by Ian Rankin
I’m in great shape, he thought. I’m the perfect fucking specimen.
He took the beer through to the living room, sat down with the reports in his chair, and started to read.
He started with the Summary of Evidence, barely glanced down the List of Productions and List of Witnesses, skipped the Annual Leave of Officers, and got to work on the Statements and Tape Transcriptions. The witnesses comprised neighbours, the victim, the accused’s wife, a couple of barmen, and the police doctor (Dr Curt, as it turned out), who had examined and taken samples from both victim and accused. Maisie Finch had been examined in hospital, where she spent the rest of the night under observation. It was noted that her mother – unaware of her daughter’s presence – was in the same hospital at the time, just one floor up.
Hugh McAnally had been examined in the medical examination room at Torphichen. During the examination he kept protesting, ‘I used a johnny, for fuck’s sake, what’s the problem?’
These words had endeared him to no one.
The story from the victim’s point of view: Maisie had been alone in the flat, her mum being in hospital for a minor operation. At this time, her mother was already all but housebound, looking after her a full-time occupation for Maisie. (Nobody had asked her how it felt to be cooped up all day with an invalid; or how it felt when her mum had been taken into hospital . . . Rebus remembered his own meeting with her – the bottles of strong lager, the ‘holiday mood’.) Maisie knew Mr McAnally very well, had known him for years. She regarded him not just as a neighbour but as a family friend.
McAnally told her he had come to ask after her mother. Though he smelled of alcohol, she’d let him into the flat and offered to make a cup of tea. He asked if she had anything stronger. She knew there was a bottle of whisky in the bottom of her mother’s wardrobe. It had been there since her father’s death. Maisie went to fetch it, and McAnally followed. He pushed her on to the bed so she was face down, and held her head down with one hand . . .
Afterwards, he mumbled something. She thought it might have been an apology, but maybe not. He went out, leaving the door to the flat ajar. She could hear him tramping noisily down the stairwell. She ran to Mrs McAnally’s door and thumped on it till she got an answer. Mrs McAnally herself called the police.
McAnally, by his own admission, left the tenement and headed for Lothian Road, drinking in a couple of pubs he frequented. This was backed up by the two barmen. Then he bought a fish supper, and was finishing it as he approached the main door of the tenement, where he was apprehended by two police officers who had been waiting in their car. He was taken to Torphichen Place police station and questioned, then charged.
McAnally’s version was: he had indeed gone to Maisie Finch’s flat to inquire about her mother, but also in the hope of having sex with Maisie. They’d had sex once before, while her mother was asleep in the other room. Both times, Maisie initiated proceedings. McAnally knew she was a ‘good girl’, but thought she got bored at home. He knew he was ‘no spring chicken’ nor yet ‘Mr Universe’, and her home life explained why Maisie wanted to have sex with him – ‘I dare say I wasn’t the only one.’ Maisie herself had never said anything, never explained, and McAnally wasn’t really bothered, ‘so long as I was getting my hole.’
After a minute or so’s conversation in the living room, Maisie suggested going through to her mother’s bedroom, her reasoning being that her mother had a double bed, while Maisie only had a single. (Asked to describe Maisie’s bedroom, McAnally was able to, though this proved nothing, since as he later acknowledged, he’d been in there the previous month to change a faulty light-fitting.)
On the night in question, they progressed to the mother’s bedroom, where – McAnally’s version – intercourse took place, ‘doggy style’. Asked why that particular position, McAnally said he thought maybe Maisie didn’t like to look at his ‘ugly old coupon’. (Rebus was glad he hadn’t interviewed McAnally; he’d probably have taken a swing at him.) McAnally said he left the flat immediately afterwards, as Maisie didn’t like him to hang about. One thing he said was that Maisie herself had provided the condom: ‘I can’t run around with johnnies in my pooch, Tresa’d be bound to find them.’
Yes, he was a choice article, Mr Hugh McAnally.
