by Ian Rankin
‘Of course,’ Lanyon said in the same level voice. He turned towards Rebus. ‘I don’t believe it’s a crime.’
‘That all depends, sir, as you should know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As a lawyer, you must know that there are still certain laws….’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But I hope you’re not suggesting that James was involved in anything sordid.’
‘Why do you think he killed himself, Mr Lanyon? I’d appreciate your professional opinion.’
‘He was a friend. Professional opinions don’t count.’ Lanyon stared at the heavy curtains in front of his desk. ‘I don’t know why he committed suicide. I’m not sure we’ll ever know.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that, sir,’ said Rebus, going to the door. He stopped, hand on the handle. ‘I’d be interested to know who will benefit from the estate, when you’ve worked it all out of course.’
Lanyon was silent. Rebus opened the door, closed it behind him, and paused on the landing, breathing deeply. Not a bad performance, he thought to himself. At the very least it was worthy of a drink. And this time he would toast — in silence — the memory of James Carew.
Nursemaid was not his favourite occupation, but he’d known all along that it would come to this.
Tommy McCall was singing a rugby song in the back of the car, while Rebus waved a hasty goodbye to Saiko, who was standing on the doorstep. She even managed a smile. Well, after all he was doing her a favour in quietly removing the loud drunkard from the premises.
‘Am I under arrest, John?’ McCall yelled, interrupting his song.
‘No, now shut up, for Christ’s sake!’
Rebus got into the car and started the engine. He glanced back one last time and saw Lanyon join Saiko on the doorstep. She seemed to be filling him in on events, and he was nodding. It was the first Rebus had seen of him since their confrontation in the library. He released the handbrake, pulled out of the parking space, and drove off.
‘Left here, then next right.’
Tommy McCall had had too much to drink, but his sense of direction seemed unimpaired. Yet Rebus had a strange feeling….
‘Along to the end of this road, and it’s the last house on the corner.’
‘But this isn’t where you live,’ Rebus protested.
‘Quite correct, Inspector. This is where my brother lives. I thought we’d drop in for a nightcap.’
‘Jesus, Tommy, you can’t just — ’
‘Rubbish. He’ll be delighted to see us.’
As Rebus pulled up in front of the house, he looked out of his side window and was relieved to see that Tony McCall’s living room was still illuminated. Suddenly, Tommy’s hand thrust past him and pushed down on the horn, sending a loud blare into the silent night. Rebus pushed the hand away, and Tommy fell back into his seat, but he’d done enough. The curtains twitched in the McCall living room, and a moment later a door to the side of the house opened and Tony McCall came out, glancing back nervously. Rebus wound down the window.
‘John?’ Tony McCall seemed anxious. ‘What’s the matter?’
But before Rebus could explain, Tommy was out of the car and hugging his brother.
‘It’s my fault, Tony. All mine. I just wanted to see you, that’s all. Sorry though, sorry.’
Tony McCall took the situation in, glanced towards Rebus as if to say I don’t blame you, then turned to his brother.
‘Well, this is very thoughtful of you, Tommy. Long time no see. You’d better come in.’
Tommy McCall turned to Rebus. ‘See? I told you there’d be a welcome waiting for us at Tony’s house. Always a welcome at Tony’s.’
‘You’d better come in, too, John,’ said Tony.
Rebus nodded unhappily.
Tony directed them through the hall and into the living room. The carpet was thick and yielding underfoot, the furnishings looking like a showroom display. Rebus was afraid to sit, for fear of denting one of the puffed-up cushions. Tommy, however, collapsed immediately into a chair.
‘Where’s the wee ones?’ he said.
‘In bed,’ Tony answered, keeping his voice low.
‘Ach, wake them up then. Tell them their Uncle Tommy’s here.’
Tony ignored this. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said.
