Let It Bleed

by Ian Rankin

‘Have faith.’ Rebus looked towards the house. ‘He’s up.’

  Flower peered out through the windscreen. A light had come on upstairs in the Gunner household.

  ‘We’ll give him five minutes,’ said Rebus.

  But only two minutes later, the downstairs lights came on.

  ‘Could be the wife,’ Flower suggested, ‘cooking a hearty breakfast for her deserving husband.’

  ‘Have you ever heard the phrase “New Man”?’

  ‘It’s a shop, isn’t it? What do you reckon, a couple more minutes? Let him get his feet under the breakfast table?’

  ‘My legs are blocks of ice,’ Rebus said, opening the car door. ‘Let’s do it now.’

  They rang the doorbell, and heard Gunner’s voice calling, ‘I’ll get it!’ Then the door opened, revealing the deputy chief constable in shirt but not yet necktie or cufflinks, a mug of coffee in his hand. He took a step back into the hall.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Canvassing for the Natural Law Party,’ Rebus said, stepping into the centrally heated house.

  Gunner ran upstairs to have a word with his wife, and Rebus and Flower walked uninvited into the kitchen. Smoke was pouring from the electric grill. Flower lifted the grill-pan out and blew on the cremated bread. ‘New Man, eh?’

  Rebus switched the kettle back on and lifted two mugs from the draining-board. He was unscrewing the lid from the coffee-jar when Gunner returned. Gunner snatched the jar from him.

  ‘Christ, you’ve got some gall.’ He switched the kettle off. ‘Why are you here?’ He checked his watch, saw he hadn’t put it on yet, and glanced instead at the wall-clock. ‘Half a minute, then you’re on your way.’

  ‘We want the file you’ve compiled,’ Rebus said, ‘and the tape Sir Iain made. I think that’ll do for now.’

  Gunner looked to Flower. ‘He’s roped you in, eh? You must be mad. I could have you both up before the chief constable.’

  ‘We’d like nothing better,’ Flower said. He threw the remains of the toast into the bin. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘If we don’t get the file and the tape,’ Rebus said, ‘we take it further anyway. We’re going to kick up such a stink, you’ll think your drains have backed up. It’ll be everywhere, believe me. There won’t be enough clothes-pegs to go round.’

  ‘You are mad. I’m not going to give you anything.’

  ‘We’ll start with the chief constable and the newspapers.’

  Gunner folded his arms. ‘Be my guests. You’ve just dug yourselves a very deep hole.’

  ‘Holes have their uses,’ Rebus said, ‘when the bullets start to fly.’

  ‘Get out!’ Gunner snarled.

  They got out.

  ‘Think we were too obliging?’ Flower muttered as they walked back down the path. ‘We could have been harder on him.’

  ‘It went fine. It’s down to him now. Is he watching?’

  Flower glanced back. ‘Bedroom window.’

  ‘Right.’

  They walked to Rebus’s car, got in and drove off.

  A hundred yards along the road, Rebus stopped long enough to let Flower out. Flower’s own car was parked there, and he got into it quickly. Rebus checked in his rearview, but Gunner hadn’t come out of the house to check their departure, not on a morning like this. He drove on, went around the block, and ended up on the other side of Gunner’s house.

  They daren’t trust to police frequencies, so had borrowed a couple of on-line cellular phones from a dealer who’d owed Rebus a favour. Rebus’s phone rang, and he picked it up.

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Flower said.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Maybe he’s on the mark-two toast.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll have much of an appetite.’

  It was five minutes more before Rebus heard a door bang shut. Then Gunner’s gate opened. His Rover 800 was directly outside, and he unlocked it, got in, and started the engine.

  ‘Bingo,’ said Rebus.

  ‘Has he anything with him?’

  ‘A briefcase.’

  ‘Well, here’s hoping.’

  Rebus had parked away from the street-lighting, and was careful not to start his engine until Gunner was already on the move. Smoke billowed from his exhaust, hanging in the sub-zero air. Gunner’s back windscreen was frosted over, and he hadn’t taken time to scrape it.

  ‘Fall in behind me,’ Rebus told Flower, just before passing his stationary car.

