by Ian Rankin
He called Mairie Henderson at her home.
‘Got a story for me?’ she asked. ‘I could do with one.’
‘What do you know about the Scottish Office?’
‘I know a bit.’
‘Senior management?’
‘There may have been changes since I last looked. Phone the paper, talk to – who’d be best? Home Affairs or Parliament? – yes, Roddy McGurk, talk to him, say I gave you his name.’
‘Thanks, Mairie.’
‘And I’m serious about the story. Inspector . . .’
Rebus called the newspaper office and asked for Roddy McGurk. He was put through immediately.
‘Mr McGurk, I’m a friend of Mairie Henderson’s. She said maybe you could help me clarify something.’
‘Fire away.’ The voice was West Highland.
‘It’s an identity, actually. A man called Hunter, Scottish Office, late-fifties, uses an umbrella when really he should have a stick . . .’
McGurk was laughing. ‘Let me stop you there. You’re describing Sir Iain Hunter.’
‘And who’s he when he’s at home?’
McGurk laughed again. ‘He is the Scottish Office. He’s the Permanent Under-Secretary, usually known as –’
‘The Permanent Secretary,’ Rebus said, feeling queasy in his gut.
‘Policy initiator for the whole country. You might call him “Mr Scotland”.’
‘Not a very public figure though?’
‘He doesn’t need to be. In the words of the old song, he’s got the power.’
Rebus thanked McGurk and put the receiver down. He was trembling slightly. Mr Scotland . . . he’s got the power. He wondered what he’d got himself into.
Then the telephone rang.
‘I forgot to say . . .’ Mairie Henderson began.
‘Yes?’
‘Remember you asked if there was any dirt on Councillor Gillespie?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, there wasn’t in my day, but I got talking yesterday to someone at BBC Scotland. You know I’m doing some radio stuff down at Queen Street? Anyway, it’s not really Gillespie, it’s about his wife.’
‘What about her?’
‘Word is, she’s involved with someone else.’
‘Having an affair, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Rebus remembered his visit to the councillor’s home. There had seemed little love lost, but at the time he’d blamed other things.
‘Who’s her partner in crime?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘So how does your source at the Beeb know?’
‘He didn’t say, it’s just some rumour he picked up when last in the City Chambers. The way it was told to him, he thinks maybe it’s another councillor.’
‘Well, let me know if you hear anything more. Bye, Mairie.’
Rebus put the phone down and tried to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. He stared at the bags of shredded paper, but they didn’t help. He ended up repeating a question to himself.
What have I got myself into?
28
Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale was in an open ward of the Royal Infirmary, but his bed was in a corner by a window, with a view over the Meadows. He’d drawn the curtain between his own bed and his neighbour’s, affording some privacy. There was a vase of flowers on his bedside cabinet. They looked ready to expire in the hospital’s infernal heat.
‘You can almost see my flat from here,’ Rebus said, looking out of the window.
‘That’s been a constant source of comfort to me,’ Lauderdale said. ‘It’s taken you long enough to visit.’
‘I don’t like hospitals, Frank.’
‘Neither do I. You think I’m in here for the good of my health?’
They shared a smile, and Rebus examined the patient. ‘You look like shite, Frank.’
Lauderdale’s face looked like an infant had tried shaving it with a safety razor. There were dozens of nicks and scars where the windscreen had cut him. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and there were black ugly stitches on his nose. With all the plaster and bandages he sported, he looked like the joke patient from a comedy sketch.
‘How are the legs?’ Rebus asked.
‘Itchy.’
‘That’s supposed to be a good sign.’
‘Oh, I’ll walk again . . . so they say.’ Lauderdale smiled nervously. ‘Maybe I’ll have a limp or two.’
‘Two would be better,’ said Rebus. ‘They’d balance you up.’
‘Want to sign my stookie?’
Rebus looked at the plastercasts on Launderdale’s legs. They’d been signed by several visitors. ‘Which one?’
‘Take your pick.’
Rebus took a ballpoint pen from his pocket. It wasn’t easy to write on the coarse surface, but he did his best.
‘What does it say?’ Lauderdale asked, craning his neck.
‘“Clunk-click every trip.”’
Lauderdale lay back again. ‘What’s happened about those two?’
He meant Willie and Dixie. ‘Search me,’ said Rebus. ‘I’m on holiday.’
‘So I’d heard.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your new boss told me. Frankly, I have my doubts: if I know you, while you’re still in this city, you’ll always be working. How is she shaping up?’
He meant Gill Templer. Rebus nodded. ‘She’s doing fine.’ He wasn’t sure this was what Frank Lauderdale wanted to hear. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. ‘I’ve got a problem actually, Frank.’
‘Of course you have, that’s why you’re here.’
‘It’s not the Lord Provost’s daughter . . .’
‘You haven’t found her yet?’
‘I’m getting closer. She did know those two in the car.’
‘I’d not heard that.’
Rebus shifted in the chair. ‘I haven’t exactly gone public with it.’
Lauderdale shook his head. ‘Christ, John . . .’
‘Like I say, she’s not my immediate problem. My problem is a small-time loser called Wee Shug McAnally.’
