by Ian Rankin
‘My office — now.’
Rebus noticed that the Farmer’s computer was up and running. It had taken over his desk. The photo of his family had been moved to the top of the filing-cabinet.
‘Getting to grips with it all right, sir?’ Rebus asked. But the Farmer was not to be deflected.
‘What the hell are you playing at? I ordered you to take a holiday!’
‘And I’m enjoying every minute, sir.’
‘Making a nuisance of yourself at a foreign consulate, that’s your idea of fun?’
‘I couldn’t afford to go abroad.’
‘The way you’re going, maybe you can’t afford not to.’
‘It was just a bit of unfinished business, sir.’
‘What sort of unfinished business?’
‘It’s not really a police matter, sir.’
The Farmer glowered at him. ‘I hope to God that’s the truth, Inspector.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die, sir.’
‘You’re one step from an official reprimand, two steps from suspension.’
And three steps from heaven, Rebus thought. He told the Farmer he understood.
In the main office, he checked for messages. There were half a dozen, stuck on to the screen of his new PanoTech computer. Around him he could hear the soft clack-clack of muffled keyboards. He stared at his own console as if it was an unfriendly visitor. His reflection stared back at him.
Three of the messages were from Rory McAllister at the Scottish Office. Rebus picked up the telephone.
‘McAllister speaking.’
‘Mr McAllister, it’s John Rebus.’
‘Inspector, thanks for getting back to me.’ McAllister sounded relieved, but also edgy, not like himself.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Can we meet?’
‘Sure, but give me some idea — ’
‘Calton Cemetery at one o’clock.’ The phone went dead.
During the day, Calton Cemetery was more or less deserted. In summer, you’d get visitors looking for David Hume’s grave. The more knowledgeable or curious might seek out the resting places of the publisher Constable and David Allan the painter. There was a statue of Abraham Lincoln, too, if it hadn’t been sledgehammered by vandals.
At one o’clock on a crisp winter’s day, nobody was interested in headstones. Such, at least, was Rebus’s first impression as he walked through the cemetery gate. But then he saw that a gentleman was perusing the monuments, using a black rolled umbrella as a walking-cane. What hair he had mixed black with silver, and was slicked back from the forehead. His face and ears were red, maybe just from the cold, and he wore a black woollen overcoat, belted at the waist.
He saw Rebus, and gestured for him to join him. Rebus climbed the stone steps towards him.
‘Haven’t been here in years,’ the man said. His voice had been Scots once, before the inflexions and elisions had been milked out of it. ‘I take it you’re Rebus?’
Rebus studied the man. ‘That’s right.’
‘McAllister’s not coming. I’m a colleague of his.’
Close up, the man’s face was pockmarked and he had one slightly lazy eye. With his free hand, he played with the cashmere scarf tucked inside the collar of his coat.
‘What’s your name?’ Rebus asked. The man seemed both surprised and amused by the question’s bluntness.
‘My name’s Hunter.’ Something about the way he said this, and his whole bearing, told Rebus he wasn’t so much McAllister’s colleague as his superior.
‘Well, Mr Hunter, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m interested in your line of inquiry, Inspector.’
‘And what line is that, sir?’
‘You were asking certain questions of McAllister.’ A bus roared past, and Hunter raised his voice. ‘The line of those questions intrigues me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because the Scottish Office likes to take an interest.’
‘In what exactly?’
The bus gone, Hunter lowered his voice again. ‘I’ll be succinct. I’d prefer it, Inspector, if you would discontinue your present line of inquiry. I don’t believe it germane.’
‘You’d prefer it?’
‘There may be a conflict of interests.’ Hunter lifted the walnut handle of his umbrella until it rested under his chin. ‘Of course, I’m a civil servant and you are a policeman: it’s not for me to interfere with your business.’
‘Good of you, I’m sure.’
‘But we are both, are we not, servants of the State?’ Hunter swung the umbrella at some leaves on the ground. ‘All I can say to you at this point, Inspector, is that your inquiries may well interfere with longstanding investigations we are pursuing.’
