by Ian Rankin
Bain smirked. Rebus introduced Jack Morton. There were nods, handshakes, grunts: the usual procedure.
‘You better go see the Boss,’ Maclay said. ‘He’s been fretting.’
‘I’ve been missing him, too.’
‘Did you bring us back anything from Aberdeen?’
Rebus searched his pockets. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’
‘Well,’ Bain said, ‘you were probably busy.’
‘Busier than you two, but that wouldn’t be hard.’
‘Go see the Boss,’ Maclay told him.
Bain was wagging a finger. ‘And you should be nice to us, otherwise we might not tell you what our snitches came up with.’
‘What?’ Local snitches: word out for Tony El’s accomplice.
‘After you’ve talked to MacAskill.’
So Rebus went to see his boss, leaving Jack Morton outside the door.
‘John,’ Jim MacAskill said, ‘what have you been playing at?’
‘Different games, sir.’
‘So I hear, and you’ve not proved proficient at any of them, eh?’
MacAskill’s office was emptying, but there was some way to go. His filing cabinet stood with its drawers gutted, the files themselves spread across the floor.
‘Nightmare,’ he said, noticing Rebus’s look. ‘How’s your own packing coming?’
‘I travel light, sir.’
‘I forget, you’ve not been with us long. Sometimes it seems like for ever.’
‘I have that effect on people.’
MacAskill smiled. ‘Question one in my mind, this reopening of the Spaven case: is it going to go anywhere?’
‘Not if I have my way.’
‘Well, Chick Ancram’s pretty persistent . . . and thorough. Don’t depend on him overlooking something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve had a word with your boss at St Leonard’s. He tells me this is par for the course.’
‘I don’t know, sir, seems like I’m playing under a handicap.’
‘Well, anything I can do, John . . .’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I know the way Chick will play it: attrition. He’ll sweat the arse off you, run you in circles. He makes it easier for you to lie and say you’re guilty than to keep telling the truth. Watch out for that.’
‘Will do.’
‘Meantime, question one: how are you feeling?’
‘I’m all right, sir.’
‘Well, there’s not much happening around here that we can’t handle. So any time off you need, take it.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Chick’s west coast, John. He shouldn’t be over here.’ MacAskill shook his head, went to his drawer for a can of Irn-Bru. ‘Bugger,’ he said.
‘Problem, sir?’
‘I’ve gone and bought the diet stuff.’ He opened it anyway. Rebus left him to his packing.
Jack was right outside the door.
‘Did you catch any of that?’
‘I wasn’t listening.’
‘My boss just told me I can bunk off whenever I like.’
‘Which means we can finish doing up the living room.’
Rebus nodded, but he was thinking of finishing something else instead. He went into the Shed and stood in front of Bain’s desk.
‘Well?’
‘Well,’ Bain said, sitting back, ‘we did what you asked, put word out with our snitches. And they came up with a name.’
‘Hank Shankley,’ Maclay added.
‘He’s not got much of a record, but he’s game to make a few quid where he can, no scruples attached. And he gets around. Word is, he’s had a windfall and after a couple of drinks he was boasting about his “Glasgow connection”.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
Bain shook his head. ‘Bided our time.’
‘Waiting for you to turn up,’ Maclay added.
‘Have you been rehearsing this routine? Where can I find him?’
‘He’s a keen swimmer.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘The Commie Pool.’
‘Description?’
‘Big building at the top of Dalkeith Road.’
‘I meant Shankley.’
‘You can’t miss him,’ Maclay said. ‘Late thirties, six feet tall and skinny as a pole, short fair hair. Nordic looking.’
‘The description we got,’ Bain corrected, ‘was albino.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I owe you for this, gents.’
‘You haven’t heard who it was spilled the beans.’
‘Who?’
Bain grinned. ‘Remember Craw Shand?’
‘Claimed to be Johnny Bible?’ Bain and Maclay nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a snitch of yours?’
Bain shrugged. ‘Didn’t want it broadcast. But Craw’s a big fan of yours. See, he likes it rough now and then . . .’
