by Ian Rankin
And she did.
Asked about the cry, McAnally at first said she was ‘a screamer’ – in other words, that she cried out at the point of climax. Davidson had added a pencilled comment in the margin, perhaps meaning to erase it later: ‘What young girl would climax with the likes of you?’ McAnally then changed his mind and said there was no scream, no cry at all. Which was excellent news for the prosecution, who had witnesses ready to testify that they had heard a cry.
Which point, Rebus mused, though tiny in the wider scheme of the case, was almost certainly what had swung the jury. Mostly it was his word against hers; but there were witnesses to the scream, witnesses like Helena Profitt.
Miss Profitt had given a statement, but had not been called to give evidence at the trial. That was probably the Procurator-fiscal’s decision. The Fiscal’s office would have precognosced Miss Proffit, and would have made a note for future reference that she was timid, nervy, and unlikely to perform well in court. Crown counsel had picked the best neighbours to show to the jury. It was part of their particular skill.
Rebus reached down for another tin of beer, and found they were all empty. He went to the fridge and found a solitary can, a couple of months past its expiry. It was freezing to the touch, but had plenty of gas when he opened it. He was drinking these days with one side of his mouth only, avoiding the painful side with anything too hot or cold. He put the can down and fried up some bacon, cutting open two rolls. He ate the rolls at the kitchen table.
It has to be serious, he thought. The governor of Saughton, the deputy chief constable … maybe even the Constabulary Inspectorate. They just didn’t want him around. Why not? That was the question. It had to have something to do with McAnally. It looked to Rebus very much as though it had something to do with McAnally’s time in Saughton.
He went back into the living room and got out McAnally’s list of previous convictions. Small beer, he thought, taking a drink. He’d been lucky though, landing more than his fair share of fines and tickings-off when a custodial sentence might have been more usual. He’d served a year one time, eighteen months another – both for housebreaking – and that was about it. Otherwise it was just fines and admonitions.
Rebus sat back, forgetting to swallow the beer in his mouth. He was thinking something, something he didn’t want to think. There was only one good reason he could think of why Wee Shug had been so lucky, one good reason why a judge might be so lenient time and time again.
Someone had put in a word.
And who was it usually put in a word with the judge? Answer: policemen.
And why did they do it …?
Rebus swallowed the beer. ‘He was a grass! Wee Shug McAnally was somebody’s bloody snitch!’
Next morning, he woke up raring to go to work – then remembered he had no work to go to, no place he would be welcome. Just when he needed to ask some of his fellow officers a few very discreet questions.
He’d lain awake half the night, watching the amber streetlight on his bedroom ceiling, tumbling configurations in his mind. He couldn’t get past the notion that McAnally had been somebody’s eyes and ears on the street. All good policemen had them; anyone who wanted to get anywhere had them: grasses, stoolies, snitches, informers. They had a hundred titles and a hundred job descriptions.
It made sense; it explained those lenient sentences. But then McAnally had crossed the line – no judge was going to listen to too many pleas for leniency in a rape case. Four years off the street and a snitch lost his usefulness: there were new bandits around, people he didn’t know and could never get to know. Four years was a long time on the street; the world moved fast down there.
Something else had occurred to Rebus in bed, around three a.m. by the blue-lit numerals on his clock. It – whatever ‘it’ was, whatever it was people were scared of – had to do with McAnally, yes, but the councillor was involved too. Rebus had let the councillor slip from the equation. He’d been busy on fractions on one half of the board, while the councillor sat untroubled on the other. And the councillor, unlike McAnally, was still alive to answer questions. Rebus was only going to get so far following the trail of the dead. It was time to concentrate on the living.
It was time to get concerned.
17
Councillor Tom Gillespie lived in a huge, bay-windowed semi not five minutes walk from Rebus’s flat. The house had been divided into two flats, one on the upper storey, one on the lower. Gillespie’s was the ground-floor property. There was a trim lawn in front of the house, and a low stone wall topped with black glossy railings which ended in arrow-headed points. Rebus opened the gate and walked up to the front door. Clay-coloured road-salt crunched underfoot, spread up and down the path during the worst of the snow and ice. Now the ice had melted, apart from trimmings of sooty white in corners the sun never reached, and roads and paths throughout the city were blighted by salt, as treacherous underfoot as the ice it replaced.
