by Ian Rankin
‘This bloody reporter wants some blood and grief for her newspaper.’
‘Is that right, miss?’ Rebus gave Mairie Henderson a disapproving but, yes, almost fatherly look. The kind that let her know she should be ashamed.
‘Mr Ringan was a popular figure in the city,’ she told Rebus. ‘I’m sure he’d have wanted our readers to know –’
Calder interrupted. ‘He’d have wanted them to stuff their faces here, leave a fat cheque, then get the fuck out. Print that!’
‘Quite an epitaph,’ Mairie commented.
Calder looked like he’d brain her with the Elvis clock, the one with the King’s arms replacing the usual clock hands. He thought better of it, and lifted the Elvis mirror (one of several) off the wall instead. He wouldn’t dare smash that: seven years’ bad junk food.
‘I think you’d better go, miss,’ Rebus said calmly.
‘All right, I’m going.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder and stalked past Rebus. She was wearing a skirt today, a short one too. But a good soldier knew when to keep eyes front. He smiled at Pat Calder, whose anguish was all too evident.
‘Bit soon for all this, isn’t it?’
‘You can cook, can you, Inspector? Without Eddie, this place is . . . it’s nothing.’
‘Looks like the local restaurants can sleep easy, then.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Remember, Eddie thought the attack on Brian was a warning.’
‘Yes, but what’s that . . .’ Calder froze. ‘You think someone . . .? It was suicide, wasn’t it?’
‘Looked that way, certainly.’
‘You mean you’re not sure?’
‘Did he seem the type who would kill himself?’
Calder’s reply was cold. ‘He was killing himself every day with drink. Maybe it all got too much. Like I said, Inspector, the attack on Brian affected Eddie. Maybe more than we knew.’ He paused, still with the mirror gripped in both hands. ‘You think it was murder?’
‘I didn’t say that, Mr Calder.’
‘Who would do it?’
‘Maybe you were behind with your payments.’
‘What payments?’
‘Protection payments, sir. Don’t tell me it doesn’t go on.’
Calder stared at him unblinking. ‘You forget, I was in charge of finances, and we always paid our bills on time. All of them.’
Rebus took this information in, wondering exactly what it meant. ‘If you think you know who might have wanted Eddie dead, best tell me, all right? Don’t go doing anything rash.’
‘Like what?’
Like buying a gun, Rebus thought, but he said nothing. Calder started to wrap the mirror. ‘This is about all a newspaper’s worth,’ he said.
‘She was only doing her job. You wouldn’t have turned down a good review, would you?’
Calder smiled. ‘We got plenty.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘I haven’t thought about it. I’ll go away, that’s all I know.’
Rebus nodded towards the tea chests. ‘And you’ll keep all that stuff?’
‘I couldn’t throw it away, Inspector. It’s all there is.’
Well, thought Rebus, there’s the bedroom too. But he didn’t say anything. He just watched Pat Calder pack everything away.
Hamish, real name Alasdair McDougall, had more or less been chased from his native Barra by his contemporaries, one of whom tried to drown him during a midnight boat crossing from South Uist after a party. Two minutes in the freezing waters of the Sound of Barra and he’d have been fit for nothing but fish-food, but they’d hauled him back into the boat and explained the whole thing away as an accident. Which is also what it would have been had he actually drowned.
He went to Oban first, then south to Glasgow before crossing to the east coast. Glasgow suited him in some respects, but not in others. Edinburgh suited him better. His parents had always denied to themselves that their son was homosexual, even when he’d stood there in front of them and said it. His father had quoted the Bible at him, the same way he’d been quoting it for seventeen years, a believer’s righteous tremble in his voice. It had once been a powerful and persuasive performance; but now it seemed laughable.
‘Just because it’s in the Bible,’ he’d told his father, ‘doesn’t mean you should take it as gospel.’
