by Ian Rankin
‘How long?’
‘A week, maybe a bit longer.’
‘Is she still around?’
‘I haven’t seen her. I only saw her a couple of times.’
‘At the house in Saughton?’
‘No, no, at a couple of drop-in centres.’
‘But you don’t know where she is, or what she’s doing?’ Duggan shook his head. ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to find her for me.’
‘What?’
‘Somebody like you, lots of contacts . . . should be easy.’
‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’
Rebus pointed to the water. ‘There’s your alternative.’ He held out the photo. ‘Take this, it might help.’
‘It won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s not what she looks like. We had a laugh when we saw that picture in all the papers. I mean, I can believe she might have looked like that before she started using.’
‘Drugs?’
‘And plenty of them by the look of her.’
Rebus frowned. ‘You think she’s been on them long?’
‘Long enough. Maybe a year or so.’
‘A year?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘Only a guess; I’m not into that scene.’
‘I’ll bet you don’t mind them as tenants though, eh?’
Duggan straightened his shoulders. ‘How about looking at it this way – I’m doing the council’s work for it, putting roofs over the heads of people who’d be on the street otherwise.’
‘Mr Social Conscience. They’ll be giving you the keys to the city next. Get out of my sight, and take the photo, it’s got my phone number on the back. If I don’t hear from you in a day or two, we’ll have another chat. Maybe at your place this time, with your mum and dad listening. How would you like that?’
Duggan didn’t answer. He rearranged his coat, which had fallen down over one shoulder, then pocketed the photograph. Rebus watched him shuffle away, back towards the traffic.
So, now he knew for certain why the Lord Provost hadn’t had a more recent photo of his daughter. He wondered why Duggan had been so curious about whatever Kirstie had left in Willie Coyle’s bedroom. But Rebus was beginning to get an idea about that, too.
23
He drove to the Ox, where Doc and Salty stood in their allotted places. Room was made for Rebus, and Doc ordered him a pint.
‘Oh what blessed company,’ Rebus said, lifting the glass. He turned to Salty Dougary. ‘I was out at Gyle Park West the other day.’
‘In your professional capacity?’
‘Sort of. What can you tell me about the place?’
‘It’s an industrial estate. I work there. What else is there to know?’
‘The businesses there, would they have dealings with Scottish Enterprise?’
Salty nodded. ‘LEEL,’ he said. ‘Our boss at Deltona is mad keen on “worker participation”, which means once a week we have to sit in the canteen for twenty minutes listening to him rattle on about client satisfaction, inward investment, productivity and the like. He’s always on about LEEL.’
‘So Deltona has had money from LEEL?’
‘John, everyone on that estate has had help of some kind: relocation incentives, start-up incentives, retraining incentives, you name it.’ He raised his glass. ‘God bless Scottish Enterprise.’
‘Why the interest?’ Dr Klasser asked. This was not their usual level of conversation.
‘It could be peripheral to a case I’m working on.’ Except that there was no case and he wasn’t supposed to be working.
‘Well, keep your paws off Deltona,’ Salty Dougary warned.
Rebus smiled. ‘Ever heard of Mensung?’ he asked.
‘Don’t they measure your intelligence?’
There was a snort from down the bar. ‘They’d only need a six-inch ruler to measure yours, Salty.’
Salty laughed, so the speaker would know he wasn’t amused. Rebus was still looking at him. ‘To be honest,’ Salty told him, ‘it does ring a bell, way at the back of the old brainpan. I think it was a company.’
‘On the estate?’
Dougary shrugged. The barman was taking a phone call. His eyes met Rebus’s.
‘For you, John.’ He brought the telephone over. Rebus had another question for Salty.
‘What about LABarum, ever heard of that?’
‘What is this, “Mastermind”?’
Rebus took the receiver from the barman. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, John?’
Rebus recognised the voice – but it couldn’t be, not calling him by his first name.
‘Is that you, Flower?’
