A Good Hanging - Rankin: Short 01

by Ian Rankin

  You can’t afford to get involved, John, he told himself. But his feet kept moving forwards. The front of the Goatfell was uninviting, its bottom half a composition of large purple and black tiles, some missing, the others cracked and chipped and covered in graffiti. The top half was constructed from glass panels, some frosted, some bottle glass. From the fact that there seemed no rhyme or reason to the pattern of these different panels, Rebus guessed that many a fight or thrown stone had seen most of the original panels replaced over time with whatever was available and cheap. He stopped for a moment at the solid wooden door, considering his madness, his folly. Then he pushed open the door and went inside.

  The interior was, if anything, less prepossessing than the exterior. Red stubbled linoleum, plastic chairs and long wooden benches, a pool table, its green baize torn in several places. The lone gaming machine coughed up a few coins for an unshaven man who looked as though he had spent most of his adult life battling with it. At one small table sat three thick-set men and a dozing greyhound. Behind the pool table, three more men, younger, shuffling, were arguing over selections from the jukebox. And at the bar stood a solitary figure — the juror - being served with a half pint of lager by the raw-faced barman.

  Rebus went to the far end of the bar, as far from the juror as he could get and, keeping his face towards the optics, waited to be served.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ The barman’s question was not unfriendly.

  ‘Half of special and a Bell’s,’ replied Rebus. This was his gambit in any potentially rough pub. He could think of no good reason why; somehow it just seemed like the right order. He remembered the roughest drinking den he’d ever encountered, deep in a Niddrie housing scheme. He’d given his order and the barman asked, in all seriousness, whether he wanted the two drinks in the same glass. That had shaken Rebus, and he hadn’t lingered.

  Served with two glasses this evening, one foaming, the other a generous measure of amber, he thanked the barman with a nod and the exact money. But the barman was already turning away, walking back to the conversation he had been having at the other end of the bar before Rebus had walked in, the conversation he’d been having with the juror.

  ‘Aye, that was some game all right. Pity you missed it.’

  ‘Well,’ explained the juror, ‘what with being away for so long. I’ve kind of lost touch with their fortunes.’

  ‘Fortune had nothing to do with that night. Cracker of a goal. I must’ve seen it on the telly a dozen times. Should have been goal of the season.’

  The juror sighed. ‘Wish I’d been here to see it.’

  ‘Where did you say you’d been again?’

  ‘Europe mostly. Working. I’m only back for a few weeks, then I’m off again.’

  Rebus had to admit that the juror made a convincing actor. Of course, there might be a grain of truth in his story, but Rebus doubted it. All the same, good actor or no, he was digging too deep too soon into the barman’s memory of that night.

  ‘When did you say the goal was scored?’

  ‘Eh?’ The barman seemed puzzled.

  ‘How far into the game,’ explained the juror.

  ‘I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty minutes, something like that. What difference does it make?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, no, no difference. I was just wondering.’

  But the barman was frowning, suspicious now. Rebus felt his grip on the whisky glass tightening.

  There’s no need for this, son. I know the answer now. It was you that led me to it, but I know now. Just drink your drink and let’s get out of here.

  Then, as the question and answer session between the juror and barman began again, Rebus glanced into a mirror and his heart dipped fast. The three young men had turned from the wall-mounted jukebox and were now in the process of starting a game of pool. Rebus recognised one of them from the public gallery. Tattoos. Tattoos had sat in the public gallery most of the morning and a little of the afternoon. He seemed not to have recognised Rebus. More to the point, he had not yet recognised the juror - but he would. Rebus had no doubt in his mind about that. Tattoos had spent a long portion of the day staring at fifteen faces, fifteen individuals who, collectively, could put his good friend Willie Provan away for a stretch. Tattoos would recognise the juror, and God alone could tell what would happen then.

  God was in a funny mood. Tattoos, standing back while one of the other two T-Alice members played a thunderous break-shot, glanced towards the bar and saw the juror. Perhaps because Rebus was much further away, and partly hidden from view by the juror, Tattoos gave him no heed. But his eyes narrowed as he spotted the juror and Rebus could feel the young man trying to remember where he’d seen the drinker at the bar before. Where and when. Not too long ago. But not to speak to; just a face, a face in a crowd. On a bus? No. In a shop? No. But just a short time ago.

