by Ian Rankin
‘He stopped after I complained. But who knows? I mean, it’s easy enough to see someone during the day. But at night, in that room of his with the lights turned off. He could sit there all night watching us. Who would know?’
‘You say you spoke to the other residents?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of them?’
‘One or two. That’s enough, word gets round.’
I’ll bet, thought Rebus. And he had another thought, which really was just a word: tenementality. He ate the spicy sandwich and the sickly sandwich quickly, drained his mug and said he’d leave her to finish her lunch in peace. (‘Finish your piece in peace,’ he’d nearly said, but hadn’t, just in case she didn’t get the joke.) He walked downstairs, but instead of making along the passage to the front door, turned right and headed towards the tenement’s back door.
Outside, the biker was fitting a bulb to his brake-light. He took the new bulb from a plastic box and tossed the empty box onto the sheet of plastic.
‘Mind if I take that?’ asked Rebus. The youth looked round at him, saw where he was pointing, then shrugged and returned to his work. There was a small cassette recorder playing on the grass beside him. Heavy Metal. The batteries were low and the sound was tortuous.
‘Can if you like,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ Rebus lifted the box by its edges and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘I use them to keep my flies in.’
The biker turned and grinned.
‘Fishing flies,’ Rebus explained, smiling himself. ‘It’s just perfect for keeping my fishing flies in.’
‘No flies on you, eh?’ said the youth.
Rebus laughed. ‘Are you Mrs McKay’s son?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’ The bulb was fitted, the casing was being screwed back into place.
‘I’d test that before you put the casing on. Just in case it’s a dud. You’d only have to take it apart again.’
The boy looked round again. ‘No flies on you,’ he repeated. He took the casing off again.
‘I’ve just been up seeing your mum.’
‘Oh aye?’ The tone told Rebus that the boy’s parents were either separated, or else the father was dead. You’re her latest, are you? the tone implied. Mum’s latest fancy-man.
‘She was telling me about the fire.’
The boy examined the casing closely. ‘Fire?’
‘Last night. Have you noticed any of your petrol-cans disappearing? Or maybe one’s got less in than you thought?’
Now, the red see-through casing might have been a gem under a microscope. But the boy was saying nothing.
‘My name’s Rebus, by the way, Inspector Rebus.’
Rebus had a little courtroom conversation with himself on the way back to the station.
And did the suspect drop anything when you revealed your identity to him?
Yes, he dropped his jaw.
Dropped his jaw?
That’s right. He looked like a hairless ape with a bad case of acne. And he lost his nut.
Lost his nut?
A nut he’d been holding. It fell into the grass. He was still looking for it when I left.
What about the plastic box, Inspector, the one in which the new brake-light bulb had been residing? Did he ask for it back?
I didn’t give him the chance. It’s my intention never to give a sucker an even chance.
Back at the station, comfortable in his chair, the desk solid and reliable in front of him, the heater solid and reliable behind, Rebus thought about fire, the easy assassin. You didn’t need to get your hands on a gun. Didn’t even need to buy a knife. Acid, poison, again, difficult to find. But fire… fire was everywhere. A disposable lighter, a box of matches. Strike a match and you had fire. Warming, nourish ing, dangerous fire. Rebus lit a cigarette, the better to help him think. There wouldn’t be any news from the lab for some time yet. Some time. Something was niggling. Something he’d heard. What was it? A saying came to mind: prompt payment will be appreciated. You used to get that on the bottom of invoices. Prompt payment.
Probably pays his rent promptly, too.
Well, well. Now there was a thing. Owner-occupier. Not every owner did occupy, and not every occupier was an owner. Rebus recalled that Detective Sergeant Hendry of Dunfermline CID was a keen bird-watcher. Once or twice, on courses or at conferences, he’d collared Rebus and bored him with tales of the latest sighting of the Duddingston bittern or the Kilconquhar red-head smew. Like all hobbyists, Hendry was keen to have others share his enthusiasm. Like all anti-hobbyists, Rebus would yawn with more irony than was necessary.
