Set In Darkness ir-11

by Ian Rankin

She'd known John Rebus for several years now, and still they weren't close friends. Rebus, so far as she could tell, saw none of his colleagues outside work hours, apart from when she invited him to Hibs matches. His only hobby was drinking, and he tended to indulge where few women did, his chosen pubs museum pieces in a gallery marked prehistoric.

  He'd been living on and off for years with Dr Patience Aitken, but that seemed to be over, not that he was saying anything about it. At first she'd thought him shy, awkward, but now she wasn't so sure. It seemed more like a strategy, a wilfulness. She couldn't imagine him joining a singles club the way Derek Linford had done. Linford... another of her little mistakes. She hadn't spoken to him since The Dome. He'd left precisely one message on her answerphone: 'Hope you've got over whatever it was.' As if it was her fault! She'd almost called him back, forced an apology, but maybe that was his game: get her to make the move; contact of any kind the prelude to a rematch. Maybe there was method in John Rebus's madness. Certainly there was a lot to be said for quiet nights in, a video rental, the gin, and a box of Pringle's. Not trying to impress anyone; putting on some music and dancing by yourself. At parties and in clubs there was always that self-consciousness, that sense of being watched and graded by anonymous eyes.

  But next morning at the office it would be: 'What did you get up to last night then?' Asked innocently enough, but she never felt comfortable saying more than, 'Not much, how about you?' Because to utter the word alone implied that you were lonely.

  Or available. Or had something to hide. Hunter Square was empty save for a tourist couple poring over a map. The coffee she'd drunk was asking permission to leave, so she headed for the public toilet. When she came out of her cubicle, a woman was standing by the sinks, hunting through a series of carrier bags. Bag lady was an American term, but it suddenly seemed right. The woman's padded jacket was grubby, the stitching loose at the neck and shoulders. Her hair was short and greasy, cheeks red from exposure. She was talking to herself as she found what she'd been looking for: a half-eaten burger, still in its greaseproof wrapper. The woman held the comestible under the hand-dryer and let hot air play on it, turning it in her fingers. Clarke watched in fascination, unsure whether to be appalled or impressed. The woman knew she was being watched, but stuck to her task. When the dryer had finished its cycle, she pushed it on again with her finger. Then she spoke.

  'Nosy little beggar, aren't you?' She glanced towards Clarke. 'You laughing at me?'

  ' "Beggar",' Clarke quoted.

  The woman snorted. 'Easy amused then. And I'm no beggar, by the way.'

  Clarke took a step forward. 'Wouldn't it heat up quicker if you opened it?'

  'Eh?'

  'Heat the inside rather than the outside.'

  'You saying I'm cack-handed?'

  'No, I just...'

  'I mean, you're the world expert, are you? Lucky for me you just happened to be passing. Got fifty pence on you?'

  'Yes, thanks.'

  The woman snorted again. 'I make the jokes around here.' She took an exploratory bite of the burger, spoke with her mouth full.

  'I didn't catch that,' Clarke said.

  The woman swallowed. 'I was asking if you were a lesbian. Men who hang around toilets are poofs, aren't they?'

  'You're hanging around a toilet.'

  'I'm no lesbian, by the way.' She took another bite.

  'Ever come across a guy called Mackie? Chris Mackie?'

  'Who's asking?'

  Clarke produced her warrant card. ' You know Chris is dead?'

  The woman stopped chewing. Tried swallowing but couldn't, ended up coughing the mouthful out on to the floor. She went to one of the sinks, cupped water to her mouth. Clarke followed her.

  'He jumped from North Bridge. I'm assuming you knew him?'

  The woman was staring into the soap-flecked mirror. The eyes, though dark and knowing, were so much younger and less worn than the face. Clarke placed the woman in her mid-thirties, but knew that on a bad day she could pass for fifty.

  'Everybody knew Mackie.'

  'Not everybody's reacted the way you just did.'

  The woman was still holding her burger. She stared at it. seemed about to ditch it, but finally wrapped it up again and placed it at the top of one of her bags.

  "I shouldn't be so surprised,' she said. 'People die all the time.'

  But he was your friend?'

  The woman looked at her. 'Gonny buy me a cup of tea?' Clarke nodded.