‘Yes.’
DI Alister Flower – the Little Weed – calling Rebus ‘John’. Something was wrong.
‘What’s up?’
‘Just wondered if you could drop into the station for a chat.’
‘A chat? Will you have the tea and biscuits ready?’
Flower laughed like he hadn’t heard a better one all day. Rebus was more than curious.
‘When?’ he asked.
‘Whenever you like.’
Rebus said he’d be there in half an hour.
The station was mid-evening quiet. To keep busy, most of the CID contingent had gone off to the scene of a car smash. The smash had taken place outside one of the neighbourhood’s better Indian restaurants. So there was no one around the main office; no one but Alister Flower.
‘John, how’s the holiday?’
‘I’m having a bit of trouble getting a tan.’
Rebus studied Alister Flower. There were a hundred reasons to dislike or even thoroughly loathe the man. The fact that he was a complete prick came pretty close to the top. Flower’s eyes were always in movement, seeking out an angle or the main chance. The eyes were puffy, like the skin around them was constantly swollen. It could be genetic or to do with boozing, and it turned his eyes into slits. Rebus didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t always see those eyes.
Flower had friends around the station: spies, junior officers, who were a bit like him and would even like to be him. It scared Rebus. But there were no allies with him tonight. He sat on a desk, his feet on a chair. It wasn’t his desk, wasn’t his chair. Walking past his own desk, Rebus saw the new computer console. It didn’t interest him at all.
‘I was promised tea and biscuits,’ he said.
‘We can nip down the canteen after.’
‘After what?’
‘After I’ve shown you something. Come on.’
And he led Rebus down to the cells. There was a man in there, long-haired, unshaven, not happy.
‘So who is he?’
‘His name’s Terry Shotts,’ Flower explained. ‘He’s from Newcastle. We found him leaving a house in Prestonfield Avenue . . . with half the contents under his arm.’
‘So?’ Rebus closed the viewing-flap in the cell door.
‘So we went to his digs. There was some other stuff there, including some that we could trace immediately from the register. His scam is, he thieves here and sells in Newcastle, and what he thieves there he lays off here.’
‘It’s a tremendous feat of detection, Flower. I want to thank you for sharing it with me.’
Rebus started back upstairs, Flower following. He handed Rebus a folded sheet of paper.
‘This is a list of the stuff the Geordies found in his flat. They traced some of it to a couple of break-ins, but the lists didn’t match. Looks like he’d already sold some of the stuff on. Including a shotgun.’ Rebus began to see the point. ‘Shotts has been up here three weeks. I think he sold it to Shug McAnally.’
‘Have you asked Mr Shotts?’
‘He’s as good as admitted it.’
Rebus stopped. ‘Maybe I should talk to him.’
Flower blocked his path. ‘I don’t think that would do any good.’ Rebus wasn’t in the mood for a fight, so kept on walking. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I me
an, it ties up the loose ends, doesn’t it?’
‘It might tie up one of them, but it just unravels a couple more. Want to know what they are? Number one, why are you interested? Number two, why would you want me to be “pleased”?’
They were back in the CID room.
‘Well,’ Flower said, making for his desk, ‘I just thought you’d want to know.’
‘That’s just so much keech, Flower. What are you up to?’
Flower reached into a drawer and showed Rebus a bottle of whisky. Rebus shook his head, but Flower poured himself a measure into a broken-handled mug.
‘What are you so damned paranoid about, Rebus?’
‘You, for a start.’ Flower took a gulp of whisky, then lit a cigarette.
‘It’s a fair point,’ he conceded, through a wreath of smoke. ‘OK, I’ll tell you straight. Someone asked me to talk to you. You know I wouldn’t do it otherwise.’
‘That’s more like it.’ Rebus sat on the edge of a desk. ‘So who’s the someone?’
‘Just someone important.’
‘The Farmer?’
Flower smiled and exhaled noisily. Someone higher than the Farmer then, a lot higher.
