by Ian Rankin
Reeve smiled. “Good detective work.”
“Easy detective work. And would I further be right in thinking you’ve already laid a few drinks on Mr. Cantona? See, Gordon, he’ll tell you any damned story he can come up with if it keeps a glass of hooch in front of him. He’ll tell you your brother met Elvis and they rode off together in a pink Cadillac.”
“You sound like you know something about that state of mind.”
“Maybe I do. I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s how I see it. There’s no secret here; there’s no cover-up or conspiracy or whatever you want to call it. There’s just a guy who gets tired of it all one day, so he tidies up his life and gets himself a gun. And he does it in private, away from family and friends, and doesn’t leave a note. It’s a tidy way to go.”
“Unless you’re the hire company with a car that needs cleaning.”
“Yeah, agreed, but those fuckers can afford it.”
“All right, McCluskey. Thanks for listening.”
“Name’s Mike. Let’s talk again before you leave, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t go buying Mr. Cantona too many more drinks, not if he’s driving.”
Detective Mike McCluskey put down the receiver and finished his pastry, washing it down as best he could with the scalding liquid that passed for coffee from the vending machine down the hall. While he chewed, he stared at the telephone, and after he’d swallowed the last mouthful, he tossed the paper bag into the trash (making eight first attempts out of ten for the week, which was not bad), then reached again for his phone, checking first that there was no one in earshot.
“Fucking Cantona,” he snarled, trying to recall the number.
Back in the bar, Reeve sat on his stool and took a mouthful of orange juice. He studied Eddie Cantona, who was studying the cocktail menu and looking like he was settling in for the day. Yes, Eddie looked like a boozer, but not a liar. But then a lot of people were real pros when it came to lying. Reeve knew; he was one of them. He’d had to lie to a lot of people about his real position in the army; he never said SAS or Special Forces, not even to other army careerists. He kept his mouth shut when he could, and lied when he couldn’t. Lying was easy, you just said you were in the regiment you’d been in before you joined Special Forces. Some people took pride in their lies. But nothing Cantona had said so far struck Reeve as anything other than accurate. It made sense that Jim would own a portable computer. But then it also made sense that he might ditch it . . .
No, it didn’t. He’d been writing a story. He’d have wanted that story published in some form, even after death. He’d have wanted his monument.
“Eddie,” Reeve said, waiting till the man had turned away from the menu, “tell me about my brother. Tell me everything you can.”
Cantona drove them to the car rental firm. Reeve had memorized the salient details of McCluskey’s report, and knew which firm to go to. He’d found the address in the telephone book. He was thinking about his own expensive rental car, the Blazer, and how it was spending more time at rest than in motion.
“You got a wife, Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“Kids?”
“A son. He’s eleven.”
“Jim used to talk about a nephew, would that be him?”
Reeve nodded. “Allan was Jim’s only nephew.” He had the side window open, his head resting into the airflow.
“You got any photos?”
“What?”
“Your wife and kid.”
“I don’t know.” Reeve got out his wallet and opened it. There was an old photo of Joan, not much bigger than a passport shot.
“Can I see?” Cantona took the photograph from him and studied it, holding it between thumb and forefinger as he rested both meaty hands on the top of the steering wheel. He turned the photo over, revealing a line of Scotch tape. “It’s been torn in two,” he said, handing the photo back.
“I get a temper sometimes.”
“Tell my arm about it.” Cantona rolled his shoulder a couple of times.
“They tried treating me,” Reeve said all of a sudden, not knowing why he was telling a stranger.
“Treating you?”
“For the violence. I used to get angry a lot. I spent some time in a psychiatric ward.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Now I have pills I’m supposed to take, only I don’t take them.”
“Mood-controllers, man. Never take a pill that screws with your mind.”
“Is that right?”
“Take it from one who knows. I was in Monterey in the sixties, then Oakland. I was twenty, twenty-one. I saw some action. Chemical action, if you know what I mean. Came out of it with a massive depression which lasted most of the seventies, started drinking around nineteen eighty. It doesn’t cure anything, but other drunks are better company than doctors and goddamned psychiatrists.”
“How come you still have a driving license?”
Cantona laughed. “Because they’ve never caught me, pure and simple.”
Reeve looked out through his open window. “Drinking’s one of the things that seems to start me off with the violence.”
Cantona said nothing for a minute. Then: “Jim told me you were ex-military.”
“That’s right.”
“Seems to me that might explain things. You see any action?”
“Some.” More than most, he might have added. Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream . . . He cut that memory off at the pass.
“I was in Vietnam for a tour,” Cantona continued. “Took some shrapnel in my foot. By that time, I was just about ready to do myself an injury to get me out of there. So you still get these spells?”
“What spells?”
“The violence.”
“I’ve tried self-help. I’ve read a lot of books.”
“What, medical stuff?”
“Philosophy.”
“Yeah, Jim said you got to like that stuff. Castaneda’s about my limit. What stuff do you read?”
“Anarchism.”
