Let It Bleed

by Ian Rankin

  ‘OK then, you requested I be taken off.’

  Gunner tucked his shotgun more firmly under his arm. ‘What’s that got to do with you being here?’

  ‘I wish I knew. If you’re asking me to make an inspired guess … ?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been brought here so you can work on me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to warn me off again, and I’ll be so impressed by the surroundings and the company, I’ll fall to my knees and plead forgiveness.’

  Gunner gave him a blazing look. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘In that case, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m in the dark. First time I’ve been invited. Maybe Sir Iain wants to get to know me. He’s a canny diplomat, as well as being a manipulator.’ Gunner paused. ‘The chief constable will be retiring soon.’

  ‘Bit young for that, isn’t he?’

  ‘His wife’s ill, she needs looking after.’

  ‘So you’ll be promoted?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Always supposing you’re given a clean bill of health.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘By HMIC, for example. That kind of threat works both ways, Allan.’

  Gunner narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Shug McAnally kills himself. I try to find out why. Turns out he’s recently been sharing a cell with a man called Charters. This despite the fact McAnally’s in for a sex attack. Only, none of the other inmates knows that.’

  ‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Yes you do. McAnally was Alister Flower’s grass. Flower worked under you on the case against Charters. McAnally was put in Charters’ cell to see what he could glean. Now, Flower hasn’t got the weight to set up something like that; it’d need someone more senior to have a word with Big Jim Flett – someone like yourself, sir.’ Gunner kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing. ‘And now,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’ve got the likes of Hunter warning me off, too.’

  Gunner looked up at the knot of men ahead. They were picking their way over fallen branches and through stunted undergrowth between mature trees.

  ‘I want us to talk,’ he said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘But not here.’

  Sir Iain had stopped and was gesturing. ‘Come on, slowcoaches! I’ve got one good leg and I’m still beating you.’ He waited for them to join him.

  ‘How much land have you got here, Sir Iain?’ Gunner asked, suddenly the well-mannered guest.

  ‘A hundred and seventy acres, but don’t worry, we’re not walking all of it.’

  Soon they broke out of the woods into a rutted field of stubble. By the side of the field was a track just wide enough for the vehicle that sat there, a venerable Land Rover the same olive green as their jackets. The servant was at the back of the vehicle, unpacking a large wicker hamper. There was another man halfway across the field, standing beside some apparatus Rebus took to be the clay-pigeon release.

  Rebus ended up standing next to the Secretary of State. The man didn’t seem inclined to speak. Rebus wondered what he’d been discussing with Robbie Mathieson in the morning room. Rebus turned to Mathieson.

  ‘A friend of mine works for one of your suppliers.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mathieson didn’t sound particularly interested.

  ‘Deltona,’ Rebus said.

  Mathieson’s beard moved in what might have been a smile. ‘Then I hope he didn’t have plans this weekend. I’ve been promised that plant will work all weekend. I’m due a big order from them by midweek. I wouldn’t want to have to find a new supplier.’

  ‘How’s the work on LABarum progressing?’

  Mathieson stared at him, then fed cartridges into the shotgun’s double chamber. ‘It’s going pretty well,’ he said. ‘Can I ask how you know about it?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Word gets around.’

  ‘Does it?’ Mathieson snapped shut the gun.

  ‘Actually, I came across a copy of your business plan in a council house in Stenhouse.’

  ‘What was it doing there?’ Mathieson seemed calm enough.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Rebus told him. ‘Someone had scrawled the word “Dalgety” on it.’ Mathieson flinched and dropped a cartridge.

  ‘Pull!’ Sir Iain called. A clay disc sprang into the air. There was an explosion, then another, and the disc shattered. Sir Iain broke open his gun.

  ‘Damned good shot,’ commented Sir Colin Macrae.

  ‘You know, it’s unusual. Sir Iain’s Saturdays are normally corporate affairs, but today we’ve got two policemen.’ Mathieson looked like he wanted Rebus to tell him something, but Rebus didn’t know what.

