Let It Bleed ir-7

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Now you’re just twisting my words.’

  ‘Am I?’ He grabbed her by the arms. ‘Look me in the face and tell me that. Tell me I’m not right.’

  She shrugged free of his grip. ‘John,’ she said, more calmly. ‘I came here to warn you. Tomorrow morning could spell the end of your career.’

  ‘You think I care about that?’ He tried to sound casual.

  She took a step towards him. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I think you do.’ Her green eyes seemed to bore into him. ‘I think, beneath it all, you’re scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ He smiled. ‘Of course I’m scared. I wouldn’t mind if it was some big hard bastard who had me cornered in an alley, or if some kind of contract was out on me. But this is worse, this scares me to death.’

  ‘Then drop it. Say you’re sorry to a few people, and come back to work.’

  He smiled again. ‘It would be that easy, wouldn’t it? You’d do it.’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

  She tried to measure his sincerity, but it was like measuring haar.

  32

  Big Jim Flett was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Even the Big Man has to take a few hours off here and there,’ his deputy said, leading Rebus down one of the corridors inside Saughton Jail.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Rebus said, even though he was sure the governor was avoiding him. He had lied to Rebus, and now Rebus knew it.

  ‘Derry doesn’t get many visitors,’ the deputy said. He was a brisk, nervous man, ruddy-faced and jacketless with his shirt-sleeves rolled up.

  ‘You know him then?’

  ‘We’ve had conversations.’

  ‘I was told he didn’t mix.’

  ‘That’s true, but I’ve always found him pleasant enough.’

  ‘He hasn’t tried to sell you anything, has he?’

  The deputy laughed. ‘No, not yet. He’d make a damned good salesman though.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Quiet for the most part, never gives us any trouble.’ They were nearing a metal door, beside which stood a warden. The warden unlocked the door and swung it open.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?’ the deputy asked Rebus. Rebus shook his head, but with a gracious smile. ‘Well, Munro here will take Derry back to his cell when you’re finished.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ Rebus said.

  The door closed after him, the key rattling in its lock. Rebus was alone with Derwood Charters.

  Charters was pacing the floor, arms folded, head bowed as if he was pondering some problem.

  ‘Do you play chess?’ Charters asked, without looking up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Rebus looked around the room. There was a table, its legs bolted to the floor, and two chairs beside it. On one wall, a blackboard provided the room’s only hint of decoration.

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ Rebus said.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable.’ Charters smiled at his little joke. He continued to pace the floor, and Rebus studied him. Charters was in his mid-forties, tall and broad-shouldered. He was immaculately groomed, his hair parted just so, his face shiny and clean-shaven. His fingernails looked manicured.

  ‘Do you know what zugzwang means?’

  ‘Sounds German,’ Rebus said.

  For the first time, Charters looked at him. ‘Of course it’s German. It’s a chess position. It’s when you’ve to play, only any move you make will spell disaster. Yet you’ve got to make a move. There was a chess puzzle in today’s paper, and I’m damned if I can solve it.’

  ‘The solution’s easy,’ Rebus said.

  Charters stopped pacing. ‘What?’

  ‘Take up golf instead.’

  Charters considered this, then smiled. He came and sat down opposite Rebus, folding his hands on the table. ‘May I see some identification?’

  Rebus took out his warrant card. Charters examined it against the light, as though it might represent a particularly brilliant forgery.

  ‘On a Sunday night,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I don’t get many visitors, let alone on a Sunday night. And a police officer at that.’

  ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about Wee Shug McAnally.’

  ‘Ah yes, Hugh.’ McAnally probably hadn’t been called ‘Hugh’ by anyone apart from the minister at his christening and the judge who pronounced sentence on him. Charters seemed to read Rebus’s mind. ‘I respect a person’s name, Inspector. It’s all we bring into this world, and it’s all we take out of it. My own name is sometimes abbreviated to Derry. In here, that has earned me the nickname “the apprentice boy”.’

  Charters’ voice — quiet, atonal — had a mesmeric quality, and once his eyes had fixed on Rebus’s, they never left them.

  ‘You know he committed suicide, Mr Charters?’

  ‘Very unfortunate.’

  ‘Suicides have to be investigated.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Whether you know it or not, it happens to be the case. Tell me, did McAnally talk to you much?’

  ‘All the time. To be frank, it annoyed me. Even when I was trying to read, he’d be blethering on about nothing of consequence, just filling the cell with noise. As though there wasn’t enough noise in here already. At the start, I thought he’d been allotted my cell as some subtle form of punishment. You know, psychological torture.’

  ‘So what did he talk about? I’m assuming these were fairly one-sided affairs?’

  ‘They were soliloquys. As to the substance … he talked about his background, his wife — interminably about his wife; I feel I know her as well as her gynaecologist must. He spoke of his affairs with other women, which I didn’t believe for one second. And every time he finished a story, he’d ask me, plead with me, to tell him something about myself.’ Charters paused. ‘What do you make of that, Inspector? I mean, Hugh was obsessed with himself, and yet every now and then he’d suddenly stop and ask me something. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  Rebus ignored the question. ‘What was he in for?’