‘I didn’t know investigation was part of the Scottish Office’s remit, Mr Hunter. Unless you’re talking about an internal inquiry?’
‘You are a clever man, Inspector, and I appeal to your intellect.’
‘To be honest, sir, you don’t appeal to me at all.’
Hunter’s face darkened slightly. ‘Let’s not cross swords on this.’ He swung at more leaves.
‘Cooperation?’
Hunter considered this. ‘Not yet. I’m afraid. The affair is confidential. But later, definitely. Full cooperation. What do you say?’ He held out his hand. ‘A gentleman’s agreement.’
Rebus, knowing himself no gentleman, took the hand, just to put Hunter’s mind at rest. The older man didn’t look relieved, just quietly pleased that negotiations had been bloodless and — in his eyes — successful. He turned to leave.
‘I’ll call you when I’ve something I can say,’ he told Rebus.
‘Mr Hunter? Why did you get McAllister to phone me? Why not just call yourself?’
Hunter smiled with half his mouth. ‘What’s life without a little intrigue, Inspector?’ He negotiated the steps carefully, with a slight limp. Too proud to carry a cane, he used a brolly instead. Rebus waited half a minute, then walked quickly to the gate and peered along the street to the right. Hunter was walking along Waterloo Place as if he owned it. Rebus kept well behind him as he followed.
It was a short walk, only as far as the Reichstag: St Andrew’s House. Which, Rebus recalled, was where the most senior Scottish Office bureaucrats did their business. He recalled, too, that it was built on the site of the old Calton Gaol. Rebus walked past the sooty building and crossed the road. He stood outside the old Royal High School, putative HQ for any Scottish Assembly that might come along. It was mothballed, and a lone protestor had taken up residence outside, his banners arguing for devolution and a Scottish Parliament.
Rebus stared at St Andrew’s House for a couple of minutes, then walked back along Waterloo Place to where he’d illegally parked his car. It had received a ticket, but he could square that later. Over the years, he’d collected more tickets than Haldayne, a wheen more. Do as I say, he thought, not as I do. There had been other ‘fringe benefits’ along the way, too: cafes and restaurants where he ate for free, bars where his money was no good, a baker who’d slip him a dozen rolls. He wouldn’t call himself corrupt, but there were some out there who’d say he’d been bribed, or greased for a future bribe. There were those who’d say he’d been bought.
Do as I say, not as I do. And with that he tore up the parking ticket.
Back at his flat, Rebus got out all the information he had on the Scottish Office. He didn’t find the name Hunter anywhere. The documents were shy about naming names where civil servants were involved, though happy to trumpet the names of the incumbent Secretary of State, Minister of State, and Parliamentary Under-Secretaries, all of whom were either MPs or held seats in the House of Lords. As McAllister had explained, these were the temporary boys, the figureheads. When it came to the permanent force — the senior civil servants — Rebus found only silence and anonymity: modesty, he wondered, or discretion? Or maybe something else entirely.
He called Mairie Henderson at her home.
‘
Got a story for me?’ she asked. ‘I could do with one.’
‘What do you know about the Scottish Office?’
‘I know a bit.’
‘Senior management?’
‘There may have been changes since I last looked. Phone the paper, talk to — who’d be best? Home Affairs or Parliament? — yes, Roddy McGurk, talk to him, say I gave you his name.’
‘Thanks, Mairie.’
‘And I’m serious about the story. Inspector …’
Rebus called the newspaper office and asked for Roddy McGurk. He was put through immediately.
‘Mr McGurk, I’m a friend of Mairie Henderson’s. She said maybe you could help me clarify something.’
‘Fire away.’ The voice was West Highland.
‘It’s an identity, actually. A man called Hunter, Scottish Office, late-fifties, uses an umbrella when really he should have a stick …’
McGurk was laughing. ‘Let me stop you there. You’re describing Sir lain Hunter.’
‘And who’s he when he’s at home?’
McGurk laughed again. ‘He is the Scottish Office. He’s the Permanent Under-Secretary, usually known as — ’
‘The Permanent Secretary,’ Rebus said, feeling queasy in his gut.
