by Ian Rankin
‘I’m just on my way out,’ she said.
‘I’d put another layer on,’ Rebus suggested. ‘It’s perishing. ’
‘Won’t take a moment,’ Clarke was reassuring the teenager. ‘Where’s the best place to talk?’
‘Kitchen,’ Nancy stated. Yes, because the sweet smell of dope was coming from behind another closed door, probably the living room. There was music, too, something rambling and electronic. Rebus couldn’t place it, but it reminded him a bit of Tangerine Dream.
The kitchen was narrow and cluttered, seemed the flatmates existed on takeaways. The window had been left open a couple of inches, which did little to lessen the smell from the sink.
‘Someone’s missed their turn to do the washing-up,’ Rebus commented.
Nancy ignored him. She had folded her arms and was waiting for a question. Clarke went back into her folder again, bringing out Todd Goodyear’s impeccable report and another business card.
‘We’d like you to come down to Gayfield Square some time soon,’ Clarke began, ‘and give a proper signed statement. Ask for either of these officers.’ She handed over the card. ‘Meantime, we just want to check a couple of things. You were on your way back here when you found the victim?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’d been to a friend’s in . . .’ Clarke pretended to look at the report. She was expecting Nancy to finish the sentence, but the teenager seemed to be having trouble remembering. ‘Great Stuart Street,’ Clarke reminded her. Nancy nodded in agreement. ‘What’s your friend’s name, Nancy?’
‘What do you need that for?’
‘It’s just the way we are, we like as much detail as we can get.’
‘Her name’s Gill.’
Clarke wrote the name down. ‘Surname?’ she asked.
‘Morgan.’
‘And what number does she live at?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Great.’ Clarke wrote this down, too. ‘Thanks for that.’
The living-room door opened and a female face peered out, disappearing again after meeting Rebus’s glare.
‘Who’s your landlord?’ Rebus decided to ask Nancy. She gave a shrug.
‘I give the rent to Eddie.’
‘Is Eddie the one who answered the door?’
She nodded, and Rebus took a couple of steps back into the hall. On top of one of the cardboard boxes sat a pile of mail. As Clarke asked another question, he sifted through it, stopping at one envelope in particular. In place of a stamp, there was a business frank, and alongside it the name of the company: MGC Lettings. Rebus dropped the letter and listened to Nancy’s answer.
‘I don’t know if the car park was locked up - what difference does it make?’
‘Not much,’ Clarke seemed to concede.
‘We think the victim was attacked there,’ Rebus added. ‘He either staggered along to the lane where you found him, or else he was carried there.’
‘I didn’t see anything!’ the teenager wailed. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she had wrapped her arms more tightly around her. The living-room door opened again and Eddie emerged into the hall.
‘Stop hassling her,’ he said.
‘We’re not hassling her, Eddie,’ Rebus told him. The young man blanched when he realised Rebus now had his name. He held his ground a further moment or two for pride’s sake, then retreated. ‘Why didn’t you tell him what had happened?’ Rebus asked Nancy.
She was shaking her head slowly, having blinked back the tears. ‘Just want to forget all about it.’
‘Can’t blame you for that,’ Clarke sympathised. ‘But if you do remember anything ...’ She was pointing towards the business card.
‘I’ll call you,’ Nancy agreed.
‘And you’ll come to the station, too,’ Clarke reminded her, ‘any time Monday.’ Nancy Sievewright nodded, looking utterly dejected. Clarke threw a glance towards Rebus, wondering if he had any other questions. He decided to oblige.
‘Nancy,’ he asked quietly, ‘have you ever been to the Caledonian Hotel?’
The teenager gave a snort. ‘Oh yeah, I’m in there all the time.’
‘Seriously, though.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Rebus gave a little jerk of his head, signalling to Clarke that it was time to go. But before they did, he shoved open the living-room door. The place was a haze of smoke. There was no ceiling light, just a couple of lamps fitted with purple bulbs and a row of thick white candles on the mantelpiece. The coffee table was covered with cigarette papers, torn bits of card, and shreds of tobacco. Apart from Eddie, there were three figures sprawled on the sofas and the floor. Rebus just nodded at them, then retreated. ‘Do you do anything yourself?’ he asked Nancy. ‘A bit of blaw maybe?’ She was opening the front door.
