by Ian Rankin
‘Have you talked to your boss yet, Kevin?’
‘I keep getting his answering machine.’
‘Bad one.’
Kevin Strang nearly bit through the glass. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Bad for business.’
‘Aye, right enough.’
‘Mairie tells me you and her are friends?’
‘Went to school together. She was a couple of years above me, but we were both in the school orchestra.’
‘That’s good, you’ll have something to fall back on.’
‘Eh?’
‘If Bothwell sacks you, you can always busk for a living. Did you ever see her? Talk to her?’
Kevin knew who he meant. He was shaking his head before Rebus had finished asking.
‘No?’ Rebus persisted. ‘You weren’t even a wee bit curious? Didn’t want to see what she looked like?’
‘Never thought about it.’
Rebus looked across to the distant table where Mairie was being questioned by one of the Torphichen squad, with a WPC in close attendance. ‘Bad one,’ he said again. He leaned closer to Kevin Strang. ‘Just between us, Kevin, who did you tell?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Then you’re going down, son.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They didn’t find her by accident, Kevin. They knew she was there. Only two people could have provided that information: Mairie or you. C Division are hard bastards. They’ll want to know all about you, Kevin. You’re about the only suspect they’ve got.’
‘I’m not a suspect.’
‘She died about six hours ago, Kevin. Where were you six hours ago?’ Rebus was making this up: they wouldn’t know for sure until the pathologist took body temperature readings. But he reckoned it was a fair guess all the same.
‘I’m telling you nothing.’
Rebus smiled. ‘You’re just snot, Kevin. Worse, you’re hired snot.’ He made to pat Kevin Strang’s face, but Strang flinched, staggered back, and hit the spittoon. They watched it tip with a crash to the floor, rock to and fro, and then lie there. Nothing happened for a second, then with a wet sucking sound a thick roll of something barely liquid oozed out. Everyone looked away. The only thing Strang found to look at was Rebus. He swallowed.
‘Look, I had to tell Mr Bothwell, just to cover myself. If I hadn’t told him, and he’d found out . . .’
‘What did he say?’
‘He just shrugged, said she was my responsibility.’ He shuddered at the memory.
‘Where were you when you told him?’
‘In the office, off the foyer.’
‘This morning?’ Strang nodded. ‘Tell me, Kevin, did Mr Bothwell go check out the lodger?’
Strang looked down at his empty glass. It was answer enough for Rebus.
There were strict rules covering the investigation of a serious crime such as murder. For one, Rebus should talk to the officer in charge and tell him everything he knew about Millie Docherty. For two, he should also mention his conversation with Kevin Strang. For three, he should then leave well alone and let C Division get on with it.
But at two in the morning, he was parked outside Frankie Bothwell’s house in Ravelston Dykes, giving serious thought to going and ringing the doorbell. If nothing else, he might learn whether Bothwell’s night attire was as gaudy as his daywear. But he dismissed the idea. For one thing, C Division would be speaking with Bothwell before the night was out, always supposing they managed to get hold of him. They would not want to be told by Bothwell that Rebus had beaten them to it.
For another, he was too late. He heard the garage doors lift automatically, and saw the dipped headlights as Bothwell’s car, a gloss-black Merc with custom bodywork, bounced down off the kerb onto the road and sped away. So he’d finally got the message, and was on his way to the Hose. Either that or he was fleeing.
Rebus made a mental note to do yet more digging on Lee Francis Bothwell.
But for now, he was relieved the situation had been taken out of his hands. He drove back to Oxford Terrace at a sedate pace, trying hard not to fall asleep at the wheel. No one was waiting in ambush outside, so he let himself in quietly and went to the living room, his body too tired to stay awake but his mind too busy for sleep. Well, he had a cure for that: a mug of milky tea with a dollop of whisky in it. But there was a note on the sofa in Patience’s handwriting. Her writing was better than most doctors’, but not by much. Eventually Rebus deciphered it, picked up the phone, and called Brian Holmes.