“Anarchism?” Cantona looked disbelievingly at him. “Anarchism?” he repeated, as though trying the word out for size. Then he nodded, but with a quizzical look on his face. “Does it help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“They say I’m on my last warning. One more outburst, they’ll section me. I think they mean it.” He stared at Cantona. “Why am I telling you this?”
Cantona grinned. “Because I’m listening. Because I’m harmless. Besides, it’s a damned sight cheaper than therapy.” Then he laughed. “I can’t believe I’m sharing my car with a goddamned anarchist.”
The rental place looked like a used-car lot, dusty cars ranked behind a high fence. There was a metal gate, a chain and padlock hanging off it, and behind it a single-story prefabricated office. Reeve could tell it was the office because there was a big painted sign above it stating just that. Garishly colored notices in the window offered “the best deals in town,” “extra-special weekend rates,” and “nice clean cars, low mileage, good runners.”
“Looks like Rent-A-Wreck before they went upscale,” Cantona commented.
They knocked and opened the office door. There was a single room inside with a couple of doors leading off, both open. One showed a storeroom, the other a toilet. A man in shirtsleeves was seated behind the desk. He looked Mexican, in his fifties, and he was showing teeth around a long thin cigar.
“My friends,” he said, half rising. “What can I do for you?” He gestured for them to sit, but Reeve stayed standing by the window, occasionally looking out, and Cantona stayed there with him.
“My name’s Gordon Reeve.”
“Good morning to you, Gordon.” The Mexican wagged a finger. “I seem to know you.”
“I think you rented a car to my brother on Saturday night.”
The smile melted. The man slipped the cigar out of his mouth and placed it
in the overspilling ashtray. “I’m sorry. Yes, you resemble your brother.”
“Was it you who dealt with my brother?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
The Mexican smiled. “You sound like a policeman.”
“This is just for my peace of mind.” Then Reeve spoke to the man in Spanish, and the man nodded. Family, he was saying, I have to take these memories back for the family. The Spanish understood these things.
“See,” he said in English, “I’m trying to understand my broth-er’s state of mind on that night.”
The Mexican was nodding. “I understand. Ask your questions.”
“Well, one thing I don’t quite yet understand. My brother was last seen drinking in a downtown bar, then it seems he came here. A cab picked him up from the bar. But to get here, he had to pass three or four other car hire firms.” In his hotel room, with map and telephone book, Reeve had done his work.
The Mexican opened his arms. “This is perhaps easily explained. For one thing, we have the lowest rates in town, you can ask anyone. Being blunt, if you only need a car so you can drive somewhere quiet and put an end to your life, you do not need a Lincoln Continental. For a second thing, I open later than the other places. You can check this. So maybe they were closed already.”
Why would I want to “check this”? Reeve thought, but he nodded his head. “My brother had been drinking,” he said. “Did he seem affected by drink to you?”
But the Mexican’s attention was on Cantona, who was leaning against the noisy air conditioner. “Please,” he said. “It breaks easily.”
Cantona got up from the unit. Reeve noticed that the machine was dripping water into a bowl on the floor. He repeated his question.
The Mexican shook his head. “I would not have done business with him if I thought he’d been drinking. I have nothing to gain by seeing my cars wrecked or messed up.”
“Speaking of which, where is the car?”
“It is not in the lot.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It has gone for repair and . . . detailing. The police smashed the driver’s side window to effect entry. Remember, the car was locked from within.”
I know that, thought Reeve, but why are you telling me? “Before renting the car to my brother,” he asked, “did you take a look at his driving license?”
“Of course.”
Reeve stared at the man.
“What is it?” the Mexican asked, his grin looking queasy.
“He held a UK driving license, not valid over here.”
“Then I should not have rented him one of my automobiles.” The man shrugged. “A mistake on my part.”
Reeve nodded slowly. “A mistake,” he repeated. He asked a few more questions, trivial ones, just to put the Mexican more at ease, then thanked him for his help.
“I am truly sorry about your brother, Gordon,” the Mexican said, holding out his hand.
Reeve shook it. “And I’m sorry about your car.” He followed Cantona to the door. “Oh, you forgot to say which garage is fixing the car.”
The Mexican hesitated. “Trasker’s Auto,” he said at last.
Cantona started chuckling the moment they were outside. “I thought he was going to swallow that cigar,” he said. “You really had him going.”
“He wasn’t a very good liar.”
“No, he surely wasn’t. Hey, where did you learn to speak Spanish?”
Reeve opened the car door. “There was a time I needed to know it,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat.
Daniel Trasker ran what looked like four parts wrecking operation to one part repair. When Reeve explained who he was, Trasker went wide-eyed with shock.
“Hell, son, you don’t want to see that car! There’s stains on the —”
“It’s okay, Mr. Trasker, I don’t want to see the car.”
Trasker calmed a little at that. They’d been standing outside the wood-and-tin shack that served as Trasker’s premises. Most of the work was done in the yard outside. Trasker himself was in his well-preserved early sixties, clumps of curling silver hair showing from beneath an oily baseball cap. His walnut face showed deep laugh lines around the eyes, with oil and dirt in-grained. He wiped his hands on a large blue rag throughout their conversation.