Still, it was worth a phone-call. ‘I’ll have to call you back, John,’ said a busy DS Hendry. ‘It’s not the sort of thing I could tell you offhand. Give me your number at home and I’ll ring you tonight. I didn’t know you were interested.’
‘I’m not, believe me.’
But his words went unheeded. ‘I saw siskins and twite earlier in the year.’
‘Really?’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve never been one for country and western music. Siskins and twite, eh? They’ve been around for years.’
By the following morning, he had everything he needed. He arrived as Mrs McKay and her son were eating a late breakfast. The television was on, providing the noise necessary to their lives. Rebus had come accompanied by two other officers, so that there could be no doubting he meant business. Gerry McKay’s jaw dropped again as Rebus began to speak. The tale itself was quickly told. John Brodie’s front door had been examined, the metal letterbox checked for fingerprints. Some good, if oily, prints had been found, and these matched those found on the plastic box Rebus had taken from Gerry McKay. There could be no doubting that Gerry McKay had pushed open John Brodie’s letterbox. If Gerry would accompany the officers to the station.
‘Mum!’ McKay was on his feet, yelling, panicky. ‘Mum, tell them! Tell them!’
Mrs McKay had a face as dark as ketchup. Rebus was glad he had brought the other officers. Her voice trembled when she spoke. ‘It wasn’t Gerry’s idea,’ she said. ‘It was mine. If there’s anyone you want to talk to about it, it should be me. It was my idea. Only, I knew Gerry’d be faster getting in and out of the stairwell. That’s all. He’s got nothing to do with it.’ She paused, her face turning even nastier. ‘Besides, that wee shite deserved all he got. Dirty, evil little runt of a man. You didn’t see the state Alison was in. Such a nice wee girl, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and to be got into a state like that. I couldn’t let him get away with it, hell. And if it were up to you lot, he’d have gotten off scot-free, wouldn’t he? It’s nothing to do with Gerry.’
‘It’ll be taken into account at the trial,’ Rebus said quietly.
John Brodie looked not to have moved since Rebus had left him. His arms still lay on the top of the bed-cover, and he was still propped up against a pillow.
‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said. ‘Back again.’
‘Back again,’ said Rebus, placing a chair by the bed and seating himself. ‘The doctor says you’re doing fine.’
‘Yes,’ said Brodie.
‘Anything I can get you?’ Brodie shook his head. ‘No? Juice? A bit of fruit maybe? How about something to read? I notice you like girlie mags. I saw one in your flat. I could get you a few of those if you like.’ Rebus winked. ‘Readers’ wives, eh? Amateurs. That’s your style. All those blurry Polaroid shots, heads cut off. That’s what you like, eh, John?’
But John Brodie was saying nothing. He was looking at his arms. Rebus drew the chair closer to the bed. Brodie flinched, but could not move.
‘Panurus biarmicus,’ Rebus hissed. Now Brodie looked blankly at him. Rebus repeated the words. Still Brodie looked blank. ‘Go on,’ Rebus chided, ‘take a guess.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No?’ Rebus was wide-eyed. ‘Curious that. Sounds like the name of a disease, doesn’t it? Maybe you know it better as the bearded tit.’
‘Oh.’ Brodie smil
ed shyly, and nodded. ‘Yes, the bearded tit.’
Rebus smiled too, but coldly. ‘You didn’t know, you didn’t have a clue. Shall I tell you something about the bearded tit? No, better yet, Mr Brodie, you tell me something about it.’ He sat back and folded his arms expectantly.
‘What?’
‘Go on.’
‘Look, what’s all this about?’
‘It’s quite simple, you see.’ Rebus sat forward again. ‘The bearded tit isn’t commonly found in Scotland. I got that from an expert. Not commonly found, that’s what he said. More than that, its habitat–and I’m quoting here–is “extensive and secluded reed-beds”. Do you see what I’m getting at? You’d hardly call Easter Road a reed-bed, would you?’
Brodie raised his head a little, his thin lips very straight and wide. He was thinking, but he wasn’t talking.
