by Ian Rankin
He stood up, glancing at the bare walls. There were small rips in the wallpaper where Blu-Tak had been removed. He looked more closely at one small pattern of these. The wallpaper had come away in two longer strips. Wasn’t this where the pennant had hung? Yes, you could see the hole made by the drawing-pin. The pennant had hung from a maroon cord which had been pinned to the wall. Meaning the pennant had been hiding these marks. They didn’t look so old. The lining paper beneath was clean and fresh, as though the Sellotape had been peeled off recently.
Rebus put his fingers to the two stripes. They were about three inches apart and three inches long. Whatever had been taped there, it had been square and thin. Rebus knew exactly what would fit that description.
Out in the hall, Murdock was waiting to leave.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ Rebus said.
The Carlton sounded like another old ladies’ tea-room, but in fact was a transport cafe with famed large helpings. When Mairie Henderson finally got back to Rebus, he suggested taking her to lunch there. It was on the shore at Newhaven, facing the Firth of Forth just about where that broad inlet became inseparable from the North Sea.
Lorries bypassing Edinburgh or heading to Leith from the north would usually pause for a break outside the Carlton. You saw them in a line by the sea wall, between Starbank Road and Pier Place. The drivers thought the Carlton well worth a detour, even if other road users and the police didn’t always appreciate their sentiments.
Inside, the Carlton was a clean well-lit place and as hot as a truck engine. For air conditioning, they kept the front door wedged open. You never ate alone, which was why Rebus phoned in advance and booked a table for two.
‘The one between the counter and the toilets,’ he specified.
‘Did I hear you right? Book a table?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Nobody’s booked a table all the years we’ve been open.’ The chef held the phone away from his face. ‘Hiy, Maggie, there’s somebody here wants tae book a table.’
‘Cut the shite, Sammy, it’s John Rebus speaking.’
‘Special occasion is it, Mr Rebus? Anniversary? I’ll bake yis a cake.’
‘Twelve o’clock,’ said Rebus, ‘and make sure it’s the table I asked for, okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’
So when Rebus walked into the Carlton, and Sammy saw him, Sammy whipped a dishtowel off the stove and came sauntering between the tables, the towel over his arm.
‘Your table is ready, sir, if you’ll follow me.’
The drivers were grinning, a few of them offering encouragement. Maggie stood there holding a pillar of empty white plates, and attempted a curtsy as Rebus went past. The small Formica-topped table was laid for two, with a bit of card folded in half and the word RESERVED written in blue biro. There was a clean sauce bottle, into the neck of which someone had pushed a plastic carnation.
He saw Mairie look through the cafe window, then come in through the door. The drivers looked up.
‘Room here, sweetheart.’
‘Hiy, hen, sit on my lap, no’ his.’
They grinned through the smoke, cigarettes never leaving their mouths. One of them ate camel-style, lower jaw moving in sideways rotation while his upper jaw chewed down. He reminded Rebus so strongly of Ormiston, he had to look away. Instead he looked at Mairie. Why not, everyone else was. They were staring without shame at her bum as she moved between the tables. True to form, Mairie had worn her shortest skirt. At least, Rebus hoped it was her shortest. And it was tight, one of those black Lycra numbers. She wore it with a baggy white t-shirt and thick black tights whose vertical seams showed pinpricks of white leg flesh. She’d pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and swung her shoulder-bag onto the floor as she took her seat.
‘I see we’re in the members’ enclosure.’
‘It took money but I thought it was worth it.’
Rebus studied her while she studied the wall-board which constituted the Carlton’s menu.
‘You look good,’ he lied. Actually, she looked exhausted.
‘Thanks. I wish I could say the same.’
Rebus winced. ‘I looked as good as you at your age.’
‘Even in a mini-skirt?’ She leaned down to lift a pack of cigarettes from her bag, giving Rebus a view of her lace-edged bra down the front of her t-shirt. When she came up again he was frowning.
‘Okay, I won’t smoke.’
‘It stunts your growth. And speaking of health warnings, what about that story of yours?’
But Maggie came over, so they went through the intricacies of ordering. ‘We’re out of Moët Shandy,’ Maggie said.
‘What was that about?’ Mairie asked after Maggie had gone.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You were about to tell me . . .?’
‘Was I?’ She smiled. ‘How much do you know?’
‘I know you’ve been working on a story, a chunk of which you’ve sold to Snoop but the bulk of which is destined for some US magazine.’
‘Well, you know quite a lot then.’
‘You took the story to your own paper first?’
She sighed. ‘Of course I did, but they wouldn’t print it. The company lawyers thought it was close to libel.’
‘Who were you libelling?’
‘Organisations rather than individuals. I had a blow-up with my editor about it, and handed in my resignation. His line was that the lawyers were paid to be over-cautious.’
‘I bet their fees aren’t over-cautious.’ Which reminded him: Caro Rattray. He still had to contact her.
‘I was planning on going freelance anyway, just not quite so soon. But at least I’m starting with a strong story. A few months back I got a letter from a New York journalist. His name’s Jump Cantona.’