Tommy’s eyes were already closing, his arms slumped either side of him on the arms of the chair. While Tony was in the kitchen, Rebus studied the room. There were ornaments everywhere: along the length of the mantelpiece, covering the available surfaces of the large wall-unit, arranged on the surface of the coffee table. Small plaster figurines, shimmering glass creations, holiday souvenirs. The arms and backs of chairs and sofa were protected by antimacassars. The whole room was busy and ill at ease. Relaxation would be almost impossible. He began to understand now why Tony McCall had been out walking in Pilmuir on his day off.
A woman’s head peered round the door. Its lips were thin and straight, eyes alert but dark. She was staring at the slumbering figure of Tommy McCall, but caught sight of Rebus and prepared a kind of smile. The door opened a little wider, showing that she was wearing a dressing gown. A hand clutched this tight around her throat as she began to speak.
‘I’m Sheila, Tony’s wife.’
‘Yes, hello, John Rebus.’ Rebus made to stand, but a nervous hand fluttered him back down.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘Tony’s talked about you. You work together, don’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes.’ Her attention was wandering, and she turned her gaze back to Tommy McCall. Her voice became like damp wallpaper. ‘Would you look at him. The successful brother. His own business, big house. Just look at him.’ She seemed about to launch into a speech on social injustice, but was interrupted by her husband, who was now squeezing past her carrying a tray.
‘No need for you to get up, love,’ he said.
‘I could hardly sleep through that horn blaring, could I?’ Her eyes now were on the tray. ‘You’ve forgotten the sugar,’ she said critically.
‘I don’t take sugar,’ Rebus said. Tony was pouring tea from the pot into two cups.
‘Milk first, Tony, then tea,’ she said, ignoring Rebus’s remark.
‘It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference, Sheila,’ said Tony. He handed a cup to Rebus.
‘Thanks.’
She stood for a second or two watching the two men, then ran a hand down the front of her dressing gown.
‘Right then,’ she ‘said. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night,’ concurred Rebus.
‘Try not to be too long, Tony.’
‘Right, Sheila.’
They listened, sipping tea, as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Then Tony McCall exhaled.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘What for?’ said Rebus. ‘If a couple of drunks had walked into my home at this time of night, you wouldn’t want to hear the reception I’d give them! I thought she stayed remarkably calm.’
‘Sheila’s always remarkably calm. On the outside.’
Rebus nodded towards Tommy. ‘What about him?’
‘He’ll be all right where he is. Let him sleep it off.’
‘Are you sure? I can take him home if you — ’
‘No, no. Christ, he’s my brother. I think a chair for the night is called for.’ Tony looked across towards Tommy. ‘Look at him. You wouldn’t believe the tricks we got up to when we were kids. We had the neighbourhood terrified of what we’d do next. Chap-Door-Run, setting bonfires, putting the football through somebody’s window. We were wild, I can tell you. Now I never see him unless he’s like this.’
‘You mean he’s pulled this stunt before?’
‘Once or twice. Turns up in a taxi, crashes out in the chair. When he wakes up the next morning, he can’t believe where he is. Has breakfast, slips the kids a few quid, and he’s off. Never phones or visits. Then one night we hear the taxi chugging outside, and there he is.’
‘Ach, I don’t know why I’m telling you, John. It’s not your problem, after all.’
‘I don’t mind listening.’
But Tony McCall seemed reluctant to go further. ‘How do you like this room?’ he asked instead.
‘It’s nice,’ Rebus lied. ‘A lot of thought’s gone into it.’
‘Yes.’ McCall sounded unconvinced. ‘A lot of money, too. See those little glass bauble things? You wouldn’t believe how much one of those can cost.’
‘Really?’
McCall was examining the room as though he were the visitor. ‘Welcome to my life,’ he said at last. ‘I think I’d rather have one of the cells down the station.’ He got up suddenly and walked across to Tommy’s chair, then crouched down in front of his brother, one of whose eyes was open but glazed with sleep. ‘You bugger,’ Tony McCall whispered. ‘You bugger, you bugger.’ And he bowed his head so as not to show the tears.
