10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Yes, LEEL’s one.’

  ‘Is there any Scottish Office control?’

  ‘Oh yes, Scottish Enterprise is sponsored by SOID.’

  ‘The Scottish Office Industry Department?’ McAllister gave a round of silent applause. ‘Which leads us,’ Rebus said, ‘to funding.’

  ‘Oh, I could talk all afternoon about funding, it’s my specialty.’

  ‘So what’s Scottish Enterprise’s annual budget?’

  McAllister puffed out his cheeks. ‘Around four hundred and fifty million.’

  Rebus swallowed the last of his pasta. ‘Forgive me, that sounds like a lot.’

  ‘Well, the money has to be split: it covers Enterprise, environment, youth and adult training, plus admin costs.’

  ‘Well, put like that I can see it represents excellent value for money.’

  McAllister nearly choked with laughter. ‘You sound just like a civil servant!’

  ‘I was being ironic. Tell me, Mr McAllister, why did you agree to meet me?’

  The question took McAllister by surprise. He took time forming his answer. ‘I’ve never met a police officer before,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was curious. Besides, it’s nice to meet someone who’s actually interested in what we do, no matter what his motives. You know, only about one in three voters in this country even knows there’s such a thing as the Scottish Office. One in three!’ He sat back and opened his arms. ‘And we’ve got a budget of millions!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘any word of any . . . impropriety?’

  ‘At Scottish Enterprise?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘What about the SDA?’

  One waiter removed their bowls, another set down the main course and accompanying vegetables. McAllister tucked in. He swallowed the first mouthful before answering Rebus’s question.

  ‘If there had been, Inspector, it would be dead and buried by now. When the SDA became Scottish Enterprise, the accounting procedures were changed: new set-up, new set of books. Like wiping the slate clean.’

  ‘So what would have happened if any impropriety had been found?’

  McAllister made a sweeping motion with his fork. ‘Under the carpet with it.’

  Rebus pondered this: wiping the slate clean, under the carpet . . . The district council was about to disappear, just as the SDA had done.

  ‘You know, Mr McAllister, you don’t seem very curious about why I want to know about the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

  McAllister chewed on that. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me if and when you’re ready. Until then, I don’t see that it’s any of my business. I’m not the curious sort, Inspector. In my line of work, that’s seen as a strength.’

  After a while Rebus asked: ‘Who appoints the boards?’

  ‘At SE and HIE, the Secretary of State.’ McAllister poured the last of the wine into his glass. ‘Not on his own, of course. He’d be advised by the Permanent Secretary. That, after all is the job of the Permanent Secretary: to advise. Though he implements too, of course.’ McAllister glanced at his watch, then signalled for the waiter. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said to Rebus, ‘but I think I might skip pud.’ And he patted his ample stomach. When the waiter approached, McAllister ordered espresso.

  ‘Is that what you’re investigating, Inspector – impropriety at the SDA?’

  Rebus smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t curious. Tell me, does the word Mensung mean anything to you?’

  McAllister tried it out. He’d torn open a plastic toothpick, and was working on his mouth. The sight made Rebus’s teeth jangle. ‘I do seem to know it . . . can’t think why or what it is. Want me to check?’

  ‘I’d be grateful, sir. One other thing, any connection between the SDA or Scottish Enterprise and the US Consulate?’

  Again, McAllister seemed surprised by the question. ‘Well, yes,’ he said at last, as his coffee arrived. ‘I mean, we do try to persuade American companies to locate here, so contacts at a consular level are helpful – vital, even. They were especially so in the eighties.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Microelectronics was booming. Silicon Glen. Locate in Scotland was working superbly. Did I mention LiS? It was part-SDA, part-Scottish office, with a remit to get foreign companies to locate here. Most of its successes were American, mostly in the early to mid-eighties. Rumour had it that its successes had less to do with canny persuasion and economic argument than with a kind of informal freemasonry.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, a lot of top executives in American companies were and are Scottish, either born here or with Scottish roots. LiS would target those individuals and work on them, trying to get them not only to open a factory here, but to persuade other Scots in positions of influence. Look at IBM. Actually, this isn’t an example of LiS at work; IBM has had a presence in Scotland for forty years. They started in Greenock, and they’re still there – the plant’s massive, about a mile and a half long. But what took them to Greenock in the first place? I’ll tell you. It wasn’t economics or a skilled workforce – it was sentimentality. The head of IBM at that time was in love with the west coast of Scotland; and that’s all it was.’ McAllister shrugged and blew on his coffee.