‘Sounds like a car.’
‘Yes, a four-by-four, that’s just what I thought. Anyway, Jump’s a well known writer over there, investigations with a capital I. But then of course it’s easier in the US.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You can go further before someone starts issuing writs. Plus you’ve got more freedom of information. Jump needed someone this end, following up a few leads. His name comes first in the main article, but any spin-offs I write, I get sole billing.’
‘So what have you found?’
‘A can of worms.’ Maggie was coming with their food. She heard Mairie’s closing words and gave her a cold look as she placed the fry-up in front of her. For Rebus, there was a half-portion of lasagne and a green salad.
‘How did Cantona find you?’ Rebus asked.
‘Someone I met when I was on a journalism course in New York. This guy knew Cantona was looking for someone who could do some digging in Scotland. I was the obvious choice.’ She attacked four chips with her fork. Chewing, she reached for the salt, vinegar, and tomato sauce. After momentary consideration, she poured some brown sauce on as well.
‘I knew you’d do that,’ Rebus said. ‘And it still disgusts me.’
‘You should see me with mustard and mayonnaise. I hear you got moved to SCS.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Why?’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were keeping an eye on me.’
‘Only, they were there at Mary King’s Close, a murder that looks like an execution. Then next thing you’re off to SCS, and I know SCS are investigating gun-running with an Irish slant.’ Maggie arrived with two cans of Irn-Bru. Mairie checked hers was cold enough before opening it. ‘Are we working on the same story?’
‘The police don’t have stories, Mairie, we have cases. And it’s hard to answer your question without seeing your story.’
She slipped a hand into her shoulder-bag and pulled out several sheets of neatly typed paper. The document had been stapled and folded in half. Rebus could see it was a photocopy.
‘Not very long,’ he said.
‘You can read it while I eat.’
He did. But all it did was put a lot o
f speculative meat on the bones he already had. Mostly it concentrated on the North American angle, mentioning the IRA fundraising in passing, though the Orange Loyal Brigade was mentioned, as was Sword and Shield.
‘No names,’ Rebus commented.
‘I can give you a few, off the record.’
‘Gavin and Jamesie MacMurray?’
‘You’re stealing my best lines. Do you have anything on them?’
‘What do you think we’ll find, a garden shed full of grenade launchers?’
‘That could be pretty close.’
‘Tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘We can’t put anything in print yet, but we think there’s an Army connection.’
‘You mean stuff from the Falklands and the Gulf? Souvenirs?’
‘There’s too much of it for it to be souvenirs.’
‘What then? The stuff from Russia?’
‘Much closer to home. You know stuff walks out of Army bases in Northern Ireland?’
‘I’ve heard of it happening.’
‘Same thing happened in the ’70s in Scotland, the Tartan Army got stuff from Army bases. We think it’s happening again. At least, Jump thinks it is. He’s spoken to someone who used to be in American Shield, sending money over here. It’s easier to send money here than arms shipments. This guy told Jump the money was buying British armaments. See, the IRA has good links with the East and Libya, but the loyalist paramilitaries don’t.’
‘You’re telling me they’re buying guns from the Army?’ Rebus laughed and shook his head. Mairie managed a small smile.
‘There’s another thing. I know there’s nothing to back this up. Jump knows it too. It’s just one man’s word, and that man isn’t even willing to go public. He’s afraid American Shield would get to him. Anyway, who’d believe him: he’s being paid to tell Jump this stuff. He could be making it all up. Journalists like a juicy conspiracy, we lap them up like cream.’
‘What are you talking about, Mairie?’
‘A policeman, a detective, someone high up in The Shield.’
‘In America?’
She shook her head. ‘At the UK end, no name or anything. Like I say, just a story.’
‘Aye, just a story. How did you find out we had a man undercover?’
‘That was strange. It was a phone call.’
‘Anonymous of course?’
‘Of course. But who could have known?’
‘Another policeman, obviously.’
Mairie pushed her plate away. ‘I can’t eat all these chips.’
‘They should put up a plaque above the table.’
Rebus needed a drink, and there was a good pub only a short walk away. Mairie went with him, though she complained she didn’t have room for a drink. Still, when they got there she found space for a white wine and soda. Rebus had a half-pint and a nip. They sat by the window, with a view out over the Forth. The water was battleship grey, reflecting the sky overhead. Rebus had never seen the Forth look other than forbidding.
‘What did you say?’ He’d missed it completely.
‘I said, I forgot to say.’
‘Yes, but the bit after that?’
‘A man called Moncur, Clyde Moncur.’
‘What about him?’
‘Jump has him pegged as one of The Shield’s hierarchy in the US. He’s also a big-time villain, only it’s never been proven in a court of law.’
‘And?’
‘And he flies into Heathrow tomorrow.’
‘To do what?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘So why aren’t you down in London waiting for him?’
‘Because he’s booked on a connecting flight to Edinburgh.’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘You weren’t going to tell me.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘What changed your mind?’