‘Policy initiator for the whole country. You might call him “Mr Scotland”.’
‘Not a very public figure though?’
‘He doesn’t need to be. In the words of the old song, he’s got the power.’
Rebus thanked McGurk and put the receiver down. He was trembling slightly. Mr Scotland … he’s got the power. He wondered what he’d got himself into.
Then the telephone rang.
‘I forgot to say …’ Mairie Henderson began.
‘Yes?’
‘Remember you asked if there was any dirt on Councillor Gillespie?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, there wasn’t in my day, but I got talking yesterday to someone at BBC Scotland. You know I’m doing some radio stuff down at Queen Street? Anyway, it’s not really Gillespie, it’s about his wife.’
‘What about her?’
‘Word is, she’s involved with someone else.’
‘Having an affair, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Rebus remembered his visit to the councillor’s home. There had seemed little love lost, but at the time he’d blamed other things.
‘Who’s her partner in crime?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘So how does your source at the Beeb know?’
‘He didn’t say, it’s just some rumour he picked up when last in the City Chambers. The way it was told to him, he thinks maybe it’s another councillor.’
‘Well, let me know if you hear anything more. Bye, Mairie.’
Rebus put the phone down and tried to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. He stared at the bags of shredded paper, but they didn’t help. He ended up repeating a question to himself.
What have I got myself into?
28
Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale was in an open ward of the Royal Infirmary, but his bed was in a corner by a window, with a view over the Meadows. He’d drawn the curtain between his own bed and his neighbour’s, affording some privacy. There was a vase of flowers on his bedside cabinet. They looked ready to expire in the hospital’s infernal heat.
‘You can almost see my flat from here,’ Rebus said, looking out of the window.
‘That’s been a constant source of comfort to me,’ Lauderdale said. ‘It’s taken you long enough to visit.’
‘I don’t like hospitals, Frank.’
‘Neither do I. You think I’m in here for the good of my health?’
They shared a smile, and Rebus examined the patient. ‘You look like shite, Frank.’
Lauderdale’s face looked like an infant had tried shaving it with a safety razor. There were dozens of nicks and scars where the windscreen had cut him. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and there were black ugly stitches on his nose. With all the plaster and bandages he sported, he looked like the joke patient from a comedy sketch.
‘How are the legs?’ Rebus asked.
‘Itchy.’
‘That’s supposed to be a good sign.’
‘Oh, I’ll walk again … so they say.’ Lauderdale smiled nervously. ‘Maybe I’ll have a limp or two.’
‘Two would be better,’ said Rebus. ‘They’d balance you up.’
‘Want to sign my stookie?’
Rebus looked at the plastercasts on Launderdale’s legs. They’d been signed by several visitors. ‘Which one?’
‘Take your pick.’
Rebus took a ballpoint pen from his pocket. It wasn’t easy to write on the coarse surface, but he did his best.
‘What does it say?’ Lauderdale asked, craning his neck.
‘“Clunk-click every trip.”’
Lauderdale lay back again. ‘What’s happened about those two?’
He meant Willie and Dixie. ‘Search me,’ said Rebus. ‘I’m on holiday.’
‘So I’d heard.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your new boss told me. Frankly, I have my doubts: if I know you, while you’re still in this city, you’ll always be working. How is she shaping up?’
He meant Gill Templer. Rebus nodded. ‘She’s doing fine.’ He wasn’t sure this was what Frank Lauderdale wanted to hear. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. ‘I’ve got a problem actually, Frank.’
‘Of course you have, that’s why you’re here.’
‘It’s not the Lord Provost’s daughter …’
‘You haven’t found her yet?’
‘I’m getting closer. She did know those two in the car.’
‘I’d not heard that.’
Rebus shifted in the chair. ‘I haven’t exactly gone public with it.’
Lauderdale shook his head. ‘Christ, John …’
‘Like I say, she’s not my immediate problem. My problem is a small-time loser called Wee Shug McAnally.’
‘The one who gave himself a sawn-off haircut?’
