by Ian Rankin
‘Half-shot, is it, Brian? I’m glad you hold me in such high regard.’
Holmes just shrugged. ‘It’s what I’d do on holiday.’
Rebus filled the doorway, his arms folded. ‘So what are you doing: canvassing, polling, or maybe you were just passing?’
‘We were working,’ Brian Holmes explained. ‘We went to get something to eat afterwards, and when we ran out of interesting topics, the conversation came round to you.’
‘What about me?’
‘We wondered,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘what the hell’s going on.’
Rebus smiled. ‘You and me both.’ He stood back from the doorway. ‘You better come in. You’re the first to arrive; I haven’t even got the party snacks out.’ He noticed a brown carrier bag on the landing behind Brian Holmes.
‘We brought our own party with us.’ When Holmes picked up the bag, Rebus heard cans and bottles collide.
‘You’re always welcome here, Brian,’ Rebus said, leading them indoors.
They sat in the living room, staring at the pile of paper strips. Siobhan Clarke took a gulp of coffee.
‘You stole these?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘A public service; I saved the binmen a job.’
Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘We did say we were coming here to help.’
‘Yes, but this lot …?’ She flapped her arms. ‘I doubt the “Blue Peter” appeal could sort this lot out. Talk about shreds of evidence.’
Rebus held up a pacifying hand. ‘Look, this is my problem, not yours. I won’t be disappointed if you scurry off home. In fact, it would be better for you if you did.’
‘We know,’ said Holmes.
Rebus looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
Siobhan Clarke explained. ‘The Farmer spoke to us this afternoon. Basically, he warned us off. He said you were on leave, but he didn’t think that would stop you sticking your nose in.’ She looked up. ‘His words, not mine.’
‘We’ve been given new duties,’ Brian Holmes added. ‘Desk work, restructuring the filing system prior to full computerisation.’
‘To keep you busy?’
‘Yes.’
‘And away from me?’
They both nodded.
‘So naturally you come straight here?’ Rebus got to his feet. ‘You could be fucking up both your careers!’
‘I’m not in CID to sort through a lot of old paperwork,’ Siobhan Clarke retorted. Then she realised what she’d said, looked at the mound of shredded paper in front of her, and laughed.
They all did.
They hit lucky with the third bag.
‘Look,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘it’s not just white paper.’
Rebus took a strip from her: yellow card. ‘Files,’ he said. ‘They shredded the folders as well!’
‘Must be some machine,’ Brian Holmes added.
‘That’s a bloody good point, Brian.’
The folders were a breakthrough. The problem with the paper was that there was so much of it. There wasn’t nearly so much card, and what there was could be grouped by colour. The front of each file had a white printed label, and these were what Rebus wanted. He wanted the reconstructed labels.
But even knowing what they were looking for, it took time and effort. Rebus’s eyes were stinging, and he kept rubbing them, which only blurred his vision.
‘Get you two anything?’ he kept saying. They would only shake their heads. Rebus demolished the cans on his own. He knew he’d had too much when he polished off a tin of Irn-Bru without realising it was non-alcoholic.
The streets grew quieter after the students had slouched home on the wings of blasphemy. Around two-thirty, the central heating clocked off and Rebus turned on the gas fire. They each worked on a different colour of folder.
‘I saw one of the folders when Mrs Gillespie dropped it,’ Rebus said. ‘It was marked SDA/SE. I presume the letters stand for Scottish Development Agency and Scottish Enterprise. Scottish Enterprise took over when the SDA was wound up. Councillor Gillespie, by the way, sits on an industrial planning committee.’
‘So,’ Holmes remarked, ‘the SDA file could be completely innocent.’
‘Certainly he had a genuine reason for having a file on the SDA. But why be in such a panic to shred it?’
Holmes conceded the point.
‘I think I’ve got something,’ Siobhan Clarke said. She’d all but completed a yellow file, the label intact save for a strip or two. ‘Looks like the letters A C,’ she said, ‘then a name: Haldayne.’
