by Ian Rankin
‘So why were you so interested in the toxicology results?’
‘Was I?’
‘Someone came looking for you in the canteen to tell you they’d arrived.’
Rebus smiled again. ‘I just wonder if maybe they were working for someone else.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Paul Duggan. He loaned the desperadoes his car. Plus they were sub-letting his council house.’
‘That’s illegal.’
‘Yes, it is. We might want to ask him a few follow-up questions.’
She thought this over, then nodded. ‘What else are you working on?’
He shrugged. ‘Not a lot, it’s always quiet this time of year.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way. I know your reputation, John. It was bad enough when I knew you, but the story goes that it’s even worse these days. I don’t want trouble.’
Rebus looked out of the window. It had started snowing. ‘Weather like this,’ he said, ‘there’s never much trouble in Edinburgh, trust me.’
7
Hugh McAnally was universally known as Wee Shug. He didn’t know why people called Hugh always ended up nicknamed Shug. There were a lot of things he didn’t know, and never would know. He wished he’d spent his time in jail bettering himself. He supposed he’d bettered himself in some ways: he could use machine tools, and knew how a sofa was put together. But he knew he wasn’t educated, not like his cell-mate. His cell-mate had been really clever, a man of substance. Not like Shug at all; chalk and cheese, if you came down to it. But he’d taught Shug a lot. And he’d been a friend. Surrounded by people, a jail could still be a lonely place without a friend.
Then again, what difference would it have made if he’d been brainier? None at all really, not a jot.
But he was going to make a difference to his life this evening.
It was another grievous night, a wind that was like walking through razor-blades.
Councillor Tom Gillespie wasn’t expecting many souls to make the trek to his surgery. He’d get a few complaints from the regulars about frozen and burst pipes, maybe a question about the cold weather allowance, and that would be about it. The constituents in his Warrender ward tended to be self-reliant — or easily cowed, depending on your point of view. Depending on your politics. He smiled across the room towards the extravagance he called a secretary, then studied the art on the classroom walls.
He always held his surgery in this school, third Thursday of every month during term-time. Between consultations he would catch up on correspondence, dictating letters into a hand-held recorder. The Central Members’ Services Division at the City Chambers typed the letters up. For general political matters, matters relating to his party, there was a separate admin assistant.
Which was why, as Gillespie’s wife had pointed out on numerous occasions, a private secretary was such an extravagance. But as the councillor had argued (and he was very good at argument), if he was going to get ahead of the crowd he needed to be busier than the other councillors, and above all he needed to seem to be busier. Short term extravagance, long term gain. You always had to be thinking in the long term.
He used the same rationale when he resigned his job. As he explained to his wife Audrey, half the district councillors had other jobs beside the council, but this meant they could not concentrate all their energies on council or political business. He needed to seem so busy that he had no time for a day job. Council committee meetings took place during the day, and now he was free to attend them.
He had other arguments in his favour, too. By working on council business during the day, his evenings and weekends were relatively free. And besides (and here he would smile and squeeze Audrey’s hand), it wasn’t as if they needed the money. Which was just as well, since his district councillor’s basic allowance was?4,700.
Finally, he would tell her, this was the most important time in local government for twenty years. In seven weeks’ time there would be new elections and the change would begin, turning the City of Edinburgh into a single-tier authority to be called the City of Edinburgh Council. How could he afford not to be at the centre of these changes?
Audrey, though, had won one condition: his secretary should be an older woman, plain and bomely. Helena Profitt fitted that bill.
Thinking of it, he never really won an argument with Audrey, not outright. She just snarled and spat and started slamming doors. He didn’t mind. He needed her money. Her money bought him time. If only it could save him the purgatory of these Thursday nights in the near-deserted school.
His secretary brought her knitting with her, and he could measure how quiet things had been by how much she got done in the hour. He watched her needles work, then went back to the letter he was writing. It wasn’t an easy letter to write; he’d been trying for over a week now. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could trust to dictation, and so far all he’d managed were his address at the top and the date beneath.
The school was quiet, the corridors well lit, the radiators burning away. The caretaker was busy somewhere, as were four cleaners. When the cleaners and the councillor had gone home, the caretaker would lock up for the night. One of the cleaners was a lot younger than the others, and had a tidy body on her. He wondered if she lived in his ward. He looked at the clock on the wall again. Twenty minutes to go.
He heard something slam, and looked over to the classroom door. A short man was standing there, looking deathly cold in a thin bomber-style jacket and shabby trousers. He had his hands deep in his jacket pockets and didn’t look inclined to remove them.
‘You the councillor?’ the man asked.
Councillor Gillespie stood up and smiled. Then the man turned to Helena Profitt. ‘So who are you?’
‘My ward secretary,’ Tom Gillespie explained. Helena Profitt and the man seemed to be studying one another. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Aye, you can,’ the man said. Then he unzipped his jacket and drew out a sawn-off shotgun.
‘You,’ he said to Miss Profitt, ‘get the fuck out.’ He pointed the weapon at the councillor. ‘You stay.’
