by Ian Rankin
‘What’s all this Red Hand stuff?’ she’d asked, looking past him at his walls. He’d waited till her eyes returned to his, then he’d kissed her, tongue rubbing at her teeth till she opened her mouth to him.
‘Billy,’ she said now, her hands filling themselves with his bedcover. She stayed that way for a few minutes, part of her mind staying alert, listening for sounds from the room she shared with Murdock. Then she moved across the bed to where the Hearts pennant was pinned to the wall. She pushed it aside with a finger.
Underneath, taped flat against the wall, was a computer disk. She’d left it here, half hoping the police would find it when they searched the room. But they’d been hopeless. And watching them search, she’d become suddenly afraid for herself, and had started to hope they wouldn’t find it. Now, she got her fingernails under it and unpeeled it, looking at the disk. Well, it was hers now, wasn’t it? They might kill her for it, but she could never let it go. It was part of her memory of him. She rubbed her thumb across the label. The streetlight coming through the unwashed window wasn’t quite enough for her to read by, but she knew what the label said anyway.
It was just those three letters, SaS.
Dark, dark, dark.
Rebus recalled that line at least. If Patience had asked him to quote from a poem instead of giving her movie titles, he’d have been all right. He was standing at a window of St Leonard’s, taking a break from his deskful of work, all the paperwork on Morris Gerald Cafferty.
Dark, dark, dark.
She was trying to civilise him. Not that she’d admit it. What she said instead was that it would be nice if they liked the same things. It would give them things to talk about. So she gave him books of poetry, and played classical music at him, bought them tickets for ballet and modern dance. Rebus had been there before, other times, other women. Asking for something more, for commitment beyond the commitment.
He didn’t like it. He enjoyed the basic, the feral. Cafferty had once accused him of liking cruelty, of being attracted to it; his natural right as a Celt. And hadn’t Rebus accused Peter Cave of the same thing? It was coming back to him, pain on pain, crawling back along his tubes from some place deep within him.
His time in Northern Ireland.
He’d been there early in the history of ‘the Troubles’, 1969, just as it was all boiling over; so early that he hadn’t really known what was going on, what the score was; none of them had, not on any side. The people were pleased to see them at first, Catholic and Protestant, offering food and drink and a genuine welcome. Then later the drinks were laced with weedkiller, and the welcome might be leading you into a ‘honey trap’. The crunching in the sponge cake might only be hard seeds from the raspberry jam. Then again, it might be powdered glass.
Bottles flying through the dark, lit by an arc of flame. Petrol spinning and dripping from the rag wick. And when it fell on a littered road, it spread in an instant pool of hate. Nothing personal about it, it was just for a cause, a troubled cause, that was all.
And later still it was to defend the rackets which had grown up around that aged cause. The protection schemes, black taxis, gun-running, all the businesses which had spread so very far away from the ideal, creating their own pool.
He’d seen bullet wounds and shrapnel blasts and gashes left by hurled bricks, he’d tasted mortality and the flaws in both his character and his body. When not on duty, they used to hang around the barracks, knocking back whisky and playing cards. Maybe that was why whisky reminded him he was still alive, where other drinks couldn’t.
There was shame too: a retaliatory strike against a drinking club which had gotten out of hand. He’d done nothing to stop it. He’d swung his baton and even his SLR with the rest of them. Yet in the middle of the commotion, the sound of a rifle being cocked was enough to bring silence and stillness …
He still kept an interest in events across the water. Part of his life had been left behind there. Something about his tour of duty there had made him apply to join the Special Air Service. He went back to his desk and lifted the glass of whisky.
Dark, dark, dark. The sky quiet save for the occasional drunken yell.
No one would ever know who called the police.
No one except the man himself and the police themselves. He’d given his name and address, and had made his complaint about the noise.
‘And do you want us to come and see you afterwards, sir, after we’ve investigated?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ The phone went dead on the desk officer, who smiled. It was very seldom necessary. A visit from the police meant you were involved. He wrote on a pad then passed the note along to the Communications Room. The call went out at ten to one.