  ‘Pull!’ More gunshots filled the air.

  ‘Not bad, Dugald, not bad!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Rebus asked Mathieson, ‘do you know a man called Derwood Charters?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ve heard he helped finance PanoTech in the early days.’

  Mathieson laughed. ‘You’re misinformed.’

  ‘Come on, Allan, you’re next!’

  When Robbie Mathieson’s turn came, he missed the target with both barrels.

  ‘Not like you, Robbie,’ Sir Iain laughed, glancing towards Rebus. He looked uncommonly pleased. Rebus felt he was being used; he still didn’t know why or how.

  When his own turn came to shoot, he missed with both barrels. Sir Iain insisted he try again straight away.

  ‘You’re a tyro,’ he said, ‘you need the practice. I’m sure we all missed a few in the beginning.’

  This time, Rebus chipped a bit off the disc with his second shot.

  ‘See?’ said Sir Iain. ‘Now you’re getting the hang of it!’

  Maybe he was at that.

  Ears still ringing, Rebus joined the others at the Land Rover. There were flasks of Scotch broth, sandwiches in silver foil, hip-flasks of whisky and larger flasks of tea. Rebus’s sandwich was brown bread and smoked salmon. The salmon was sliced thick, and had been sprinkled with lemon juice and pepper. He took a small nip of whisky when the hip-flask came round, then drank two mugs of strong tea. With all the games he felt were going on, he wanted to clear his head. He wasn’t sure if he was a player, a counter, or the die. He’d been shown one thing, though – the game was dangerous, at stake his professional career, which was everything he lived for. Practically every man present had it within his power to push Rebus off the playing-board and off the force. He started to get angry: angry with himself for coming; angry with Sir Iain Hunter – so smug, so manipulative – for bringing him here. Rebus knew now that he hadn’t just been brought here so he could be warned off. He swallowed the anger down and held it in his gut. It was hotter than tea, stronger than whisky.

  They were almost back at the house when Sir Iain gripped Rebus’s elbow and led him towards the greenhouses.

  ‘We’ll catch you up!’ he called to the others. Then, to Rebus, still holding him by the elbow: ‘Have a nice chat with Robbie Mathieson?’ Rebus shrugged off Sir Iain’s hand. ‘And with Allan Gunner too, I noticed.’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘I admire your directness. You’re here because I want to know if you’ve decided.’

  ‘Decided what?’

  ‘To stop your investigation.’

  ‘Are you willing to tell me why you’re so interested?’

  Sir Iain’s gaze hardened. ‘I’m willing to tell you one thing, if you’re willing to listen.’

  They were standing in front of one of the long greenhouses. Looking through the misted windows, Rebus could see trestle tables and empty flower-pots and seed-trays, but there was nothing growing in there, nothing at all.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you that Scottish jobs are at risk.’

  ‘At risk from what?’

  ‘From you, Inspector, if you continue stumbling blindly around. Let it take its course, that’s
what I’m saying.’

  Rebus turned to him. ‘Let what take its course? You’re not telling me anything, how am I supposed to know what to do and what not to do?’

  ‘You know what to do,’ Hunter said calmly: ‘stop your little private investigation. If it goes any further, hundreds of jobs could disappear. Do you hear me? Hundreds. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, I’m sure.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Rebus said.

  Hunter looked at him with something near pity. ‘Yes, you do, Inspector.’

  He did, too. It was in Hunter’s voice, in the way his frame shivered when he spoke. He believed what he was saying, believed it with a passion. Hundreds of jobs.

  Sir Iain started to walk towards the house. Rebus followed, making sure he never caught up.

  * * *

  As agreed, Rebus and Gunner left the house separately but met up at a hotel in Auchterarder.

  ‘I don’t usually drink,’ Gunner confided, washing down two aspirin with an orange juice. They sat in a corner of the quiet lounge bar. For a Saturday, the main street was quiet. The shoppers would all be in Perth, keeping warm in department stores and superstores. The TV was showing Rio Bravo, John Wayne doing his John Wayne walk.