  Soon they joined a slow-moving stream of commuter traffic heading into town. The Rover’s rear de-mister had taken care of the frost. When they came to a section of dual carriageway, Flower overtook Rebus.

  ‘Where’s he headed?’

  ‘Not to work,’ Rebus said. ‘Not this way.’

  They’d discussed routes he might take, places he might go. Princes Street hadn’t figured in their calculations. There was light in the sky now, a deep bruise hanging over the Castle and the Old Town. Rebus’s heater wasn’t working properly – it only did that in the summer – and he curled his toes inside his shoes.

  ‘He’s signalling,’ Flower said. ‘Turning left on to Waverley Bridge. Maybe he’s got a train to catch.’

  Rebus thought he knew. ‘No, but he’s headed for the station.’

  A long line of black taxis crept up from the subterranean concourse of Waverley Station, waiting their turn to take the commuters to business appointments and power breakfasts. They headed past the taxis, down the steep slope until they were underground. Gunner drove past the pick-up/drop-off point, and looked for a moment as if he was going to head up the exit ramp and back on to Waverley Bridge. But he took a left instead, and found a parking bay towards the back of the station.

  ‘Find yourself a space,’ Rebus told Flower, ‘and follow on foot.’

  ‘What if he sees me?’

  ‘Get on to the platform, walk down it.’

  ‘What if he goes on to the platform?’

  ‘He hasn’t come here for the trains. Hey, and take your phone with you.’

  Rebus parked and headed round the other side of the concourse, anti-clockwise to Gunner’s clockwise. He managed a light jog, as if he was fighting a tight schedule. He walked down a platform towards the rear of the station, the telephone up to his face, as much for camouflage as anything.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Flower said. And then Rebus was in position. In the distance, he could see Flower, and halfway between them Allan Gunner. He was where Rebus had guessed he’d be – at the Left Luggage counter. Rebus stood half-hidden by a billboard advertising industrial space to let. The irony wasn’t lost on him as he watched Gunner hand over the briefcase and accept a ticket. When Gunner headed back the way he’d come, Rebus came from around the advertising hoarding and walked briskly towards Left Luggage, just in time to see the employee place the case on a rack right at the front.

  ‘Well?’ Flower said.

  ‘Let him go.’

  ‘Is it there?’

  ‘Sweet as a nut, Flower. Sweet as a nut.’

  Rico Briggs took some persuading.

  Between them, in their many and various ways, Rebus and Flower were expert at the art of persuasion. Well, hadn’t they panicked – persuaded – Gunner into getting rid of the evidence? If he’d had time to think, if it hadn’t been early morning, he might have thought of a better hiding place. Left Luggage was a stop-gap – he just didn’t want the stuff in his house. Rebus had read him just right, and in fact a Left Luggage office wasn’t bad, not as a stop-gap.

  Rebus and Flower took turns keeping the office under surveillance. Surveillance was easy in a railway station: there were so many people just hanging around. They didn’t want Gunner coming back and lifting the case without them knowing, though Rebus’s guess was that it would stay there overnight. Gunner would work the day like any other, then go home and think about it, maybe make a few telephone calls – calls he wouldn’t want to make from his own office. With the briefcase and its contents out of the way,
he’d feel more confident. He’d want to use that time to think things through.

  So the briefcase would be there overnight.

  Rebus called Rico and got him to come down to the station. They met in the bar. Rebus had already consumed too much coffee and junk food, and the smell of stale alcohol in the bar almost did for him. The bar smelt the way bars always did at the start of a new day’s business – of the previous day, of accumulation; too much smoke and spilt beer.

  ‘Pint of lager,’ Rico told the barman. The barman tried not to stare too hard at his customer’s tattooed cheeks. Rico gave them a brisk rub while his drink was poured. When he saw there was a gaming machine in the bar, he walked over to it and fed in some coins. Rebus paid for the drink and carried it over to Rico. He had his cellphone in his free hand. I look like a businessman on the way down, he thought.

  Maybe he was, at that.

  Rebus explained the situation to Rico while Rico played the machine. When Rico ran out of coins, Rebus gave him more. Then his cellphone beeped.

