Let It Bleed

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Inspector.’ They shook hands. The Lord Provost turned to his secretary. ‘My constitutional,’ he said. ‘I’ll be five or ten minutes.’ He turned back to Rebus. ‘I like to get out of here for a few minutes in the afternoon, it clears my head. Do you mind?’

  Rebus said he didn’t.

  No one on the street seemed to recognise Cameron Kennedy. He crossed the High Street and nodded towards St Giles’ Cathedral. Rebus followed him into the huge old church. It was empty, save for a party of three tourists who huddled around their guidebook. Rebus and the Lord Provost walked the central aisle.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s about your daughter.’

  The Lord Provost’s face became more animated. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘No, sir. But I know where she’s been quite recently. You remember those two hoaxers?’

  ‘Don’t I just. You were in that terrible crash, weren’t you?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘The thing is, it may not have been a hoax after all.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the girl you spoke to on the telephone …’

  ‘Ach, I don’t think it was Kirstie.’

  ‘It could have been. There’s evidence she knew the two boys who died.’

  The Lord Provost looked at him. ‘Evidence?’

  ‘Something we found in a bedroom.’ Rebus brought out the business plan and handed it to the Lord Provost. ‘This is yours, isn’t it, sir?’

  The Lord Provost studied it. ‘Where did you say you found it?’

  ‘It was hidden in the bedroom belonging to one of the boys. Do you know when and where you lost it?’

  ‘No, I … It was a while back. I thought I’d taken it home with me …’

  ‘Kirstie probably took it with her when she left.’

  The Lord Provost nodded slowly.

  ‘The question is, why? I mean, did it have any significance for her?’

  ‘I don’t see how it could.’

  ‘Me neither, I was hoping you might help. Take a look at the last page, please.’

  The Lord Provost turned to the last page and looked startled.

  ‘Did you write that, sir?’

  ‘No.’ He was staring wide-eyed at the name.

  ‘Is it Kirstie’s writing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, do you know what it means?’

  The Lord Provost shook his head slowly and closed the report. ‘Inspector, I … it seems to me maybe I’m making too much fuss over Kirstie. I’m sure she’s managing fine.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I’m grateful to the police for trying to trace her, but maybe it’s time to call a halt.’

  Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why now?’ He made to take the report back, but the Lord Provost was folding it into his pocket.

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘Is it something to do with that report?’

  ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s just an initial report of a possible business venture.’

  ‘In Gyle Park West?’ The Lord Provost nodded. ‘A new subsidiary of PanoTech?’

  ‘You’re well informed, Inspector.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious why Kirstie would take it, and why it was kept hidden, like it had some importance.’

  Kennedy smiled. ‘It’s of no importance, Inspector. It’s a projection, it’s just something that might happen. God knows we could do with it.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘The jobs, of course.’

  ‘Tell me, is the LABarum plan before any committee at present?’

  The Lord Provost sat in a pew. Rebus sat one pew in front of him. ‘I don’t see what that could have to do with my daughter.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘It will be discussed soon, yes.’

  ‘By Councillor Gillespie’s industry committee?’

  ‘Initially, yes. Look, I really don’t see what this has to do with Kirstie. I accept that she could have taken the document from my office at home. I’d say if it was anything, it was an act of pure rebellion – she took it because she could.’

  ‘Is she a rebel then, sir?’

  ‘Aren’t all teenagers?’

  ‘Not all teenagers are drug-users, sir.’

  Rebus watched the colour come back to the Lord Provost’s cheeks. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That’s why you didn’t have a more recent photo to give us. Junkies aren’t exactly photogenic’

  The Lord Provost shot to his feet. ‘How dare you!’ The tourists stopped consulting their guidebook.

  ‘Then tell me I’m a liar,’ Rebus said quietly. The Lord Provost opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll take back what I said.’