Rebus could see movement behind the bay window as he rang the doorbell. It was an old-fashioned pull affair, the sprung bell chiming inside. Rebus heard an inner hallway door open, then a lock being pulled. The solid main door was opened by the councillor himself.
‘Good morning, Mr Gillespie, mind if I have a word?’
‘I’m up to my eyes in it, Inspector.’
From within, Rebus heard a motorised whine, then the sound of a woman sneezing. Gillespie’s arm was across the doorway, blocking any attempt by Rebus to enter. It wasn’t exactly Costa del Sol weather on the doorstep, but the councillor was sweating.
‘I appreciate that, sir,’ Rebus said, ‘but this will only take a minute.’
‘Did you speak to Helena Profit?’
‘I did, yes. And, by the way, thanks for setting the Joint Police Board on me.’
Gillespie wasn’t about to apologise. ‘I told you I had friends.’
There was a yip from within, like a Pekinese getting a deserved kick up the arse, and then a furious female voice.
‘Tom! Tom!’
Gillespie pretended not to hear.
‘I think you’re wanted indoors,’ Rebus remarked.
‘Look, this really isn’t the time for –’
‘Tom, for Christ’s sake!’
Gillespie snarled, turned on his heel and sprinted indoors. The front door was closing on Rebus with infinite slowness. He pushed it open and walked into the hall.
‘Bloody thing’s jammed again,’ the woman was saying. ‘Why the hell can’t you do this?’
Then Gillespie, trying to keep his voice low. ‘Just don’t let him in! Go on then!’
A woman stumbled out of the front room like she’d been pushed from behind. She bumped into Rebus and some empty files clattered to the tile floor.
‘Damnation,’ she said. As the door closed behind her, Rebus could see that the bay-windowed room was some kind of office. He glimpsed a desk with a computer, chests of drawers with heaped documents slewed across their tops. He couldn’t see whatever was making the noise, and he couldn’t see Gillespie, but he heard a slap as the councillor either punched or kicked a piece of machinery.
He helped the woman retrieve the files. ‘Nice colours,’ he said.
‘What?’ She tucked some stray hairs back into place behind her ear. She was a tall, heavy-boned woman with a face full of strong features. Her thick dark hair was shoulder-length and parted to one side, a little lacking in life. Her eyes were full of life though; her eyes were blazing. She looked harassed, but was dressed with thoughtful elegance in a pearl-coloured silk blouse and a long skirt of Black Watch tartan.
‘The files,’ Rebus explained. ‘The ones I always seem to buy are blue or grey or green. These are … well, they’re more colourful.’
She looked at him like he was mad: they were only files.
‘A stationer’s on George Street,’ she said.
Rebus nodded, trying not to look like he was memorising the letters on the front of the file he’d been studying. Not that the l
etters SDA/SE were difficult to remember.
‘Something jammed?’ Rebus asked.
She had been brought up a polite girl, taught manners at home and in school. She couldn’t not answer a question so casually put, a harmless inquiry.
‘The shredder,’ she said.
Rebus nodded, confirming that he too had problems with his paper-shredder. ‘You must be Mrs Gillespie?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s got you helping him, eh?’
She tried to laugh. ‘Press-ganged.’
‘I thought Councillor Gillespie had a secretary.’
Her smile vanished. She was thinking up some lie to tell him when the door opened and Gillespie emerged. This time, peering into the room, Rebus saw several cardboard boxes full of long thin strips of paper. Shredded documents.
Gillespie propelled his wife gently but firmly back into the office, closing the door after her. ‘I don’t recall inviting you in, Inspector.’
‘Maybe you’ll want to talk to your friend Councillor Mantoni again.’