When the Rover patrol car got to the community centre, it was clear that things were winding down. The officers debated heading off again, but since they were here … Certainly there had been a party, a function of some kind. But as the two uniformed officers walked in through the open doors, only a dozen or so stragglers were left. The floor was a mess of bottles and cigarette butts, probably a few roaches in there too if they cared to look.
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Nobody,’ came the sharp response.
There were flushing sounds from the toilets. Evidence being destroyed, perhaps.
‘We’ve received complaints about the noise.’
‘No noise here.’
The patrolman nodded. On a makeshift stage a ghetto-blaster had been hooked up to a guitar amplifier, a large Marshall job with separate amp and speaker-bin. Probably a hundred watts, none of it built for subtlety. The amplifier was still on, emitting an audible buzz. ‘This thing belongs out at the Exhibition Centre.’
‘Simple Minds let us borrow it.’
‘Whose is it really though?’
‘Where’s your search warrant?’
The officer smiled again. He could see that his partner was itching for trouble, but though neither of them had a welter of experience, they weren’t stupid either. They knew where they were, they knew the odds. So he stood there smiling, legs apart, arms by his side, not looking for aggro.
He seemed to be having a dialogue with one of the group, a guy with a denim jacket and no shirt underneath. He was wearing black square-toed biker boots with straps and a round silver buckle. The officer had always liked that style, had even considered buying himself a pair, just for the weekends.
Then maybe he’d start saving for the bike to go with them.
‘Do we need a search warrant?’ he said. ‘We’re called to a disturbance, doors wide open, no one barring our entry. Besides, this is a community centre. There are rules and regulations. Licences need to be applied for and granted. Do you have a licence for this … soirée?’
‘Swaah-ray?’ the youth said to his pals. ‘Fuckin’ listen to that! Swaaah-rrray!’ And he came sashaying over towards the two uniforms, like he was doing some old-fashioned dance step. He turned behind and between them. ‘Is that a dirty word? Something I’m not supposed to understand? This isn’t your territory, you know. This is the Gar-B, and we’re having our own wee festival, since nobody bothered inviting us to the other one. You’re not in the real world now. You better be careful.’
The first officer could smell alcohol, like something from a chemistry lab or a surgery: gin, vodka, white rum.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘there has to be someone running the show, and it isn’t you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a short-arsed wee prick.’
There was stillness in the hall. The other officer had spoken, and now his partner swallowed, trying not to look at him, keeping all his concentration on the denim jacket. Denim jacket was considering, a finger to his lips, tapping them.
‘Mmm,’ he said at last, nodding. ‘Interesting.’ He started moving back towards the group. He seemed to be wiggling his bum as he moved. Then he stooped forward, pretending to tie a shoe-lace, and let rip with a loud fart. He straightened up as h
is gang enjoyed the joke, their laughter subsiding only when denim jacket spoke again.
‘Well, sirs,’ he said, ‘we’re just packing everything away.’ He faked a yawn. ‘It’s well past our bedtimes and we’d like to go home. If you don’t mind.’ He opened his arms wide to them, even bowed a little.
‘I’d like to –’
‘That’ll be fine.’ The first officer touched his partner’s arm and turned away towards the doors. They were going to get out. And when they got out, he was going to have words with his partner, no doubt about that.
‘Right then, lads,’ said denim jacket, ‘let’s get this place tidy. We’ll need to put this somewhere for a start.’
The constables were near the door when, without warning, the ghetto-blaster caught both of them a glancing blow to the back of their skulls.
9
Rebus heard about it on the morning news. The radio came on at six twenty-five and there it was. It brought him out of bed and into his clothes. Patience was still trying to rouse herself as he placed a mug of tea on the bedside table and a kiss on her hot cheek.
‘Ace in the Hole and Casablanca,’ he said. Then he was out of the door and into his car.