  The nearest cafe wouldn't take them. When pressed, the manager pointed to the woman and said she'd caused trouble, trying to beg at the tables. There was another cafe further along.

  'I'm barred there as well,' the woman admitted. So Clarke went in, fetched two beakers of tea and a couple of sticky buns. They sat in Hunter Square, stared at by passengers on the top decks of the passing buses. The woman flicked the Vs from time to time, dissuading the spectators.

  'I'm a bad bugger, me.' she confided.

  Clarke had her name now: Dezzi. Short for Desiderata. Not her real name: 'Left that behind when I left home.'

  'And when was that, Dezzi?'

  'I don't remember. A lot of years now, I suppose.'

  'You always been in Edinburgh?'

  A shake of the head. 'All over. Last summer I ended up on a bus to some commune in Wales. Christ knows how that happened. Got a fag?'

  Clarke handed one over. 'Why did you leave home?'

  'Like I said, nosy little beggar.'

  'All right, what about Chris?'

  'I always called him Mackie.'

  'What did he call you?'

  'Dezzi.' She stared at Clarke. 'Is that you trying to find out my last name?'

  Clarke shook her head. 'Cross my heart.'

  'Oh aye, a cop's as honest as the day is long.'

  'It's true.'

  'Only, this time of year the days are awfy short,' Clarke laughed. T walked into that one.' She'd been trying to work out if Dezzi knew about Mackie, knew about the detective who was asking about him. Knew about the story in the News. 'So what can you tell me about Mackie?'

  'He was my boyfriend, just for a few weeks.' The sudden, unexpected smile lit up her face. 'Wild weeks they were, mind.'

  'How wild?'

  An arch look. 'Enough to get us arrested. I'm saying no more than that.' She bit into her bun. She was alternating: mouthful of bun, puff on the cigarette.

  'Did he tell you anything about himself?'

  'He's dead now, what does it matter?'

  'It matters to me. Why would he kill himself?'

  'Why does anyone?'

  'You tell me.'

  A slurp of tea. 'Because you give in.'

  'Is that what he did, give in?'

  'All the shite out here...' Dezzi shook her head. 'I tried it once, cut my wrists with a bit of glass. Eight stitches.' She turned one wrist as if to show it, but Clarke couldn't see any scars. 'Couldn't have been serious, could I?'

  Clarke was well aware that a great many homeless people were ill; not physically, but mentally. She had a sudden thought: could she trust any stories Dezzi told her?

  'When did you last see Mackie?'

  'Maybe a couple of weeks back.'

  'How did he seem?'

  'Fine.' She pushed the last morsel of bun into her mouth. Washed it down with tea, before concentrating on the cigarette.

  'Dezzi, did you really know him?'

  'What?'

  'You haven't told me one thing about him.'

  Dezzi prickled. Clarke feared she would walk off. 'If he meant something to you,' Clarke went on, 'help me get to know him.'

  'Nobody knew Mackie, not really. Too many defences.'

  'But you got past them?'

  'I don't think so. He told me a few stories... but I think that's all they were.'

  'What sort of stories?'

  'Oh, all about places he'd been - America, Singapore, Australia. I thought maybe he'd been in the navy or something, but he said he hadn't.'
r />   'Was he well educated?'

  'He knew things. I'm positive he'd been to America, not sure about the others. He knew London, though, all the tourist places and the underground stations. When I first met him...'

  'Yes?' Clarke was shivering; couldn't feel her toes.

  'I don't know, I got the feeling he was just passing through. Like, there was somewhere else he could go.'

  'But he didn't?'

  'No.'

  'Are you saying he was homeless by choice rather than necessity?'

  'Maybe.' Dezzi's eyes widened a little.

  'What is it?'

  'I can prove I knew him.'

  'How's that?'

  'The present he gave me.'

  'What present?'

  'Only, I didn't have much use for it, so I... I gave it to someone.'

  'Gave it to someone?'

  'Well, sold it. A second-hand shop on Nicolson Street.'

  'What was it?'

  'A briefcase sort of thing. Didn't hold enough stuff, but it was made of leather.'

  Mackie had carried his cash to the building society in a briefcase. 'So now it'll have been sold on to someone else?' Clarke guessed.