Outside, Jack made for the car, but Rebus had other plans. He went into a shop and came out with six cans of Irn-Bru, not diet, then marched back into the station. The desk sergeant was sweating. Rebus handed him the carrier bag.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ the sergeant said.
‘They’re for Jim MacAskill,’ Rebus said. ‘I want at least five to reach him.’
Now he was ready to go.
The Commonwealth Pool, which had been built for the Commonwealth Games in 1970, was sited at the top of Dalkeith Road, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, and just over quarter of a mile from St Leonard’s police station. In the days when he swam, Rebus used the Commie Pool at lunchtimes. You found yourself a lane – never an empty lane, it was like easing out of a slip-road on to a motorway – and you swam, pacing yourself so you didn’t catch up with the person in front, or let the person behind gain on you. It was OK, but a bit too regimented. The other option was to swim breadths in the open pool, but then you were in with the kids and their parents. There was a separate pool for infants, plus three flumes Rebus had never been down, and elsewhere in the building were saunas, gym, and a café.
They found a space in the overflow car park and went in by the main entrance. Rebus showed ID at the kiosk and gave a description of Shankley.
‘He’s a regular,’ the woman told him.
‘Is he here just now?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only just come on.’ She turned to ask the other woman in the booth, who was counting coins into polythene bank-bags. Jack Morton tapped Rebus’s arm and nodded.
Beyond the kiosk there was a wide open space, with windows looking down on to the main pool. And standing there, glugging Coke from the can, stood a very tall, very thin man with damp, bleached hair. He had a rolled-up towel under one arm. When he turned, Rebus saw that his eyebrows and lashes were fair. Shankley saw two men examining him, placed them immediately. When Rebus and Morton started towards him, he ran.
He turned a corner into the open-plan café, but couldn’t see an exit from there, so kept running, ended up beside the children’s play area. This was a large netted enclosure totalling three storeys, with slides and walkways and other challenges – a toddler assault course. Rebus liked sometimes to sit with a post-swim coffee watching the kids playing, wondering which would make the best soldier.
Shankley was cornered and knew it. He turned to face them: Rebus and Jack were smiling. The impulse to flee was still too strong: Shankley pushed past the attendant, opened the door to the play area, ducked and went in. Two huge padded rollers stood directly in front of him, like a giant mangle. He was thin enough to squeeze between them.
Jack Morton laughed. ‘Where’s he going to go from there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s grab a cup of tea and wait for him to get fed up.’
Rebus shook his head. He’d heard a noise from the top storey. ‘There’s a kid in there.’ He turned to the attendant. ‘Isn’t there?’
She nodded. Rebus turned to Jack. ‘Possible hostage. I’m going in. Stay out here, tell me where Shankley is.’
Rebus took off his jacket and went in.
The rollers were the first obstacle. He was too big to squeeze through, but managed to push his way through the gap between them and the side netting. He remembered his SAS training: assault courses you wouldn’t believe. Kept going. A pool of coloured plastic balls to wade through, and then a tube curving upwards, leading to the first floor. A slide nearby – he climbed that. Through the netting he could see Jack, pointing up and towards the far corner. Rebus stayed in a crouch, looked around. Punch-bags, a net across a yawning gap, a cylinder to crawl through . . . more slides and climbing-ropes. There: far corner, wondering what to do next. Hank Shankley. People in the café were watching, no longer interested in swimming. One floor further up was the kid. Rebus had to get there before Shankley; either that or grab Shankley first. Shankley didn’t know anyone was in here with him. Jack was shouting up, distracting him.
‘Hey, Hank, we can wait here all day! All night too if we have to! Come on out, we only want a chat! Hank, you look ridiculous in there. Maybe we’ll just padlock it shut and keep you for an exhibit.’
‘Shut up!’ Flecks of foam from Shankley’s mouth. Skinny, gaunt . . . Rebus knew it was crazy to worry about HIV, but found himself worrying anyway. Edinburgh was still HIV city. He was about fifteen feet from Shankley when he heard a swooshing sound coming towards him fast. He was passing the exit to one of the tubes when a pair of feet hit him, toppling him on to his side. A boy about eight years old stared at him.