  Rebus wanted to go back a stage or two. ‘Is that how a lot of it works? Who you know?’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’

  ‘And bribes?’

  ‘Not for me to say.’

  Why not? thought Rebus. You’ve said every bloody thing but. It was two-thirty, the restaurant empty save for their table.

  ‘I mean,’ McAllister said, ‘one man’s bribe is another’s “financial incentive”. Look at Pergau Dam. There’s always room to bend the rules without necessarily breaking them. Regional Selective Assistance, for example, was and is discretionary. Who’s to say it doesn’t make a difference if the person applying for it went to school with the person who’ll make the final decision? It’s the way the world turns, Inspector.’ He tried to find some dregs of coffee in his cup, then unwrapped the amaretto biscuit.

  Rebus paid their bill, and the waiter locked the door after them. McAllister’s face was flushed, his cheeks a network of broken blood vessels. Now that he’d asked his questions, Rebus was keen to be elsewhere. There was something about McAllister he didn’t like. He knew how easy it was to cover something up by talking about it at length. One confession could be made to disguise another. He’d had cleverer men than McAllister in the interview room, but not very many . . .

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘I appreciate you taking the time and trouble, sir,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Not at all, Inspector. I appreciate you paying for lunch. Besides, who knows? Maybe one day I might need a favour from you.’ McAllister winked.

  ‘You might at that,’ Rebus said.

  After all, it was the way the world turned, the civil servant was right about that. Rebus turned and headed off in any direction that wasn’t McAllister’s.

  22

  ‘All I’ve got,’ Rebus admitted, ‘are questions and loose ends, and none of it is getting me any closer to why McAnally killed himself or why the councillor’s so scared. Added to that, the Lord Provost sees the word Dalgety scrawled on a sheet of paper and suddenly doesn’t want us looking for his daughter any more.’

  He was on the phone to St Leonard’s, speaking with Brian Holmes. The drip from the radiator was getting worse. His mouth was getting worse. Behind him in the living room were the binbags full of paper. All the answers, he felt, were there, just beyond his abilities.

  ‘So?’ said Holmes.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  Rebus pushed at the skin around his nose, feeling the pressure increase on his poor tooth. ‘The reason I phoned,’ he said, ‘is to ask what the state of play is with friend Duggan.’

  Holmes rustled some papers. ‘Now there I can help you. Paul Duggan is
Edinburgh’s answer to Rachman. He’s been cheating the council for years. Lives with his parents, doesn’t pay them a penny rent, but he’s applied for and been allotted four council properties . . . that’s how many we’ve traced so far, there could be others. He doesn’t mind hard-to-let flats, that’s his secret.’

  ‘How does he do it?’

  ‘A series of pseudonyms, plus girls he drags along to Housing Office interviews with a few bambinos in tow. The girls are friends of his, the kids aren’t his.’

  ‘But he becomes their father for the duration of the interview?’

  ‘And gets himself priority listed. Once he’s been allocated a place, all he does is let it out. I’m amazed he can find anyone for some of them. That place in Saughton was a palace compared to the others in his portfolio.’

  Rebus dug into his back pocket and brought out the card he’d taken from the Waverley drop-in. Paul. Cheap rooms.

  ‘Why do you think,’ Rebus asked, ‘Willie and Dixie had the pick of Duggan’s properties? House that size, he could have squeezed a few more bodies in.’