  ‘I don’t usually shoot,’ Rebus said.

  ‘So now we’ve both seen how the other half lives.’ Gunner put down his glass and took a deep breath. ‘Let’s get down to business. Whatever you think, Inspector, I wasn’t there to “scare you off”. I got my invite in the mail, same as you did. I’ve been thinking, and my conclusion is that Sir Iain wanted to play us off against one another. Or perhaps he thought that my presence would serve to unnerve you.’

  Rebus nodded agreement. ‘One other option,’ he added. ‘We were both there to scare someone else. Mathieson didn’t like it that policemen were present.’

  ‘What are they so worried about?’

  ‘Hunter told me it has to do with jobs.’

  ‘Jobs? What kind of jobs?’

  Rebus shook his head. How far could he trust Gunner? The man was the first person who’d tried to take him out of the game. ‘Are you going to own up about McAnally?’

  Gunner examined his fingernails. ‘You’re right in just about every detail. I had McAnally moved to Saughton and into Charters’ cell. Then he went and got cancer, and wasn’t getting any information out of Charters, so I arranged for his early release.’

  ‘And he went straight to Councillor Gillespie and blew his head off in front of him.’

  ‘I don’t know why he did that.’

  ‘Why was McAnally in Charters’ cell?’

  ‘To see if he could talk himself into Charters’ confidence. I wanted to see what Charters was hiding. I knew he was hiding something, but couldn’t think what to do about it until Flower suggested McAnally.’

  ‘And what is Charters hiding exactly?’

  ‘Money, what else? I don’t mean he’s hiding it literally, though perhaps he is. But back in the mid-eighties he was coining it, and we weren’t sure where the cash was coming from. He had about half a dozen companies – legit, as far as the Fraud Unit could tell – but they made more money than they should have.’

  ‘I thought that’s what Thatcherism was all about. Was one of his companies called Mensung?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And were all his companies involved in retraining?’

  ‘That sort of thing. Their paperwork was so convoluted – positively labyrinthine – that even our specialists couldn’t find a clear path through it. They were all agreed on one thing. Derry Charters had a genius for muddying the water. You could track a company of his for months and not get to the bottom of its financial status.’

  ‘I’ve heard he helped finance PanoTech at one time.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Did one of Charters’ investors tell you?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Probably a story he spun them. He could be very persuasive.’

  ‘But all this was eight, nine years ago.’

  ‘Yes, and since then he’s cleaned up his act, or had done until he burnt people’s fingers with Albavise.’

  ‘So why are you still chasing him over a piece of ancient history?’

  ‘A couple of reasons. One, I spent a lot of my time and effort in the Fraud Unit chasing him, without getting a result. It represents probably the only blot on my record. Two, our best guess when we investigated him was that he was fiddling millions.’ He had Rebus’s full attention. ‘Millions,’ he repeated. ‘And for me, that makes him worth the chase.’

  ‘Where did he fiddle these millions from?’

  But Gunner just shrugged. Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. The bar was filling, and the TV had been switched over to show the football scores. Not that many games were being played: the pitches were dangerously hard.

  ‘I’ve read the case against him on Albavise. Any chance that I can see the other paperwork?’

  Gunner studied him. ‘There’s a hell of a lot, and it’s in no particular order. You think you can spot something our financial gurus couldn’t?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Just for my peace of mind. I’d like to talk to Charters, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His cellmate’s committed suicide. It looks strange if nobody’s been near to ask him about McAnally’s state of mind prior to release. I mean, who’d know better than him?’

  Gunner nodded. ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Speaking of McAnally, how much did you pay him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was working for you, feeding you information, I’m assuming he was paid.’

  ‘He didn’t give us anything of relevance. We gave him a few pounds here and there, nothing more.’ Rebus was seeing Tresa McAnally’s flat in his mind: new door, new décor, new TV. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It did to Wee Shug,’ Rebus said quietly. Someone had given him the money, money he’d passed on to Tresa, almost like life insurance. Who did Wee Shug know with money apart from his cellmate?