  A grunt from one of the other players told Tattoos it was his turn. He lifted a cue from against the wall and bent low over the table, potting an easy ball. Meantime, Rebus had missed the low-voiced conversation between the juror and the barman. From the look on the juror’s face, however, it was clear he had discovered something of import: the same ‘something’ Rebus had deduced while sitting in his car. Keen to leave now that he had his answer, the juror finished his drink.

  Tattoos was walking around the table to his next shot. He looked again towards the bar, then towards the table. Then towards the bar again. Rebus, watching this in the wall mirror, saw Tattoos’ jaw visibly drop open. Damn him, he had finally placed the juror. He placed his cue on the table and started slowly towards the bar. Rebus felt the tide rising around him. Here he was, where he shouldn’t be, following a jury member on the eve of a retiral for verdict and now said juror was about to be approached by a friend of the accused.

  For ‘approached’ read ‘nobbled’, or at the very least ‘scared off.

  There was nothing for it. Rebus finished off the whisky and pushed the half pint away.

  Tattoos had reached his quarry, who was just turning to go. Tattoos pointed an unnecessary finger.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You’re on my pal’s case. One of the jury. Christ, it is you.’ Tattoos sounded as though he would have been less surprised to have encountered the entire Celtic team supping in his local. He grabbed hold of the juror’s shoulder. ‘Come on, I want a wee word.’

  The juror’s face, once red from running, had drained of all colour. Tattoos was hauling him towards the pub door.

  ‘Easy, Dobbs!’ called the barman.

  ‘Not your concern, shite-face!’ Tattoos, aka Dobbs, growled, tugging the door open and propelling the juror through it, out onto the street.

  The bar fell quiet again. The dog, who had awakened at the noise, rested its head back on its paws. The pool game continued. A record came on the jukebox.

  ‘Turn it up a bit!’ yelled one of the pool players. ‘I can hardly hear it!’

  Rebus nodded to the barman in a gesture of farewell. Then he, too, made for the door.

  Outside, he knew he must act quickly. At any sign of trouble, members of T-Alice would crawl out of the woodwork like so many termites. Tattoos had pinned the juror to a shop-front window between the Goatfell and Rebus’s car. Rebus’s attention was drawn from the conflict to the car itself. Its doors were open! He could see two kids playing inside it, crawling over its interior, pretending they were at the wheel of a racing car. Rebus hissed and moved forwards. He was almost passing Tattoos and the juror when he yelled:

  ‘Get out of my bloody car!’

  Even Tattoos turned at this and as he did so Rebus hammered a clenched fist into his nose. It had to be fast: Rebus didn’t want Tattoos to be able ever to identify him. The sound of the nose flattening was dull and unmistakable. Tattoos let go of the juror and held his hands to his face. Rebus hit him again, this time in proper boxing fashion, knuckles against the side of the jaw. Tattoos fell against the glass shop-front and sank to the pavement.

  It was Rebus’s turn to
grab the juror’s shoulder, marching him towards the car with no words of explanation. The juror went quietly, glancing back just the once towards the prone body.

  Seeing Rebus approach, brimstone in his eyes, the two boys ran from the car. Rebus watched them go, committing their faces to memory. Future Willie Provans.

  ‘Get in,’ he said to the juror, shoving him towards the passenger side. They both shut the car doors after them. Rebus’s police radio was missing, and wires protruded from beneath the dashboard, evidence of an attempted hot-wiring. Rebus was relieved the attempt hadn’t worked. Otherwise he would be trapped in Gorgie, surrounded by hostile natives. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  The car started first time and Rebus revved it hard as he drove off, never looking back.

  ‘I know you,’ said the juror. ‘You were in the public gallery, too.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The juror grew quiet. ‘You’re not one of ...?’

