Let It Bleed

by Ian Rankin

  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 commercial 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.’

  ‘LABarum?’

  ‘That’s right. But my source tells me it’s not up and running yet. There’s a question of funding. The talent’s there, but to keep it in Scotland is going to cost money, lots and lots of money.’ She paused. ‘My source was curious, how did you hear about it?’

  ‘I saw a business plan.’

  ‘You did? Where? At PanoTech?’

  ‘No.’ What could he tell her? In a sub-let council house in Stenhouse? Hiding behind a teenager’s paperback collection?

  ‘Where then? The City Chambers?’

  Rebus started. ‘Why do you …?’ Then he thought about it. A plan to start up a computer software company, presumably in Gyle Park West … He looked at the writing on his pad. The district council would want to discuss it, they’d need to be aware of it. Tom Gillespie’s committee would certainly know about it. And if it was to be sited in Gyle Park West, if it had anything to do with the district council at all, then the Lord Provost would know about it. Cameron McLeod Kennedy.

  Rebus picked the business plan off the floor and looked at the initials on the front page. Mairie was telling him she’d drawn a blank with Dalgety, but he wasn’t listening.

  ‘CK,’ he said quietly. Cameron Kennedy. ‘Jesus, Mairie, those two kids did know Kirstie Kennedy after all!’

  20

  On Monday morning, Rebus went to the National Library on George IV Bridge. He passed through the security barrier and climbed the imposing staircase. At the main desk, he explained what he was looking for and was issued with a one-day reader’s card. Then he found a spare computer console and sat down at it, reading the instructions for using the on-line system.

  His search didn’t take long. There was desperately little on the Scottish Development Agency; even less on Scottish Enterprise. He was sure that before its demise the SDA had been under the aegis of the Scottish Office, so tapped ‘Scottish Office’ into the computer. There were a lot of entries; he went through screen after screen of them: welfare, road-widening schemes, grants to the fishing industry, corporal punishment … But nothing new on either the SDA or Scottish Enterprise.

  Across the road in the Central Library he met with similar results. The Edinburgh Room directed him to the Scottish Library downstairs, and the Scottish Library’s microfiches were every bit as unhelpful as the high-tech facilities across the way. Finally, Rebus approached one of the librarians. She sat at a desk, sorting newspaper cuttings into five distinct piles.

/>   ‘Yes?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m looking for information on the Scottish Development Agency.’

  ‘Have you checked the fiches?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, those are our holdings.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You might try the Scottish Office direct.’

  Yes, he might at that. He walked down the High Street and across North Bridge, then made down the side of the St James Centre – noting that Anthony wasn’t on his usual pitch – to where the Scottish Office had hidden itself in a concrete box called New St Andrew’s House. He told the guard on the door what he wanted, and was pointed in the direction of the reception desk. The woman there was very pleasant, but couldn’t help. She phoned up to the Library and Publications Room, who couldn’t help either. Rebus found it hard to believe that there was no history of the SDA available.

  ‘They say nobody’d be interested,’ she explained, putting down the telephone.

  ‘Well, I’m interested.’

  ‘You could ask at the HMSO Bookshop.’

  ‘On Lothian Road?’

  ‘Yes.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘I’ve some other literature here you could take away with you.’

  Desperate for something to show for his morning, Rebus picked out a few leaflets, one of which was an introduction to HM Inspectorate of Constabulary. Rebus wondered if it would mention anything about bribery.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ he told the receptionist. There was a display in the reception area and he went over to look at it. New St Andrew’s House was about to relocate to Leith. The move was costing millions. Rebus didn’t feel any better for knowing where his taxes were headed. Sleet was coming down as he left the building.

  Which gave him the excuse he needed to drop into the Café Royal. It was eleven-fifteen and he was the second customer of the day. He liked the place when it was empty. It was one of the few bars he knew which had less atmosphere the busier it got. His feet were tingling from the walk. He’d left his car at home, only expecting to walk as far as George IV Bridge.

  The sleet had stopped by the time he left the bar. He walked along George Street, in order to avoid the shoppers on Princes Street, then headed up Lothian Road. A Lothian Road wind was one of nature’s wonders; people were walking into it at an angle close to forty-five degrees. The headwind could exhaust you in minutes. Rebus kept his eyes to the pavement and concentrated on putting one foot after the other, like he was getting the hang of false legs.

  The new Convention Centre was up. There was a lot of recent building work around the city: the Festival Theatre, Convention Centre, court annexe, National Library annexe, not to mention the new Scottish Office HQ. He stopped in a doorway to catch his breath and to consider the scale of the building programme: new roads, new developments … There was talk of building another road bridge across the Forth. But where was the money coming from? He walked on, deep in thought, and entered the HMSO shop. He’d been explaining his needs to the counter assistant for about thirty seconds when the man started to shake his head.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Rebus snapped.

  The man listened in silence, and when Rebus was finished he advised: ‘You could try Scottish Enterprise direct.’ He brought out the phonebook to find its address. The HQ_ was in Glasgow, but there was a branch in Edinburgh: LEEL, Lothian and Edinburgh Enterprise Limited, had offices in Haymarket Terrace, which wasn’t that far to walk, not compared to the distance he’d come.

  The smart new building which housed LEEL boasted two very bored-looking receptionists and no guard at all on the door. He explained that he wanted general background information.

  ‘Agatha will bring down what we’ve got,’ he was told with a pleasant professional smile. ‘If you’d like to take a seat …?’