‘You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? You told those two constables that you were watching bearded tits from your window. But that’s just not true. It couldn’t possibly be true. You said the name of the first bird that came into your head, and it came into your head because there was a drawing on your living-room wall. I saw it myself. But it’s not you that’s the bird-watcher, John. It’s your landlord and landlady. You rented the place furnished and you haven’t changed anything. It’s their drawings on the wall. They got in touch about the insurance, you see. Wondering whether the fire was accidental. They saw a bit about it in the newspaper. They could appreciate that they hadn’t heard from you, what with you being in hospital and all, but they wanted to sort out the insurance. So I was able to ask them about the birds on the wall. Their birds, John, not yours. It was quick thinking of you to come up with the story. It even fooled those two PCs. It might have fooled me. That book about zoom photography, even that had a picture of birds on the front.’ He paused. ‘But you’re a peeper, John, that’s all. That’s what you are, a nasty little voyeur. Miss Hooper was right all the time.’
‘Was it her who—?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘It’s all lies, you know. Hearsay, circumstantial. You’ve no proof.’
‘What about the photos?’
‘What photos?’
Rebus sighed. ‘Come on, John. All that gear in your bedroom. Tripod, camera, zoom lenses. Photographing birds, were you? I’d be interested to see the results. Because it wasn’t just binoculars, was it? You took piccies, too. In your wardrobe, are they?’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘With luck I’ll have the search warrant inside the hour. Then I intend to take a good look round your flat, John. I intend taking a very good look.’
‘There’s nothing there.’ He was shaking now, his arms moving painfully in their gauze bandages. ‘Nothing. You’ve no right. Someone tried to kill… No right. They tried to kill me.’
Rebus was willing to concede a point. ‘Certainly they tried to scare you. We’ll see what the courts decide.’ He rose to his feet. Brodie was still twittering on. Twit, twit, twit. It would be a while before he’d be able to use a camera again.
‘Do you want to know something else, John?’ Rebus said, unable to resist one of his parting shots. ‘Something about the bearded tit? It’s classified as a babbler.’ He smiled a smile of warm sunshine. ‘A babbler!’ he repeated. ‘Looks to me like you’re a bit of a babbler yourself. Well,’ he picked up the chair and pretended to be considering something, ‘at any rate, I’d certainly classify you as a tit.’
He returned that evening to his own tenement and his roaring gas fire. But there was a surprise awaiting him on the doorhandle of his flat. A reminder from Mrs Cochrane downstairs. A reminder that it was his week for washing the stairs and that he hadn’t done it yet and it was nearly the end of the week and when was he going to do it? Rebus sent a roar into the stairwell before slamming shut the door behind him. It was only a moment before other doors started to open, faces peering out, and another Edinburgh tenement conversation began, multi-storeyed, undertone and echoing.
Not Provan
How badly did Detective Inspector John Rebus want to nail Willie Provan? Oh, badly, very badly indeed. Rebus visualised it as a full-scale crucifixion, each nail going in slowly, the way Willie liked to put the boot and the fist slowly, methodically, into the victims of his violence.
Rebus had first encountered Willie Provan five years before, as a schoolkid spiralling out of control. Both parents dead, Willie had been left in the charge of a dotty and near-deaf aunt. He had taken charge of her house, had held wild parties there, parties to which the police were eventually, habitually called by neighbours at the end of their tether.
Entering the house had been like stepping into an amateur production of Caligula: naked, under-aged couples so drunk or drugged they could not complete the act which so interested them; emptied tins of solvent, polythene bags encrusted with the dregs of the stuff. A whiff of something animal, something less-than-human in the air. And, in a small back room upstairs, the aunt, locked in and sitting up in her bed, a cold cup of tea and a half-eaten sandwich on the table beside her.
By the time he left school, Willie was already a legend. Four years on the dole had benefited him little. But he had learned cunning, and so far the police had been unable to put him away. He remained a thorn in Rebus’s side. Today, Rebus felt someone might just come along and pluck that thorn out.
He sat in the public gallery and watched the court proceedings. Near him were a few of Willie Provan’s friends, members of his gang. They called themselves the Tiny Alice, or T-Alice. No one knew why. Rebus glanced over towards them. Sleeves rolled up, sporting tattoos and unshaven grins. They were the city’s sons, the product of an Edinburgh upbringing, but they seemed to belong to another culture, another civilisation entirely, reared on Schwarzenegger videos and bummed cigarettes. Rebus shivered, feeling he understood them better than he liked to admit.
