by Ian Rankin
She remembered the envelope, lifted it from her pocket. Handwritten, more of a scrawl really. She put her can down on top of the machine, already getting a bad feeling as she peeled the envelope open. Just a single sheet of paper, she was sure of that. No razor blades, no glass . . . Plenty of nutters out there keen to share their thoughts with her. She unfolded the letter. Big scrawled capitals.
LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN IN HELL—MARTY.
The name was underlined. Her heart was racing. She didn’t doubt who Marty was: Martin Fairstone. But Fairstone was a tub of cinders and bone on a shelf in someone’s lab. She studied the envelope. Address and post-code perfect. Somebody’s idea of a joke? But who could it be? Who knew about her and Fairstone? Rebus and Templer . . . anyone else? She thought back a few months. Someone had left messages on her screen saver, had to be CID, one of her so-called colleagues. But the messages had stopped. Davie Hynds and George Silvers: they worked beside her. Grant Hood, too, most of the time. Others came and went. But she hadn’t told any of them about Fairstone. Hold on . . . when Fairstone had made his complaint, had any of it become a matter of record? She didn’t think so. But cop shops were hives of gossip, hard to keep any secrets.
She realized she was staring through the glass outer doors, and the two detectives in the car park were staring back at her, wondering what it was about them that she was finding so mesmeric. She tried for a smile and a shake of the head, as if to say she’d been in a “dwam.”
For lack of anything else to do, she took out her mobile, intending to check for messages. But started to make a call instead, punching in the number from memory.
“Ray Duff speaking.”
“Ray? You busy?”
Siobhan knew what the initial answer would be: an intake of breath preceding an elongated sigh. Duff was a scientist, working for the forensics lab at Howdenhall.
“You mean apart from checking that all the Port Edgar bullets came from the same gun, then examining blood spatter configurations and powder residues, ballistic angles, all that?”
“At least we keep you in a job. How’s the MG?”
“Running like a dream.” The last time the two had spoken, Duff had just finished rebuilding a ’73 special. “That offer of a spin some weekend still stands.”
“Maybe come the better weather.”
“There’s a top, you know.”
“Not the same, though, is it? Look, Ray, I know you’re up to your eyes in work from the school, but I was wondering if I could ask a wee favor . . .”
“Siobhan, you know I’m going to say no. Everyone wants this done and dusted.”
“I know. I’m working Port Edgar, too.”
“You and every other cop in the city.” Another sigh. “Just out of curiosity, what is it exactly?”
“Between you and me?”
“Of course.”
Siobhan looked around. The detectives outside had lost interest in her. Three constables sat together at a table in the cafeteria, eating sandwiches and drinking tea, maybe twenty feet away from her. She turned her back to them, so she was facing the machine.
“I just got this letter. Anonymous.”
“Threatening?”
“Sort of.”
“You should show it to someone.”
“I was thinking of showing it to you, see if you can take anything from it.”
“I meant show it to your boss. Gill Templer, isn’t it?”
“I’m not exactly her star pupil right now. Besides, she’s snowed under.”
“And I’m not?”
“Just a quick recon, Ray. It could be something, or nothing.”
“But on the q.t., am I right?”
“Right.”
“Which is wrong. Someone’s threatening you, you need to report it, Shiv.”
That nickname again: Shiv. More and more people seemed to be using it. She decided this wasn’t the time to tell Ray how much she disliked it.
“Thing is, Ray, it’s from a dead man.”
There was a pause on the line. “Okay,” Duff drawled at last. “You’ve got my attention.”
“Housing project in Gracemount, chip-pan fire . . .”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Martin Fairstone. I’ve been trying to get some work done on him, too.”
“Come up with anything?”
“Bit early to tell . . . Port Edgar came straight in at number one. Fairstone dropped a few places.”
She had to smile at the analogy. Ray liked his charts. Their conversations usually contained top threes and fives. And right on cue:
“By the way, Shiv—top three Scottish rock and pop acts?”
“Ray . . .”
“Humor me. No thinking allowed, just off the top of your head.”
“Rod Stewart? Big Country? Travis?”
“No room for Lulu? Annie Lennox?”
“I’m not much good at this, Ray.”
“Rod’s an interesting choice, though.”
“Blame DI Rebus. He loaned me the early albums . . .” She attempted a sigh of her own. “So are you going to help me or not?”
“How soon can you get it to me?”
“Within the hour.”
“I suppose I could stay late. Wouldn’t that make a change?”
“Have I ever mentioned your good looks, wit and charm?”
“Only every time I agree to do you a favor.”
“You’re an angel, Ray. Call me ASAP.”
“Come for a drive sometime,” Duff was telling her as she ended the call. She carried the letter through the cafeteria, into the booking area beyond.
“Got an evidence bag, by any chance?” she asked the custody sergeant. He opened a couple of drawers. “I could get one from upstairs,” he said, admitting defeat.
“What about one of the possessions envelopes?”
The custody sergeant stooped again and produced a legal-sized manila envelope from below the counter.
