all are,” Kelly said. Then he looked at Rebus and corrected himself. “You all are.”
“Were Fenella and you an item before Rico got whacked?” Gray hissed, suddenly tired of the game playing. “That’s all we want to know.”
Kelly considered his answer. “It wasn’t till after. Not that Fenella didn’t spread herself a bit thin back then, but that was because she was with the wrong man.”
“Something she didn’t realize till after Rico was dead?” Rebus asked.
“Doesn’t mean I killed him,” Kelly said confidently.
“Then who did?”
“What do you care? Rico’s just another blip on your clear-up rate.”
Rebus ignored this. “You say Fenella had other men: care to give us some names?”
A doctor was approaching — different one from before. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he was saying.
“Give us something to work with, Chib,” Rebus demanded.
Kelly had his eyes closed. The doctor was bedside now. “If you’ll just leave us for a few minutes,” he was saying.
“You’re welcome to him,” Gray said. “But take my advice, Doc: don’t strain yourself . . .”
They took the lift back down, stepped outside. Rebus lit a cigarette. Gray stared at it greedily.
“Thanks for putting temptation my way.”
“Funny thing about hospitals,” Rebus said. “I always need to smoke afterwards.”
“Give me one.” Gray held out a hand.
“You’ve stopped.”
“Don’t be a bastard all your life.” Gray flicked his hand towards himself, and Rebus relented, offering both a cigarette and the lighter. Gray inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs, then exhaled noisily. His eyes were screwed shut in ecstasy.
“Christ, that’s good,” he said. Then he examined the tip of the cigarette, let it fall from his fingers and crushed it underfoot.
“You might have nipped it and given it back,” Rebus complained.
Gray was studying his watch. “Suppose we could head back,” he said, meaning back to Edinburgh.
“Or. . . ?”
“Or we could take that tour I was promising you. Bugger is, I can’t drink if I’m driving.”
“Then we’ll stick to Irn-Bru,” Rebus said.
“I suppose we could visit the Claymore, see if anyone remembers any names for us.”
Rebus nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Waste of time?” Gray asked.
“Could be.”
Gray smiled. “Why is it I get the feeling you know more about this case than you’re letting on?” Rebus concentrated on finishing his cigarette. “That’s why you were so keen at Tulliallan, wasn’t it? Getting to the files before anyone else?”
Rebus nodded slowly. “You were right about that. I didn’t want my name coming up.”
“Yet you still let it happen? In fact, you made it happen. You could have kept that page of the report hidden . . . destroyed it even.”
“I didn’t want to be in your debt,” Rebus confided.
“So what is it you know about Rico Lomax?”
“That’s between me and my conscience.”
Gray snorted. “Don’t tell me you’ve still got one of those?”
“Dwindling to the size of my pension.” Rebus flipped his cigarette stub down a grating.
“Dickie Diamond’s old girlfriend really did recognize you, didn’t she?”
“I knew Dickie a bit back then.”
“I know what Jazz is thinking.”
“What?”
“He’s wondering if there could be any connection with that attack at the manse.”
Rebus shrugged. “Jazz has an active imagination.” Don’t give too much away, John, his brain was telling him. He had to convince Gray he was dirty without giving the man too much ammo. If he incriminated himself at any turn, it was something they — the trio and the High Hiedyins both — could use against him. But Gray’s mind was working away: Rebus could see it in the very way he was standing, head angled, hands in pockets.
“If you did have anything to do wi
th the Rico case . . .”
“I’m not saying I did,” Rebus qualified. “I’m saying I knew Dickie Diamond.”
Gray accepted the point. “All the same, doesn’t it strike you as quite a coincidence that we’ve ended up working that exact same case?”
“Except that we haven’t: it’s Rico Lomax we’re investigating, not Dickie Diamond.”
“And there’s no connection between the two?”
“I don’t remember going quite that far,” Rebus said.
Gray looked at him and laughed, shaking his head slowly. “You think the brass have got an inkling and are out to get you?”
“What do you think?”
Rebus was pleased and disturbed that Gray’s mind was taking him down this road. Pleased because it deflected Gray’s thoughts from another coincidence: namely, that of him, Jazz and Ward being thrown together into Tulliallan, with Rebus a late and sudden recruit. Disturbed because Rebus himself was wondering about the Lomax case, too, and whether Strathern had some agenda that he was keeping to himself.
“I was talking to a couple of guys who’ve been on our course before,” Gray said. “Know what they told me?”
“What?”
“Tennant always uses the same case. Not an unsolved: a murder that happened in Rosyth a few years back. They got the guy. That’s the case he always uses for his syndicates.”
“But not for us,” Rebus stated.
Gray nodded. “Makes you think, eh? A case both you and I worked . . . what’re the chances?”
“Think we should ask him?”
“I doubt he’d tell us. But it does make you wonder, doesn’t it?” He came up close to Rebus. “How far do you trust me, John?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Should I trust you?”
“Probably not. Everyone will tell you what an arse I can be.”
Gray smiled for effect, but his eyes remained bright, calculating orbs. “Are you going to tell me what it was you couldn’t tell Jazz?”
“There’s a price attached.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want the tour first.”
Gray seemed to think he was joking, but then he started nodding slowly. “Okay,” he said. “You’ve got a deal.”
They walked back to the car, where someone had attached a parking ticket to Gray’s windshield. He tore it off.