  ‘Right enough, the flat I checked in Granton had sleeping-bags in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom.’

  Rebus studied the telephone number on the card. ‘Maybe I’ll have a wee word with our friendly slum landlord. Is the Farmer keeping you busy?’

  ‘He keeps asking if I know what you’re up to.’

  ‘And what do you tell him?’

  ‘I can keep my mouth shut. I just hope you know what you’re doing, sir.’

  ‘Well, Brian, there’s a first time for everything.’

  Rebus broke the connection and called the number on the card.

  ‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice, polite, not young.

  ‘Eh, is Paul there?’

  ‘I’ll just get him for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She put the receiver next to the phone, and he could hear her calling for her son, who was probably in his bedroom counting shillings into a sock. Finally, the receiver was picked up.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s John, I saw your notice at the drop-in centre.’

  ‘Which one? I’ve got half a dozen notices up.’

  ‘The one behind Waverley.’

  ‘Oh aye, right.’

  ‘I need a room.’

  ‘Are you claiming social security?’

  Rebus winged it. ‘I’d be paying cash, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘No, it’s just that you’ve caught me at a bad time, John. Bit of pressure on me at the moment, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know all about pressure.’

  ‘So I’m not really opening any new transactions right this minute.’ There was a pause. ‘Did you say cash? Would you need a rentbook?’

  ‘Cash, no rentbook.’

  ‘Tell you what, John, can we maybe meet?’

  Rebus’s smile didn’t translate to his voice. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘No address. Do you know Leith cop shop?’

  Rebus stopped smiling. He’d been rumbled. But Duggan misinterpreted his silence.

  ‘Not keen, eh? Been in trouble, have you?’

  ‘A little bit.’

  ‘We’re only meeting outside. I can take you to a flat near there, down by the Shore. And that area’s coming up in the world, by the way.’

  Rebus almost admired the cheek. ‘What time?’

  ‘Five on the dot.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Rebus.

  He phoned Brian Holmes back. ‘Rachman’s portfolio, anything down near the Shore?’

  ‘Leith? No,’ said Holmes, ‘nearest one to Leith’s the place in Granton. Why?’

  ‘Just that you haven’t tracked them all down yet, that’s all.’

  At five minutes to five, he was across the road from the police station. He stood two steps up from the pavement in the doorway of a disused building. Leith was taking a few faltering steps towards respectability. Trendy cafés and restaurants had opened in hastily refurbished premises, usually carved out of larger blocks of unrented space. There was a temporary feel to these new businesses; they always seemed to be ‘under new management’. Leith’s revival had begun down on the Shore and had all but stopped there, with warehouse conversions and a couple of upmarket bars. Now the revival had been given fresh momentum: the new Scottish Office HQ was under construction at Victoria Dock, and a sailors’ home had been turned into a luxury hotel on Queen’s Quay.

  But Leith still retained its old, unique charm: it was still just about the only part of the city where you’d see prostitutes in daytime, freezing in short skirts and skimpy jackets. Rebus had passed some on his way down Bernard Street, readying themselves for the going-home trade: one quick leap for the homeward bound.

  He stood in the doorway for quarter of an hour before Paul Duggan turned up. The young man was wearing an ankle-length black woollen coat, its collar turned up. On his feet were white trainers, so new they were almost luminous when caught in the headlamps of the passing traffic.

  Duggan didn’t pay any attention to Rebus as Rebus crossed the road; he was on the look-out for someone entirely different.

  ‘Waiting for me?’ Rebus asked.

  It took Duggan a moment to place him. ‘Christ, what do you want?’

  ‘It was me that phoned. We didn’t know you had another place on the Shore.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Come on, Paul, let’s have a chat.’

  ‘In there?’

  Rebus looked towards the police station. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not in there. This is just between us, understood?’

  Rebus started walking, a hand on the sleeve of Duggan’s coat.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘We’re just walking, that’s all. I’ve got a question for you. We know about four or five of your properties, and we know the Saughton let was the best of them by a fair old margin. So how come you only picked up two rents from it?’