It was growing light as Rebus drove the four miles back to Marchmont. He stopped at an all night bakery and bought warm rolls and refrigerated milk. This was the time when he liked the city best, the peaceful camaraderie of early morning. He wondered why people couldn’t be happy with their lot. I’ve got everything I’ve never wanted and it isn’t enough. All he wanted now was sleep, and in his bed for a change rather than on the chair. He kept playing the scene over and over: Tommy McCall dead to the world, saliva on his chin, and Tony McCall crouched in front of him, body shaking with emotion. A brother was a terrible thing. He was a lifelong competitor, yet you couldn’t hate him without hating yourself. And there were other pictures too: Malcolm Lanyon in his study, Saiko standing at the door, James Carew dead in his bed, Nell Stapleton’s bruised face, Ronnie McGrath’s battered torso, old Vanderhyde with his unseeing eyes, the fear in Calum McCallum’s eyes, Tracy with her tiny fists….
If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.
Carew had stolen that line from somewhere … but where? Who cares, John, who cares? It would just be another bloody thread, and there were far too many of those already, knotted into an impenetrable tangle. Get home, sleep, forget.
One thing was for sure: he’d have some wild dreams.
Saturday
Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant.
In fact, he didn’t dream at all. And when he woke up, it was the weekend, the sun was shining, and his telephone was ringing.
‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s Gill.’
‘Oh, hello, Gill. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. What about you?’
‘Great.’ This was not a lie. He hadn’t slept so well in weeks, and there was not a trace of hangover within him.
‘Sorry to ring so early. Any progress on the smear?’
‘Smear?’
‘The things that kid was saying about you.’
‘Oh, that. No, I haven’t heard anything yet.’ He was thinking about lunch, about a picnic, about a drive in the country. ‘Are you in Edinburgh?’ he asked.
‘No, Fife.’
‘Fife? What are you doing there?’
‘Calum’s here, remember.’
‘Of course I remember, but I thought you were steering clear of him?’
‘He wanted to see me. Actually, that’s why I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’ Rebus wrinkled his brow, curious.
‘Calum wants to talk to you.’
‘To me? Why?’
‘He’ll tell you that himself, I suppose. He just asked me to tell you.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
‘Can’t say I’m much bothered either way. I told him I’d pass on the message, and I told him it was the last favour he could expect from me.’ Her voice was as slick and cool as a slate roof in the rain. Rebus felt himself sliding down that roof, wanting to please her, wanting to help. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘and he said that if you sounded dubious, I was to tell you it’s to do with Hyde’s.’
‘Hydes?’ Rebus stood up sharply.
‘H-y-d-e-apostrophe-s.’
‘Hyde’s what?’
She laughed. ‘I don’t know, John. But it sounds as if it means something to you.’
‘It does, Gill. Are you in Dunfermline?’
‘Calling from the station’s front desk.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you there in an hour.’
‘Fine, John.’ She sounded unconcerned. ‘Bye.’
He cut the connection, put his jacket on, and left the flat. The traffic was busy towards Tollcross, busy all the way down Lothian Road and winding across Princes Street towards Queensferry Road. Since the deregulation of public transport, the centre of the city had become a black farce of buses: double deckers, single deckers, even mini-buses, all vying for custom. Locked behind two claret-coloured LRT double deckers and two green single deckers, Rebus began to lose his tiny cache of patience. He slammed his hand down hard on the horn and pulled out, revving past the line of stalled traffic. A motorcycle messenger, squeezing through between the two directions of slower traffic, had to swerve to avoid the imminent accident, and slewed against a Saab. Rebus knew he should stop. He kept on going.
If only he’d had one of those magnetic flashing sirens, the kind CID used on the roofs of their cars whenever they were late for dinner or an engagement. But all he had were his headlights — full-beam — and the horn. Having cleared the tailback, he eased his hand off the horn, switched off the lamps, and cruised into the outside lane of the widening road.