  Cameron Kennedy’s eyes were glistening in the half-light. He looked all around him, at the frayed standards hanging limply from the walls, at the altar and the windows and the roof. Then he looked back to Rebus, shook his head, and walked away.

  Rebus sat a few minutes by himself, hands clasped in his lap. He didn’t exactly feel good about himself, but then that was nothing new.

  21

  The name of SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office was Rory McAllister, and he agreed to meet Rebus for lunch the next day, suggesting an Italian restaurant at the top of Leith Walk.

  When Rebus arrived at twelve-thirty, McAllister was already there. He’d just about completed the Scotsman crossword with an elegant chrome ballpoint pen. He stood up long enough to shake hands. Rebus noticed he was drinking mineral water.

  ‘Stick to the businessman’s lunch,’ McAllister prompted, as a waiter handed Rebus an oversized menu. So Rebus stuck to the businessman’s lunch.

  Rory McAllister was in his late thirties with thinning, neatly cut hair and a face which still seemed to bear traces of both puppy-fat and acne. He peered at Rebus with eyes slightly narrowed, as if he might need spectacles but was too vain to wear them. His dark wool suit went well with a cream-coloured shirt and grey tie, knotted tightly at the throat.

  Every inch the civil servant, Rebus thought. McAllister’s voice was educated Edinburgh: nasal and lilting, not wanting to let go of the ends of syllables.

  ‘So, Inspector,’ he said, putting his newspaper out of sight under the table, ‘your call was intriguing. What is it you want exactly?’

  ‘I want you to tell me about the Scottish Office, Mr McAllister. I also need to know about the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

  ‘Well,’ McAllister started to unwrap a bread-stick, ‘let’s order while I collect my thoughts, shall we?’ He spoke to the waiter in a quiet, firm voice. Rebus knew the type: loud only in agreement, never in denial; when roused to anger, he’d bet McAllister’s voice would drop to a whisper.

  ‘The tomato soup’s not bad,’ Rebus was informed. ‘Ditto the veal, but the pollo is very good, too. And as for the wine …’ Rebus shrugged assent with any suggestion McAllister might make. ‘A half each of house white and red.’ The civil servant snapped shut the wine list, another piece of business brought successfully to a close. He waved to two diners across the room. Their suits were like a uniform. The restaurant was filling quickly; half the diners looked like refugees from New St Andrew’s House.

  ‘So.’ McAllister clapped his hands together and rubbed them. ‘You want to know about the Scottish Office. Well, shall I start at the bottom or the top? You’ve met me, so that’s the bottom taken care of.’ He smiled to let Rebus know this was a joke. Sammy had said McAllister was a high-flier, clever and dedicated.

  And helpful.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘maybe I’ll start at the top – the top, of course, being one of two men, depending on your situation. You can say that the Secretary of State for Scotland is the head of the Scottish Office, and as far as the public is concerned you’d be right. But politicians come and
go, the Scottish Office remains.’

  ‘You’re saying the real head is the most senior civil servant?’

  ‘Exactly, and that’s the Permanent Under-Secretary, more usually known as the Permanent Secretary.’

  ‘Why bother with two titles?’

  McAllister laughed, a sound like a pig at the trough. ‘Don’t question; just accept.’ A basket of bread rolls arrived, and he broke one into three. ‘Now, the Scottish Office has responsibility for most functions of government in Scotland, excepting defence, foreign policy, and social security. We’ve a small outpost in Whitehall, but most of us are based here, either in St Andrew’s House or New St Andrew’s House.’

  ‘St Andrew’s House being …?’

  ‘It’s on Regent Road. You know, it looks like the Reichstag.’

  ‘Oh, the power station.’

  McAllister conceded the image. ‘That’s where the Secretary of State and his advisors do their work. The rest of us are relegated to the neo-brutalism of New St Andrew’s House – until Victoria Quay is ready.’ Two bowls of thin-looking tomato soup arrived. ‘The Secretary of State’s retinue consists of the likes of the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor-General: they’re both ministers of the Crown, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Plus a minister of State and three pusses.’