Rebus fetched the phone book. There was no A C Haldayne in Edinburgh.
‘Strange spelling,’ Brian Holmes said. ‘I’ve never come across Haldayne with a y.’
‘Misspelt?’ Siobhan Clarke said. ‘The name of one of the councillor’s constituents?’
Rebus shrugged. Half an hour later, it was Holmes’s turn to complete a red file.
“‘Gyle Park West”,’ he read out.
Rebus wasn’t paying much attention; he was close to completing the last of the coloured folders, this one a lurid green.
“‘Mensung”,’ he said, looking up. ‘What the hell is Mensung?’
Siobhan Clarke yawned and rubbed at her eyes, then blinked a few times, looking around the room.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘it’s a good job this paper’s lying everywhere. Without it, this place would look like a tip.’
It was six on Friday morning when Rebus’s phone started ringing.
He fell off the chair, the duvet sliding with him. The phone was underneath one of the heaps of paper strips.
‘Whoever you are,’ he said, ‘whatever you want … you’re dead.’
‘It’s Siobhan, sir. I’ve been thinking about A C Haldayne.’
‘Me, too,’ Rebus lied.
‘I’ve been thinking about that funny spelling. American names are sometimes spelt differently, aren’t they?’
‘Is that why you woke me up?’
‘Well, it would tie in with AC.’
‘Would it?’
‘Christ, you’re slow, sir.’
‘It’s six in the morning, Clarke.’
‘All I mean is AC could stand for American Consulate. Haldayne could be a surname, and AC the consulate.’
Rebus sat up and opened his eyes. ‘That’s not bad.’
‘I tried phoning the consulate, but got an answering machine. It offered me a lot of options, mostly to do with visa applications, then put me through to the consulate proper, but all I got was another answering machine message telling me the opening hours.’
‘Try again in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry for waking you.’
‘That’s all right. Listen, Siobhan … thanks for helping me.’
‘It’s no problem, really.’
‘Then you won’t mind doing something else?’ He could almost hear her smile.
‘What?’
‘That shredder. I’m wondering how long Gillespie’s owned it.’
‘You want me to check?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will do. Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Clarke.’
Rebus put down the receiver and decided to get up. Half a minute later, he was asleep on the living-room carpet.
19
On Sunday, Rebus was invited to Oxford Terrace for afternoon tea.
He was glad of the break, having spent much of the previous forty-eight hours trying to piece together some of the strands of A4 paper. He hadn’t made any progress, but it had taken his mind off his swollen gum. By Saturday afternoon, he’d had enough and phoned a dentist, but of course by then all the dentists in Edinburgh were in the clubhouse, deciding over a second gin whether to bother with eighteen holes or, in this weather, just settle for nine.
On Sunday afternoon, dress smart but casual, he went to start his car and found it recalcitrant. Probably a loose connection. He looked under the bonnet, but was no mechanic. He was alone on the street, no one around to give him
a jump-start, so he went back indoors and called for a cab, noticing too late that he had oil on his hands, a smudge of which had transferred itself to his trouser leg.
He was not in the best of moods as his driver took him north across the city.
Sammy answered the door. She was wearing thick black tights with a short jumble-sale dress falling over them. Under the dress she wore a white T-shirt.
‘You’re almost on time,’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting you so soon.’
‘Did Patience teach you that one?’
He followed his daughter down the hall into the living room. Lucky the cat took one look at Rebus, seemed to remember him, and stalked off into the conservatory. Rebus heard the catflap rattle shut. Now it was only two against one; the odds were improving in Rebus’s favour.
He knew there were things fathers said to their daughters, little criticisms they were expected to make to show they cared. But Rebus knew what his little criticisms would sound like: they’d sound like criticisms. So he kept his counsel. Patience came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish-towel.
‘John.’
‘Hello, Patience.’ They kissed the way friends did, a peck on the cheek, a hand on the shoulder.