‘Yes.’ Rebus ran his tongue over the hole in his tooth. ‘See, he shared a cell in Saughton with a fraudster called Derwood Charters. Wee Shug was moved from another jail, and just happened to end up in that cell.’ Rebus was staring hard at Lauderdale. ‘It also just happened that none of the other cons knew what McAnally was in for. It was rape, by the way. Of a minor. Now, Frank, what does all that tell you?’ Lauderdale said nothing. ‘What it tells me,’ Rebus went on, ‘is that there was collusion at the top to stop the other cons getting to know.’
‘Give me some water, will you?’
Rebus poured some for Lauderdale. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ Lauderdale asked, taking the beaker.
‘There could be a multitude of reasons. Let me try one on you: say McAnally was in there as a plant.’
Lauderdale took his time drinking the water. ‘A plant?’ he said at last.
‘Either to spy on Charters, or else to gain his trust. Now,’ Rebus pulled his chair closer, not that Lauderdale was going anywhere, ‘the reason Charters is inside is for fraud, and he was put inside by the Fraud Unit. Leading the investigation was Chief Superintendent Allan Gunner, now deputy chief constable. It so happens the DCC was the one who fixed me up with this lovely holiday. He threatened the Farmer with an HMIC inspection if I wasn’t reined in.’
‘He should have known better.’ Lauderdale paused. ‘But HMIC is an independent body, how could the DCC have control over their decisions?’
It was, Rebus conceded, a good point. The people who ran HMIC were civil servants rather than police officers.
‘Well, anyway,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it was Gunner who applied the pressure, I’m sure it was.’
‘Other officers might have taken the hint, John.’
‘Not me. Now, on that initial investigation of Charters were at least two officers of my acquaintance: yourself and Alister Flower. And Flower’s been warning m
e off, too. Which makes for a nice little circle, don’t you think, Frank?’
‘Why come to me?’
‘Maybe because you’re the only person I can try. Maybe because, despite myself, I almost trust you. I mean, you’re a schemer, a chancer, and you’d like the Farmer’s office. But at heart you’re a copper.’ Rebus paused. ‘Same as me. So come on, Frank, tell me about McAnally.’
‘I can’t.’ Lauderdale saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘I can’t, because there’s nothing to tell. You’re right, I did work on the Albavise inquiry, but that’s as far as it goes. I know this, though: if you’re crossing not only Flower but the likes of the DCC and Big Jim Flett, then you’d better watch out.’
‘I think it goes further than that even,’ Rebus confided. ‘The Scottish Office, maybe even MPs or ministers.’
‘Christ, John,’ Lauderdale whispered.
Rebus stood up. ‘So maybe as you’re packing your bags to go home, they’ll be wheeling me in to take your place.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
‘Who said I was joking?’
‘And don’t tell me any more. The less I know the better.’
‘For you or for me?’
Lauderdale sat up as best he could. ‘Let it go,’ he advised. ‘For once in your dunder-headed life, just walk away.’
Rebus put the chair back where he’d found it. ‘I can’t do that, Frank.’ He pushed his tongue into the hole again. The poison hadn’t all drained yet.
‘Take care of yourself,’ he told Lauderdale.
‘That should probably be my line.’
Rebus was halfway down the ward when he heard Lauderdale calling for him. He walked back to the bed. Lauderdale had propped himself up and was staring out of the window.
‘Flower,’ he said, not turning to look at Rebus.
‘What about him, Frank?’
‘McAnally was Flower’s eyes and ears.’
‘His snitch?’
Lauderdale nodded, eyes still on the window.
‘I appreciate this,’ said Rebus, turning away again.
‘I hope you do, John,’ Frank Lauderdale said quietly.
There was an envelope lying on the hall carpet. The post had already been; this had been delivered by hand: no stamp, just his name in blue ink. There was an embossed official crest on the sealed flap — the lion and the unicorn holding a shield between them. Rebus knew it was the Scottish Office crest. He flexed the envelope in his hands. It was thin and light, yet fairly solid. Leaving it on the arm of the chair, he went to the kitchen and added tap-water to a glass of whisky. He found a knife in the drawer, and took both glass and knife back through to the chair. He took a mouthful of whisky before slitting open the envelope.