  But Dezzi was shaking her head. 'The shopkeeper's still got it. I've seen him walking about with it. Leather it was. and the bastard only gave me five quid.'

  It wasn't far from Hunter Square to Nicolson Street. The shop was an Aladdin's cave of tat, narrow aisles leading them past teetering pillars of used goods: books, cassettes, music centres, crockery. Vacuum cleaners had been draped with feather boas; picture cards and old comics lay underfoot. Electrical goods and board games and jigsaw puzzles; pots and pans, guitars, music-stands. The shopkeeper, an Asian, didn't seem to recognise Dezzi. Clarke showed her warrant card and asked to see the briefcase.

  'Five measly quid he gave me,' Dezzi grumbled. 'Genuine leather.'

  The man was reluctant, until Clarke mentioned that St Leonard's was just around the corner. He reached down and placed a scuffed black briefcase on the counter. Clarke asked him to open it. Inside: a newspaper, packed lunch and a thick roll of banknotes. Dezzi seemed to want a closer look, but he snapped shut the case.

  'Satisfied?' he asked.

  Clarke pointed to a corner of the case where the scuffing was worst.

  'What happened?'

  'The initials were not my initials. I attempted to erase them.'

  Clarke looked more closely. She was wondering if Valerie Briggs could identify the case. 'Do you remember the initials?' she asked Dezzi.

  Dezzi shook her head; she was looking, too.

  The shop was badly lit. The faintest indents remained.

  'ADC?' she guessed.

  'I believe so,' the shopkeeper said. Then he wagged a finger at Dezzi. 'And I paid you a fair price.'

  'You as good as robbed me, you sod.' She nudged Clarke. 'Stick the handcuffs on him, girl.'

  ADC, Clarke was thinking, was Mackie really ADC?

  Or would it prove another dead end?

  Back at St Leonard's, she kicked herself for not checking Mackie's criminal record sooner. August 1997, Christopher Mackie and 'a Ms Desiderata' (she refused to give the police her full name) were apprehended while involved in a 'lewd exhibition' on the steps of a parish church in Bruntsfield.

  August: Festival time. Clarke was surprised they hadn't been mistaken for an experimental theatre group.

  The arresting officer was a uniform called Rod Harken, and he remembered the incident well.

  'She got a fine,' he told Clarke by telephone from Torphichen police station. 'And a few days in clink for refusing to tell us her name.'

  'What about her partner?'

  'I think he got off with a caution.'

  'Why?'

  'Because the poor sod was nearly comatose.'

  'I still don't get it.'

  'Then I'll spell it out. She was straddling him, knickers off and skirt up, trying to haul his pants down. We had to wake him up to take him to the station.' Harken chuckled. 'Were they photographed?'

  'You mean on the steps?' Harken was still chuckling. Clarke heaped more ice into her voice. 'No, I do not mean on the steps. I mean at Torphichen.'

  'Oh aye, we took some snaps.'

  'Would you still have them?'

  'Depends.'

  'Well, could you take a look.1 Clarke paused. 'Please.'

  'Suppose so,' the uniform said grudgingly. 'Thank you.'

  She put the phone down. An hour later, the photos arrived by patrol car. The ones of Mackie were better than the hostel pictures. She stared into his unfocused eyes. His hair was thick and dark, brushed back from the forehead. His face was either tanned or weather-beaten. He hadn't shaved for a day or two, but looked no worse than many a summertime backpacker. His eyes looked heavy, as though no amount of sleep could compensate for what they'd seen. Clarke had to smile at the photos of Dezzi: she was grinning like a Cheshire cat, not a care in her world.

  Harken had put a note in the envelope: One other thing. We asked Mackie about the incident and he told us he wasn't a 'sexual beast' any more. Something got lost in the translation and we kept him locked up while we checked if he'd had previous as a sex offender. Turned out he hadn't.

  Her phone rang again. It was the front desk. There was someone downstairs for her.

  Her visitor was short and round with a red face. He wore a Prince of Wales check three-piece suit and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but hair grew copiously to either side, combed back over his ears. He introduced himself as Gerald Sithing.

  'I read about Chris Mackie in the newspaper this morning, gave me quite a turn.' His beady eyes were on her, voice high and quavering.

  Clarke folded her arms. 'You knew him, sir?'