  Duggan stopped dead. ‘Is this a trap? Are you miked up?’

  Rebus laughed. ‘For a tadpole like you? Behave, son, you’re the council’s problem, not mine.’

  Rebus started walking again. Duggan caught him up. ‘So what’s the game?’

  ‘I’m interested in Willie and Dixie, that’s all. You told me you were their friend, so now I’m a wee bit interested in you, too.’

  ‘That’s why I gave them the house,’ Duggan blurted out, thinking on his feet. ‘They were my pals.’

  ‘You gave them it? They didn’t pay rent?’

  ‘Oh . . . oh aye, they paid rent. What I meant was –’

  ‘Don’t bother, son, don’t compound one lie with another, you’ll never keep track. My guess is they worked for you. What did they do?’

  Duggan bit his lip. ‘They collected the rents,’ he said at last.

  ‘And got free rent in return? That makes more sense. When I look at you, I see a skinny young kid, a sap. The kind of tenants you must deal with, you’d need back-up, isn’t that right? Just in case someone decided not to pay.’ Duggan nodded.

  ‘They’d’ve been perfect for that,’ Rebus continued. ‘Willie had brains, he could reason with the non-payers, and if that didn’t work, crazy Dixie could go to work. Is that about the score?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Rebus sniffed, and seemed to be thinking. ‘Whose idea was the kidnap ruse?’ he said casually.

  ‘I’ve told you, I didn’t know anything about that! They just asked for my car!’

  ‘Must have been Willie’s idea,’ Rebus went on, as if Duggan hadn’t spoken. ‘Dixie didn’t have the brains.’ He turned to Duggan. ‘Unless it was your idea, of course.’

  Duggan made to protest, but thought better of it. They walked on in silence. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘OK, between you and me, right?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Like I said, I�
��m not after you particularly, Paul, unless you lie to me. Lying to me is not advisable.’

  ‘I knew what they were up to.’

  ‘Of course you did. A tight-fisted wee bastard like you wouldn’t lend someone the steam from his breath without there being a pay-off.’ Rebus produced the photo of Kirstie Kennedy. ‘You saw her with Willie and Dixie, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Dalgety?’

  ‘Eh?’ The name clearly meant nothing to Duggan.

  ‘Come on,’ Rebus said, ‘I know you’ve seen her. You spend a lot of time in drop-in centres –’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You told me yourself your cards are up on half a dozen noticeboards. How do they get there: by magic?’ Rebus pushed the photo towards Duggan. ‘You’ve seen her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lying. What are you afraid of, Paul?’

  They were down on the Shore, and Duggan was just realising it. They walked close to the water’s edge, across the street from the bars. Soon they’d be up to the dock entrance. Rebus stopped and tugged on Duggan’s arm. ‘Look at her!’ he spat. Duggan averted his face. ‘Look at her!’

  Duggan glanced at the photo, then away again. His eyes were glinting in the streetlight.

  ‘She knew Willie well enough to leave something in his bedroom. She knew him . . . and I know damned well you knew her!’

  Duggan blinked. ‘What did she leave in his bedroom?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Just tell me where she is.’

  Duggan started to shake his head, and Rebus hauled him by the coat-sleeve to the water’s edge. The street was empty save for a line of cars whose owners were all in the howffs.

  ‘Fancy a dip, Paul? It can be invigorating at this time of year, if the sewage and the rats don’t get you.’

  ‘This coat cost a fortune!’ Duggan squealed.

  ‘You won’t need it in jail, son. You’ll be tucked up in bed with some big bad bastard keeping you warm.’

  ‘All right, all right!’

  Rebus released his grip. Duggan looked up and down the street.

  ‘Run if you like, Paul. I’ll find you.’

  ‘Jesus, calm down, will you? OK, I’ve seen her. She hung around for a while with Willie and Dixie.’