  ‘Pusses?’

  McAllister wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Don’t tell anyone I called them that: Parliamentary Under-Secretaries of State.’

  ‘I thought you said there was only one?’

  McAllister shook his head. ‘Don’t confuse Parliamentary with Permanent: the Permanent Under-Secretary is the only one who’s a civil servant. He’s the only one who is –’

  ‘Permanent?’

  McAllister nodded. He took some soup and chewed on his roll, preparing for another onslaught. The wine had arrived, and he poured a glass of white for himself. Rebus opted for red.

  ‘Now,’ McAllister said, ‘we come to the departments.’ He counted them off on his fingers: ‘SOID, SOED, SOEnD, SOHHD, SOAFD, and – shamefully prosaic – Central Services.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Mr McAllister, I think you’re purposely trying to bamboozle me.’

  McAllister looked shocked. ‘No, I assure you …’

  ‘Look, what I really want is a rundown on the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

  ‘We’ll get to them, don’t worry.’ The waiter came to take their bowls. ‘Bit peppery today,’ McAllister told him; not a complaint, a simple matter of interpretation.

  The civil servant was halfway through his next dissertation before Rebus realised they’d moved on to the topics he was interested in.

  ‘… so he was at SOHHD until the LECs came along. The SDA and HIDB became SE and HIE and the poor man, who’d been responsible for RDGs and RSA found himself –’

  ‘Keep going, you might just drift back into English.’

  McAllister produced another snorted laugh. ‘Maybe I don’t have enough dealings with the public. I’m used to people who understand the codes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand the codes, so humour me.’

  McAllister took a deep breath. ‘The SDA,’ he began, ‘was set up by Wilson in 1975, some say to appease the rising nationalism of that time. It had a budget of £200 million – which was not inconsiderable for the time – and took over from three old existing bodies, including the SIEC – the Scottish Industrial Estates Corporation. The SIEC brought with it twenty-five million square metres of factory space.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot.’

  ‘A hellish lot, a lot to keep occupied. The SDA got busy. It’s been estimated there were as many as five thousand projects under its aegis at any one time. And remember, the SDA didn’t cover the whole of Scotland – there was the Highlands and Islands Development Board, too. In fact, HIDB was by far the elder of the two.’ The pasta starters arrived. McAllister sprinkled parmesan cheese over his and got to work with his fork. ‘Then someone had the bright idea of getting rid of the SDA.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you know the old saying, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it? The SDA was in good fettle. It had been investigated by several bodies and committees and given a clean bill of health. It did get into trouble over the Glasgow Garden Festival, and over a deal with a building contractor called Quinlon, but by then the blueprint for Scottish Enterprise had already been set up.

  ‘On the first of April – note the date – 1991, the SDA and HIDB became Scottish Enterprise and Highlands and Islands Enterprise. Basically, the changes were twofold: the new agencies took on the Scottish remit of the Training Agency and, more importantly, the central role of the SDA became more devolved.’

  ‘How so?’ Rebus wasn’t touching the wine; he needed all his wits about him.

  ‘Authority was devolved to a network of private-sector-led local enterprise companies, LECs for short.’

  ‘Like Lothian and Edinburgh Enterprise Limited?’

  ‘Yes, LEEL’s one.’

  ‘Is there any Scottish Office control?’

  ‘Oh yes, Scottish Enterprise is sponsored by SOID.’

  ‘The Scottish Office Industry Department?’ McAllister gave a round of silent applause. ‘Which leads us,’ Rebus said, ‘to funding.’

  ‘Oh, I could talk all afternoon about funding, it’s my specialty.’

  ‘So what’s Scottish Enterprise’s annual budget?’

  McAllister puffed out his cheeks. ‘Around four hundred and fifty million.’

  Rebus swallowed the last of his pasta. ‘Forgive me, that sounds like a lot.’