‘Sorry, Brian, but the note said to call whatever the time.’
‘Hold on a sec.’ He could hear Holmes getting out of bed, taking the cordless phone with him. Rebus imagined Nell Stapleton awake in the bed, rolling back over to sleep and cursing his name. The bedroom door closed. ‘Okay,’ said Holmes, ‘I can talk now.’
‘What’s so urgent? Is it about our friend?’
‘No, all’s quiet on that front. I’ll tell you about it in the morning. But I was wondering if you’d heard the news?’
‘I was the one who found her.’
Rebus heard a fridge opening, a bottle being taken out, something poured into a glass.
‘Found who?’ Brian asked.
‘Millie Docherty. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?’ But of course it wasn’t; Brian couldn’t possibly know so soon. ‘She’s dead, murdered.’
‘They’re piling up, aren’t they? What happened to her?’
‘It’s not a bedtime story. So what’s your news?’
‘A breakout from Barlinnie. Well, from a van actually, stopped between Barlinnie and a hospital. The whole thing was planned.’
Rebus sat down on the sofa. ‘Cafferty?’
‘He does a good impersonation of a perforated ulcer. It happened this evening. The prison van was sandwiched between two lorries. Masks, sawn-offs and a miracle recovery.’
‘Oh Christ.’
‘Don’t worry, there are patrols all up and down the M8.’
‘If he’s coming back to Edinburgh, that’s the last road he’ll use.’
‘You think he’ll come back?’
‘Get a grip, Brian, of course he’s coming back. He’s going to have to kill whoever butchered his son.’
24
He didn’t get much sleep that night, in spite of the tea and whisky. He sat by the recessed bedroom window wondering when Cafferty would come. He kept his eyes on the stairwell outside until dawn came. His mind made up, he started packing. Patience sat up in bed.
‘I hope you’ve left a note,’ she said.
‘We’re both leaving, only not together. What’s the score in an emergency?’
‘My dream was making more sense than this.’
‘Say you had to go away at very short notice?’
She was rubbing her hair, yawning. ‘Someone would cover for me. What did you have in mind, elopement?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
When he came back from the kitchen carrying two mugs of coffee, she was in the shower.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked afterwards, rubbing herself dry.
‘You’re going to your sister’s,’ he told her. ‘So drink your coffee, phone her, get dressed, and start packing.’
She took the mug from him. ‘In that order?’
‘Any order you like.’
‘And where are you going?’
‘Somewhere else.’
‘Who’ll feed the pets?’
‘I’ll get someone to do it, don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Yes I am. What is going on?’
‘A bad man’s coming to town.’ Something struck him. ‘There you are, that’s another old film I like: High Noon.’
Rebus booked into a small hotel in Bruntsfield. He knew the night manager and phoned first, checking they had a room.
‘You’re lucky, we’ve one single.’
‘How come you’re not full?’
‘Th
e old gent who was in it, he’s been coming here for years, he died of a stroke yesterday afternoon.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re not superstitious or anything?’
‘Not if it’s your only room.’
He climbed the steps to street level and looked around. When he was happy, he gestured for Patience to join him. She carried a couple of bags. Rebus was already holding her small suitcase. They put the stuff in the back of her car and embraced hurriedly.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said. ‘Don’t try phoning me.’
‘John . . .’
‘Trust me on this if on nothing else, Patience, please.’
He watched her drive off, then hung around to make sure no one was following her. Not that he could be absolutely sure. They could pick her up on Queensferry Road. Cafferty wouldn’t hesitate to use her, or anyone, to get to him. Rebus got his own bag from the flat, locked the flat tight, and headed for his car. On the way he stopped at the next door neighbour’s door, dropping an envelope through the letterbox. Inside were keys to the flat and feeding instructions for Lucky the cat, the budgie with no name, and Patience’s goldfish.