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.
‘Thanks for not lying,’ Rebus said. There was a girl on the doorstep: Kelly, presumably. She was probably the same age as Nancy, but the make-up would get her into most over-21s nightspots.
‘Bye then,’ Nancy told the two detectives. As the door closed, they could hear Kelly asking Nancy who they were, along with Nancy’s muffled reply that they worked for the landlord. Rebus gave a snort.
‘And guess who that landlord would be?’ He watched Clarke give a shrug. ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty - as in MGC Lettings.’
‘I knew he had a few flats,’ Clarke commented.
‘Hard to turn a corner in this city and not find Cafferty’s pawprints nearby.’ Rebus was thoughtful for a moment.
‘She was lying,’ Clarke stated.
‘About the friend she was visiting?’ Rebus nodded his agreement.
‘Why would she lie?’
‘Probably a hundred good reasons.’
‘Her stoner buddies, for example.’ Clarke was starting back down the stairs. ‘Is it worth trying to talk to someone called Gill Morgan at 16 Great Stuart Street?’
‘Up to you,’ Rebus said. He was looking over his shoulder towards the door of Nancy Sievewright’s flat. ‘She’s an anomaly, though.’
‘How so?’
‘Every other bugger in this case seems to use the Caledonian like a home from home.’
Clarke was smiling a little smile as the door opened behind them. It stayed open as Nancy Sievewright padded down the stairs towards them.
‘There’s something you can do for me,’ she said, voice lowered.
‘What’s that, Nancy?’
‘Keep that creep away from me.’
The two detectives shared a look. ‘Which creep is that?’ Clarke asked.
‘The one with the wife, the one who phoned 999 ...’
‘Roger Anderson?’ Rebus’s eyes had narrowed.
Nancy gave a nervous nod. ‘He was round here yesterday. I wasn’t in, but he must have waited. He was parked outside when I got back.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Said he was worried about me, wanted to make sure I was all right.’ She was heading back up the steps again. ‘I’m done with that.’
‘Done with what?’ Rebus called, but she didn’t answer, just closed the door softly after her.
‘Bloody hell,’ Clarke whispered. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Something to ask Mr Anderson. Funny, I was just thinking to myself that Nancy looks a bit like his daughter.’
‘How did he get her address?’
Rebus just shrugged. ‘It’ll keep,’ he stated, after a moment’s thought. ‘I’ve another little mission for you tonight . . .’
Another little mission: meaning she was on her own when she met with Macrae in his office. He’d been out to some function or other and was dressed in a dinner jacket and black bowtie. There was a driver waiting outside to take him home. As he sat behind his desk, he removed the tie and undid his top button. He’d fetched himself a glass of water from the cooler and was waiting for Clarke to say something. She cleared her throat, cursing Rebus. His reasoning: Macrae
would listen to her. That was the whole of it.‘Well, sir,’ she began, ‘it’s about Alexander Todorov.’
‘You’ve got someone in the frame?’ Macrae had brightened, but only until she shook her head.
‘It’s just that we think there may be more to it than a mugging gone wrong.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘We’ve not got much in the way of evidence as yet, but there are a lot of ...’ A lot of what? She couldn’t think of a convincing way of putting it. ‘There are a lot of leads we need to follow, and mostly they point away from a random attack.’
Macrae leaned back in his chair. ‘This sounds like Rebus,’ he stated. ‘He’s got you in here arguing his corner.’
‘Doesn’t mean I don’t agree with him, sir.’
‘Sooner you’re free of him the better.’ Clarke prickled visibly, and Macrae gave a little wave of apology. ‘You know what I mean, Siobhan. How long till he goes? A week . . . and what happens then? Will the case be closed by the time he packs his bags?’
‘Doubtful,’ Clarke conceded.