“You better come in.”
In the midst of the shack’s extraordinary clutter, it took Reeve a while to work out that there was a desk and chair, and even a PC. Paperwork covered the desk like so much camouflage, and there were bits of engines everywhere.
“I’d ask you to sit,” said Trasker, “but there’s nowhere to sit. If someone’s writing me a check, I sometimes clear some space for them, but otherwise you stand.”
“Standing’s fine.”
“So what is it you want, Mr. Reeve?”
“You know my brother was found in a locked car, Mr. Trasker?”
Trasker nodded. “We got the car right here.”
“Police smashed the window to get in.”
“That they did. We got the replacement part on order.”
Reeve stood close beside the older man. “Is there any way someone could have locked the car afterwards? I mean, after my brother died?”
Trasker stared at him. “What’s your point, son?”
“I’m just wondering if that’s possible.”
Trasker thought about it. “Hell, of course it’s possible. All you’d need’s a spare set of keys. Come to think of it . . .” Trasker’s voice trailed off.
“What?”
“Let me go check something.” He turned and left the shack. Reeve and Cantona followed him outside, but he turned back to them, holding up his hands. “Now, let me do this by myself. That car’s not something you should be seeing.”
Reeve nodded, and watched Trasker go. Then he told Cantona to stay where he was, and began to follow the old man.
Around the back of the shack, and past heaps of wrecked cars, Reeve saw that there was another low-slung building, double-garage size. Half a dozen tall gas cylinders stood like metal sentries outside a wide door, which stood open. There was a car jacked up inside, but Trasker squeezed past it. Reeve looked around him. He was five or six miles outside San Diego, inland towards the hills. The air was stiller here, not quite so fresh. He had to decide now, right now. He took a deep breath and made for the garage.
“What is it?” he asked Trasker.
The old man shot up from his crouching position and swiveled on his heels. “Nearly gave me a damned heart attack,” he complained.
“Sorry.” Reeve came forward. Trasker had opened the door of the car and was studying it. The car James Reeve had died in. It was smarter than Reeve had expected, a good deal newer, as good certainly as anything in the Mexican’s lot. He approached it slowly. The seats were leather or Leatherette, and had been wiped clean. But as he bent down to peer inside, he could see stains against the roof. A rust-colored trajectory, fanning out towards the back of the car. He thought of touching the blood, maybe it was still damp. But he tore his gaze away from it. Trasker was looking at him.
“I told you to stay put,” the old man said quietly.
“I had to see.”
Trasker nodded, understanding. “You want a moment to yourself?”
Reeve shook his head. “I want to know what you were looking at.”
Trasker pointed to the interior door-lock on the driver’s side. “See there?” he said, touching it. “Can you see a little notch, low down on the lock?”
Reeve looked more closely. “Yes,” he said.
“There’s one on the passenger door-lock too.”
“Yes?”
“They’re sensors, son. They sense a beam from a remote-control key ring.”
“You mean you can lock and unlock the doors from a distance?”
“That’s right.”
“So what?”
“So,” said Trasker, digging into his overall pocke
ts and pulling out a key on a chain, “here’s what came with the car. This is the key that was in the ignition when the police found the car. Now, this is obviously the spare key.”
Reeve looked at it. “Because there’s no button to activate the locks?”
“Exactly.” Trasker took the key back. “You only usually get the one remote-control key ring with a car like this. The spare key they give you is plain, like the one I’m holding.”
Reeve thought about it. Then, without saying anything, he walked back to Cantona’s car. Cantona was standing in the shade provided by the shack.
“Eddie,” Reeve said, “I want you to do something for me.”
By the time Daniel Trasker caught up with Reeve, Cantona’s car was already reversing out of the yard.
“I want to wait here a few minutes,” Reeve said.
Trasker shrugged. “Then what?”
“Then, if I may, I’d like to use your phone.”
Carlos Perez was sucking on a fresh cigar when his telephone rang. It was the brother Gordon Reeve again.
“Yes, Gordon, my friend,” Perez said pleasantly. “Did you forget something?”
“I just wondered about the car key,” Reeve said.
“The car key?” This Reeve was incredible, the way his mind worked. “What about the key?”
“Do you give your customers a spare set, or just the one?”
“That depends on the model of vehicle, Gordon, and other considerations, too.” Perez put his cigar down. It tipped from the edge of the ashtray and rolled off the desk to the floor. He walked around the side of his desk and crouched down, the telephone gripped to his ear.
“Did my brother’s car have remote locking?”
Perez made a noise like he was thinking. The cigar was be-neath his desk. He felt for it, and received a burn on the side of his hand. Swearing silently, he finally drew the cigar out and re-turned to his chair, examining the damage to his left hand.
“Ah,” he said into the telephone, a man who has just remembered. “Yes, that vehicle did have remote locking.”
“And it had the key ring, the push-button?”
“Yes, yes.” Perez couldn’t see where this was leading. He felt sweat glisten on his forehead, tingling his scalp.