But to his father it was and always would be the literal truth. The Bible had been in the old man’s hand as he’d shooed his youngest son out of the door of the croft house. ‘Never dare to blacken our name!’ he’d called. And Alasdair reckoned he’d lived up to this through introducing himself as Dougall and almost never passing on a last name. He had been Dougall to the gay community in Glasgow, and he was Dougall here in Edinburgh. He liked the life he’d made for himself (there was never a dull night), and he’d only been kicked-in twice. He had his clubs and pubs, his bunch of friends and a wider circle of acquaintances. He was even beginning to think of writing to his parents. He would tell them, By the time my boss gets through with a body, believe me there isn’t very much left for Heaven to take.
He thought again of the plump young man who’d been gassed, and he laughed. He should have said something at the time, but hadn’t. Why not? Was it because he still had one foot in the closet? He’d been accused of it before, when he’d refused to wear a pink triangle on his lapel. Certainly, he wasn’t sure he wanted a policeman to know he was gay. And what would Dr Curt do? There was all sorts of homophobia about, an almost medieval fear of AIDS and its transmission. It wasn’t that he couldn’t live without the job, but he liked it well enough. He’d seen plenty of sheep and cattle slaughtered and quartered in his time on the island. This wasn’t so very different.
No, he would keep his secret to himself. He wouldn’t let on that he knew Eddie Ringan. He remembered the evening a week or so back. They went to Dougall’s place and Eddie cooked up a chilli from stuff he found in the cupboards. Hot stuff. It really made you sweat. He wouldn’t stay the night, though, wasn’t that type. There’d been a long kiss before parting, and half-promises of further trysts.
Yes, he knew Eddie, knew him well enough to be sure of one thing.
Whoever it was on the slab, it wasn’t the guy who’d shared chilli in Dougall’s bed.
Siobhan Clarke felt unnaturally calm and in control the rest of the day. She’d been given the day off from Operation Moneybags to get over the shock of her experience at the Heartbreak Cafe, but by late afternoon was itching to do something. So she drove out to Rory Kintoul’s house on the half-chance. It was a neat and quite recent council semi in a cul-de-sac. The front garden was the size of a beer-mat but probably more hygienic; she reckoned she could eat her dinner off the trimmed weedless lawn without fear of food poisoning. She couldn’t even say that of the plates in most police canteens. One gate led her down the path, and another brought her to Kintoul’s front door. It was painted dark blue. Every fourth door in the street was dark blue. The others were plum-red, custard yellow, and battleship grey. Not exactly a riot of colour, but somehow in keeping with the pebbledash and tarmac. Some kids had chalked a complex hopscotch grid on the pavement and were now playing noisily. She’d smiled towards them, but they hadn’t looked up from their game. A dog barked in a back garden a few doors down, but otherwise the street was quiet.
She rang the doorbell and waited. Nobody, it seemed, was home. She thought of the phrase ‘gallus besom’ as she took the liberty of peering in through the front window. A living room stretched to the back of the house. The dog was barking louder now, and through the far window she caught sight of a figure. She opened the garden gate and turned right, running through the close separating Kintoul’s house from its neighbour. This led to the back gardens. Kintoul had left his kitchen door open so as not to make a noise. He had one leg over his neighbour’s fence, and was trying to shush the leashed mongrel.
‘Mr Kintoul!’ Siobhan called. When he looked up, she waved her hand. ‘Sitting on the fence, I see. H
ow about the two of us going inside for a word?’
She wasn’t about to spare him any blushes. As he slouched towards her across the back green, she grinned. ‘Running away from the police, eh? What’ve you got to hide?’
‘Nuthin’.’
‘You should be careful,’ she warned. ‘A stunt like that could open those stitches in your side.’
‘Do you want everyone to hear? Get inside.’ He almost pushed her through the kitchen door. It was exactly the invitation Siobhan wanted.
Rebus got the call at six-fifteen and arranged the meeting for ten. At eight, Patience called him. He knew he wouldn’t sound right to her, would sound like his thoughts were elsewhere (which they were), but he wanted to keep her talking. He was filling the time till ten o’clock and didn’t want any of it left vacant. He might start to think about it otherwise, might change his mind.
Eventually, for want of other topics, he told Patience all about Michael (who was asleep in the box room). At last they were on the same wavelength. Patience suggested counselling, and was amazed no one at the hospital had mentioned the possibility. She would look into it and get back to Rebus. Meantime, he’d have to watch Michael didn’t go into clinical depression. The problem with those drugs was that they not only killed your fears, they could kill your emotions stone dead.