Rape cases could be difficult. Scottish law required corroboration, not just one person’s word against another’s. With allegations of rape, there was seldom absolute corroboration – rapists didn’t work to an uninvited audience. But in this case there was the girl’s cry, heard by some in the tenement (though not by all), and the fact that she made, as Davidson himself commented, a ‘stonking good witness’. She would go into the witness box – not all rape victims would, for very good emotional reasons – and she would testify. She would ‘put the old bastard behind bars’.
And she did.
Asked about the cry, McAnally at first said she was ‘a screamer’ – in other words, that she cried out at the point of climax. Davidson had added a pencilled comment in the margin, perhaps meaning to erase it later: ‘What young girl would climax with the likes of you?’ McAnally then changed his mind and said there was no scream, no cry at all. Which was excellent news for the prosecution, who had witnesses ready to testify that they had heard a cry.
Which point, Rebus mused, though tiny in the wider scheme of the case, was almost certainly what had swung the jury. Mostly it was his word against hers; but there were witnesses to the scream, witnesses like Helena Profitt.
Miss Profitt had given a statement, but had not been called to give evidence at the trial. That was probably the Procurator-fiscal’s decision. The Fiscal’s office would have precognosced Miss Proffit, and would have made a note for future reference that she was timid, nervy, and unlikely to perform well in court. Crown counsel had picked the best neighbours to show to the jury. It was part of their particular skill.
Rebus reached down for another tin of beer, and found they were all empty. He went to the fridge and found a solitary can, a couple of months past its expiry. It was freezing to the touch, but had plenty of gas when he opened it. He was drinking these days with one side of his mouth only, avoiding the painful side with anything too hot or cold. He put the can down and fried up some bacon, cutting open two rolls. He ate the rolls at the kitchen table.
It has to be serious, he thought. The governor of Saughton, the deputy chief constable . . . maybe even the Constabulary Inspectorate. They just didn’t want him around. Why not? That was the question. It had to have something to do with McAnally. It looked to Rebus very much as though it had something to do with McAnally’s time in Saughton.
He went back into the living room and got out McAnally’s list of previous convictions. Small beer, he thought, taking a drink. He’d been lucky though, landing more than his fair share of fines and tickings-off when a custodial sentence might have been more usual. He’d served a year one time, eighteen months another – both for housebreaking – and that was about it. Otherwise it was just fines and admonitions.
Rebus sat back, forgetting to swallow the beer in his mouth. He was thinking something, something he didn’t want to think. There was only one good reason he could think of why Wee Shug had been so lucky, one good reason why a judge might be so lenient time and time again.
Someone had put in a word.
And who was it usually put in a word with the judge? Answer: policemen.
And why did they do it . . .?
Rebus swallowed the beer. ‘He was a grass! Wee Shug McAnally was somebody’s bloody snitch!’
Next morning, he woke up raring to go to work – then remembered he had no work to go to, no place he would be welcome. Just when he needed to ask some of his fellow officers a few very discreet questions.
He’d lain awake half the night, watching the amber streetlight on his bedroom ceiling, tumbling configurations in his mind. He couldn’t get past the notion that McAnally had been somebody’s eyes and ears on the street. All good policemen had them; any
one who wanted to get anywhere had them: grasses, stoolies, snitches, informers. They had a hundred titles and a hundred job descriptions.
It made sense; it explained those lenient sentences. But then McAnally had crossed the line – no judge was going to listen to too many pleas for leniency in a rape case. Four years off the street and a snitch lost his usefulness: there were new bandits around, people he didn’t know and could never get to know. Four years was a long time on the street; the world moved fast down there.
Something else had occurred to Rebus in bed, around three a.m. by the blue-lit numerals on his clock. It – whatever ‘it’ was, whatever it was people were scared of – had to do with McAnally, yes, but the councillor was involved too. Rebus had let the councillor slip from the equation. He’d been busy on fractions on one half of the board, while the councillor sat untroubled on the other. And the councillor, unlike McAnally, was still alive to answer questions. Rebus was only going to get so far following the trail of the dead. It was time to concentrate on the living.
