Let It Bleed

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Mr Rebus? Through here, please.’

  He wore a white coat and half-moon glasses, and Rebus judged him to be in his late fifties.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ Dr Keene said, washing his hands. ‘Some swelling around the mouth?’

  Rebus sat on the chair and swung his legs up on to it, his hands gripping the armrests. Dr Keene came over.

  ‘Now, just lie back and try to relax.’ Rebus could hear his own hoarse breathing. ‘That’s it.’ The dentist used an electric foot-switch to set the chair back so it was nearly flat, and to raise it up. He angled the lamp over the chair and switched it on. ‘We’ll just take a look.’ He swivelled a tray of dental tools towards him and sat down on a high chair by Rebus’s side.

  ‘Open wide.’

  There was music playing. Radio Two, the airwaves’ answer to a placebo. Rebus opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. There was a blown-up photograph there, a huge black and white aerial shot of Edinburgh, from Trinity in the north to as far south as the Braid Hills. He started to map out the streets in his mind.

  ‘Looks like a wee abscess,’ the dentist was saying. He put down one tool and reached for another, tapping it against one of Rebus’s teeth. ‘Feel anything?’ Rebus shook his head. The assistant had joined them. Dr Keene said a few things to her in a language the patient wasn’t supposed to understand, then started packing Rebus’s mouth with cotton.

  ‘What I’m going to do is drill into the tooth from behind, to try to drain off the poison. That’ll release the pressure. The tooth is pretty well dead anyway, I’ll do a root canal later. But for now the abscess needs to drain.’

  Rebus could feel sweat on his forehead. A tube was being placed in his mouth, hoovering up what saliva there was.

  ‘A little injection first. It’ll take a minute or two to take.’

  Rebus stared at the ceiling. There’s Calton Hill, where Davey Soutar ended up. There’s St Leonard’s … and Great London Road. Hyde’s Club was just down there. Ooyah! There’s Stenhouse, where Willie and Dixie lived. You could see Saughton Jail quite clearly. And Warrender School, where McAnally blew his head off. He had a sense of the way the streets interconnected, and with them the lives of the people who lived and died there. Willie and Dixie had known Kirstie Kennedy, whose father was Lord Provost. McAnally had sought out a councillor as witness to his act of self-destruction. The city might cover a fair old area, its population might be half a million, but you couldn’t deny how it all twisted together, all the crisscrossed lines which gave the structure its solidity …

  ‘Now,’ the dentist was saying, ‘you might feel some discomfort at first …’

  Rebus raced up and down the streets. Marchmont, where he lived; Tollcross, Tresa McAnally’s home; South Gyle, only just taking off when the photograph was taken. There was no sign of the newer building work around the town. He saw holes in the ground and areas of wasteland where now there were structures and roads. And Jesus Christ Almighty it was hurting!

  ‘Ah,’ Dr Keene said at last, ‘there we are.’ Rebus could feel something nasty trickling down his throat. The pressure beneath his nose was easing. Like bleeding a radiator, he thought. ‘Drill into the poison,’ the dentist was saying, almost to himself, ‘and you relieve the pressure.’

  Yes, Rebus thought, that was absolutely right.

  The dentist gave the rest of his mouth a once-over. The assistant had a card in her hand and was writing on it as Dr Keene recited a litany of decay.

  ‘I won’t do any of these fillings today,’ he said to Rebus’s relief.

  Eventually he was allowed to rinse and spit, and the assistant removed the elasticated bib from around his neck. Rebus ran his tongue around his mouth. There was a gaping hole in the back of one of his front teeth.

  ‘We’ve got to let that drain, give it a few days. Once it’s drained, I can do the root canal. All right?’ And he smiled at Rebus. ‘Incidentally, when did you last have your teeth checked?’

  ‘Eleven, twelve years ago.’

  The dentist shook his head.

  ‘I’ll make up your appointments,’ the assistant said, leaving the room. Dr Keene removed his latex gloves and went to wash his hands.