‘You’re too big for in here, mister.’
Rebus got up, saw Shankley coming for them, and started dragging the kid by the scruff of his neck. He backed up to the slide, then dropped the boy down it. He was turning to confront Shankley when another foot hit him – the albino’s. He bounced off the mesh wall and tumbled down the padded slide. The boy was making his way to the entrance, where the attendant gestured for him to hurry. Shankley slid down, both fists out, and clubbed Rebus on the neck. He was sprinting for the kid, but the boy was already through the rollers. Rebus dived at Shankley, brought him down into the plastic balls, caught him with a decent punch. Shankley’s arms were tired from swimming; he pummelled Rebus’s sides, but it was like being hit by a rag doll. Rebus grabbed a ball, stuffed it into Shankley’s mouth, where it wedged, the lips taut and bloodless. Then he hit Shankley in the groin, twice, and that just about did it.
Jack came to help him drag the unresisting figure out. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘The kid hurt me more than he did.’
The boy’s mother was hugging her son, checking he was all right. She gave Rebus a dirty look. The boy was complaining he still had ten minutes left. The attendant came after Rebus.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘could I have our ball back?’
St Leonard’s being so close, they took Shankley there, asked for and were given an empty biscuit-tin, only recently vacated by the smell of it.
‘Sit there,’ Rebus told Shankley. Then he took Jack outside, spoke in an undertone.
‘To fill you in, Tony El killed Allan Mitchison – I still don’t know why exactly. Tony had local help.’ He tilted his head towards the door. ‘I want to know what Hank knows.’
Jack nodded. ‘Do I stay dumb, or is there a part for me?’
‘You’re the good guy, Jack.’ Rebus patted his shoulder. ‘Always have been.’
They went back into the room as a team, like in the old days.
‘Well, Mr Shankley,’ Rebus opened, ‘so far we’ve got resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Plenty of witnesses, too.’
‘I haven’t done nothing.’
‘Double negative.’
‘Eh?’
‘If you haven’t done nothing, you must have done something.’
Shankley just looked glum. Rebus had him pegged already: Bain’s ‘no scruples attached’ had given him the clue. Shankley lived to no code whatsoever, except perhaps ‘Look after number one’. He didn’t give a toss for anything or anyone. There was no intelligence other than a root instinct to survive. Rebus knew he could play on that.
‘You don’t owe Tony El anything, Hank. Who do you think grassed you up?’
‘Tony who?’
‘Anthony Ellis Kane. Glasgow hardman relocated to Aberdeen. He was down here to do a job. He needed an associate. Somehow he ended up with you.’
‘Not your fault,’ Jack chipped in, hands in pockets, ‘you’re an accessory. We’re not doing you for murder.’
‘Murder?’
‘That young guy Tony El was after,’ Rebus explained. ‘You scouted out somewhere to take him. That was about the sum of your part, wasn’t it? The rest was down to Tony.’
Shankley bit his top lip, showing a bottom row of narrow uneven teeth. His eyes were pale blue with dark flecks in them, his pupils contracted to pencil dots.
‘Of course,’ Rebus said, ‘there’s another way we can play it. We could say you tossed him out that window.’
‘I don’t know nothing.’
‘Don’t know anything,’ Rebus reminded him. Shankley folded his arms, spread his long legs.
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Been watching the Kojak repeats, Hank?’ Jack asked. He looked to Rebus, who nodded: no more Mr Nice Guy.
‘I’m bored with this, Hank. Know what? We’re going to take you for fingerprinting now. You left prints all over that squat. You even left behind the carry-out. Prints all over it. You remember touching the bottles? The cans? The bag they were in?’ Shankley was trying hard to remember. Rebus’s voice grew quieter. ‘We’ve got you, Hank. You’re fucked. I’ll give you ten seconds to start talking, and that’s it – promise. Don’t think you can talk to us later, we won’t be listening. The judge will have his hearing-aid switched off. You’ll be on your own. Know why?’ He waited till he had Shankley’s attention. ‘Because Tony El croaked. Someone sliced him open in a bathtub. Could be you next.’ Rebus nodded. ‘You need friends, Hank.’