‘The one who gave himself a sawn-off haircut?’
‘Yes.’ Rebus ran his tongue over the hole in his tooth. ‘See, he shared a cell in Saughton with a fraudster called Derwood Charters. Wee Shug was moved from another jail, and just happened to end up in that cell.’ Rebus was staring hard at Lauderdale. ‘It also just happened that none of the other cons knew what McAnally was in for. It was rape, by the way. Of a minor. Now, Frank, what does all that tell you?’ Lauderdale said nothing. ‘What it tells me,’ Rebus went on, ‘is that there was collusion at the top to stop the other cons getting to know.’
‘Give me some water, will you?’
Rebus poured some for Lauderdale. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ Lauderdale asked, taking the beaker.
‘There could be a multitude of reasons. Let me try one on you: say McAnally was in there as a plant.’
Lauderdale took his time drinking the water. ‘A plant?’ he said at last.
‘Either to spy on Charters, or else to gain his trust. Now,’ Rebus pulled his chair closer, not that Lauderdale was going anywhere, ‘the reason Charters is inside is for fraud, and he was put inside by the Fraud Unit. Leading the investigation was Chief Superintendent Allan Gunner, now deputy chief constable. It so happens the DCC was the one who fixed me up with this lovely holiday. He threatened the Farmer with an HMIC inspection if I wasn’t reined in.’
‘He should have known better.’ Lauderdale paused. ‘But HMIC is an independent body, how could the DCC have control over their decisions?’
It was, Rebus conceded, a good point. The people who ran HMIC were civil servants rather than police officers.
‘Well, anyway,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it was Gunner who applied the pressure, I’m sure it was.’
‘Other officers might have taken the hint, John.’
‘Not me. Now, on that initial investigation of Charters were at le
ast two officers of my acquaintance: yourself and Alister Flower. And Flower’s been warning me off, too. Which makes for a nice little circle, don’t you think, Frank?’
‘Why come to me?’
‘Maybe because you’re the only person I can try. Maybe because, despite myself, I almost trust you. I mean, you’re a schemer, a chancer, and you’d like the Farmer’s office. But at heart you’re a copper.’ Rebus paused. ‘Same as me. So come on, Frank, tell me about McAnally.’
‘I can’t.’ Lauderdale saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘I can’t, because there’s nothing to tell. You’re right, I did work on the Albavise inquiry, but that’s as far as it goes. I know this, though: if you’re crossing not only Flower but the likes of the DCC and Big Jim Flett, then you’d better watch out.’
‘I think it goes further than that even,’ Rebus confided. ‘The Scottish Office, maybe even MPs or ministers.’
‘Christ, John,’ Lauderdale whispered.
Rebus stood up. ‘So maybe as you’re packing your bags to go home, they’ll be wheeling me in to take your place.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
‘Who said I was joking?’
‘And don’t tell me any more. The less I know the better.’
‘For you or for me?’
Lauderdale sat up as best he could. ‘Let it go,’ he advised. ‘For once in your dunder-headed life, just walk away.’
Rebus put the chair back where he’d found it. ‘I can’t do that, Frank.’ He pushed his tongue into the hole again. The poison hadn’t all drained yet.
‘Take care of yourself,’ he told Lauderdale.
‘That should probably be my line.’
Rebus was halfway down the ward when he heard Lauderdale calling for him. He walked back to the bed. Lauderdale had propped himself up and was staring out of the window.
‘Flower,’ he said, not turning to look at Rebus.
‘What about him, Frank?’
‘McAnally was Flower’s eyes and ears.’
‘His snitch?’
Lauderdale nodded, eyes still on the window.
‘I appreciate this,’ said Rebus, turning away again.
‘I hope you do, John,’ Frank Lauderdale said quietly.
There was an envelope lying on the hall carpet. The post had already been; this had been delivered by hand: no stamp, just his name in blue ink. There was an embossed official crest on the sealed flap – the lion and the unicorn holding a shield between them. Rebus knew it was the Scottish Office crest. He flexed the envelope in his hands. It was thin and light, yet fairly solid. Leaving it on the arm of the chair, he went to the kitchen and added tap-water to a glass of whisky. He found a knife in the drawer, and took both glass and knife back through to the chair. He took a mouthful of whisky before slitting open the envelope.
It was a white card, an invitation, elaborate black embossed script with a gold border.
Sir Iain Hunter
requests the pleasure of your company
Saturday 4 March
Ruthie Estate
Perthshire
Twelve Noon
Rebus’s name had been added in blue ink at the top of the card. There was no RSVP, just an address, and no telephone number. Rebus turned the card over and saw that it bore a printed map showing the location of the estate, about halfway between Perth and Auchterarder. Saturday was only two days off.
Rebus carried the invitation to his mantelpiece and leaned it against the otherwise bare wall. The only estate he’d ever been to before was the housing kind. He didn’t suppose Ruthie Estate would be very like those at all.
Rebus was still wondering if he’d go or not when he set out for his evening session at the Ox.
Dr Klasser wasn’t there. He’d telephoned to say he’d be very late, if he made it at all. The barman placed Rebus’s pint in front of him, just as Salty Dougary walked in.
