Let It Bleed

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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 Sweetheart stout balanced on one wide arm of her chair, ashtray and cigarettes on the other.

  She looked feisty; no other words would do. Cons’ wives often got that look. The prison visits hardened their jawlines and turned their eyes into distrustful slits. Her hair was dyed blonde, and though she was spending the night in, she’d still polished her nails and stuck on some eyeliner and mascara.

  ‘What’s he done?’ she said again. ‘Sit down if you like.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks. The thing is, Mrs McAnally …’ Rebus paused. That’s what you did: you lowered your voice respectfully, said a few introductory words, and then you paused, hoping the widow or widower or mother or father or son or daughter would twig.

  ‘The thing is what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you …’

  Her eyes were on the television. It was a film, some noisy Hollywood adventure.

  ‘Could we maybe have the sound down?’ he suggested.

  She shrugged and pressed the remote. The ‘mute’ sign came up on the screen. Rebus suddenly noticed how big the TV was; it filled a whole corner of the room. Don’t make me say the words, he thought. Then he saw that her eyes were glinting. Tears, he thought. She’s holding them back.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Know what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Mrs McAnally, we think your husband may be dead.’ She threw the remote across the room and got to her feet. ‘A man committed suicide,’ Rebus continued. ‘He had a letter in his pocket addressed to your husband.’

  She glared at him. ‘What does that mean? It means nothing. Might have dropped it, somebody might’ve picked it up.’

  ‘The deceased … the man, he was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and some light-coloured
trousers, a green jersey …’

  She turned away from him. ‘Where? Where was this?’

  ‘Warrender Park.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said defiantly, ‘Wee Shug went down Lothian Road, his usual haunts.’

  ‘What time were you expecting him home?’

  ‘Pubs are still open, if that answers your question.’

  ‘Look, Mrs McAnally, I know this isn’t easy, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary and look at some clothing. Would that be all right?’

  She had her arms folded and was rocking on the balls of her feet. ‘No, it wouldn’t be all right. What’s the point? It’s not Wee Shug. He’s only been out a week, one miserable week. He can’t be dead.’ She paused. ‘Was it a car run him over?’

  ‘We think he took his own life.’

  ‘Are you mad? Took his own …? Get out of my house! Go on, out with you!’

  ‘Mrs McAnally, we need to –’

  But now she was swiping at him, catching him with her solid fists, propelling him before her, out of the room and down the hall.

  ‘Keep away from him, do you hear? Keep away from both of us. This is nothing but harassment.’

  ‘I know you’re upset, Mrs McAnally, but an identification would clear things up, put your mind at rest.’

  Her blows lost some of their power, then stopped altogether. Rebus’s burnt palm stung where she’d caught it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathing hard.

  ‘It’s only natural, you’re upset. Do you have a neighbour, a friend, someone who could be with you?’

  ‘There’s Maisie next door.’

  ‘Fine. What if I get a car to pick you up? Maybe Maisie can go with you?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’ She opened the door and stepped out on to the landing, shuffling along to a door marked FINCH.

  ‘I’ll use your phone if that’s all right,’ Rebus called, retreating back into the flat.

  He took a quick look around. Just the one bedroom and bathroom, plus a box room. He’d seen the rest of the place already. Again, the bedroom was very nicely furnished, pink ruched curtains and matching bedspread, a small dressing-table covered in bottles of perfume. He went into the hall and made a couple of calls: one to order a car, the other to make sure someone from CID would be at the mortuary to help with the ID.

  The door opened and two women came in. He’d been expecting Mrs Finch to be around Mrs McAnally’s age, but she was in her early twenties, leggy with a short, tight skirt. She looked at him as if he might be some warped practical joker. He offered a smile in return which mixed compassion with interest. She didn’t smile back, so he had to content himself with the sight of her long legs as she helped Mrs McAnally down the hall and into the living room.

  ‘A wee Bacardi, Tresa,’ Maisie Finch was saying, ‘it’ll calm your nerves. Before we do anything else, we’ll have a wee Bacardi and Coke. Have you any valium about the place? If you haven’t, I think I’ve some in my bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘He can’t be dead, Maisie,’ Tresa McAnally wailed.

  ‘Let’s not talk about him,’ Maisie Finch replied.

  Strange advice, Rebus thought, making ready to leave.

  9

  It wasn’t much of a walk from Tollcross down to C Division HQ on Torphichen Place, but Rebus knew he was getting further and further away from his own flat. He didn’t intend walking back, and hoped Torphichen would have a spare car he could use as a taxi.

  There was a tall bald man in a thick shabby coat in reception. The man had his arms folded and was staring at his feet. There was no one behind the desk, so Rebus pressed the buzzer. He knew it would keep buzzing till someone arrived.

  ‘Been here long?’ he asked.