It was still early morning, the quiet streets unsuitable for a tail. Even so, he took every back route he could think of. The hotel was just a big family house really, converted into a small family hotel. Out front, where a garden once separated it from the pavement, tarmac had been laid, making a car park for half a dozen cars. But Rebus drove round the back and parked where the staff parked. Monty, the night manager, brought him in the back way, then led him straight up to his room. It was at the top of the house, all the way up one of the creakiest staircases Rebus had ever climbed. No one would be able to tiptoe up there without him and the woodworm knowing about it.
He lay on the solid bed wondering if lying on a dead man’s bed was like stepping into his shoes. Then he started to think about Cafferty. He knew he was taking half-measures only. How hard would it be for Cafferty to track him down? A few men staked outside Fettes and St Leonard’s and in a few well-chosen pubs, and Rebus would be in the gangster’s hands by the end of the day. Fine, he just didn’t want Patience involved, or Patience’s home, or those of his friends.
Didn’t most suicides do the same thing, come to hotels so as not to involve family and friends?
He could have gone home of course, back to his flat in Marchmont, but it was still full of students working in Edinburgh over the summer. He liked his tenants, and didn’t want them meeting Cafferty. Come to that, he didn’t want Monty the night manager meeting Cafferty either.
‘He’s not after me,’ he kept reminding himself, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. There was a clock radio by the bed, and he switched it on, catching the news. Police were still searching for Morris Gerald Cafferty. ‘He’s not after me,’ he repeated. But in a sense, Cafferty was. He’d know Rebus was his best bet to finding the killers. There was a short item about the body at the Crazy Hose, though no gruesome details. Not yet, anyway.
When the news finished, he washed and went downstairs. He got a black cab to take him to St Leonard’s. Once told the destination, the driver switched off his meter.
‘On the house,’ he said.
Rebus nodded and sat back. He’d commandeer someone’s car during the course of the day, either that or find a spare car from the pool. No one would complain. They all knew who’d put Cafferty in Barlinnie. At St Leonard’s, he walked smartly into the station and went straight to the computer, tapping into Brains. Brains had a direct link to PNC2, the UK mainland police database at Hendon. As he’d expected, there wasn’t much on Lee Francis Bothwell, but there was a note referring him to files kept by Strathclyde Police in Partick.
The officer he talked to in Partick was not thrilled.
‘All that old stuff’s in the attic,’ he told Rebus. ‘I’ll tell you, one of these days the ceiling’ll come down.’
‘Just go take a look, eh? Fax it to me, save yourself a phone call.’
An hour later, Rebus was handed several fax sheets relating to activities of the Tartan Army and the Workers’ Party in the early 1970s. Both groups had enjoyed short anarchic lives, robbing banks to finance their arms purchases. The Tartan Army had wanted independence for Scotland, at any price. What the Workers’ Party had wanted Rebus couldn’t recall, and there was no mention of their objectives in the fax. The Tartan Army had been the bigger terror of the two, breaking into explosives stores and Army bases, building up an arms cache for an insurrection which never came.
Frankie Bothwell was mentioned as a Tartan Army supporter, but with no evidence against him of illegal acts. Rebus reckoned this would be just before his move to the Orkneys and rebirth as Cuchullain. Cuchullain of the Red Hand.
Arch Gowrie was probably at breakfast when Rebus caught him. He could hear the clink of cutlery on plate.
‘Sorry to disturb you so early, sir.’
‘More questions, Inspector? Maybe I should start charging a consultancy fee.’
‘I was hoping you could help me with a name.’ Gowrie made a noncommittal noise, or maybe he was just chewing. ‘Lee Francis Bothwell.’
‘Frankie Bothwell?’
‘You know him?’
‘I used to.’
‘He was a member of the Orange Lodge?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘But he got kicked out?’
‘Not quite. He left voluntarily.’
‘Might I ask why, sir?’
‘You might.’ There was a pause. ‘He was . . . unpredictable, had a temper on him. Most of the time he was fine. He coached the youth football teams for a couple of district lodges, he seemed to enjoy that.’
‘Was he interested in history?’
‘Yes, Scottish and Irish history.’