‘Be about two minutes,’ she said, turning back into the kitchen. He didn’t think she’d really looked at him. ‘Go into the conservatory.’
Sammy again led the way. The table had a clean white cloth on it, with some dishes already laid. Patience had brought her potted plants indoors for the winter, leaving not much room for anything or anyone else. The Sunday papers were heaped on the window-ledge. Rebus chose the chair nearest the garden door. Looking out of the conservatory window, he could see in through the kitchen window. Patience was busy at the sink, her face lacking emotion. She didn’t look up.
‘Liking it all right?’ Rebus asked his daughter.
She nodded. ‘It’s great, and so’s Patience.’
‘How’s the job?’
‘Very stimulating; not easy, but stimulating.’
‘What do you do exactly?’
‘SWEEP’S pretty small, we all muck in. I’m supposed to be developing communication skills in my clients.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You mean so they can be a bit more polite next time they mug their granny?’
She glowered at him and he raised his hands. ‘Just a joke,’ he said.
‘Maybe you need some communication skills yourself.’
‘He’s as blunt as a butt to the head,’ Patience said, bringing in the teapot.
‘Can I help?’ Sammy offered.
‘You sit there, I’ll be back in a second.’
She was away far longer than a second; there was no conversation between times. Rebus watched Lucky the cat staring at him from the garden path. Patience returned with plates of cakes and biscuits. His mouth was imploring him: no hot drinks, no cakes or biscuits, no sugar, no crunching.
‘I’ll pour,’ Sammy said. There was a clatter as Lucky came back in, seeking tidbits.
‘Cake, John?’ Patience said, offering him the pick from the plate. He took the smallest item he could find, a thin end-slice of madeira. Patience regarded his choice with suspicion: he’d always preferred ginger sponge, and she, who hated it, had bought one specially.
‘Sammy,’ Patience said, ‘try the ginger.’
‘It’s a bit sweet for me,’ Sammy replied. ‘I’ll just have a biscuit.’
‘Fine.’
‘This outfit of yours,’ Rebus began.
‘It’s called SWEEP,’ Sammy reminded him.
‘Yes, SWEEP, who funds it?’
‘We’ve charitable status. We get some donations, but spend more time than we ought to thinking up fund-raising schemes. The bulk of the money drips down from the Scottish Office.’ She turned to Patience. ‘We’ve this brilliant guy, he knows just how to word an application for funding, knows what grants are available …’
Patience looked interested. ‘Is he nice?’
Sammy blushed. ‘He’s great.’
‘And he deals with the Scottish Office?’ Rebus asked.
‘Yes.’ Sammy couldn’t see where this was leading. She worked with people who were mistrustful of police officers and other authority figures, mistrustful of their motives. Her colleagues were careful what they said in front of her. She’d been open with them from the start; she’d stated on the application form that her father was in Edinburgh CID. But there were some people who still didn’t trust her entirely.
She knew one problem was the media. When the media learned who her father was, they sought her out for a quote — her background made it more interesting. They called it ‘personalising the issues’. There were some people in SWEEP who felt resentful of the attention she got.
She didn’t really blame them. It was the system.
‘More cake, John?’
The catflap clacked again as Lucky went back outside.
‘No, thanks, Patience,’ Rebus said.
‘I think maybe I’ll try the madeira,’ Sammy said. Which left an awful lot of ginger cake.
‘You haven’t touched your tea, John.’
‘I’m waiting ’til it cools’. In the past, he’d always liked it scalding.
‘Why are you so interested in SWEEP all of a sudden?’ Sammy asked him.
‘I’m not, but I might be interested in the Scottish Office.’
Sammy looked like she didn’t believe him. She started to defend SWEEP, going on at length, her cheeks colouring with conviction. Rebus envied her that sense of conviction.
Then he said a couple of things, and an argument started. He couldn’t help himself; he’d just had to take a contrary point of view. He tried drawing Patience into the debate, but she only shook her head slowly and sadly. Finally, when Sammy had collapsed into a sulk, Patience was ready with her summing-up.