  ‘Now that we all wear gloves,’ he said, ‘I don’t really need to wash them. But I’ve done it for thirty years, hard to break the habit.’

  ‘You wear the gloves because of HIV?’

  ‘Yes. Well, goodbye then, Mr –’

  ‘Inspector Rebus, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’ Rebus knew he was mumbling – the anaesthetic had frozen his mouth. But Dr Keene had no trouble understanding him.

  ‘You mean officially?’

  ‘Sort of. I believe you know a man called Derwood Charters?’

  Dr Keene snorted and started rearranging his instruments.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Very much to my cost. Like you, he walked into my surgery one day requiring treatment. Then I bumped into him socially. We met a few more times, and he put a proposition to me.’

  ‘A financial proposition?’

  ‘He needed investors for a start-up. The man had a proven track record, he’d helped finance the PanoTech start-up for one thing, and you’d hardly call that a failure. Mind, I didn’t just take his word for anything; I had my accountant look at the figures. The projections seemed sound, professionally done.’

  ‘What was the company?’

  ‘Derry was very persuasive, he always stipulated the downside of any project. Somehow, the more he talked them down, the more attractive he made them sound. He came across like he wasn’t trying to sell you anything. The scheme I invested in, the company was going to profit from the downturn in the economy. That was the downside: other people’s misery was going to make his investors money. He was offering retraining and counselling for employees who suddenly found themselves “reorganised” out of a job. He explained that once the company was up and running – it was to be called Albavise – he’d be able to draw on European Community grants, Scottish Office funding, all that. What he needed was start-up capital.’ Dr Keene paused. ‘Know what? I believed him then and I believe him now: if he’d used the money to start the company, it would have succeeded.’

  ‘But he didn’t set up a company, did he?’

  Dr Keene sighed. ‘He used it to pay off debts, and to finance his lifestyle. He’d picked out ten investors, each handing over five thou. Fifty thousand pounds, Inspector, and he blew the lot inside three months.’

  Yes, and then tried to do a runner. Only, one of his investors had an accountant who was sharper than most. Charters was arrested as he made to board the shuttle to London.

  ‘Once they started investigating his affairs – the Inland Revenue, Fraud Squad, what have you – they found a lot of discrepancies, none of which Derry was willing to discuss. He kept his peace all through the trial.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Has something happened?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Early days yet, sir.’ The stock response, but Dr Keene accepted it.

  ‘It wasn’t the cash that hurt, you know,’ he told Rebus. ‘It was that sense of betrayal.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  The Charters case-notes had made for fascinating reading. For example, Rebus now knew that Frank Lauderdale had been attached to the Fraud Squad at the time they’d been investigating Albavise and Derwood Charters’ other business interests. Thinking back on it, Rebus did recall a period when Lauderdale had been away from Great London Road. But Lauderdale was the least interesting part of it. For the man who had been head of the Fraud Squad back then, Chief Superintendent Allan Gunner, was now deputy chief constable of Lothian and Borders Police.

  And that wasn’t all …

  ‘Dr Keene, do you know a man called Haldayne? Spelt with a y.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He’s American, works at the consulate.’

  Dr Keene was shaking his head. ‘No
, I don’t know him. Is it important?’

  ‘He’s another of the investors ripped off over Albavise. I thought you might have met, that’s all.’

  ‘We might have met in court, had any witnesses been called. But Charters changed his mind at the last minute and pled guilty.’

  ‘Really? Any idea why?’

  ‘None. My solicitor was amazed. The case against him was by no means watertight and, as I say, he had a very good track record. It was possible he might have gone free, or at least got off with a heavy fine. But instead, he went to jail. I’ve often wondered why he did that.’

  Rebus was wondering the same thing. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘to protect someone or something that could have come to light at the trial.’

  ‘But who or what?’