‘Meaning you’ll be left with it, Siobhan.’
‘I don’t mind that, sir.’
Macrae stared at her. ‘Reckon it’s worth a few more days, this hunch of his?’
‘It’s more than a hunch,’ Clarke stressed. ‘Todorov connects to a number of people, and it’s a matter of ruling them out rather than ruling anything in.’
‘And what if there’s less to this than meets the eye? We’ve been here before with John after all.’
‘He’s solved a lot of cases in his time,’ Clarke stated.
‘You make a good character witness, Siobhan.’ Macrae was smiling tiredly. ‘I know John outranks you,’ he said eventually, ‘but I want you in charge of the Todorov murder. Makes things easier, as he himself would admit.’
Clarke nodded slowly, but said nothing.
‘Two or three days - see what you can come up with. You’ve got Hawes and Tibbet - who else are you going to bring aboard?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Macrae grew thoughtful again. ‘Someone from the Russian embassy spoke to Scotland Yard . . . and they spoke to our dear Chief Constable.’ He sighed. ‘If he knew I was letting John Rebus anywhere near this, he’d have kittens.’
‘They make nice pets, sir,’ Clarke offered, but Macrae just glowered.
‘It’s why you’re in charge, Siobhan, not John. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m guessing he’s skulking nearby, waiting for you to report back to him?’
‘You know him too well, sir.’
Macrae made a little gesture with his hand, telling her she was dismissed. She wandered back through the CID suite and down to the lobby, where she saw a face she recognised. Todd Goodyear had either finished a shift or was working undercover, dressed as he was in black straight-leg denims and a black padded bomber jacket. Clarke made show of trying to place him.
‘The Todorov crime scene? PC Goodyear?’
He nodded, and glanced towards the folder she was still carrying. ‘You got my notes?’
‘As you can see . . .’ She was playing for time, wondering why he was there.
‘Were they all right?’
‘They were fine.’ He looked keen for a bit more than that, but she just repeated the word ‘fine’, then asked what he was doing.
‘Waiting for you,’ he owned up. ‘I’d heard tell you worked late.’
‘Actually, I just got here twenty minutes ago.’
He was nodding. ‘I was outside in the car.’ He glanced over her shoulder. ‘DI Rebus isn’t with you?’
‘Look, Todd, what the hell is it you want?’
Goodyear licked his lips. ‘I thought PC Dyson told you - I’m after a stint with CID.’
‘Good for you.’
‘And I wondered if you maybe needed someone . . .’ He let the sentence drift off.
‘With Todorov, you mean?’
‘It’d be a chance for me to learn. That was my first murder scene . . . I’d love to know what happens next.’
‘What happens next is a lot of slogging, most of it with nothing to show at the end.’
‘Sounds great.’ He offered her a grin. ‘I write a good report, DS Clarke . . . I don’t miss too many tricks. I just feel I could be doing more.’
‘Persistent little sod, aren’t you?’
‘Let me try to convince you over a drink.’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Tomorrow, then? I could buy you a coffee.’
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, and DCI Macrae hasn’t put together a budget.’
‘Meaning no overtime?’ Goodyear nodded his understanding.
Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Why me rather than Rebus? He’s the ranking officer.’
‘Maybe I thought you’d be a better listener.’
‘Meaning more gullible?’
‘Meaning just what I said.’
Clarke took another moment to make up her mind. ‘Actually, it’s me in charge of this case, so let’s meet for that coffee first thing Monday morning. There’s a place on Broughton Street I sometimes use.’ She named it, and a time.
‘Thanks, DS Clarke,’ Goodyear said. ‘You won’t regret it.’ He held out his hand and they shook on it.
Day Four
Monday 20 November 2006
11
Siobhan Clarke was ten minutes early, but Goodyear was already there. He was in his uniform, but with the same bomber jacket as Friday night covering it and zipped to the neck.‘Embarrassed to be seen in it?’ Clarke asked.
‘Well, you know what it’s like . . .’