‘You see, Sammy, your father is the Old Testament type: retribution rather than rehabilitation. Isn’t that right, John?’
Rebus just shrugged, drank some lukewarm tea, and absent-mindedly chewed on a slice of buttered ginger cake.
‘And he’s the classic Calvinist, too,’ Patience went on. ‘Let the punishment fit the crime, and then some.’
‘That’s not Calvinism,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s Gilbert and Sullivan.’ He sat forwards in his chair. ‘Besides, the problem is that sometimes the punishment doesn’t fit the crime. Sometimes there’s punishment and no crime at all. Other times there’s crime but no punishment; and worst of all — ’ he paused — ‘nearly all of the time there’s unfairness.’ He looked at Sammy, wondering what SWEEP would have done for Willie Coyle and Dixie Taylor, wondering if anything at all, anything worth a candle, would have been left of them after prison.
Eventually, they found other things to talk about. Sammy didn’t contribute much; she just kept staring at her father, as if seeing him afresh. The sky outside conceded defeat and collapsed from slate-grey to late-afternoon black. While Patience and Sammy were clearing the table, Rebus stared at Lucky through the window, then went over to the catflap and locked it shut. The cat saw what he had done. It miaowed at him once, registering its protest. Rebus waved it cheerio.
They sat in the living room, and Patience handed over a few things he’d left behind after the move: his second-best razor, some clean handkerchiefs, a pair of shoelaces, a tape of Electric Ladyland. He stuffed everything into his jacket pockets.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome.’
Sammy saw him back to the door and waved him off.
That evening, back at the flat, Rebus sat listening to Hendrix with a lined pad of paper in front of him. There were some words on it.
SDA/SE (Scottish Office?)
A C Haldayne (US Consulate?)
Mensung (?? — not in phonebook)
Gyle Park West (industrial estate)
He knew about Gyle Park West because he’d driven out there that morning. It was a low-rise sprawl of smallish industrial and comm
ercial units, sited next to the imposing PanoTech electronics company. At the entrance to the estate there was a sign listing the various companies on the site, including Deltona. He remembered that Salty Dougary worked for Deltona, and that Deltona provided microchips for PanoTech, the PanoTech factory being more of an assembly line, constructing computers from components sourced elsewhere.
None of which seemed to tie Councillor Gillespie to Wee Shug McAnally. None of which was in itself suspicious. The councillor was on an industrial planning committee, which was excuse enough for owning files on the SDA and Scottish Enterprise and on Gyle Park West. But then why the panic, the hurry to destroy those files? That was what interested Rebus.
As he drove out of Gyle, an area of the city he didn’t really know, he realised something else. Gyle itself had boomed in the eighties, gaining new homes, industries, even its own railway station. Before then, it had just been a place near the airport. The airport had been its big advantage in the eighties, making for good fast communications. These days Gyle had an identity, and a lot of that was down to the injection of cash into the place. But there was something else in Gyle’s favour.
Its district councillor just happened to be the Lord Provost, Cameron McLeod Kennedy.
The telephone rang, bringing him out of his reverie. He snatched the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello yourself.’ It was Mairie Henderson.
‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,’ Rebus said.
‘I’ve only finally managed to track down LABarum.’ Rebus picked up his pen and moved the pad closer. ‘The reason I had trouble was, it doesn’t exist.’
‘What?’
‘Not yet at any rate. It’s a PanoTech project. Do you know who they are?’
‘The computer company?’
‘That’s right. LABarum is something they’ve been toying with. See, the problem with Silicon Glen, with the whole Scottish electronics industry, is that it’s a manufacturer. It puts bits and pieces together, but that’s about all. Everything’s sourced elsewhere.’
‘Not everything, there’s Deltona.’
‘A very small cog in the machine. What we need in Scotland is a software giant, a Microsoft, somebody researching, developing and producing software to go into the machines.’