  Gunner finished his drink. ‘I wonder what Sir Iain will be up to tonight.’

  ‘The way he was tucking into the hooch, sleeping it off, I’d imagine. Does he drive to Edinburgh and back every day?’

  ‘He only uses Ruthie at weekends. When he’s at work, he has a flat in the New Town.’

  ‘Whereabouts exactly?’

  ‘Royal Circus, I think.’

  Royal Circus, thought Rebus, where Haldayne collected some of his parking tickets. Life was just full of coincidences, if you happened to believe, as Rebus himself did not, in coincidence.

  31

  Early Sunday morning, a sleepy-eyed detective sergeant from Lothian & Borders Police Headquarters turned up at Rebus’s flat.

  ‘You’d better give me a hand,’ he said.

  Rebus followed him down to where a patrol car idled kerbside. He peered in through the passenger side window.

  ‘Maybe we’d better hire a winch.’

  It took them four trips to transfer the boxes from the car to Rebus’s living-room. Rebus put the binbags behind the sofa to make room on the floor.

  ‘Sign here,’ the DS said. He had a typed chitty: RECEIPT OF ALL CASE-NOTES (8 BOXES) CONCERNING DERWOOD CHARTERS. Rebus signed.

  ‘Date and time, too,’ said the DS.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a tip next,’ Rebus muttered.

  ‘If you’re offering.’

  ‘Well, here’s one for you: when lifting, bend your knees, not your back.’

  He phoned Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘Why me?’ she said.

  ‘Because Brian Holmes has a home life.’

  ‘That could be construed as discrimination. When do you want me there?’

  ‘Say an hour.’

  He tidied the living room a bit, depositing the bin bags in the hall and setting the file boxes in a row on the floor. Then he collected up all the dirty mugs, glasses and dishes and took them through to the kitchen. H
e emptied the coffee-jar and put it back under the radiator, and opened the living-room window an inch to air the place. The sun was out, showing that the windows hadn’t been cleaned since the autumn. Rebus decided enough was enough.

  ‘She’s coming here to work,’ he told himself, ‘not for a candlelit supper.’

  They got two breaks, both late in the afternoon.

  The first was a client’s name: Quinlon.

  ‘I’ve come across that name before,’ Rebus said. It took him a while to place it. ‘The civil servant, Rory McAllister, he mentioned someone called Quinlon; a building contractor. There’d been some shady business between the SDA and him – it was one of the things held against the SDA when they were deciding its fate.’ Rebus flipped back a page in the notes. ‘And Charters’ client happened to be a building contractor.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, somehow the media got to hear about the SDA and Quinlon, and that story helped sink the SDA. Who was going to gain by the SDA’s demise?’

  ‘Charters?’

  ‘Yes, because the financial slate was going to be wiped clean, and there’d be no possibility of a future investigation into where the SDA millions had gone.’

  ‘You think Charters grassed on his client?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him.’

  The second break came soon after.

  It was clear from the case-notes that the Fraud Unit had been focusing on Charters. When his ‘associates’ were mentioned, they were dismissed as fronts or moneymen. Nobody thought the directors had anything to do with whatever swindles Charters was perpetrating.

  Which was why they weren’t mentioned often, and in the case of Mensung, not at all. But then Rebus picked up the photocopy of a letter sent by Charters to the SDA. The Mensung logo was at the top, together with the non-existent Leith Walk address – referred to as ‘Mensung House’. At the foot of the letter was the company’s registration number.

  ‘You couldn’t find Mensung in Companies House, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Clarke. ‘I had their archivist take a good look.’

  ‘Well, either they were registered, or this is a phony number.’

  ‘The records could have been mislaid.’

  ‘Now wouldn’t that be a coincidence.’ The final line of the sheet was blurred. Rebus peered at the row of names, the names of Mensung’s directors.