  Rebus just smiled and winked. He collected his coat and put it on in the hallway. The assistant had already gone home. There was an appointment card on her desk. Dr Keene picked it up and handed it to Rebus.

  ‘See you in a few days.’

  Rebus looked at the card. There was a long column of appointments listed on its back. Six of them. Dates and times.

  ‘Dr Keene,’ he said, ‘exactly how many fillings do I need?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ the dentist said matter-of-factly. Then he saw Rebus to the door.

  26

  That night, Rebus went to see Tresa McAnally.

  The tenement door wasn’t locked, so he climbed the stairs to her flat. He could hear music inside, good-time music, and the sounds of hands clapping in time. Rebus pressed the bell and waited, then pressed it again. The music was turned down. A voice came from behind the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Inspector Rebus.’

  ‘Wait a minute, will you?’ She was a long time opening the door; even then she kept the chain on. ‘What do you want?’

  Behind her, the door to the living room was closed. There was a case of mixed spirits on the hall carpet. Tresa McAnally was dressed casually – baggy T-shirt, tight black slacks, looped gold earrings – and she was sweating from recent exertion.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘No, you can’t. What is it?’

  ‘It’s about Wee Shug.’

  ‘He’s dead, end of story.’ She made to close the door. Rebus pushed his hand against it.

  ‘Where did the money come from, Tresa?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money you spent on the flat.’

  ‘You’ve no right to –’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’ll keep coming back till you tell me.’

  ‘Then you’ll be coming back till doomsday.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘That may be closer than you think.’ He lifted his hand from the door, but she didn’t shut it.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who’s in there with you?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Nobody?’

  Not even Tresa McAnally was brass-necked enough to repeat the lie. She pushed the door closed.

  Rebus stood for a moment, listening, then walked along to Maisie Finch’s flat. He rang her bell, but she couldn’t very well answer, not when she was busy hiding behind Tresa McAnally’s living-room door.

  Next morning, Rebus called the US Consulate.

  ‘You’re not another recording, are you?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Good, can you put me through to Mr Haldayne, please?’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Detective Inspector John Rebus.’

  ‘Hold the line, Inspector.’

  He didn’t have to hold long.

  ‘Inspector? What can I do for you?’ An American accent, smooth, urbane. Rebus wasn’t exactly sure what ‘Ivy League’ meant, but Haldayne’s voice brought to mind the image.

  ‘Well, sir, for one thing you can start paying your parking tickets.’

  A confident chuckle. ‘Goodness, is that what this is all about? Well, certainly, if you insist. I wouldn’t want to make a diplomatic incident out of it.’

  ‘But you could, is that what you mean? The tickets aren’t the main reason I’m ringing. I’d like to talk to you about Derwood Charters.’

  ‘Jesus, what has he done this time?’ A pause. ‘Don’t tell me I’m getting back my money?’

  ‘Could we discuss it in person?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. You want to come here?’ The US Consulate, where Haldayne would be at his most consular.

  ‘The North British,’ Rebus suggested, ‘for morning coffee.’

  ‘It’s not called the North British any more, is it?’

  ‘You’ve got a lot to learn about Scotland, Mr Haldayne. Ten-thirty?’

  ‘That’s fine, Inspector. I look forward to meeting you.’

  Rebus’s next call was to St Leonard’s. He asked for Siobhan Clarke. ‘How’s life?’

  ‘Ms Templer had me in her office first thing, wanting to know if you’d been in touch. She was asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘Let her ask. As far as you know, I’m in Lanzarote.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Listen, Haldayne’s parking tickets, what were the exact locations?’

  ‘I think I jotted them down.’ He could hear her searching her notebook.

  ‘How goes the blaze inquiry?’

  ‘A non-starter. It’s down to an Act of God. They didn’t find a cigarette or a match in the bin.’

  ‘Of course not, Flower tidied up before he reported the fire.’

  ‘Here we are: Princes Street, James Craig Walk, and Royal Circus. Those are all I’ve got, and no dates. The last two were multiples.’