Despite a pause at the dreaded Barnton roundabout, he made good time to the Forth Road Bridge, paid the toll, and drove across, not too fast, wanting, as ever, to take in the view. Rosyth Naval Dockyard was below him on the left. A lot of his schoolfriends (‘lot’ being relative: he’d never made that many friends) had slipped easily into jobs at Rosyth, and were probably still there. It seemed to be about the only place in Fife where work was still available. The mines were closing with enforced regularity. Somewhere along the coast in the other direction, men were burrowing beneath the Forth, scooping out coal in a decreasingly profitable curve….
Hyde! Calum McCallum knew something about Hyde! Knew, too, that Rebus was interested, so word must have got around. His foot pressed down further on the accelerator. McCallum would want a trade, of course: charges dropped, or somehow jigged into a shape less damning. Fine, fine, he’d promise him the sun and the moon and the stars.
Just so long as he knew. Knew who Hyde was; knew where Hyde was. Just so long as he knew….
The main police station in Dunfermline was easy to find, situated just off a roundabout on the outskirts of the town. Gill was easy to find, too. She was sitting in her car in the spacious car park outside the station. Rebus parked next to her, got out of his car and into the passenger side of hers.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Are you okay?’ This was, on reflection, perhaps the most unnecessary question he had ever posed. Her face had lost colour and substance, and her head seemed to be shrinking into her shoulders, while her hands gripped the steering wheel, fingernails rapping softly against the top of the dashboard.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, and they both smiled at the lie. ‘I told them at the desk that you were coming.’
‘Anything you want me to tell our friend?’
Her voice was resonant. ‘Nothing.’
‘Okay.’
Rebus pushed open the car door and closed it again, but softly, then he headed towards the station entrance.
She had wandered the hospital corridors for over an hour. It was visiting time, so no one much minded as she walked into this and that ward, passing the beds, smiling down occasionally on the sick old men and women who stared up at her with lonely eyes. She watched families decide who should and should not take turns
at grandpa’s bedside, there being two only at a time allowed. She was looking for one woman in particular, though she wasn’t sure she would recognise her. All she had to go on was the fact that the librarian would have a broken nose.
Maybe she hadn’t been kept in. Maybe she’d already gone home to her husband or boyfriend or whatever. Maybe Tracy would be better off waiting and going to the library again. Except that they’d be watching and waiting for her. The guard would know her. The librarian would know her.
But would she know the librarian?
A bell rang out, drilling into her the fact that visiting hours were coming to an end. She hurried to the next ward, wondering: what if the librarian’s in a private room? Or in another hospital? Or….
No! There she was! Tracy stopped dead, turned in a half-circle, and walked to the far end of the ward. Visitors were saying their goodbyes and take cares to the patients. Everybody looked relieved, both visitors and visited. She mingled with them as they put chairs back into stacks and donned coats, scarves, gloves. Then she paused and looked back towards the librarian’s bed. There were flowers all around it, and the single visitor, a man, was leaning over the librarian to kiss her lingeringly on the forehead. The librarian squeezed the man’s hand and…. And the man looked familiar to Tracy. She’d seen him before…. At the police station! He was some friend of Rebus’s, and he was a policeman! She remembered him checking on her while she was being held in the cells.
Oh Jesus, she’d attacked a policeman’s wife!
She wasn’t sure now, wasn’t sure at all. Why had she come? Could she go through with it now? She walked with one family out of the ward, then rested against the wall in the corridor outside. Could she? Yes, if her nerve held. Yes, she could.
She was pretending to examine a drinks vending machine when Holmes sauntered through the swinging ward doors and walked slowly down the corridor away from her. She waited a full two minutes, counting up to one hundred and twenty. He wasn’t coming back. He hadn’t forgotten anything. Tracy turned from the vending machine and made for the swing doors.