It was time to get concerned.
17
Councillor Tom Gillespie lived in a huge, bay-windowed semi not five minutes walk from Rebus’s flat. The house had been divided into two flats, one on the upper storey, one on the lower. Gillespie’s was the ground-floor property. There was a trim lawn in front of the house, and a low stone wall topped with black glossy railings which ended in arrow-headed points. Rebus opened the gate and walked up to the front door. Clay-coloured road-salt crunched underfoot, spread up and down the path during the worst of the snow and ice. Now the ice had melted, apart from trimmings of sooty white in corners the sun never reached, and roads and paths throughout the city were blighted by salt, as treacherous underfoot as the ice it replaced.
Rebus could see movement behind the bay window as he rang the doorbell. It was an old-fashioned pull affair, the sprung bell chiming inside. Rebus heard an inner hallway door open, then a lock being pulled. The solid main door was opened by the councillor himself.
‘Good morning, Mr Gillespie, mind if I have a word?’
‘I’m up to my eyes in it, Inspector.’
From within, Rebus heard a motorised whine, then the sound of a woman sneezing. Gillespie’s arm was across the doorway, blocking any attempt by Rebus to enter. It wasn’t exactly Costa del Sol weather on the doorstep, but the councillor was sweating.
‘I appreciate that, sir,’ Rebus said, ‘but this will only take a minute.’
‘Did you speak to Helena Profit?’
‘I did, yes. And, by the way, thanks for setting the Joint Police Board on me.’
Gillespie wasn’t about to apologise. ‘I told you I had friends.’
There was a yip from within, like a Pekinese getting a deserved kick up the arse, and then a furious female voice.
‘Tom! Tom!’
Gillespie pretended not to hear.
‘I think you’re wanted indoors,’ Rebus remarked.
‘Look, this really isn’t the time for –’
‘Tom, for Christ’s sake!’
Gillespie snarled, turned on his heel and sprinted indoors. The front door was closing on Rebus with infinite slowness. He pushed it open and walked into the hall.
‘Bloody thing’s jammed again,’ the woman was saying. ‘Why the hell can’t you do this?’
Then Gillespie, trying to keep his voice low. ‘Just don’t let him in! Go on then!’
A woman stumbled out of the front room like she’d been pushed from behind. She bumped into Rebus and some empty files clattered to the tile floor.
‘Damnation,’ she said. As the door closed behind her, Rebus could see that the bay-windowed room was some kind of office. He glimpsed a desk with a computer, chests of drawers with heaped documents slewed across their tops. He couldn’t see whatever was making the noise, and he couldn’t see Gillespie, but he heard a slap as the councillor either punched or kicked a piece of machinery.
He helped the woman retrieve the files. ‘Nice colours,’ he said.
‘What?’ She tucked some stray hairs back into place behind her ear. She was a tall, heavy-boned woman with a face full of strong features. Her thick dark hair was shoulder-length and parted to one side, a little lacking in life. Her eyes were full of life though; her eyes were blazing. She looked harassed, but was dressed with thoughtful elegance in a pearl-coloured silk blouse and a long skirt of Black Watch tartan.
‘The files,’ Rebus explained. ‘The ones I always seem to buy are blue or grey or green. These are . . . well, they’re more colourful.’
She looked at him like he was mad: they were only files.
‘A stationer’s on George Street,’ she said.
Rebus nodded, trying not to look like he was memorising the letters on the front of the file he’d been studying. Not that the letters SDA/SE were difficult to remember.
‘Something jammed?’ Rebus asked.
She had been brought up a polite girl, taught manners at home and in school. She couldn’t not answer a question so casually put, a harmless inquiry.
‘The shredder,’ she said.
Rebus nodded, confirming that he too had problems with his paper-shredder. ‘You must be Mrs Gillespie?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s got you helping him, eh?’
She tried to laugh. ‘Press-ganged.’
‘I thought Councillor Gillespie had a secretary.’