At Drylaw police station, the day shift hadn’t come on yet, which meant that he heard it from the horses’ mouths, so to speak. Not a big station, Drylaw had requested reinforcements from all around, as what had started as an assault on two officers had turned into a miniature riot. Cars had been attacked, house windows smashed. One local shop had been ram-raided, with consequent looting (if the owner was to be believed). Five officers were injured, including the two men who had been coshed with a hi-fi machine. Those two constables had escaped the Gar-B by the skin of their arses.
‘It was like Northern bloody Ireland,’ one veteran said. Or Brixton, thought Rebus, or Newcastle, or Toxteth …
The TV news had it on now, and police heavy-handedness was being discussed. Peter Cave was being interviewed outside the youth club, saying that his had been the party’s organising hand.
‘But I had to leave early. I thought I had flu coming on or something.’ To prove it, he blew his nose.
‘At breakfast-time, too,’ complained someone beside Rebus.
‘I know,’ Cave went on, ‘that I bear a certain amount of responsibility for what happened.’
‘That’s big of him.’
Rebus smiled, thinking: we police invented irony, we live by its rules.
‘But,’ said Cave, ‘there are still questions which need answering. The police seem to think they can rule by threat rather than law. I’ve talked to a dozen people who were in the club last night, and they’ve told me the same thing.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
‘Namely, that the two police officers involved made threats and menacing actions.’
The interviewer waited for Cave to finish. Then: ‘And what do you say, Mr Cave, to local people who claim the youth club is merely a sort of hang-out, a gang headquarters for juveniles on the estate?’
Juveniles: Rebus liked that.
Cave was shaking his head. They’d brought the camera in on him for the shot. ‘I say rubbish.’ And he blew his nose again. Wisely, the producer switched back to the studio.
Eventually, the police had managed to make five arrests. The youths had been brought to Drylaw. Less than an hour later, a mob from the Gar-B had gathered outside, demanding their release. More thrown bricks, more broken glass, until a massed charge by the police ranks dispersed the crowd. Cars and foot patrols had cruised Drylaw and the Gar-B for the rest of the night. There were still bricks and strewn glass on the road outside. Inside, a few of the officers involved looked shaken.
Rebus looked in on the five youths. They sported bruised faces, bandaged hands. The blood had dried to a crust on them, and they’d left it there, like war paint, like medals.
‘Look,’ one of them said to the others, ‘it’s the bastard who took a poke at Pete.’
‘Keep talking,’ retorted Rebus, ‘and you’ll be next.’
‘I’m quaking.’
The police had stuck a video camera onto the rioters outside the station. The picture quality was poor, but after a few viewings Rebus made out that one of the stone throwers, face hidden by a football scarf, was wearing an open denim jacket and no shirt.
He stuck around the station a bit longer, then got back in his car and headed for the Gar-B. It didn’t look so different. There was glass in the road, sounds of brittle crunching under his tyres. But the local shops were like fortresses: wire mesh, metal screens, padlocks, alarms. The would-be looters had run up and down the main road for a while in a hot-wired Ford Cortina, then had launched it at the least protected shop, a place specialising in shoe repairs and key-cutting. Inside, the owner’s own brand of security, a sleepy-eyed Alsatian, had thrown itself into the fray before being beaten off and chased away. As far as anyone knew, it was still roaming the wide green spaces.
A few of the ground floor flats were having boards hammered into place across their broken windows. Maybe one of them had made the initial call. Rebus didn’t blame the caller; he blamed the two officers. No, that wasn’t fair. What would he have done if he’d been there? Yes, exactly. And there’d have been more trouble than this if he had …
He didn’t bother stopping the car. He’d only be in the way of the other sight-seers and the media. With not much happening on the IRA story, reporters were here in numbers. Plus he knew he wasn’t the Gar-B’s most popular tourist. Though the constables couldn’t swear who’d thrown the ghetto-blaster, they knew the most likely suspect. Rebus had seen the description back at Drylaw. It was Davey Soutar of course, the boy who couldn’t afford a shirt. One of the CID men had asked Rebus what his interest was.