The case against Provan was solid and satisfying. On a cup-tie evening several months ago, a football fan had been heading towards the Heart of Midlothian ground. He was late, his train from Fife having been behind time. He was an away supporter and he was on his own in Gorgie.
An arm snaked around his neck, yanked him into a tenement stairwell, and there Willie Provan had kicked and punched him into hospitalisation. For what reason? Rebus could guess. It had nothing to do with football, nothing with football hooliganism. Provan pretended a love of Hearts, but had never, to Rebus’s knowledge, attended a game. Nor could he name more than two or three players in the current team’s line-up.
Nevertheless, Gorgie was his patch, his territory. He had spotted an invader and had summarily executed him, in his own terms. But his luck had run out. A woman had heard some sounds from the stairwell and had opened her door to investigate. Provan saw her and ran off. But she had given the police a good description and had later identified Provan as the attacker. Moreover, a little while after the attack, a constable, off duty and happening to pass Tynecastle Park, had spotted a young man, apparently disorientated. He had approached the man and asked him if he was all right, but at that point some members of T-Alice had appeared from their local pub, directly opposite the Hearts ground and had taken the man inside.
The constable thought little of it, until he heard about the assault and was given a description of the attacker. The description matched that of the disorientated man, and that man turned out to be Willie Provan. With Provan’s previous record, this time he would go down, Rebus was sure of that. So he sat and he watched and he listened.
He watched the jurors, too. They winced, perceptibly as they were told of the injuries to the victim, injuries which still, several months on, kept him in hospital, unable to walk and with respiratory difficulties to boot. To boot. Ha! Rebus let a short-lived smile wrinkle his face. Yes, the jury would convict. But Rebus was most interested in one juror in particular, an intense young man who was taking copious notes, sending intelligent written questions to the judge, studying photographs and diagrams with enthusiasm. The model
juror, ready to see that justice was done and all was fair and proper. At one point, the young man looked up and caught Rebus watching him. After that, he gave Rebus some of his attention, but still scribbled his notes and checked and rechecked what he had written.
The other jurors were solemn, looked bored even. Passive spectators at a one-horse race. Guilty. Probably by the end of the day. Rebus would sit it out. The prosecution had finished its case, and the defence case had already begun. The usual stuff when an obviously guilty party pleaded not guilty: trying to catch out prosecution witnesses, instilling mistrust, trying to persuade the jury that things were not as cut and dried as they seemed, that there was probable cause for doubt. Rebus sat back and let it wash over him. Provan would go down.
Then came the iceberg, ripping open the bow of Rebus’s confidence.
The defence counsel had called the off-duty constable, the one who had spotted Provan outside the Hearts ground. The constable was young, with a bad case of post-juvenile acne. He tried to stand to attention as the questions were put to him, but when flustered would raise a hand towards his scarred cheeks. Rebus remembered his own first time on the witness stand. A Glasgow music hall stage could not have been more terrifying.
‘And what time do you say it was when you first saw the accused?’ The defence counsel had a slight Irish brogue, and his eyes were dark from want of sleep. His cheap ballpoint pen had burst, leaving black stains across his hands. Rebus felt a little sorry for him.
‘I’m not sure, sir.’
‘You’re not sure?’ The words came slowly. The inference was: this copper is a bit thick, isn’t he? How can you the jury trust him? For the counsel was staring at the jury as he spoke and this seemed to unnerve the constable further. A hand rubbed against a cheek.
‘Roughly then,’ continued the defence counsel. ‘Roughly what time was it?’
‘Sometime between seven-thirty and eight, sir.’
The counsel nodded, flipping through a sheaf of notes. ‘And what did you say to the accused?’ As the constable was about to reply, the counsel interrupted, still with his face towards the jury. ‘I say “the accused” because there’s no disagreement that the person the constable saw outside the football ground was my client.’ He paused. ‘So constable, what did you say?’