  Rebus thanked her and hung up. He found his A-Z and looked up James Craig Walk. It was hard by New St Andrew’s House. So Haldayne did have dealings with the Scottish Office. Princes Street could just mean he was shopping. Rebus wasn’t sure what or who Royal Circus represented. He remembered the councillor’s files: SDA/SE; A C Haldayne; Gyle Park West; Mensung.

  He still didn’t know anything about Mensung. He was hoping Haldayne could help.

  Rebus sat in the lounge of the Balmoral Forte Grand – formerly the North British – and told staff he was waiting for a guest but he’d order anyway: coffee for two – decaffeinated – and cakes or biscuits or something.

  ‘Fruit scones, sir?’

  ‘Fine, whatever.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Rebus was glad he was wearing one of his better suits. They’d made a good job of the hotel. Last time he’d had morning coffee here, it had been with Gill Templer, way back when they’d been ‘an item’. The walls had had cracks in them, and the whole place had seemed faded and slightly seedy.

  Rebus knew the American as soon as he walked in. He was tall and exceptionally well groomed and wearing a cream-coloured Burberry raincoat. Haldayne had fair hair, so fine and thin you could see pink scalp beneath it. He was around forty, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell circular frames. His face was thin, his forehead bulbous and shiny.

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’ He shook Rebus’s hand, and Rebus motioned for him to sit.

  ‘Cold enough for you over here?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I was brought up in Illinois.’ Haldayne slipped his coat off. ‘We got winters you wouldn’t believe.’ He shivered at the memory and chuckled again; it was becoming an annoying habit.

  Rebus had an annoying habit too: he kept poking the tip of his tongue into the hole in his tooth and trying to suck the poison out. He was getting to like that little bore-hole.

  ‘Do you know a Dr Keene?’ he asked the American.

  Haldayne made a sceptical mouth. ‘Care to give me a clue?’

  ‘He’s a dentist, and another of Derry Charters’ victims.’

  Haldayne sat back in his comfortable chair. ‘Took me for five biggies. That still hurts; I’m a diplomat, not a millionaire.’

  ‘What do you do at the consulate?’

  ‘I have an industry remit. In some countries that would be a two-way process, but there aren’t too man
y Scottish companies thinking of setting up plants in the US, so I tend to look after American companies who’re thinking of setting up here. It’s not as busy as it was.’ He looked left and right. ‘Waiting staff are slow.’

  ‘I’ve already ordered. I hope you don’t mind.’ Haldayne shrugged. ‘How did you come to know Derry Charters?’

  ‘I was introduced to him at a party. Can’t recall now who did the introducing …’

  ‘Can you remember whose party?’

  ‘Oh, it was some Scottish Office thing, that’s why I was there.’

  ‘And Mr Charters?’

  ‘Well, he was a businessman. How much do you know about him before his bust?’

  ‘Practically nothing,’ Rebus lied, wondering what tack Haldayne might take.

  ‘He ran a few companies, and ran them profitably. But he was always looking to expand. I think he just got bored, simple as that. He liked to set things up, get projects running, but after that he lost interest and started looking for something new. He was good at what he did, though; that’s why I wasn’t overcautious when he asked me to be a backer.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not really. When he was talking deals he was fine, but he wasn’t a social animal. I got the feeling normal polite conversation bored the hell out of him. He was a genuine product of the eighties, one of Lady Thatcher’s bulls.’

  The tray arrived, with cafetière and a plate of fruit scones with butter, jam and clotted cream.

  ‘Hey, this looks great, thank you,’ Haldayne said to the waiter. He immediately took over, putting the cups out, serving the coffee. While he was pouring, Rebus asked a question.

  ‘Ever heard of something or someone called Mensung?’

  ‘Run it by me again.’

  ‘Mensung.’

  Haldayne shook his head, and handed Rebus a cup and saucer. He hadn’t spilled a drop, hadn’t even paused while pouring.