  'Oh, yes. Known him for years.'

  'Could you describe him for me?'

  Sithing studied her, then clapped his hands. 'Oh, of course. You think I'm a crank.' His laughter was sibilant. 'Come here to claim his fortune.'

  'Aren't you?'

  He drew himself up, recited a good description of Mackie. Clarke unfolded her arms, scratched her nose. 'In here, please, Mr Sithing.'

  There was an interview room just to the side of the front desk. She unlocked it and looked in. Sometimes it was used for storage, but today it was empty. Desk and two chairs. Nothing on the walls. No ashtray or waste bin.

  Sithing sat down, looked around as though intrigued by his surroundings. Clarke had gone from scratching her nose to pinching it. She had a headache coming on, felt dead beat.

  'How did you come to know Mr Mackie?'

  'Complete accident really. Daily constitutional, back then I took it in the Meadows.'

  'Back when?'

  'Oh, seven, eight years ago. Bright summer's day, so I sat myself down on one of the benches. There was a man already seated there, scruffy... you know, gentleman of the road. We got talking. I think I broke the ice, said something about how lovely the day was.'

  'And this was Mr Mackie?'

  'That's right.'

  'Where was he living at the time?'

  Sithing laughed again. 'You're still testing me, aren't you?' He wagged a finger like a fat sausage. 'He was in a hostel sort of place, Grassmarket. I met him the very next day, and the day after that. It got to be a routine with us, and one I enjoyed very much.'

  'What did you talk about?'

  'The world, the mess we've made of it. He was interested in Edinburgh, in all the architectural changes. He was very anti.'

  'Anti?'

  'You know, against all the new buildings. Maybe in the end it got too much for him.'

  'He killed himself in protest at ugly architecture?'

  'Despair can come from many quarters.' His tone was admonishing.

  'I'm sorry if I sounded 'Oh, I'm sure it's not your fault. You're just tired.'

  'Is it that obvious?'

  'And maybe Chris was tired, too. That's the
point I was making.'

  'Did he ever talk about himself?'

  'A little. He told me about the hostel, about people he'd met...'

  'I meant his past. Did he talk about his life before he went on the street?'

  Sithing was shaking his head. 'He was more of a good listener, fascinated by Rosslyn.'

  Clarke thought she'd misheard. 'Rosalind?'

  'Rosslyn. The chapel.'

  'What about it?'

  Sithing leaned forward. 'My whole life's devoted to the place. You may have heard of the Knights of Rosslyn?'

  Clarke was getting a bad feeling. She shook her head. The stems of her eyes ached.

  'But you know that in the year 2000, the secret of Rosslyn will reveal itself?'

  'Is this some New Age thing?'

  Sithing snorted. 'It's very much an ancient thing.'

  'You believe Rosslyn's some sort of... special place?'

  'It's the reason Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland. Hitler was obsessed with the Ark of the Covenant.'

  'I know. I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark three times. You're saying Harrison Ford was looking in the wrong place?'

  'Laugh all you like,' Sithing sneered.

  'And that's what you talked about with Chris Mackie?'

  'He was an acolyte!' Sithing slapped the desk. 'He was a believer.'

  Clarke was getting to her feet. 'Did you know he had money?'

  'He'd have wanted it to go to the Knights!'

  'Did you know anything about him?'

  'He gave us a hundred pounds to carry on our researches. Beneath the floor of the chapel, that's where it's buried.'

  'What?'

  'The portal! The gateway!'

  Clarke had the door open. She grabbed Sithing's arm. It felt soft, as if there were no bones beneath the flesh.

  'Out,' she commanded.

  'The money belongs to the Knights! We were his family!'

  'Out'

  He wasn't resisting, not really. She swung him into the revolving door and gave it a push, propelling him out on to St Leonard's Street, where he turned to glare at her. His face was redder than ever. Strands of hair had fallen forwards over his eyes. He began talking again, but she turned away. The desk sergeant was grinning. 'Don't,' she warned.

  'I hear my Uncle Chris passed away,' he said, ignoring her raised finger. As she made for the stairs, she could hear his voice. 'He said he'd leave me a little something when he went. Any chance, Siobhan? Come on, just a few quid from my old Uncle Chris!'