  The man looked up and smiled. ‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’

  ‘Hello, Anthony.’ Rebus knew the man. He was one of Edinburgh’s homeless, one of the army who sold copies of The Big Issue every twenty yards or so along Princes Street. Rebus usually bought a copy from Anthony, whose sacred pitch was outside the St James Centre. ‘Here to help us with our enquiries?’

  Anthony gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Just keeping warm. I told the desk officer I was waiting for DC Reynolds, only I saw Mr Reynolds go into the Hopscotch Bar on Dalry Road.’

  ‘Which means he’s on for a sesh.’

  ‘And I can sit here till somebody tumbles.’

  A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.

  ‘You know the way, sir?’

  ‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’

  Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.

  ‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.

  Davidson looked up, then groaned.

  ‘I want a favour,’ Rebus said, walking into the room.

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Have you heard about Warrender?’

  ‘Shotgun suicide?’ News got around. Davidson closed his paper.

  ‘The man with the plan was called Hugh McAnally, lived in Tollcross.’

  ‘I know Wee Shug. Wee Bastard’s more like it. He’d only just come out of Saughton.’

  ‘Maybe he was pining.’

  ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Coffee maybe.’

  But Davidson was reaching for his coat. ‘I said a drink.’

  ‘So long as you’re not suggesting the Hopscotch. Rat-Arse Reynolds is in there.’

  Davidson knotted his tartan scarf. ‘All right, let’s scotch the Hopscotch. And since you’re buying, you get to choose.’

  Rebus chose a big public house near Haymarket Station. The public bar was seething, but the saloon was quiet. They ordered doubles.

  ‘Too cold outside to be drinking lager,’ Davidson said. ‘Your health.’

  ‘And yours.’ Rebus sipped and swallowed, feeling the liquid doing its immediate, no-nonsense business. It was almost too good sometimes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about Wee Shug.’

  ‘Ach, he was a small-timer, used to specialise in hopeless house-breakings.’

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘He moved on to reset, counterfeiting, this and that.’

  ‘So how long had he been inside?’

  ‘This stretch, you mean? Funny that, when I heard he was out I did a quick calculation. He’s out early, served a bit under four years.’

  ‘Well, if all we had him on was reset …’

  Davidson was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, you misunderstand. My fault. He wasn’t sent down for any of his usual tricks.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Rape of a minor.’

  ‘What?’

  Davidson nodded. ‘Thing is, we nailed him for it, but with hand on heart I don’t know if it was a clean result.’

  ‘Explain.’ Rebus signalled for two more whiskies.

  ‘Well, the lassie was fifteen, but everyone said the same thing – fifteen going on thirty-five. Not a shy lass at all, you should read the interview transcripts. But she was adamant he’d raped her. She was a minor, and the Procurator-fiscal went ahead with the prosecution. I wasn’t too bothered; getting Wee Shug off the street was fine by me.’

  ‘Was he living in Tollcross at that time?’

  ‘That’s always been his patch.’

  Rebus paid for the second round of drinks. ‘Was he the violent type?’

  ‘Not that I ever saw. I mean, he had a temper when roused, but who doesn’t? That was the thing about the rape, there were no physical injuries.’

  ‘What about corroboration?’

  ‘We had a bundle of circumstantial evidence. Neighbours heard raised voices, a scream, the girl
herself was in a terrible state, crying and all. Plus Wee Shug admitted having sex with her, said he knew it was illegal and all but, as he put it, “only by a few months”. The girl said it wasn’t consensual, and we just about put together a case.’

  ‘Say, for the sake of argument, that it was consensual.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then he’s just come out of a four-year stretch for something he didn’t do.’

  Davidson shrugged. ‘You’re looking for a motive behind the suicide?’

  Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Suicides interest me right now.’

  ‘And we’re always looking for motives, eh, John?’

  Rebus drank his drink. ‘What about guns? Did he ever have anything to do with firearms?’

  ‘Nothing. But he’s probably still got cronies out there who know where to get them.’

  ‘It was a sawn-off.’

  ‘I can believe it. You couldn’t get a full-length shotgun in your mouth and be able to pull the trigger. Far easier with something shorter.’

  ‘Messy though.’

  ‘No doubt, but it would do the job. You don’t want to go off half-cocked, do you? With a sawn-off, there’s less margin for error.’

  ‘No margin at all,’ said Rebus.

  It was only when they were leaving that he thought to ask a question.

  ‘McAnally’s victim, what was her name again?’

  Davidson had to think about it. ‘Mary something. Mary Finlay. ‘No …’ He screwed shut his eyes. ‘Mary Finch.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘Maisie Finch?’

  Davidson thought again. ‘That’s it, Maisie.’

  ‘She lives next door to the McAnallys.’

  ‘Did then, too. She’d known them for years.’

  ‘Christ,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I’ve just sent her down to the mortuary to help Tresa McAnally identify her husband.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do me a favour, will you? Lend me a car and a driver.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you myself.’

  But by the time they reached the mortuary, it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back towards the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.