“That’ll do,” Siobhan said, dropping her own envelope in. She wrote Ray Duff’s name on the front, adding her own name as reference and the word URGENT, then walked back through the cafeteria and out into the car park. The smokers had gone back inside, meaning she wouldn’t have to apologize for her earlier fit of the stares. Two uniforms were getting into a patrol car.
“Hey, guys!” she called. Getting closer, she recognized the passenger as PC John Mason, his station nickname the utterly obvious Perry. The driver was Toni Jackson.
“Hiya, Siobhan,” Jackson said. “Missed you Friday night.”
Siobhan shrugged an apology. Toni and some of the other female uniforms liked to let off steam once a week. Siobhan was the only detective allowed into their fold.
“I’m assuming I missed a good night?” she asked.
“A great night. My liver’s still recovering.”
Mason looked interested. “So what did you get up to?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” his partner responded with a wink. Then, to Siobhan: “You wanting us to play postman?” She nodded towards the envelope.
“Could you? It’s for forensics at Howdenhall. Delivered into this guy’s hands if at all possible.” Siobhan tapped Duff’s name.
“We’ve a couple of calls to make . . . it’s not much of a detour.”
“I promised it’d be there inside an hour.”
“Way Toni drives, that won’t be a problem,” Mason offered.
Jackson ignored this. “Rumor has it you’ve been relegated to chauffeur, Siobhan.”
Siobhan twitched her mouth. “Only for a few days.”
“How did he manage to hurt his hands?”
Siobhan stared at Jackson. “I don’t know, Toni. What do the bush drums say?”
“They say all sorts of things . . . Everything from fistfights to fat fryers.”
“Not that the two are mutually exclusive.”
“Nothing’s mutually exclusive where DI Rebus is concerned.” Jackson smiled wryly, holding her hand out for the envelope. “You�
��re on a yellow card, Siobhan.”
“I’ll be there Friday, if you want me.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my CID heart.”
“In other words, it depends.”
“It always does, Toni, you know that.”
Jackson was looking over Siobhan’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” she said, getting back behind the steering wheel. Siobhan turned around. Rebus was watching from the doorway. She didn’t know how long he’d been there. Long enough to see the envelope change hands? The engine caught, and she stepped away from the car, watching it depart. Rebus had opened his cigarette packet and was pulling one out with his teeth.
“Funny how the human animal can adapt,” Siobhan said, walking towards him.
“I’m thinking of extending my repertoire,” Rebus told her. “Might try playing the piano with my nose.” He got the lighter to work on the third attempt, started puffing.
“Thanks for leaving me out in the cold, by the way.”
“It’s not cold out here.”
“I meant —”
“I know what you mean.” He looked at her. “I just wanted to hear what Johnson had to say for himself.”
“Johnson?”
“Peacock Johnson.” He saw her eyes narrow. “He calls himself that.”
“Why?”
“You saw the way he dresses.”
“I meant why did you want to see him?”
“I’m interested in him.”
“Any particular reason?”
Rebus just shrugged.
“Who is he anyway?” Siobhan asked. “Should I know him?”
“He’s small-time, but those can be the most dangerous. Sells replica guns to anyone who wants them . . . might even deal in a few examples of the real thing. Fences stolen goods, dispenses soft drugs, just the odd bit of hash . . .”
“Where does he operate?”
Rebus looked like he was thinking. “Out Burdiehouse way.”
She knew him too well to be conned. “Burdiehouse?”
“That direction . . .” The cigarette flexing in his mouth.
“Maybe I could go look in the files.” She held his gaze, waited until he blinked.
“Southhouse, Burdiehouse . . . somewhere out there.” Smoke spilled down his nostrils, reminding her of a cornered bull.
“In other words, next door to Gracemount?”
He shrugged. “It’s just geography.”
“It’s where Fairstone lived . . . his patch. What are the chances of two scumbags like that not knowing each other?”
“Maybe they did.”
“John . . .”
“What was in the envelope?”
Her turn to try for the poker face. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Subject’s closed. What was in the envelope?”
“Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about, DI Rebus.”
“Now you’ve got me worried.”
“It was nothing, honest.”
Rebus waited, then nodded slowly. “Because you can take care of yourself, right?”
“That’s right.”
He tipped his head, let the remains of the cigarette fall to the ground. Crushed it under the toe of his shoe. “You know I won’t need you tomorrow?”
She nodded. “I’ll try to while away the hours.”
He tried to think of a comeback, gave up eventually. “Come on, then, let’s skedaddle before Gill Templer can find another excuse for a bollocking.” He started walking towards her car.
“Good,” Siobhan said. “And while I’m driving, you can be telling me all about Mr. Peacock Johnson.” She paused. “By the way: top three Scottish rock and pop acts?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Come on, off the top of your head.”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Nazareth, Alex Harvey, Deacon Blue.”
“Not Rod Stewart?”
“He’s not Scottish.”
“You’re still allowed him if you want.”
“Then I’ll get to him eventually, probably right after Ian Stewart. But first I need to go through John Martyn, Jack Bruce, Ian Anderson . . . not forgetting Donovan and the Incredible String Band . . . Lulu and Maggie Bell . . .”
Siobhan rolled her eyes. “Is it too late for me to say I wish I’d never asked?”