  ‘I want to see Willie Provan behind bars. That’s all you need to know, and I don’t want to know anything about you. I just want you to go home, go back to court tomorrow, and do your duty.’

  ‘But I know how he — ’

  ‘So do I.’ Rebus stopped at a red traffic light and checked in the mirror. No one was following. He turned to the juror. ‘It was a cup-tie, a big crowd,’ he said. ‘And ever since Hillsborough, the football bosses and the police have been careful about big crowds.’

  ‘That’s right.’ The juror was bursting to come out with it first. ‘So they held up the game for ten minutes to let everybody in. The barman told me.’

  Rebus nodded. The game had been a seven-thirty kick-off all right, but that intended kick-off time had been delayed. The goal, scored fifteen minutes into the game, had been scored at seven fifty-five, not seven forty-five, giving Provan plenty of time to make the one-mile trip from Cooper Road to the Goatfell. The truth would have come out eventually, but it might have taken a little time. The situation, however, was still dangerous. The light turned green, and Rebus moved off.

  ‘So you think Provan is guilty?’ he asked the juror.

  ‘I know he is. It’s obvious.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘He could still get away with it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If,’ Rebus explained carefully, ‘it comes to light that you and I have been doing a little snooping. You’ll be thrown off the jury. It could go to a retrial, or some technicality might arise which would see Provan go free. We can’t let that happen, can we?’

  Rebus heard his own words. They sounded calm. Yet inside him the adrenalin was racing and his fist was pleasantly sore from use.

  ‘No,’ answered the juror, as Rebus had hoped he would.

  ‘So,’ continued Rebus, ‘what I propose is that I have a quiet word with the prosecution counsel. Let’s let him stand up in court and come out with the solution. That way no problems or technicalities arise. You just stay quiet and let the process work through.’

  The juror seemed disheartened. This was his feat, after all, his sleuthing had turned things around. And for what?

  ‘There’s no glory in it, I’m afraid,’ said Rebus. ‘But at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing Provan is inside, not out there, waiting to pick off another victim.’ Rebus nodded through the windscreen and the juror stared at the city streets, thinking it over.

  ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘So we keep it quiet?’

  ‘We keep it quiet,’ the juror agreed. Rebus nodded slowly. This might shape up all right after all. The whisky was warming his veins. A quiet word to the prosecution, maybe by way of a typed and anonymous note, something that would keep Rebus out of the case. It was a pity he couldn’t be in court tomorrow for the revelation. But the last thing he wanted was to encounter a broken-nosed Tattoos. A pity though; he wanted to see Provan’s face and he wanted to catch Provan’s eyes and he wanted to give him a great big pitiless smile.

  ‘You can stop here,’ said the juror, waking Rebus from his reverie. They were approaching Princes Street. ‘I just live down Queens -’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Rebus said abruptly. The juror looked at him.

  ‘Technicalities?’ he ventured. Rebus smiled and nodded. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. The juror opened his door, got out, but then bent down into the car again.

  ‘I don’t even know who you are,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rebus, reaching across and pulling shut the door. ‘You don’t.’

  He drove off into the Edinburgh evening. No thorn jabbed him now. By tomorrow there would be another. And then he’d have to report the theft of his radio. There would be smiles at that, smiles and, behind his back if not to his face, laughter.

  John Rebus could laugh, too.

  Sunday

  Where was that light coming from? Bright, hot light. Knives in the night. Last night, was it? No, the night before. Just another Friday in Edinburgh. A drug haul at a dance hall. A few of the dealers trying to run for it. Rebus cornering one. The man, sweating, teeth bared, turning before Rebus’s eyes into an animal, something wild, predatory, scared. And cornered. The glint of a knife ...

  But that was Friday, the night before last. So this was Sunday. Yes! Sunday morning. (Afternoon, maybe.) Rebus opened his eyes and squinted into the sunshine, streaming through his uncurtained window. No, not sunshine. His bedside lamp. Must have been on all night. He had come to bed drunk last night, drunk and tired. Had forgotten to close the curtains. And now warming light, birds resting on the window-ledge. He stared into a small black eye, then checked his watch. Ten past eight. Morning then, not afternoon. Early morning.