  He sat down and read the bumf spread across the table in front of him. He noticed that his calves were aching. This, he thought, is called exercise. Some people did it every day.

  The lift opened and a young woman walked towards him. She too had a Stepford-wifely smile for the public as she handed over a lavish folder, inside which was a set of glossy documents.

  ‘This is all we’ve got at the moment,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Agatha, this is fine.’

  Since he was so close, he dropped into Torphichen for a coffee. Davidson wasn’t around, but DC Robert Burns was, so Rebus chewed the cud with him, enjoying the feel of being back inside a cop shop. Then he asked Burns for a favour.

  ‘I need a lift home, Rab,’ he said. ‘Medical reasons.’

  Back in his flat, Rebus read through what little he had. He hadn’t found anything on Gyle Park West or anyone or anything called Mensung. The sum total of his recent discoveries had nothing to do with Councillor Gillespie at all. But what he did know was that Kirstie Kennedy had known Willie and Dixie in some capacity: how else to explain a document belonging to the Lord Provost turning up in Willie’s bedroom? What he didn’t yet know was why it was there. He assumed Kirstie had taken it from her parents’ house, but why? Had it meant something to her? And why had Willie hidden it?

  His phone was ringing. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Walking.’

  ‘Walking?’

  ‘How are things at St Leonard’s?’

  ‘The chief super is keeping tabs on Brian and me, and he keeps piling the work on.’

  ‘So you haven’t been able to do anything?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’ve some interesting news. Councillor Gillespie’s document shredder wasn’t bought, it was rented. There’s a business supply company in Stockbridge, they hire out all sorts of office equipment. Which reminds me, when you get back there’s a little surprise for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The new PCs have arrived.’

  ‘Good, we could do with a few more men on the beat.’

  ‘Gosh,’ her voice dripped irony, ‘I’ve not heard that one today. Anyway, there’s one on your desk, plugged in and ready to run.’

  ‘When did Gillespie rent the shredder?’

  ‘Wednesday. He told the shop assistant he’d been trying to find one for a few days, but they were too expensive to buy.’

  ‘Thank God he’s mean with money, or we might never know he’d shredded anything.’

  ‘Want to hear the rest? I finally got through to the consulate and asked to speak to Haldayne.’ She paused. ‘They told me Mr Haldayne was out of the office. His first name’s Richard. I got them to spell his surname for me: it has a “y” in the middle.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  ‘Want to hear the rest?’

  Rebus forgot all about his sore calves, his weary feet. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I ran a check on Mr Richard Haldayne. Have you ever had dealings with the diplomats in town?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I have. I handed out a few parking tickets when I was in uniform. My boss said I was wasting my time ticketing a diplomatic plate. They never pay their fines, because we’re not allowed to prosecute them.’

  ‘So you looked in the computer?’

  ‘Eighteen unpaid parking tickets dating back to 1985. That’s under two a year, which counts as law-abiding for a diplomat.’

  ‘It’s still a lot of tickets. An officer might want a quiet word with Mr Haldayne about them.’

  ‘Just don’t get caught, sir.’

  ‘Same goes for you, Clarke, and thanks.’

  He put the phone down and tapped his fingers on the receiver. It was a start, definitely a start. He lifted the receiver again and dialled Sammy’s work number. She wasn’t there. The woman who told him this sounded upset.

  ‘I’m her father,’ Rebus said, ‘is anything wrong?’

  ‘She was in a terrible state. Someone had to take her home.’

  ‘Why was she in a state?’

  ‘Her landlady.’ The woman sniffed.

  ‘What about her landlady?’

  ‘Well, she’s upset, and she g
ot Sammy all upset.’

  Rebus stopped pretending to be calm. ‘Upset about what?’

  ‘I love cats,’ the woman said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cats. It’s her landlady’s cat. It was torn to bits last night by somebody’s dog.’

  Rebus finally plucked up the courage to phone Patience’s flat, and was relieved that Sammy herself answered.

  ‘I heard,’ he said. ‘How’s Patience?’

  ‘She’s gone out. She was … it was horrible.’

  Rebus swallowed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lucky was in the garden, and some dog must have come over the wall. Lucky ran to the catflap to get in, but the catflap was locked …’ Her voice fell. ‘And that was that.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Rebus.

  ‘The thing is, Dad, Patience blames me.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not –’

  ‘She says I must have locked the flap. She’s hardly spoken a word to me since I got back.’

  ‘The lock must have fallen by itself.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Look, Sammy, the reason I’m phoning –’

  ‘Yes?’

  Rebus stared at the notes in front of him. ‘SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office: can you give me his name …?’

  He had an appointment that afternoon with the Lord Provost.

  Rebus hadn’t been specific on the telephone; he’d just told the secretary that it was part of an ‘investigation’ – he’d been careful not to preface the word with ‘official police’. The secretary had taken his home number and called him back. The Lord Provost could see him for five minutes at four o’clock.

  ‘Five minutes should do it,’ Rebus had said.

  As he walked through the main door of the City Chambers, he looked down at the floor, aware that directly beneath it was Mary King’s Close, Edinburgh’s buried plague street. They’d covered the street up and built on it anew: that was the Edinburgh way, to bury and forget.

  The Lord Provost came out of his office to meet him. He looked tired, his pale face deeply lined, his square jaw slack. He had dark hair streaked with silver, and thick black eyebrows. It was a strongly defined face, the kind that might have been found, a generation back, at the coal-face.