She gnawed her bottom lip. ‘It may be I’ll need a friend sometime soon.’
‘You’re going to confront him?’
‘Yes . . . I suppose so.’
‘Jesus, Mairie.’
‘It’s what journalists do.’
‘Do you know anything about him? I mean anything?’
‘I know he’s supposed to run drugs into Canada, brings illegal immigrants in from the Far East, a real Renaissance man. But on the surface, all he does is own a fish-processing plant in Seattle.’ Rebus was shaking his head. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I just feel . . . gutted.’
It took her a moment to get the joke.
21
‘Caro, thank God.’
Rebus was back in Fettes, at his desk, on the phone, having finally tracked Caroline Rattray to ground.
‘You’re calling off our drink,’ she said coldly.
‘I’m sorry, something’s cropped up. Work, you know how it is. The hours aren’t always social.’ The phone went dead in his hand. He replaced the receiver like it was spun sugar. Then, having requested five minutes of his boss’s time, he went to Kilpatrick’s office. As ever there was no need to knock; Kilpatrick waved him in through the glass door.
‘Take a seat, John.’
‘I’ll stand, sir, thanks all the same.’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘When you spoke to the FBI, did they mention a man called Clyde Moncur?’
‘I don’t think any names were mentioned.’ Kilpatrick wrote the name on his pad. ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s a Seattle businessman, runs his own fish-processing plant. Possibly also a gangster. He’s coming to Edinburgh on holiday.’
‘Well, we need the tourist dollars.’
‘And he may be high up in The Shield.’
‘Oh?’ Kilpatrick casually underlined the name. ‘What’s your source?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘I see.’ Kilpatrick underlined the name one last time. ‘I don’t like secrets, John.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, what do you want to do?’
‘Put a tail on him.’
‘Ormiston and Blackwood are good.’
‘I’d prefer someone else.’
Kilpatrick threw down his pen. ‘Why?’
‘I just would.’
‘You can trust me, John.’
‘I know that, sir.’
‘Then tell me why you don’t want Ormiston and Blackwood on the tail.’
‘We don’t get on. I get the feeling they might muck things up just to make me look bad.’ Lying was easy with practice, and Rebus had years of practice at lying to superiors.
‘That sounds like paranoia to me.’
‘Maybe it is.’
‘I’ve got a team here, John. I need to know that they can work as a team.’
‘You brought me in, sir. I didn’t ask for secondment. Teams always resent the new man, it just hasn’t worn off yet.’ Then Rebus played his ace. ‘You could always move me back to St Leonard’s.’ Not that he wanted this. He liked the freedom he had, flitting between the two stations, neither Chief Inspector knowing where he was.
‘Is that what you want?’ Kilpatrick asked.
‘It’s not down to me, it’s what you want that matters.’
‘Quite right, and I want you in SCS, at least for the time being.’
‘So you’ll put someone else on the tail?’
‘I take it you’ve got people in mind?’
‘Two more from St Leonard’s. DS Holmes and DC Clarke. They work well together, they’ve done this sort of thing before.’
‘No, John, let’s keep this to SCS.’ Which was Kilpatrick’s way of reasserting his authority. ‘I know two good men over in Glasgow, no possible grudge against you. I’ll get them over here.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Sound all right to you, Inspector?’
‘Whatever you think, sir.’
When Rebus left the office, the two typists were discussing famine and Third World debt.
‘Ever th
ought of going into politics, ladies?’
‘Myra’s a local councillor,’ one of them said, nodding to her partner.
‘Any chance of getting my drains cleared?’ Rebus asked Myra.
‘Join the queue,’ Myra said with a laugh.
Back at his desk Rebus phoned Brian Holmes to ask him a favour, then he went to the toilets down the hall. The toilet was one of those design miracles, like Dr Who’s time machine. Somehow two urinals, a toilet cubicle, and washhand basin had been squeezed into a space smaller than their total cubic volume.
So Rebus wasn’t thrilled when Ken Smylie joined him. Smylie was supposed to be taking time off work, only he insisted on coming in.
‘How are you doing, Ken?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Good.’ Rebus turned from his urinal and headed for the sink.
‘You seem to be working hard,’ Smylie said.
‘Do I?’
‘You’re never here, I assume you’re working.’
‘Oh, I’m working.’ Rebus shook water from his hands.
‘Only I never see any notes.’
‘Notes?’
‘You never write down your case notes.’
‘Is that right?’ Rebus dried his hands on the cotton roller-towel. This was his lucky day: a fresh roll had just been fitted. He still had his back to Smylie. ‘Well, I like to keep my notes in my head.’
‘That’s not procedure.’
‘Tough.’
He’d just got the word out, and was preparing for another intake of breath, when Smylie’s arms gripped him with the force of a construction crane around his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and felt himself being lifted off the ground. Smylie pushed his face against the wall next to the roller-towel. His whole weight was sandwiching Rebus against the wall.
‘You’re on to something, aren’t you?’ Smylie said in his high whistling voice. ‘Tell me who it is.’ He released his bear hug just enough so Rebus could speak.