  His head was the consistency of syrup, his limbs stiff. He’d been fit as a young man; not fitness daft, but fit all the same. But one day he had just stopped caring. He dressed quickly, then checked and found that he was running out of clean shirts, clean pants, clean socks. Today’s chore then: doing the laundry. Ever since his wife had left him, he had taken his dirty washing to a public laundrette at the top of Marchmont Road, where a service wash cost very little and the manageress always used to fold his clean clothes away very neatly, a smile on her scrupulous lips. But in a fit of madness one Saturday afternoon, he had walked calmly into an electrical shop and purchased a washer/dryer for the flat.

  He pressed the dirty bundle into the machine and found he was down to one last half-scoop of washing powder. What the hell, it would have to do. There were various buttons and controls on the machine’s fascia, but he only ever used one programme: Number 5 (40 Degrees), full load, with ten minutes’ tumble dry at the end. The results were satisfactory, if never perfect. He switched the machine on, donned his shoes and left the flat, double-locking the door behind him.

  His car, parked directly outside the main entrance to the tenement, scowled at him. I need a wash, pal. It was true, but Rebus shook his head. Not today, today was his day off, the only day this week. Some other time, some other free time. Who was he kidding? He’d drive into a car wash one afternoon between calls. His car could like it or lump it.

  The corner shop was open. Rebus had seldom seen it closed. He bought ground coffee, rolls, milk, margarine, a packet of bacon. The bacon, through its plastic wrapping, had an oily, multi-coloured look to it, but its sell-by date seemed reasonable. Pigs: very intelligent creatures. How could one intelligent creature eat another? Guilty conscience, John? It must be Sunday. Presbyterian guilt, Calvinist guilt. Mea culpa, he thought to himself, taking the bacon to the check-out till. Then he turned back and bought some washing powder, too.

  Back in the flat, the washing machine was churning away. He put Coleman Hawkins on the hi-fi (not too loud; it was only quarter to nine). Soon the church bells would start ringing, calling the faithful. Rebus would not answer. He had given up church-going. Any day but Sunday he might have gone. But Sunday, Sunday was the only day off he had. He remembered his mother, taking him with her to church every Sun
day while his father stayed at home in bed with tea and the paper. Then one Sunday, when he was twelve or thirteen, his mother had said he could choose: go with her or stay with his father. He stayed and saw his little brother’s jealous eyes glance at him, desperate to be of an age where he would be given the same choice.

  Ah me, John, Sunday morning. Rubbedy-rrub of the washing machine, the coffee’s aroma wafting up from the filter. (Getting short on filters, but no panic: he only used them on Sunday.) He went into the bathroom. Suddenly, staring at the bath itself, he felt an overwhelming urge to steep himself in hot water. Wednesdays and Saturdays: those were his usual days for a bath. Go on, break the rules. He turned on the hot tap, but it was a mere trickle. Damn! the washing machine was being fed all the flat’s hot water. Oh well. Bath later. Coffee now.

  At five past nine, the Sunday papers thudded through the letterbox. Sunday Post, Mail, and Scotland on Sunday. He seldom read them, but they helped the day pass. Not that he got bored on a Sunday. It was the day of rest, so he rested. A nice lazy day. He refilled his coffee mug, went back into the bathroom and walked over to the toilet to examine a roughly circular patch on the wall beside it, a couple of feet up from floor level. The patch was slightly discoloured and he touched it with the palm of his hand. Yes, it was damp. He had first noticed the patch a week ago. Damp, slightly damp. He couldn’t think why. There was no dampness anywhere else, no apparent source of the damp. Curious, he had peeled away the paper from the patch, had scratched at the plaster wall. But no answer had emerged. He shook his head. That would irritate him for the rest of the day. As before, he went to the bedroom and returned with an electric hair-drier and an extension flex. He plugged the hair-drier into the flex, and rested the drier on the toilet seat, aimed towards the patch, then switched on the hair-drier and tested that it was hitting the spot. That would dry things out a bit, but he knew the patch would return.