‘He was so lively when he moved in,’ Rebus said. ‘The students are wondering what the hell’s happened to him. I think they’re as worried as I am.’
Michael’s self-proclaimed ‘girlfriend’ had spent time trying to talk to him, coaxing him out to pubs and clubs. But Michael had fought against it, and she hadn’t shown her face for at least a day. One of the male students had approached Rebus in the kitchen and asked, in tones of deepest sympathy, if a bit of ‘blaw’ might help Mickey. Rebus had shaken his head. Christ, it might not be a bad idea, though.
But Patience was against it. ‘Mix the stuff he’s on with cannabis and God knows what sort of reaction you’d get: paranoia or a complete downer would be my guess.’
She was anti-drugs anyway, and not just the proscribed kinds. She knew that the easy way out for doctors was to fill out a form for the pharmacy. Valium, moggies, whatever it took. People all over Scotland, and especially the people who needed most help, were eating tablets like they were nourishment. And the doctors pointed to their workloads and said, What else can we do?
‘Want me to come over?’ she was asking now. It was a big step. Yes, Rebus wanted her to come over, but it was nearly nine.
‘No, but I appreciate the thought.’
‘Well, try not to leave him too long on his own. He’s sleeping to escape something he needs to confront.’
‘Bye, Patience.’ Rebus put down the phone and made ready to leave the flat.
Why had he chosen the waterfront at North Queensferry for the meeting? Well, wasn’t it obvious? He stood near the same hut they’d taken Michael to, and he got cold. He’d arrived early, and Deek naturally was late. Rebus didn’t really mind. It gave him time to stare up at the rail bridge, wondering how it would feel to be lowered over the side at the dead of night. Screaming dumbly into your gag as they took the bag from your face. Looking all the way down. That’s where Rebus was now, though he was at sea level. He was looking all the way down.
‘Cold though, eh?’ Deek Torrance rubbed his hands together.
‘Thanks for setting me up the other night.’
‘Eh?’
‘“Sailor for trade or rent”.’
‘Oh aye, that.’ Torrance grinned. ‘“King of the Road”. That’s not the way it goes, though . . .’
‘You’ve got it?’
Deek patted his coat pocket. He was jittery, with good cause. It wasn’t every day you sold an illegal firearm to a policeman.
‘Let’s see it, then.’
‘What? Out here?’
Rebus looked around. ‘There’s nobody here.’
Deek bit his lip, then resigned himself to lifting the handgun out of his pocket and placing it in John Rebus’s palm.
The thing was a lifeless weight, but comfortable to hold. Rebus placed it in his own capacious pocket. ‘Ammo?’
The bullets shook in their box like a baby’s toy. Rebus pocketed them too, then reached into the back pocket of his trousers for the cash.
‘Want to count it?’
Deek shook his head, then nodded across the road. ‘I’ll buy you a drink though, if you like.’
A drink sounded good to Rebus. ‘I’ll just get rid of this first.’ He unlocked his car and slipped the gun and ammo underneath the driver’s seat. He noticed he was trembling and a little dizzy as he stood back up. A drink would be good. He was hungry, too, but the thought of food made him want to boak. He looked again at the bridge. ‘Come on, then,’ he said to Deek Torrance.
Minus gun and with money in its place, Torrance was more relaxed and loquacious. They sat in the Hawes Inn with their drinks. Torrance was explaining how the guns came into the country.
‘See, it’s easy to buy a gun in France. They even come around the towns in vans and flog them off the back. Stick a catalogue through your door to let you know what they’ll have. I got to meet this French guy, not bad to say he’s French. He’s back and forth over the Channel, some sort of business he’s in. He brings the guns with him, and I buy them. He brings Mace too, if you’re interested.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ Rebus muttered into his pint. ‘I wouldn’t have needed the gun.’
‘Eh?’ Deek saw he was making a joke and laughed.
‘So what have I got?’ asked Rebus. ‘It was a bit dark out there to see.’