‘And just what,’ Rebus asked, ‘does this anonymous patron want me to know?’
Flower examined the tip of his cigarette. ‘That you’re on your way out, the way you’re going.’
‘Out?’
‘Of the force.’ Flower paused. ‘At the very least.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
Which meant, thought Rebus, that it was because of something he might do rather than something already done.
‘So what should I do?’ he asked.
‘Stop being so bloody nosy.’
‘About what?’
‘McAnally, for Christ’s sake.’
‘What does –’
‘Look, I’m just the message-boy, OK?’
‘If the cap fits . . .’
Flower’s eyes narrowed still further. ‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘you know if it was up to me, I’d leave you to squat on the pan and send your career down the lavvy like the night before’s kebab. All I’m doing is a favour for someone who wants you to have a final warning. Hear me? A final warning.’ He stood up and flicked his butt into a waste-bin.
‘Pretty convenient,’ Rebus said, ‘the source of the shotgun suddenly turning up . . . Who is it, Flower? The DCC? Big Jim Flett? What have they got to hide?’ Rebus was standing inches from Flower. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ He jabbed Flower’s chest with his finger.
‘Touch me again, you’re dead.’
‘Tell your friend, if he wants to threaten me, he should do it himself. Nobody’s scared of the message-boy.’
Then he turned and walked away. He was worried though. If they were serious – whoever they were – when he was so far from solving the puzzle, how would they react if he got any closer? He stopped at the door.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘your fag-end just set fire to that bin.’
Flower turned and saw that the contents of the waste-bin were indeed smouldering. He reached for some liquid to douse the fire.
He’d forgotten that it was whisky, not coffee, in his mug.
Rebus’s phone was ringing as he got home. It was Rico Briggs.
‘I had a word with a friend,’ he told Rebus. Rico never liked to say too much on the phone.
‘And?’
‘Be in the bus station at eleven.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Whereabouts in the bus station?’
‘Just be there. You’ll pay him his share and mine.’
The line went dead.
24
At ten to eleven, Rebus was in the St Andrew’s Square bus station. A few early drunks had assembled for the last bus home. There was a pub in the bus station; it sounded busy. A man sprinted out of it, slipped in a patch of oil, and fell like a sniper’s bullet had got him. He got back to his feet in time to see his bus pull away, and started swearing. There was a gash in the knee of his trousers.
Exhaust fumes lay in heavy strata just above ground level. Rebus tried not to breathe too deeply as he walked up and down the ranks. A few teenagers were asleep on the precarious benches. An old man, looking dazed, crossed the concourse dressed in a duffel coat, pyjamas and slippers. The slippers looked brand new, maybe a Christmas present.
‘Where are you?’ Rebus hissed, stamping his feet. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and walked the ranks again.
‘Sit down,’ a voice said.
Rebus looked down at the figure. He’d thought the man was asleep, arms folded, head tucked into the front of his jacket. He was sitting at the last rank. There was a bus there, but with its lights off.
Rebus sat down, and the man looked up at him. He had greasy brown hair which fell over one eye, and he could have done with a shave. There was a small scar, no more than a nick, below his right eye. The eyes were piercing blue with long lashes. When he spoke, Rebus saw there was a tooth missing from the front of his mouth.
‘Money.’
‘You’re Rico’s friend?’
The man nodded. ‘Money,’ he repeated.
Rebus showed him two twenties, then handed them over. ‘He said half for him.’
‘He’ll get half.’ The voice was a lazy west coast drawl. ‘You want to know about Saughton?’
‘A man killed himself with a shotgun. He was fresh out of Saughton.’
‘Which bit?’
‘C Hall.’
The man shook his head. ‘Can’t help you then.’
A driver had come over to the bus, cashbox in hand. He opened the doors and went inside, closing them after him. Lights came on all the way up the bus.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say. I can’t help.’
The engine started up, spewing fumes. A couple of people had joined the queue and were wondering whether to jump ahead of the two seated down-and-outs.