Helena Profitt ran screaming from the classroom and nearly knocked over the cleaners. A pail of dirty water clattered to the wooden floor.
‘I’ve just polished thon!’
‘A gun, he’s got a gun!’
The cleaners stared at her. A sound like a tyre exploding came from the classroom. Miss Profitt, who had fallen to her knees, was joined by the other women.
‘What in Christ was that?’
‘She said a gun.’
And now there was a figure in the doorway. It was the councillor, almost in control of his legs. He looked for all the world like one of the paintings on the classroom wall, only it wasn’t paint that spattered his face and his hair.
Rebus stood in the classroom and looked at the paintings. Some of them were pretty good. The colours weren’t always right, but the shapes were identifiable. Blue house, yellow sun, brown horse in a green field, and a red sky speckled with grey …
Oh.
The room had been cordoned off by the simple act of placing two chairs in the doorway. The body was still there, spreadeagled on the floor in front of the teacher’s desk. Dr Curt was examining it.
‘This seems to be your week for messy ones,’ he told Rebus.
It was messy all right. There wasn’t much left of the head except for the lower jaw and chin. Stick a shotgun in your gub and heave-ho with both barrels and you couldn’t expect to win Mr Glamorous Suicide. You wouldn’t even make the last sixteen.
Rebus stood beside the teacher’s desk. There was a pad of lined paper on it. Scribbled on the top sheet was the message, ‘Mr Hamilton — allotment allocation’, alongside an address and telephone number. Blood had soaked through the paper. Rebus peeled off this first sheet. The sheet below was obviously the start of a letter. Gillespie had got as far as the word ‘Dear’.
‘Well,’ Curt got to his feet, ‘he’s dead, and if you were to
ask for my considered opinion, I’d say he used that.’ He nodded towards the shotgun, which lay a couple of feet from the body. ‘And now he’s gone to the other place.’
‘It’s just a shot away,’ said Rebus.
Curt looked at him. ‘Is the photographer on his way?’
‘Trouble getting his car to start.’
‘Well, tell him I want plenty of head shots — pun unavoidable. I gather we’ve a witness?’
‘Councillor Gillespie.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘He’s councillor for my ward.’
Dr Curt was pulling on thin latex gloves. It was time to search the body. Initially, they were looking for ID. ‘Cosy as this room is,’ Dr Curt said, ‘I’d prefer my own hearth.’
In the back pocket of the deceased’s trousers, Rebus found an official-looking envelope, folded in two.
‘Mr H McAnally,’ he read. ‘An address in Tollcross.’
‘Not five minutes away.’
Rebus eased the letter out of the envelope and read it. ‘It’s from the Prison Service,’ he told Dr Curt. ‘Details of assistance open to Mr H McAnally on his release from Saughton Jail.’
Tom Gillespie had a wash in the school toilets. His hair was damp and lay in clumps against his skull. He kept rubbing a hand over his face and then checking the palm for blood. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
Rebus sat across from him in the headteacher’s office. The office had been locked, but Rebus had commandeered it when the head arrived at the school. The cleaning ladies were being given mugs of tea in the staffroom. Siobhan Clarke was there with them, doing her best to calm down Miss Profitt.
‘Did you know the man at all, Mr Gillespie?’
‘Never seen him in my life.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Positive.’
Rebus reached into his pocket, then stopped. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ From the odour of stale tobacco in the room, he already knew the head wouldn’t mind.
Gillespie shook his head. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘give me one while you’re at it.’ Gillespie lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Gave up three years ago.’
Rebus didn’t say anything. He was studying the man. He’d seen his photo before, in election rubbish pushed through the letterbox. Gillespie was in his mid-forties. He wore red-rimmed glasses normally, but had left them on the desk. His hair was very thin and wispy on top, but curled thickly either side of his pate. His eyes had thick dark lashes, not just from the crying, and his chin was weak. Rebus couldn’t have called him handsome. There was a simple gold band on his wedding finger.
‘How long have you been a councillor, Mr Gillespie?’
‘Six years, coming up for seven.’
‘I live in your ward.’
Gillespie studied him. ‘Have we met before?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘So this man walks into the classroom …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Looking for you in particular?’
‘He asked if I was the councillor. Then he asked who Helena was.’
‘Helena being Miss Profitt?’
Gillespie nodded. ‘He told her to get out … Then he turned the shotgun around and stuck the end of it in his mouth.’ He shivered, ash falling from his cigarette. ‘I’ll never forget that, never.’
‘Did he say anything else?’ Gillespie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say anything?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Do you have any idea why he did it?’
Gillespie looked at Rebus. ‘That’s your department, not mine.’
Rebus held the stare until Gillespie broke it by looking for somewhere to stub out the cigarette.
There’s something in you, Rebus thought, something below the surface that’s a lot cooler, a lot more deliberate.
‘Just a few more questions, Mr Gillespie. How are your surgeries publicised?’
‘There’s a district council leaflet, most homes had one delivered. Plus I put up notices in doctors’ surgeries, that sort of place.’
‘They’re no secret then?’
‘What good would a councillor be if he kept his surgeries secret?’