“Far too late,” Rebus said, getting into the passenger side. “Frankie Miller’s another . . . Simple Minds in their heyday . . . I always had a soft spot for Pallas . . .”
Siobhan stood by the driver’s-side door, gripping the handle but making no further effort. From inside, she could hear the catalogue continuing, Rebus’s voice rising, making sure she didn’t miss a single name.
“Not the sort of place where I’d normally drink,” Dr. Curt muttered. He was tall and thin, often described behind his back as “funereal.” Late fifties, with a long, slack face and baggy eyes. He reminded Rebus of a bloodhound.
A funereal bloodhound.
Which was apt in its way, considering that he was one of Edinburgh’s most highly respected pathologists. Under his guidance, corpses could tell their stories, sometimes revealing secrets: suicides who turned out to be murder victims, bones that turned out not to be human. Curt’s skill and intuition had helped Rebus solve dozens of cases down through the years, so it would have been churlish to turn the man down when he called and asked Rebus to join him for a drink, adding, as a postscript: “Somewhere quiet, mind. Somewhere we can talk without tongues wagging all around us.”
Which was why Rebus had suggested his regular haunt, the Oxford Bar, tucked away in an alley behind George Street and a long way from both Curt’s office and St. Leonard’s.
They were seated in the back room, at the table at the far end. No one else about. Midweek and mid-evening, the main bar boasting only a couple of suits who were about to go home, and one regular who’d just come in. Rebus brought the drinks to the table: a pint for him, gin and tonic for the pathologist.
“Slainte,” Curt said, raising his glass.
“Cheers, Doc.” Rebus still couldn’t lift his beer with just the one hand.
“It’s like you’re holding a chalice,” Curt commented. Then: “Do you want to talk about how it happened?”
“No.”
“The rumors are flying.”
“They can be stacking up frequent flier miles for all I care. What’s intriguing me is your phone call. Do you want to talk about that?”
Rebus had arrived home, soaked in a tepid bath, and phoned out for a curry. Jackie Leven on the hi-fi, singing about the romantic hard men of Fife—how could Rebus have forgotten to put him on the list? And then Curt’s phone call.
“Can we talk? Maybe in person? Tonight . . . ?”
No hint as to why, just an arrangement to be in the Oxford Bar at half past seven.
Curt savored his drink. “How’s life been treating you, John?”
Rebus stared at him. With some men, men of a certain age and class, there had to be this preamble. He offered a cigarette, which the pathologist accepted.
“Take one out for me, too,” Rebus asked. Curt did so, and both men smoked in silence for a moment.
“I’ve been hunky-dory, Doc. How about yourself? Often get this urge to phone cops up of an evening and arrange assignations in dingy back rooms?”
“I believe the ‘dingy back room’ was your choice rather than mine.”
Rebus acknowledged as much with a slight bow of the head.
Curt smiled. “You’re not a man of great patience, John . . .”
Rebus shrugged. “Actually, I can sit here all night, but I’ll be a lot more relaxed once I know what this is about.”
“It’s about what’s left of a man called Martin Fairstone.”
“Oh, yes?” Rebus moved a little in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“You know him, of course?” When Curt sucked on the cigarette, his whole face seemed to collapse inward. He’d become a smoker only in th
e past five years, as if keen to test his own mortality.
“I knew him,” Rebus said.
“Ah, yes . . . past tense, unfortunately.”
“Not too unfortunate. I can’t see him being missed.”
“Be that as it may, Professor Gates and myself . . . well, we think there are gray areas.”
“Ash and bone, you mean?”
Curt shook his head slowly, refusing to see the joke.
“Forensics will tell us more . . .” His voice drifted off. “DCS Templer has been persistent. I think Gates will talk to her tomorrow.”
“And what’s this got to do with me?”
“She thinks you may have been involved in some way in this man’s murder.”
The final word lay in the smoky air between them. Rebus didn’t need to repeat it aloud; Curt heard the unspoken question.
“We think maybe murder,” he said, nodding slowly. “Some evidence that he was tied to the chair. I have photos . . .” He reached into a briefcase that was on the floor next to him.
“Doc,” Rebus was saying, “you probably shouldn’t be showing me these.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t if I thought there was the slightest chance that you were involved.” He looked up. “But I know you, John.”
Rebus was looking towards the briefcase. “People have been wrong about me before.”
“Maybe.”
The manila file was on the table between them, resting on damp coasters. Rebus picked it up, opened it. There were a couple of dozen photographs of the kitchen, wisps of smoke still evident in the background. Martin Fairstone was barely recognizable as human. More like a blackened, blistered store mannequin. He was lying facedown. A chair lay behind him, reduced to a couple of stumps and part of the seat. What got Rebus was the oven. For some reason, its surface had been left mostly untouched. He could see the chip pan sitting on one of its rings. Christ, clean it up and it might still be useable . . . Hard to think that a chip pan could survive where a human couldn’t.
“What you’ll see from this is the way the chair has fallen. It’s tipped forwards, taking the victim with it. It’s almost like he fell on his knees, pitched that way, and then later slid into a completely prone position. And you see how his arms are positioned? Flat by his sides?”