  ‘You see? You’ve avoided answering! That’s what I had to do twenty times a day.’

  ‘Are you going to answer?’

  ‘He told me it was for housebreaking.’

  ‘And I believe you’re inside for fraud, is that correct?’

  ‘Interesting,’ Charters mused, patting his fingers against his mouth. ‘Why would you ask me what Hugh was inside for?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ Rebus improvised, ‘if the two of you ever talked about it. I’m trying to build up a picture of him.’

  ‘To hazard a guess as to why he killed himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, obviously he killed himself because he was dying of cancer.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  Charters smiled again. ‘I’m only guessing.’

  ‘Well, you’re probably right, that’s probably why he did kill himself. What it doesn’t explain is the manner.’

  ‘You mean, why would he pick on a city councillor to witness his last rites?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Have you tried asking the councillor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ Charters was trying to sound casually curious. Rebus stared at him.

  ‘Do you know the councillor?’ he asked.

  ‘Never met him.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  Charters sat back and folded his arms. ‘Now you’re learning subtlety, Inspector. Our contest can only improve.’

  ‘It’s not a game of chess, Mr Charters.’

  Charters looked penitent. ‘Of course not, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you know the councillor?’ Rebus repeated.

  ‘I read newspapers, Inspector, I keep up with events. So to a certain extent, yes, I know Councillor Gillespie.’

  ‘And does he know you?’

  ‘Why should
he?’

  It was Rebus’s turn to smile. Charters had used the word ‘subtlety’. Rebus was learning that he must needs be oblique.

  ‘You ran a company called Mensung, didn’t you?’

  ‘A long time ago, yes.’ Rebus noticed that though he was outwardly well groomed, Charters’ teeth were the colour of dead fish. ‘I like these tangents, Inspector. Your mind moves in mysterious ways. Difficult to zugzwang someone who plays so erratically. Why are you interested in a company I wound up seven years ago?’

  ‘I told a friend of mine I was coming to speak to you. He said he attended some retraining seminars held by Mensung on Corstorphine Road.’

  The response seemed to satisfy Charters. ‘Which company did he work for?’

  ‘He didn’t say. He still works in electronics, for one of PanoTech’s subcontractors.’

  ‘Then maybe the seminars did him some good.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I heard a story that you helped finance PanoTech when the company was in its infancy.’

  Charters raised an eyebrow. ‘Stories tend to become confused over time.’

  ‘You’d nothing to do with it then?’ Charters shook his head. ‘By the way, why did Mensung go bust?’

  ‘It didn’t “go bust” — I wound it up. I was bored with it, and couldn’t find anyone to buy me out.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m easily bored.’ He got up and started pacing the room again. ‘You know, Inspector, you told me you were here to ask a few questions about Hugh. We’ve strayed a long way from that particular topic, wouldn’t you say?’

  Rebus stood up.

  ‘Going so soon?’

  ‘You’re enjoying yourself too much, Derry. This isn’t supposed to be fun. A man’s dead.’

  Charters stopped pacing. ‘A man who was dying anyway. A man who chose his own route out. Luckier than most of us, I’d wager. If the doctors told me I had only a few agonising months to live, I think I’d go find myself a gun, too. But the world would look so unfair to my eyes — all those people so alive and vibrant around me, all those ill people being cured in hospitals — maybe I’d want a witness to the injustice of it all, someone representing authority in my eyes and the eyes of those around me. Maybe I’d want him to see my agony, to share in my horror. It would have to be an easy target though … and a councillor is such an easy target — accessible, public, approachable. I’d be making a point to the world. I would refuse to die in silence!’

  The silence after Charters had finished was resonant. He had worked himself up to a pitch, and now calmed only slowly. There had been anger in his voice, and fervour, and conviction. His eyes were on Rebus’s. He’d make a damned good salesman.

  ‘I don’t buy it,’ Rebus said, going to the door.

  ‘Inspector.’ Rebus paused. ‘You called me “Derry” — that was a cheap shot. Apart from that, you did pretty well.’ He paced the floor again. ‘Hugh didn’t really talk about his wife that often. There was another woman … he described her so accurately, I could probably paint her for you even now. Her name was Maisie. He talked about her all the time. I think he loved her more than anyone in the world. Perhaps you should talk to her.’

  ‘I already have, Mr Charters.’

  Rebus left the cell feeling that Charters had given a name to his own feelings about the investigation, Willie and Dixie, and life in general.

  The word was zugzwang.

  It was four a.m. when his phone rang. He came awake, but left it to ring. Four a.m., news just had to be bad. The caller persisted, and at last Rebus picked up the receiver.

  ‘Mr Rebus?’

  A young voice, insolent, a bit drunk. Loud music and voices in the background: a party.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Paul. Paul Duggan.’

  ‘Paul, nice of you to call.’

  ‘Is it late? I don’t have my watch on.’

  ‘It sounds like a great party, Paul. Give me the address and I’ll drop by with a few uniforms.’

  ‘Don’t be like that Mr Rebus. I bring glad tidings. I’ve found her.’

  ‘Kirstie Kennedy?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Not bad for a junkie.’