‘Why not?’
‘Never really knew anyone in C Hall.’ The man stood up, Rebus rising with him. ‘This is my bus.’
‘Wait a minute.’
The man turned to him. The bus doors were opening, the people behind wanting to be in the warm. ‘Ask Gerry Dip.’
‘Gerry Dip?’
‘He was in C Hall, came out a few weeks back.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Dipping fish, that’s how he got the name.’ The man climbed on to the platform. ‘I hear he’s working in a chip shop on Easter Road.’
Every chip shop in Scotland was at its busiest after the pubs had emptied. Even the bad ones, the ones with bony fish and rubber batter, had queues. Rebus took one look at the wares on display in the second chip shop he tried, and decided he would go without.
There was a queue almost out the door, but he walked to the front, ignoring the stares. A teenage girl was serving, mouth open in concentration.
‘Salt and sauce?’ she asked the customer.
‘Is Gerry in?’ Rebus asked.
She nodded further along the counter. There was a small man there dipping fish in a bucket of batter before tossing them into the fryer.
‘Gerry?’ Rebus asked. The man shook his head and pointed towards the back of the narrow shop, where a very tall, very skinny young man wearing a white cotton apron was playing the video machine.
It was one of those kick-and-chop games, the enemy bounding into view only long enough to be taken out again by the snarling cartoon hero.
‘Gerry Dip?’ Rebus said.
The player was in his mid-twenties, with cropped black hair and a nose-stud. His bare arms sported tattoos, and there were more on the backs of his hands. On his right wrist was a tattooed watch, the hands of which pointed to twelve. Rebus checked his own watch and saw that Gerry Dip’s was dead-on.
Rebus saw that Dip was watching him in the screen’s reflection. ‘Not m
any people call me that,’ he said.
‘I’m a friend of a friend, someone you knew in Saughton. He said you could maybe help me. There’d be a drink in it.’
‘How big a drink?’
Rebus had been to a cash machine. He laid a crisp twenty on the console. Maybe it affected Dip’s concentration. A landmine tore the arms and legs off his man. The Game Over message flashed, and a digitised voice said, ‘Feed . . . Money . . . Me . . . Hungry.’
Gerry Dip palmed the note. ‘Let’s retire to my office.’
He led Rebus behind the counter and told the fish batterer he’d swop places in five minutes. Then he pushed open a door and led Rebus into a kitchen-cum-storeroom. Sacks of potatoes waited to be peeled, and two large freezers hummed.
‘I hope you’re not Environmental Health,’ Gerry Dip said, getting a glass of water from the sink and gulping it. ‘Actually, I know what you are, it gets so you can smell it after a while.’
Rebus let the remark go. ‘A man was released from C Hall a couple of weeks back. He stuck a gun into his –’
‘Wee Shug.’ Dip nodded. ‘I knew him, played cards a few times, talked about telly and the football.’ Dip refilled his glass. ‘You’re up from six in the morning till nine at night, lights-out isn’t till ten. You get to know people. Plus I worked with him in the upholstery workshop. He said he’d come down the chippie and see me – then I read about him in the papers.’
‘Did you know he was ill?’
‘He saw the doctor a lot, never talked about it though. I know he had some medicine: we wanted him to hand it round so we could get a buzz. What was wrong with him?’
‘Cancer.’
‘That why he topped himself?’
‘Could be.’
‘Well, if you want to know about Wee Shug, you should talk to his cell-mate. Now there was a fucking character. Hoity-toity, stayed in his cell even when he didn’t need to.’
Big Jim Flett had mentioned a cell-mate; Rebus saw suddenly why Flett had been relieved at the end of their interview.
‘Gerry, what was Wee Shug in for?’
‘Housebreaking.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Not rape?’
‘What?’
No, thought Rebus, because rapists are usually kept away from the other prisoners. But the governor had let it slip that Wee Shug shared a cell.