  ‘Well, the money has to be split: it covers Enterprise, environment, youth and adult training, plus admin costs.’

  ‘Well, put like that I can see it represents excellent value for money.’

  McAllister nearly choked with laughter. ‘You sound just like a civil servant!’

  ‘I was being ironic. Tell me, Mr McAllister, why did you agree to meet me?’

  The question took McAllister by surprise. He took time forming his answer. ‘I’ve never met a police officer before,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was curious. Besides, it’s nice to meet someone who’s actually interested in what we do, no matter what his motives. You know, only about one in three voters in this country even knows there’s such a thing as the Scottish Office. One in three!’ He sat back and opened his arms. ‘And we’ve got a budget of millions!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘any word of any … impropriety?’

  ‘At Scottish Enterprise?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘What about the SDA?’

  One waiter removed their bowls, another set down the main course and accompanying vegetables. McAllister tucked in. He swallowed the first mouthful before answering Rebus’s question.

  ‘If there had been, Inspector, it would be dead and buried by now. When the SDA became Scottish Enterprise, the accounting procedures were changed: new set-up, new set of books. Like wiping the slate clean.’

  ‘So what would have happened if any impropriety had been found?’

  McAllister made a sweeping motion with his fork. ‘Under the carpet with it.’

  Rebus pondered this: wiping the slate clean, under the carpet … The district council was about to disappear, just as the SDA had done.

  ‘You know, Mr McAllister, you don’t seem very curious about why I want to know about the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

  McAllister chewed on that. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me if and when you’re ready. Until then, I don’t see that it’s any of my business. I’m not the curious sort, Inspector. In my line of work, that’s seen as a strength.’

  After a while Rebus asked: ‘Who appoints the boards?’

  ‘At SE and HIE, the Secretary of State.’ McAllister poured the last of the wine into his glass. ‘Not on his own, of course. He’d be advised by the Permanent Secretary. That, after all is the job of the Permanent Secretary: to advise. Thoug
h he implements too, of course.’ McAllister glanced at his watch, then signalled for the waiter. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said to Rebus, ‘but I think I might skip pud.’ And he patted his ample stomach. When the waiter approached, McAllister ordered espresso.

  ‘Is that what you’re investigating, Inspector – impropriety at the SDA?’

  Rebus smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t curious. Tell me, does the word Mensung mean anything to you?’

  McAllister tried it out. He’d torn open a plastic toothpick, and was working on his mouth. The sight made Rebus’s teeth jangle. ‘I do seem to know it … can’t think why or what it is. Want me to check?’

  ‘I’d be grateful, sir. One other thing, any connection between the SDA or Scottish Enterprise and the US Consulate?’

  Again, McAllister seemed surprised by the question. ‘Well, yes,’ he said at last, as his coffee arrived. ‘I mean, we do try to persuade American companies to locate here, so contacts at a consular level are helpful – vital, even. They were especially so in the eighties.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Microelectronics was booming. Silicon Glen. Locate in Scotland was working superbly. Did I mention LiS? It was part-SDA, part-Scottish office, with a remit to get foreign companies to locate here. Most of its successes were American, mostly in the early to mid-eighties. Rumour had it that its successes had less to do with canny persuasion and economic argument than with a kind of informal freemasonry.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, a lot of top executives in American companies were and are Scottish, either born here or with Scottish roots. LiS would target those individuals and work on them, trying to get them not only to open a factory here, but to persuade other Scots in positions of influence. Look at IBM. Actually, this isn’t an example of LiS at work; IBM has had a presence in Scotland for forty years. They started in Greenock, and they’re still there – the plant’s massive, about a mile and a half long. But what took them to Greenock in the first place? I’ll tell you. It wasn’t economics or a skilled workforce – it was sentimentality. The head of IBM at that time was in love with the west coast of Scotland; and that’s all it was.’ McAllister shrugged and blew on his coffee.