She did indeed. Long time since she’d worn a constabulary uniform, but the job was still something you didn’t always readily own up to. Parties she’d been to, people always seemed a bit less comfortable once they knew what she did for a living. It was the same on a night out, guys either losing interest or else making too many jokes: going to cuff me to your bedposts? Wait till you see my truncheon. Don’t worry about the neighbours, I’ll come quietly, officer ...
Goodyear was back on his feet, asking what she’d like. ‘They’re on the case,’ she assured him. Her regular cappuccino was being prepared, so all Goodyear had to do was pay for it and fetch it over. They were seated on stools at a table by the window. It was a basement, so all they could see was a passing parade of legs at street level. Gusts of rain were blowing in from the North Sea; everyone was hurrying to be somewhere else. Clarke turned down his offer of sugar and told him to relax.
‘You’re not at a job interview,’ she said.
‘I thought I was,’ he replied with a nervy little laugh, showing a line of slightly crooked teeth. His ears stuck out a little bit, too, and his eyelashes were very fair. He was drinking a mug of filter coffee and the crumbs on his plate were evidence of an earlier croissant. ‘Good weekend?’ he asked.
‘Great weekend,’ she corrected him. ‘Hibs won six-one, and Hearts lost to Rangers.’
‘You’re a Hibs fan.’ He nodded slowly to himself, filing the information away. ‘Were you at the game?’
She shook her head. ‘It was at Motherwell. I had to content myself with a film.’
‘Casino Royale?’
She shook her head. ‘The Departed.’ They lapsed into silence, until a thought struck Clarke. ‘How long were you waiting before I got here?’
‘Not too long. Woke up early and thought I might as well . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d find this place, so I left plenty of time. I always err on the side of caution.’
‘Duly noted, PC Goodyear. So tell me a bit about yourself. ’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything.’
‘Well, I’m guessing you know who my grandad was . . .’ He looked up at her, and she nodded. ‘Most people seem to, whether they say as much to my face.’
‘You were young when he died,’ Clarke said.
‘I was f
our. But I hadn’t seen him for the best part of a year. Mum and Dad wouldn’t take me with them.’
‘To the prison, you mean?’ It was Goodyear’s turn to nod.
‘Mum fell apart a bit ... She was always highly strung, and her parents thought her a class above my dad. So when his dad ended up in jail, that seemed all the proof they needed. Added to which, my dad always liked drowning his own sorrows.’ He offered a rueful smile. ‘Maybe some people would be better off never marrying.’
‘But then there’d be no Todd Goodyear.’
‘God must have had his reasons.’
‘Does any of it explain why you joined the police?’
‘Maybe - but thanks for not making a straight assumption. So many people have tried spelling it out to me like that. “You’re atoning, Todd” or “You’re showing not all Goodyears are cut from the same cloth.”’
‘Lazy thinking?’ Clarke guessed.
‘How about you, DS Clarke? What made you become a cop?’
She considered a moment before deciding to tell him the truth. ‘I think I was reacting against my parents. They were typical liberal lefties, growing up in the sixties.’
‘The only way to rebel was to become the Establishment?’ Goodyear smiled and nodded his understanding.
‘Not a bad way of putting it,’ Clarke agreed, lifting her cup to her lips. ‘What does your brother think of it all?’
‘You know he’s been in trouble a few times?’
‘I know his name’s on our books,’ Clarke admitted.
‘You’ve been checking up on me?’ But Clarke wasn’t about to answer that. ‘I never see him.’ Goodyear paused. ‘Actually, that’s not strictly true - he’s been in hospital, and I went to visit him.’
‘Nothing serious?’
‘He got himself into some stupid argument in a pub. That’s just the way Sol is.’
‘Is he older than you or younger?’
‘Two years older. Not that you’d ever have known it - when we were kids, neighbours used to say how much more mature than him I seemed. They just meant I was better behaved - plus I used to do the shopping and stuff ...’ He seemed lost in the past for a moment, then shook his head clear. ‘DI Rebus,’ he said, ‘has a bit of history with Big Ger Cafferty, doesn’t he?’