Gillespie pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Well, now you’re here, come into the kitchen.’ He wiped the handkerchief across his forehead. ‘I’m parched.’
He led Rebus down the long hall, past a sitting room and dining room. They took a left past the blocked-in staircase and passed through a shorter, darker passage into the kitchen. There was pine everywhere: pine units, pine tongue-and-groove covering every surface except the floor, which boasted boards freshly sanded and varnished. A conservatory had been added to the back, giving views on to the wide rear garden, mature rose bushes and laurel hedge; a small brick patio.
Gillespie busied himself with the kettle.
‘I won’t offer you a cup, Inspector. I know you’ll be keen to be on your way.’
‘I’m not that busy today actually, Mr Gillespie, but I won’t stay for coffee.’ Rebus paused. ‘Thanks for the offer.’
Gillespie opened a cupboard and glowered at the mugs and glasses within. Reflected glare, thought Rebus.
‘So what is it you want?’ Gillespie reached for a mug.
‘Dog shit,’ said Rebus.
Gillespie fumbled the mug but retrieved it. ‘What did you say?’
‘Dog shit, Councillor: on the pavements, the grass … everywhere. It’s a disgrace.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not here in your official capacity?’
‘Did I say I was? No, I’m here as a private individual, a constituent voicing a complaint to his elected representative.’
Gillespie opened a cafetière and poured ground coffee into it from a packet. By the time he finished he’d regained his composure.
‘Well, Mr Rebus,’ he said, ‘people only usually complain in the summer. That’s when the offending article is at its softest and smelliest. I’ve never received a complaint in the winter.’
‘Then I’m speaking for the silent majority.’
Gillespie managed a smile. ‘What do you really want? If I had a mind, I could construe this visit as harassment.’
After what Rebus had seen, he didn’t really want anything else, but he was enjoying himself, and what were holidays for if you didn’t enjoy yourself?
‘Just what I say,’ he replied.
Gillespie poured boiling water over the coffee grounds. ‘Well, I’m surprised at you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d have expected you of all people to know that dogs fouling the byways are a matter for the police. It’s down to the police to trace the owners and bring a prosecution.’
‘And the council doesn’t do anything?’
‘On the contrary, we’ve a Dog Warden Section whose job is to educate owners to act responsibly. The wardens also help the police in cases of prosecution. The Warden Section is part of the EHD.’
‘Environmental Health Department?’
‘Precisely. I can give you their number if you like. It’s the least I can do … for a constituent.’
Rebus smiled and shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets and made as if to leave. But he stopped beside the councillor and lowered his voice.
‘How scared are you?’
‘What?’
‘You look to me like you’re shitting snowballs.’
The councillor started sweating again. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and concentrated on stirring the contents of the cafetière.
‘All the shit that’s about these days,’ Rebus went on, ‘you’ve got to watch you don’t tread in it. You might end up on your arse, isn’t that right, Councillor?’
‘Just get out, will you?’
Rebus turned to leave. Gillespie put out a hand to stop him. ‘Inspector, you’re making a mistake.’ Not a threat; a simple statement of fact.
‘Talk to me.’
Gillespie thought about it, biting his bottom lip, then shook his head. Rebus stared at him, willing him to change his mind. But Gillespie was scared; it was in his eyes, in the sheen of his face.
The man was terrified.
‘I’ll let you out,’ Gillespie said, leading Rebus back down the hall. He had the cafetière in one hand, two mugs in the other. Through the office door they could hear Mrs Gillespie cursing the machine again. She sounded like she was kicking it.
‘Bit of a temper, your wife,’ Rebus commented. He saw that Gillespie didn’t have a free hand, so did the kindly thing and opened the office door for him.
‘Has he gone yet?’ Mrs Gillespie snarled.
‘Just on my way, Mrs Gillespie,’ Rebus told her, popping his head round the door, taking a good look round. ‘Nice to have met you.’
Her face was flushed, anger turning quickly to embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No need for that.’
And Rebus left them to it, whatever it was …
18
It took Rebus half the afternoon to decide that he was doing the right thing.