‘Mr McAnally lived at an address in Tollcross.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who killed himself.’
‘Tollcross? That’s not in my ward.’
‘No,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘I didn’t think it was.’
DC Siobhan Clarke sat in on the interview with Helena Profitt. Miss Profitt was still bawling, her few utterances barely decipherable. She was older than the councillor, maybe by as much as ten years. She clutched a large shopping-bag on her lap as if it was a lifebuoy keeping her afloat. Maybe it was. She was short, with fair hair which had been permed a while back, most of it lost now. A pair of knitting needles protruded from her bag.
‘And then,’ she wailed, ‘he told me to get out.’
‘His exact words?’ Rebus asked.
She sniffed, calming a little. ‘He swore. He told me to get the f-u-c-k out.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘And you left the room?’
‘I wasn’t about to stay!’
‘Of course not. What did you think he was going to do?’
She had not yet asked herself this. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe he was going to hold Tom hostage, or shoot him, something like that.’
‘But why?’
Her voice rose. ‘I don’t know. Who knows why these days?’ She collapsed into hysterical sobs again.
‘Just a couple more questions, Miss Profitt.’ She wasn’t listening. Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged. She was suggesting they leave it till morning. But Rebus knew better than that; he knew the tricks the memory could play if you left things too long.
‘Just a couple more questions,’ he persisted quietly.
She sniffed, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and nodded.
‘Thank you, Miss Profitt. How long was there between you running out of the classroom and hearing the shots?’
‘The classroom’s at the end of the corridor,’ she said. ‘I pushed open the doors and bumped into the cleaning ladies. I fell to my knees and that’s when I heard … that’s when …’
‘So we’re talking about a matter of seconds?’
‘Just a few seconds, yes.’
‘And you didn’t hear any conversation as you left the room?’
‘Just the bang, that’s all.’
Rebus rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Thank you, Miss Profit, we’ll get a car to take you home.’
Dr Curt was finished in the classroom. The Scene of Crime Unit had taken over, and the photographer, who had finally arrived, was changing film.
‘We need to secure the locus,’ Rebus told the head-teacher. ‘Can this room be locked?’
‘Yes, there are keys in my desk. What about opening the school?’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ll be in and out tomorrow … the door might be left open …’
‘Say no more.’
‘And you’ll want to get the decorators in.’
‘Right.’
Rebus turned to Dr Curt. ‘Can we move him to the mortuary?’
Dr Curt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look at him in the morning. Has someone gone to that address?’
‘I’ll go myself. Like you say, it’s only five minutes away.’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke. ‘See that the Procurator-fiscal gets that Preliminary Notification.’
Curt looked back into the room. ‘He’d only just been released from prison, maybe he was depressed.’
‘That might explain a suicide, but not one like this: the amount of forethought, the setting …’
‘Our American cousins have a phrase for it,’ Curt said.
‘What’s that?’ Rebus asked, feeling he was walking into another of the doctor’s punchlines.
�
�In your face,’ Dr Curt obliged.
8
Rebus walked to Tollcross.
He had a taste in his lungs and a scent in his nostrils, and he hoped the cold might deaden them. He could walk into a pub and deaden them that way, but he didn’t. He remembered a winter years back, much colder than this. Minus twenty, Siberian weather. The pipes on the outside of the tenement had frozen solid, so that nobody’s waste water could run away. The smell had been bad, but you could always open a window. Death wasn’t like that; it didn’t go away just because you opened a window, or took a walk.
There was ice underfoot, and he skited a couple of times. Another good reason for not having a drink: he needed his wits about him. He’d copied McAnally’s address into his notebook. He knew the block anyway; it was a couple of streets up from the burnt-out shell of the Crazy Hose Saloon. There was an intercom at the main door. He flipped on his lighter and saw that MCANALLY was the third name up. His toes were going numb as he pressed the button. He’d been rehearsing what to say. No policeman liked to give bad news, certainly not news as bad as this. ‘Your husband’s lost the heid’ just didn’t fit the bill.
The intercom clattered to life. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the keys, Shug? If you’ve been drinking and lost them, you can freeze your arse off, see if I care!’
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Detective Inspector Rebus. Can I come up?’
‘Name of God, what’s he done?’
‘Can I come up, Mrs McAnally?’
‘You better had.’ The intercom buzzed, and Rebus pushed open the door.
The McAnallys lived one floor up: for once Rebus had been hoping for the top storey. He climbed slowly, trying to prepare his speech. She was waiting at the door for him. It was a nice new-looking door, dark-stained wood with a fan-shaped glass motif. New brass knocker and letterbox too.
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Come in.’ She led him down a short hall into the living room. It was a tiny flat, but nicely furnished and carpeted. There was a kitchenette off the living room, both rooms adding up to about twenty feet by twelve. Estate agents would call it ‘cosy’ and ‘compact’. All three bars of the electric fire were on, and the room was stifling. Mrs McAnally had been watching television, a can of Sweet-heart stout balanced on one wide arm of her chair, ashtray and cigarettes on the other.