  ‘What does he say?’ Flower asked.

  ‘So far, he says no.’

  ‘Let me talk to him.’

  So Rebus relieved Flower. He let twenty minutes pass, then phoned the bar.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s just about cleaned me out of money,’ Flower reported. And in the end it was the gaming machine that was the real persuader. It persuaded Rico to borrow money from Flower – real money – and suddenly Rico owed the policeman twenty pounds.

  For the promise of more money, and a clean slate on his debt, Rico said he’d meet them at one in the morning.

  Which was only thirteen hours away …

  Rebus and Flower spent the rest of the day watching Left Luggage, reading newspapers and magazines purchased from the station stall, eating overpriced sandwiches, drinking weak coffee, and generally learning a lot about the life of a mainline railway station.

  The security cameras bothered Rebus, so he paid a visit to ScotRail’s security office and spoke to the staff, on the pretext of alerting them to a gang of pickpockets just up from Newcastle. It was warm in the security chief’s office, and the man was ex-CID, friendly. They traded stories, Rebus asked for a tour. Which was how he saw everything would be all right. The camera trained on Left Luggage was hazy, distant: they’d see anyone going in, but they wouldn’t get a good description. This was very much to Rico’s advantage.

  Besides, no one watched after midnight. The camera would record, but that was all.

  The station was locked overnight, but still open at one o’clock. There were weird night trains to deal with, freight-haulers, a sleeper bound for London. Rebus thought he’d probably caught something, he kept shivering at his core. He didn’t think it could just be nerves.

  True to his word, but ten minutes late, Rico turned up.

  ‘I brought some balaclavas,’ he said.

  ‘We won’t need them.’ Rebus explained about the cameras. They’d taken their cars into Cockburn Street, parked them there. They had a quick discussion as they walked down Platform One towards Left Luggage. Rico had checked the office out earlier, and now carried the tools he needed, tiny picklocks which reminded Rebus of dental instruments. Instinctively, his tongue sought the hole, but there was no hole there, Dr Keene had seen to that.

  It took Rico a very long minute, but at last they were in.

  With the shutters down, the place was in utter darkness, but Rebus had a couple of torches and handed one to Flower.

  ‘Keep listening at the door, Rico,’ he ordered. Then they went to work.

  There wasn’t much luggage to choose from, and the briefcase was just where Rebus knew it would be. Locked, but that didn’t matter. He lifted it up and walked to the door.

  ‘Here, Rico, see what you can do with this.’

  He stood with his torch pointed at the case, while Rico brought out his picklocks. Flower, meantime, was moving luggage around, switching tags.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Rebus hissed.

  ‘Maximising confusion.’

  ‘Well stop it. Put everything back. We don’t want anyone knowing we’ve been in here.’

  Rico made a clucking sound with his tongue. They switched the torches off and stood very still in the darkness, listening. Slow footsteps, coming nearer. A whistled pop tune. Rico rested his weight against the door. Someone tried the door, pushing it a couple of times. Then the shutters jumped a quarter-inch and fell back, then jumped again. If someone shone a torch through the crack, they’d see Flower standing not three feet from them like the last dummy in the shop window. The shutters clattered down again. The footsteps moved away.

  Rebus started breathing again.

  ‘I’m glad I thought to wear my brown underwear,’ Rico whispered. Rebus shone the light back down on to the briefcase, and Rico tried the locks. They flipped open against his fingers.

  Rebus lifted the lid of the case. Inside was a single fat document file and an audio cassette. Rebus lifted both out and instructed Rico to lock the case again.

  ‘Is that it?’ Flower said.

  It took Rebus half a paragraph to be sure, then he smiled and nodded. He placed the evidence in a carrier-bag, put the case back on its shelf, and wiped it clean with the sleeve of his jacket. Rico was looking around at the other bags and cases.

  ‘No way,’ Rebus said, coming to wipe the door where Rico had held it shut. ‘And don’t even think of coming back here on your own, understand?’

  They relocked the door behind them, and walked up the slope just before the gates were closed for the night.

  41

  Rebus couldn’t sleep.