More accurately, it took him ten minutes to make up his mind, and a couple of hours to drink himself into a state where he was confident enough to follow through.
He wasn’t just drinking though, he was hunting; eyes and ears open for news of Rico Briggs.
Rico was just about the best and worst housebreaker on the east coast. It wasn’t that he was cack-handed: he could be in and out of most homes in minutes flat, be the occupants asleep, slumped in front of the TV, or making merry at a party. Rico’s problem was that he was conspicuous, and fences didn’t like that. Rico had been a big Hearts fan, not missing a fixture in seasons 1977–80, except when he’d served a wee stretch in Peterhead. One night in Leith Walk, dizzy after a trouncing of the Hibees, Rico had marched into a tattoo parlour and demanded the works.
Next morning, Rico had looked at his face in his bathroom mirror and seen that both tender cheeks now boasted the Hearts badge, a maroon heart with a cross in the middle. It took him only a day or two to start loathing his once-loved team; which was ironic, considering he was now a public poster-site for the men of Gorgie.
Not surprisingly, the tattoos were unique, and as good as fingerprints as far as the police were concerned. Realising this, Rico had started sporting a balaclava when working, which accentuated his other remarkable facial feature – a nose the dimensions of the Pyramid of Cheops. This, too, people tended to notice.
Rebus had tried talking Rico Briggs into retiring, and had been semi-successful. These days, Rico concentrated on passing his skills on to a series of apprentices; he’d even given Rebus a few clandestine lessons in lock-picking. They helped when the policeman mislaid his house-keys; and at other times too.
Rebus finally found Rico in a bar off Nicolson Street, a place whose sad-faced clients were usually in hiding after a haircut at the half-blind barber’s next door. Surrounded by bad haircuts, it was surprising how Rico blended in.
‘Hiya, Rico,’ Rebus said, sliding on to the wooden stool next to him. ‘How are you doing?’
Rico had the da
ily tabloid folded at the quick crossword, and was tapping it with a half-size betting-shop pen, the kind with a ten-minute lifetime guarantee.
‘Eight letters,’ Rico said in a voice like road-salt, ‘M-something-R-something-O. “On a desert island”.’ He looked to Rebus.
‘Marooned.’
‘Thanks, in that case I’ll have a double,’ Rico chuckled. ‘Not heard that one before, Mr Rebus?’
‘Not since Double Barrel was at the top of the charts.’
Rebus ordered the drinks while Rico rubbed both cheeks, the idea being that if he rubbed them often enough he’d sand the tattoos away.
‘So, Mr Rebus, is it a job?’
Rebus nodded, wary of saying too much: he might be surrounded by bad haircuts, but nobody’s ears had been severed.
‘Tell you later.’
They drank their drinks in silence. The whole bar was quiet. Further down the bar, a customer nodded to the barman for a refill and the barman nodded back. A silent order, Rebus thought. Like monks. Which, given the tonsures, wasn’t such a bad image.
They got out of the pub and walked towards the Pleasance. If they took a right, they’d come to St Leonard’s, but they went left instead and headed to the Cowgate and Canongate. They talked as they walked, then entered a howff on the High Street to toast the mission.
At six o’clock, dark overhead except for an arc of moon looking like someone had pressed their thumbnail into the sky, Rebus and Rico sat in Rebus’s parked car, engine running to keep the heater on. They were across the road from the Gillespie house, and Rebus was describing the layout. Rebus was more nervous than he would admit: if Rico were caught, if he talked, then Rebus could end up one of Big Jim Flett’s clients. Rico asked a few questions, and Rebus supplied answers where he could.
‘I’ll go in through the conservatory,’ Rico decided. ‘You’re sure about the alarm?’
‘No alarm,’ Rebus said.
People were hurrying along the pavement, faces down to avoid the icy wind which, Edinburgh fashion, was blowing horizontally just at head height. Rebus was having doubts about the whole enterprise, but could see no way round it. He thought of something else he’d wanted to ask Rico.