  ‘Can I speak to her?’

  ‘Listen, she’s adamant she’s not going home. She says her stepmum’s a lunatic.’

  ‘I’d like to see her. There’s no question of her having to go home.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Duggan sounded doubtful.

  ‘Paul, don’t hang up! Listen, would she talk to me if I paid her?’

  ‘Look, I’ll have a word with her. No promises, but I’ll have a word, see what she says.’

  ‘Just do me a favour. Phone in daylight next time.’

  ‘If you’re lucky, I might even phone when I’m sober.’

  33

  It was eight a.m. when his phone next rang.

  ‘Yes?’ he croaked, trying to find some saliva in his mouth.

  ‘John?’ It was the Farmer’s voice.

  Here it comes, thought Rebus. ‘Morning, sir. What’s it to be — reprimand, suspension, or dismissal?’

  ‘Damn you, John. I had a hell of a weekend because of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I never meant to get you into trouble.’

  ‘That’s your problem, Inspector — you’re selfish, no other word for it. I think you know damned well that these obsessions of yours end up damaging everyone around you, friend, foe and civilians alike.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But it doesn’t bother you, does it?’ Rebus didn’t answer. The Farmer had obviously been preparing his speech for a while. ‘As long as your own personal morality is satisfied, that’s all that counts. Sod everybody else, isn’t that right?’

  ‘It feels that way sometimes, sir,’ Rebus said quietly.

  ‘Well, maybe you should consider that morality of yours, because it’s no code I’d want to live with.’

  ‘You don’t have to live with it, sir. I do.’

  ‘Well, you lead a charmed existence, that’s all I can say.’

  Rebus frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve discussed things with the DCC. He said he’d apologise to the Lord Provost on your behalf. He also said he thought HMIC would be investigating F Troop instead of us.’

  F Troop: meaning F Division, Livingston. ‘What are you saying, sir?’

  ‘I’m saying I want you back here. The holiday’s over. Report to my office this morning.’

  ‘I’ve a dentist’s appointment.’

  ‘Well, this afternoon then.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Look, John, have you and the DCC had any contact?’

  ‘I’ve been on holiday, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but all the same?’

  ‘Well, maybe I did bump into him by the pool …’

  It was another grim day. No snow or ice, but a freezing wind and gusts of rain, the sky oppressively weighted with cloud. It was like the city was in a box, and someone had pushed the lid on too tightly.

  Rebus’s second visit to Dr Keene wasn’t so traumatic. You could get used to anything. The tooth had drained nicely, and Keene did the root canal while Rebus concentrated on the photograph on the ceiling. He plotted Paul Duggan’s property portfolio. Maybe Duggan had a point: nobody was suggesting he was overcharging his ‘tenants’ — he was making a profit out of each house and flat, but nothing outrageous. And meantime, he was putting roofs over heads. Rebus knew there might needs be a trade-off: if he wanted to see Kirstie, Duggan might want Rebus to put in a good word come trial time. Always supposing it came to trial. The district council was about to be replaced with another body. Who knew what would be written off?

  Suddenly, something clicked in Rebus’s brain. He saw something he should have seen before. He was so busy thinking that he didn’t hear Dr Keene say that, while Rebus was there, he might as well start on the fillings …

  There were no cheers, no banners or bunting as Rebus walked back into St Le
onard’s and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  ‘A word to the wise,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re pouring coffee down your tie.’

  It was true: with his mouth still numb, he was dribbling. He went to the toilets and pulled out a clump of paper towels, soaked them in water and dabbed at his tie.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Flower, pushing open the door, ‘the proverbial bad penny.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Rebus retorted. Flower came to the sink and checked his hair in the mirror. ‘I see you managed to start a fire, then take credit for putting it out.’

  Flower chuckled. ‘Word gets around, eh?’

  ‘Speaking of words that get around, I had a chat with someone about your snitch.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Shug McAnally. We could all have been spared some grief if you’d told me at the start he was working for you.’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can publicise. I mean,’ Flower looked around, ‘planting a snitch in somebody’s cell.’

  ‘You don’t mind telling me now though. Has the DCC had a word?’

  ‘He said you’d been asking.’ Flower looked unnaturally pleased with himself. Rebus could guess why.

  ‘You think you’re quids-in with the DCC, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, if it ever came out about McAnally, the DCC could get into trouble.’ Flower winked. ‘He needs to keep me sweet.’

  ‘What you mean is, you’ve got him either way. If the plan succeeded, it’d be because of you. If it went badly, it would need covering up — which would take your help. Gunner would still owe you. That’s why you’ve been blocking me: you didn’t want me getting to the DCC — he’s your little investment.’

  Flower chuckled again, and tucked a stray hair back behind his ear. There was a sound of flushing from one of the two cubicles. Flower’s head jerked around, his mouth open, as the cubicle door opened and the Farmer came out.

  This came as no surprise to Rebus: he’d seen the Farmer enter the toilets just before him.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ he said.

  Flower didn’t say anything. The Farmer pointed at him. ‘My office, Inspector Flower, now!’ Then he opened the door and was gone. Flower turned on Rebus.