  He sat in his chair smoking a cigarette, reading the file the DCC had prepared – maybe ‘crafted’ was a better word. He’d done a good job of making it look so thorough while leaving so much out. He played part of the tape, using headphones so he could turn the volume up. Sir Iain was right about one thing – any lawyer listening to the tape would think that the police officer present hadn’t done very much. Rebus found that his hand was shaking. He hadn’t had a drink all day, and didn’t especially want one now. He was just a bit scared, that was all. He wasn’t sure he had enough, even now … especially now.

  Then he thought of something, something he’d almost persuaded himself to forget, and reached for the phonebook, finding the page, running his finger down the names, then along to a particular address. A flat on Dublin Street.

  It was past three o’clock when Rebus got there, the streets dead, not even any taxis rippling over the setts. Rebus pressed the buzzer and waited, then pressed it again. Then a third time, keeping his finger on it this time.

  The intercom crackled into life. ‘What? What?’

  ‘Mr McAllister?’ Rebus inquired, as if it was the middle of the day.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Inspector Rebus. If you’re alone, I’d like to come up for a word.’

  * * *

  Rory McAllister was half dressed and less than half awake. He was on his own.

  Rebus walked around the spacious living room, admiring the ornaments and books, while McAllister made them both a cup of coffee.

  Then they sat down opposite one another. McAllister rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

  ‘So what is it, Inspector?’

  Rebus put his mug down on the polished wooden floor. ‘Well, it’s just this, sir. That day we met for lunch, you were … well, how can I put it? It struck me afterwards that you were too enthusiastic, too willing to talk. Then I saw you going to see Audrey Gillespie and … well, I started thinking.’

  McAllister tried to hide behind his steaming mug. ‘About what?’

  ‘You don’t deny you went to see Mrs Gillespie?’

  ‘Not at all. I know her, of course. I met her husband several times, professionally and socially. Mrs Gillespie accompanied her husband on those social occasions.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘And the other occasions – there’s interaction between t
he district council and the Scottish Office?’

  ‘Of course, and both Councillor Gillespie and myself worked on an industry remit.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Rebus said. ‘And did the councillor know you were seeing his wife behind his back?’

  ‘Now hang on –’

  ‘Let me finish. You see, Mr McAllister, all this stuff Tom Gillespie found out, is it possible he could have gleaned so much unaided? Someone had to be passing him the information, perhaps anonymously.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Never mind, you’ll catch up. I think you found out about Mensung and PanoTech and Charters’ other scams. Sir Iain trusted you, had you pegged as a possible successor. Maybe he had you go into Mensung to make sure there was nothing that could come to light.’ Rebus stood up. ‘Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Because you either passed the information on so you could scupper Sir Iain – in other words, for the public good. Or you did it to keep Gillespie busy and out of the way while you enjoyed a fling with his wife – which might be called the private good. Either way, I think you did it.’

  ‘And you were generous enough to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night to let me know your suspicions?’ McAllister sat back in his chair, hands pressed to his chin as if in prayer.

  ‘I came here,’ Rebus said, ‘because if you did it only to smooth your affair with Audrey Gillespie, then I’m sunk. Whereas, if you really did want to get at Sir Iain, then we could be of use to one another.’

  McAllister looked up and frowned. ‘How?’

  So Rebus sat down again and told him.

  It was Sir Iain he wanted. He’d cancelled out all the other numbers in the equation, except Charters and Sir Iain. And Sir Iain was one possible route to Derry Charters. Rebus wanted him. He wanted him because people like Sir Iain Hunter were always in the right, even when they were wrong. Sir Iain lived and worked by the same ground rules a lot of villains swore by. He was selfish without appearing to be, full of arguments and self-justifications. He espoused the public good, but lined his pockets with the public’s money. He wasn’t so very different from the likes of Paul Duggan. If Rebus tried hard enough, he found he could blame Sir Iain for the fates of Willie Coyle and Dixie Taylor. Kirstie had run away from home because her father had been shown the city’s corrupt heart, and wasn’t going to do anything about it. But the heart was artificial, and Sir Iain Hunter was working the bellows.