‘It’s bitter out there,’ Dougary said.
‘But it’s called eighty-shilling in here. Go on, Jon, pour the man his poison.’
Dougary eased himself on to the barstool next to Rebus. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘What?’
‘Remember you asked me about Mensung?’
Yes, Rebus remembered. He’d asked Rory McAllister too, only McAllister had been warned off; Rebus doubted he’d ever hear from him again.
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve remembered what it was,’ Dougary said matter-of-factly. His drink had appeared, and he ordered some crisps.
‘So what is it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Salt and vinegar, Jon,’ Dougary told the barman. The volume on the TV was being turned up for some sports report. Dougary turned to Rebus. ‘It was a company.’ He took a mouthful of beer. ‘And a packet of ready salted,’ he told the barman.
‘Did you say a company?’
‘Eh?’ Dougary’s attention was already turning towards the TV. Rebus hauled him off the stool and out of the door, into the chill, dark street. Traffic rumbled past on Castle Street.
‘It’s freezing out here!’ Dougary protested.
‘Just tell me.’ Dougary looked longingly towards the pub door. ‘Tell me here,’ Rebus persisted.
‘Remember when I worked for that semiconductor company?’
‘It was called Mensung?’
‘It wasn’t called any such thing. But it had this policy of trying to retrain workers it turfed out.’
‘So?’
‘So I was a turfee, and there was this agency, outplacement sort of thing. The agency ran seminars, or was supposed to. It was supposed to have all these fancy retraining schemes and programmes, half of which never materialised. That bunch of cowboys was called Mensung.’
‘Is it still around?’
Dougary shrugged. ‘I’ve been laid off twice since, and never come across it again.’
‘Where was it based?’
‘By the Playhouse, top of Leith Walk.’
‘Do you still have any information on it, anything in writing?’
Dougary stared at him. ‘I’d have to check with my secretary.’ The irony was so heavy, you could hear it fall.
Rebus smiled. ‘Stupid question, Donny. Sorry.’
‘Can I go back in now?’
‘Sure.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You called me Donny instead of Salty.’
‘It’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Dougary, pushing open the door.
29
One of the reasons Rebus drank was to put him to sleep.
He had trouble sleeping when sober. He’d stare into the darkness, willing it to form shapes so that he might better understand it. He’d try to make sense of life – his early disastrous Army years; his failed marriage; his failings as father, friend, lover – and end up in tears. And if he did eventually stumble into sober sleep, there would be troubled dreams, dreams about ageing and dying, decay and blight. The dark took on shapes in his dreams, but he daren’t look at them. He’d run blindly instead, sometimes bumping into them, feeling the darkness mould itself around him.
Drunk, his sleep was dreamless, or seemed that way on waking. He might be drenched in sweat, but he wouldn’t be shaking. So he always tried to have a few drinks last thing at night, usually in his chair – and since he was already comfortable, what was the point of getting up and going through to the bedroom?
He was in the chair, dead to the world, when the buzzer sounded. He sat up and switched on the lamp, then blinked his eyes open to check his watch. It was one-thirty. He staggered into the hall like he was learning to walk, and unhooked the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Patience.’
‘Patience?’ Without thinking, he buzzed her up, then went back into the living room to put on his trousers. When he got back to the door, she had almost reached his landing. She walked slowly, with purpose. Her head was bowed, eyes on the
steps, not looking at him. Her hair was unbrushed.
‘What’s happened?’
She stood directly in front of him, and he could see how angry she was. She was so angry, she was preternaturally calm.
‘I was lying in bed,’ she said quietly, ‘and I don’t know what happened . . . I suddenly saw it.’
‘What?’
‘You know Lucky’s dead?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
She nodded to herself. ‘Well, thanks for being there for me, I appreciate that. I was thinking, that’s pretty cold-hearted, even for him. Sammy told me she’d told you. I wondered why you hadn’t been in touch, and then I remembered. Stupid of me to forget. You were there on Sunday. You were sitting right next to the conservatory door.’ Her voice grew even quieter. ‘You locked Lucky out.’
‘Patience, I –’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Look, it’s late, why don’t –’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Christ, I don’t know . . . all right, yes, if it makes you feel any better.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Yes, the racket he was making was driving me mental, so I locked the flap and then forgot. I’m sorry.’
She had opened the shoulder bag and was lifting out a smaller plastic bag. ‘This is for you.’ And as he put out a hand to take the bag, she slapped him hard on the left cheek. Then she turned and started downstairs.
‘Patience!’
She didn’t even pause. She just kept on going. He held up the bag, then opened it and looked inside.
It was just some bits and pieces, that was all.
Bits and pieces of Lucky the cat.
In the morning, he took the bag out to the back garden.
The garden was actually a shared drying-green, with a flower border tended by Mrs Cochrane on the floor below Rebus. Just inside the back door of the tenement was a padlocked walk-in cupboard. It was communal storage space, only Rebus didn’t have anything he wanted communally stored. But he unlocked the door and lifted out the spade which had belonged to dear departed Mr Cochrane.