Her smile vanished. She was thinking up some lie to tell him when the door opened and Gillespie emerged. This time, peering into the room, Rebus saw several cardboard boxes full of long thin strips of paper. Shredded documents.
Gillespie propelled his wife gently but firmly back into the office, closing the door after her. ‘I don’t recall inviting you in, Inspector.’
‘Maybe you’ll want to talk to your friend Councillor Mantoni again.’
Gillespie pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Well, now you’re here, come into the kitchen.’ He wiped the handkerchief across his forehead. ‘I’m parched.’
He led Rebus down the long hall, past a sitting room and dining room. They took a left past the blocked-in staircase and passed through a shorter, darker passage into the kitchen. There was pine everywhere: pine units, pine tongue-and-groove covering every surface except the floor, which boasted boards freshly sanded and varnished. A conservatory had been added to the back, giving views on to the wide rear garden, mature rose bushes and laurel hedge; a small brick patio.
Gillespie busied himself with the kettle.
‘I won’t offer you a cup, Inspector. I know you’ll be keen to be on your way.’
‘I’m not that busy today actually, Mr Gillespie, but I won’t stay for coffee.’ Rebus paused. ‘Thanks for the offer.’
Gillespie opened a cupboard and glowered at the mugs and glasses within. Reflected glare, thought Rebus.
‘So what is it you want?’ Gillespie reached for a mug.
‘Dog shit,’ said Rebus.
Gillespie fumbled the mug but retrieved it. ‘What did you say?’
‘Dog shit, Councillor: on the pavements, the grass . . . everywhere. It’s a disgrace.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not here in your official capacity?’
‘Did I say I was? No, I’m here as a private individual, a constituent voicing a complaint to his elected representative.’
Gillespie opened a cafetière and poured ground coffee into it from a packet. By the time he finished he’d regained his composure.
‘Well, Mr Rebus,’ he said, ‘people only usually complain in the summer. That’s when the offending article is at its softest and smelliest. I’ve never received a complaint in the winter.’
‘Then I’m speaking for the silent majority.’
Gillespie managed a smile. ‘What do you really want? If I had a mind, I could construe this visit as harassment.’
After what Rebus had seen, he didn’t really want anything else, but he was enjoying himself, and what were holidays f
or if you didn’t enjoy yourself?
‘Just what I say,’ he replied.
Gillespie poured boiling water over the coffee grounds. ‘Well, I’m surprised at you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d have expected you of all people to know that dogs fouling the byways are a matter for the police. It’s down to the police to trace the owners and bring a prosecution.’
‘And the council doesn’t do anything?’
‘On the contrary, we’ve a Dog Warden Section whose job is to educate owners to act responsibly. The wardens also help the police in cases of prosecution. The Warden Section is part of the EHD.’
‘Environmental Health Department?’
‘Precisely. I can give you their number if you like. It’s the least I can do . . . for a constituent.’
Rebus smiled and shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets and made as if to leave. But he stopped beside the councillor and lowered his voice.
‘How scared are you?’
‘What?’
‘You look to me like you’re shitting snowballs.’
The councillor started sweating again. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and concentrated on stirring the contents of the cafetière.
‘All the shit that’s about these days,’ Rebus went on, ‘you’ve got to watch you don’t tread in it. You might end up on your arse, isn’t that right, Councillor?’
‘Just get out, will you?’
Rebus turned to leave. Gillespie put out a hand to stop him. ‘Inspector, you’re making a mistake.’ Not a threat; a simple statement of fact.
‘Talk to me.’
Gillespie thought about it, biting his bottom lip, then shook his head. Rebus stared at him, willing him to change his mind. But Gillespie was scared; it was in his eyes, in the sheen of his face.
The man was terrified.
‘I’ll let you out,’ Gillespie said, leading Rebus back down the hall. He had the cafetière in one hand, two mugs in the other. Through the office door they could hear Mrs Gillespie cursing the machine again. She sounded like she was kicking it.