‘Cuchullain?’
‘Amongst other things. I think he wrote a couple of articles for Ulster, that’s the magazine of the UDA. He did them under a pseudonym, so we couldn’t discipline him, but the style was his. Loyalists, Inspector, are very interested in Irish pre-history. Bothwell was writing about the Cruithin. He was very bright like that, but he –’
‘Did he have any links with the Orange Loyal Brigade?’
‘Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Gavin MacMurray’s interested in pre-history too.’ Gowrie sighed. ‘Frankie left the Orange Lodge because he didn’t feel we went far enough. That’s as much as I’ll say, but maybe it tells you something about him.’
‘It does, Mr Gowrie, yes. Thanks for your help.’
Rebus put the phone down and thought it over. Then he shook his head sadly.
‘You picked some place to hide her, Mairie. Some fucking place.’
His desk now looked like a skip, and he decided to do something about it. He filled his waste bin with empty cups, plates, crumpled papers and packets. Until, only slightly buried, he came to an A4-size manila envelope. His name was written on it in black marker pen. The envelope was fat. It hadn’t been opened.
‘Who left this here?’
But nobody seemed to know. They were too busy discussing another call made to the newspaper by the lunatic with the Irish accent. Nobody knew about The Shield, of course, not the way Rebus knew. The media had stuck to the theory that the body in Mary King’s Close was that of the caller, a rogue from an IRA unit who’d been disciplined by his masters. It didn’t make any sense now, but that didn’t matter. There’d been another call now, another morning headline. ‘“Shut the Whole Thing Down,” says Threat Man.’ Rebus had considered what benefit SaS could derive from disrupting the Festival. Answer: none.
He looked at the envelope a final time, then ran his finger under the flap and eased out a dozen sheets of paper, photocopies of reports, news stories. American, the lot of them, though whoever had done the copying had been careful, leaving off letter headings, addresses, phone numbers. As Rebus read, he couldn’t be sure where half the stories originated. But one thing was clear, they were all about one m
an.
Clyde Moncur.
There were no messages, nothing handwritten, nothing to identify the sender. Rebus checked the envelope. It hadn’t been posted. It had been delivered by hand. He asked around again, but nobody owned up to having ever seen the thing before. Mairie was the only source he could think of, but she wouldn’t have sent the stuff like this.
He read through the file anyway. It reinforced his impression of Clyde Moncur. The man was a snake. He ran drugs up into Vancouver and across to Ontario. His boats brought in immigrants from the Far East, or often didn’t, though they were known to have picked up travellers along the way. What happened to them, these people who paid to be transported to a better life? The bottom of the deep blue sea, seemed to be the inference.
There were other murky areas to Moncur’s life, like his undeclared interest in a fish processing plant outside Toronto . . . Toronto, home of The Shield. The US Internal Revenue had been trying for years to get to the bottom of it all, and failing.
Buried in all the clippings was the briefest mention of a Scottish salmon farm.
Moncur had imported Scottish smoked salmon into the USA, though the Canadian stuff was just a mite closer to hand. The salmon farm he used was just north of Kyle of Lochalsh. Its name struck home. Rebus had come across the name very recently. He went back to the files on Cafferty, and there it was. Cafferty had been legitimate part-owner of the farm in the 1970s and early 80s . . . around the time him and Jinky Johnson were washing and drying dirty money for the UVF.
‘This is beautiful,’ Rebus said to himself. He hadn’t just squared the circle, he’d created an unholy triangle out of it.
He got a patrol car to take him to the Gar-B.
From the back seat, he had a more relaxed view of the whole of Pilmuir. Clyde Moncur had talked about the early Scottish settlers. The new settlers, of course, took on just as tough a life, moving into the private estates which were being built around and even in Pilmuir. This was a frontier life, complete with marauding natives who wanted the intruders gone, border skirmishes, and wilderness experiences aplenty. These estates provided starter homes for those making the move from the rented sector. They also provided starter courses in basic survival.