‘Well, they’re all copies. Don’t worry, I file off any identifiers myself. Yours is a Colt 45. It’ll take ten rounds.’
‘Eight millimetre?’
Deek nodded. ‘There are twenty in the box. It’s not the most lethal weapon around. I can get replica Uzis too.’
‘Christ.’ Rebus finished his pint. He suddenly wanted to be out of there.
‘It’s a living,’ said Deek Torrance.
‘Aye, right, a living,’ said Rebus, getting up to go.
23
Next morning Rebus forced himself into the usual routine. He checked to see if there had been any sign of Andrew McPhail. There had not. Maclean hadn’t been too badly hurt by the boiled water, most of which he’d deflected with his arms. Nobody was yet treating McPhail like a dangerous criminal. His description had been issued to bus and train stations, motorway service areas, and the like. If the manpower were available, Rebus knew exactly where he would start looking for him.
A shadow fell over his desk. It was the Little Weed.
‘So,’ Flower said, ‘you lose a DS to a blow on the napper, and a DC to a gas explosion. What’s for an encore?’
Rebus saw that they had an audience. Half the station had been waiting for a confrontation between the two inspectors. Now more detectives than usual seemed interested in the filing cabinets near Rebus’s desk.
‘It’s easier if you do a handstand,’ commented Rebus.
‘What is?’
‘Talking out of your arse.’
There were a few covering coughs from the filing cabinets. ‘I’ve got some throat pastilles if you want them,’ Rebus called. The cabinet doors slid shut. The audience moved away.
‘You think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?’ Flower said. ‘You think you’re all it takes.’
‘I’m better than some.’
‘And a lot worse than others.’
Rebus picked up the previous evening’s arrest sheet and started to read it. ‘If you’re finished . . .?’
Flower smiled. ‘Rebus, I thought your kind went out with the dinosaurs.’
‘Aye, but only because they turned you down when you asked them.’
Which made it two-nil as Alister Flower walked off the field. But Rebus knew there’d be another leg to the match, and another after that.
He looked again at the arrest sheet, checki
ng he’d seen the name right, then sighed and went down to the cells. A cluster of young constables stood outside cell one, taking turns at the peephole.
‘It’s that guy with the tattoos,’ one of them explained to Rebus.
‘The Pincushion?’
The constable nodded. The Pincushion was tattooed from head to foot, not an inch unblemished. ‘He’s been brought in for questioning.’
Rebus nodded. Whenever they had reason to bring the Pincushion into a station, he always ended up naked.
‘It’s a good name, isn’t it, sir?’
‘What, Pincushion? It’s better than my name for him, I suppose.’
‘What’s that.’
‘Just another prick,’ said Rebus, unlocking cell number two. He closed the door behind him. A young man was sitting on the bunk, unshaven and sorry-eyed.
‘What happened to you, then?’
Andy Steele looked up at him, then away. The city of Edinburgh had not been kind to him during his visit. He ran a handful of fingers through his tousled hair.
‘Did you go see your Auntie Ena?’ he asked.
Rebus nodded. ‘I didn’t see your mum and dad, though.’
‘Ach well, at least I managed that, eh? I managed to track you down and put you in touch with her.’
‘So what have you been up to since?’
Flakes of scalp were being clawed to the surface of Andy Steele’s head. They floated down onto his trousers. ‘Well, I did a bit of sightseeing.’
‘They don’t arrest you for that these days, though.’
Steele sighed and stopped scratching. ‘Depends what sights you see. I told a man in a pub I was a private detective. He said he had a case for me.’
‘Oh aye?’ Rebus’s attention was momentarily drawn to a crude game of noughts and crosses on the cell wall.
‘His wife was cheating him. He told me where he thought I could find her, and he gave me a description. I got ten quid, with more when I reported back.’
‘Go on.’
Andy Steele stared up at the ceiling. He knew he wasn’t making himself look good, but it was a bit late for that anyway. ‘It was a ground floor flat. I watched all evening. I saw the woman, she was there, all right. But no man. So I went round the back to get a better look. Someone must have spotted me and phoned the police.’