‘Listen . . .’ The Tony El story had woken Shankley up. He sat forward in his chair. ‘Look, I’m . . . I . . .’
‘Take your time, Hank.’
Jack asked him if he wanted something to drink. Shankley nodded. ‘Cola or something.’
‘Fetch me one, too, Jack,’ Rebus said. Jack went down the hall to the machine. Rebus bided his time, pacing the room, giving Shankley time to decide how much he was going to tell and with how much gloss. Jack came back, tossed one can at Shankley, handed the other to Rebus, who pulled it open and drank. It wasn’t a real drink. It was cold and way too sweet, and the only kick it would give him was from caffeine rather than alcohol. He saw Jack watching him, screwed up his face in reply. He wanted a cigarette, too. Jack read the look, shrugged.
‘Now then,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you have a story for us, Hank?’
Shankley burped, nodded. ‘It’s like you said. He told me he was here to do a job. Said he had Glasgow connections.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
Shankley shrugged. ‘Never asked.’
‘Did he mention Aberdeen at all?’
Shankley shook his head. ‘Glasgow was what he said.’
‘Continue.’
‘He offered me fifty notes to find him a place where he could take someone. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said ask a few questions, maybe give them a doing. That was all. We waited outside this block of flats, quite posh.’
‘The Financial District?’
Another shrug. ‘Between Lothian Road and Haymarket.’ That was it. ‘Saw this young guy come out, and we followed him. For a while, we just watched, then Tony said it was time to strike up his acquaintance.’
‘And?’
‘Well, we got chatting to him, like. I got to enjoying myself, forgot what was happening. Tony looked like he’d forgotten, too. I thought maybe he was going to call it off. Then we went outside for a taxi, and when the young guy couldn’t see us, he gave me a look, and I knew it was still on. But I s
wear, I only thought the kid was for a kicking.’
‘Not so.’
‘No.’ Shankley’s voice dropped. ‘Tony had a bag with him. When we got to the flat, he brought out tape and stuff. Tied the kid to the chair. He had a plastic sheet, put a bag over the kid’s head.’ Shankley’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, took another swallow of cola. ‘Then he started taking stuff out of the bag, tools, you know, like a joiner would use. Saws and screwdrivers and that.’
Rebus looked to Jack Morton.
‘And that’s when I realised the plastic sheet was to catch the blood, the kid wasn’t just getting a kicking.’
‘Tony planned to torture him?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t know . . . maybe I’d’ve tried to stop him. I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve doled it out in my time, but never . . .’
The next question used to be the one that counted; Rebus wasn’t so sure any more. ‘Did Allan Mitchison jump, or what?’
Shankley nodded. ‘We had our backs turned. Tony was taking the tools out, and I was just staring at them. The kid had a bag over his head, but I think he saw them. He got between us and went out the window. Must’ve been scared to death.’
Looking at Shankley, and remembering Anthony Kane, Rebus sensed again how bland monstrosity could be. Faces and voices didn’t give any clue; no one sported horns and fangs, dripping blood and all slouching malevolence. Evil was almost . . . it was almost child-like: naive, simplistic. A game you played and then woke up from, only to find it wasn’t pretend. The real-life monsters weren’t grotesques: they were quiet men and women, people you passed on the street and didn’t notice. Rebus was glad he couldn’t read people’s minds. It would be pure hell.
‘What did you do?’ he asked.
‘Packed up and shipped out. We went back to my place first, had a couple of drinks. I was shaking. Tony kept saying it was a mess, but he didn’t seem worried. We realised we’d left the hooch – couldn’t remember if our dabs were on it. I thought they were. That’s when Tony took off. He left me my share, I’ll give him that.’
‘How far do you live from the flat, Hank?’
‘About two minutes’ walk. I’m not there much; the kids call me names.’
Life can be cruel, Rebus thought. Two minutes: when he’d arrived at the scene, Tony El might have been only two minutes away. But they’d ended up meeting in Stonehaven . . .