‘Personal,’ he’d said. A few years back, a riot like this would have prompted the permanent closure of the community hall. But these days it was more likely the Council would bung some more cash at the estate, guilt money. Shutting the hall down wouldn’t do much good anyway. There were plenty of empty flats on the estate – flats termed ‘unlettable’. They were kept boarded up and padlocked, but could soon be opened. Squatters and junkies used them; gangs could use them too. A couple of miles away in different directions, middle class Barnton and Inverleith were getting ready for work. A world away. They only ever took notice of Pilmuir when it exploded.
It wasn’t much of a drive to Fettes either, even with the morning bottlenecks starting their day’s business. He wondered if he’d be first in the office; that might show too willing. Well, he could check, then nip out to the canteen until everyone started arriving. But when he pushed open the office door, he saw that there was someone in before him. It was Smylie.
‘Morning,’ Rebus said. Smylie nodded back. He looked tired to Rebus, which was saying something, the amount of sleep Rebus himself had had. He rested against one of the desks and folded his arms. ‘Do you know an Inspector called Abernethy?’
‘Special Branch,’ said Smylie.
‘That’s him. Is he still around?’
Smylie looked up. ‘He went back yesterday, caught an evening plane. Did you want to see him?’
‘Not really.’
‘There was nothing here for him.’
‘No?’
Smylie shook his head. ‘We’d know about it if there was. We’re the best, we’d’ve spotted it before him. QED.’
‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’
Smylie looked at him. ‘You’re thinking of Nemo, aren’t you? Latin for nobody.’
‘I suppose I am.’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Nobody seems to think Billy Cunningham knew any Latin.’ Smylie didn’t say anything. ‘I’m not wanted here, am I?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, you don’t need me. So why did Kilpatrick bring me in? He must’ve known it’d cause nothing but aggro.’
‘Best ask him yourself.’
‘Maybe I will. Meantime, I’ll be at St Leonard’s.’
‘We�
�ll be pining away in your absence.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Smylie.’
‘What does the woman do?’
‘Her name’s Millie Docherty,’ said Siobhan Clarke. ‘She works in a computer retailer’s.’
‘And her boyfriend’s a computer consultant. And they shared their flat with an unemployed postie. An odd mix?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘No? Well, maybe not.’ They were in the canteen, facing one another across the small table. Rebus took occasional bites from a damp piece of toast. Siobhan had finished hers.
‘What’s it like over at Fettes?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you know: glamour, danger, intrigue.’
‘Much the same as here then?’
‘Much the same. I read some of Cafferty’s notes last night. I’ve marked the place, so you can take over.’
‘Three’s more fun,’ said Brian Holmes, dragging over a chair. He’d placed his tray on the table, taking up all the available room. Rebus gave Holmes’s fry-up a longing look, knowing it wouldn’t square with his diet. All the same … Sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato and fried bread.
‘Ought to carry a government health warning,’ said the vegetarian Clarke.
‘Hear about the riot?’ Holmes asked.
‘I went out there this morning,’ Rebus admitted. ‘The place looked much the same.’
‘I heard they threw an amplifier at a couple of our lads.’
The process of exaggeration had begun.
‘So, about Billy Cunningham,’ Rebus nudged, none too subtly.
Holmes forked up some tomato. ‘What about him?’
‘What have you found out?’
‘Not a lot,’ Holmes conceded. ‘Unemployed deliverer of the royal mail, the only regular job he’s ever had. Mum was overfond of him and kept gifting him money to get by on. Bit of a loyalist extremist, but no record of him belonging to the Orange Lodge. Son of a notorious gangster, but didn’t know it.’ Holmes thought for a second, decided this was all he had to say, and cut into his sliced sausage.
‘Plus,’ said Clarke, ‘the anarchist stuff we found.’