by Ian Rankin
Wylie: 'Can we limit the search to late '78, first three months of 79?'
'To start with, yes.' He looked towards the pub. 'Buy the pair of you a drink?'
Wylie was quick to shake her head. 'I think we'll head for the Cambridge, bit quieter there.'
'Fair enough.'
'In there', nodding towards the door of the Ox, 'looks too much like the broom cupboard we're having to work out of.'
'I'd heard,' Rebus said. Wylie's look was accusatory.
'Sir,' she said, 'the woman in there...' Wylie looked down at her feet. 'Was it who I thought it was?'
Rebus nodded. 'Just a coincidence,' he said.
'Of course.' She nodded slowly, began to move off. She still hadn't made eye contact. Hood made to catch up with her. Rebus pushed open the door a crack but waited. Wylie and Hood with their heads together, Hood asking who the woman had been. If the story got around St Leonard's, Rebus would know who'd started it.
And that would be the end of the Time Team.
He woke at 4 a.m. The bedside lamp was still on. The duvet had been kicked to the foot of the bed. The sound of an engine turning over outside. He stumbled to the window, just in time to see a dark shape disappearing into the back of a taxi. He weaved naked into the living room, reaching for handholds, his balance shot. She'd left him a gift: a four-track demo by the Robinson Crusoes. It was titled Shipwrecked Heart. Made sense, band having the name they did. 'Final Reproof' was the last song on it. He stuck it on the hi-fi, listened for a minute or two with the volume down low. Empty bottle and two tumblers on the floor by the sofa. There was still half an inch of whisky in one of them. He sniffed it, took it into the kitchen. Poured it down the sink and filled the glass with cold water, gulped it down. Then another, and another after that. No way he was getting away from this one without a hangover, but he'd do his best. Three paracetamol tablets and more water, then another glassful to take through to the bathroom with him. She'd showered: there was a wet towel hanging from the rail. Showered first, then called the taxi. Had he woken her with his snoring? Had she ever been asleep? He ran a bath, looked at himself in the shaving mirror. Slack skin covered his face, looking for somewhere else to go. He bent down, dry-retched into the sink, almost bringing the tablets back up. How much had they drunk? He couldn't begin to count. Had they come back here straight from the Ox? He didn't think so. Back in the bedroom, he searched his pockets for clues. Nothing. But the fifty quid he'd gone out with had been reduced to pennies.
'Dear Christ.' He squeezed shut his eyes. His neck felt stiff; so did his back. In front of the bathroom mirror again he stared into his eyes. 'Did we do it?' he asked himself. The answer came back: definitely maybe. Screwed shut his eyes again. 'Oh, for Christ's sake, John, what have you done?'
Answer: slept with Lorna Grieve. Twenty years ago, he'd have been doing cartwheels. But then twenty years ago, she hadn't been part of a murder inquiry.
He turned off the taps, eased himself into the water and slid down, knees bent, so that his whole head went under. Maybe, he thought, if I just lie here like this it'll all go away. His first mistake on booze had been over thirty years before, outside a school dance.
A bloody long apprenticeship, he thought, coming up for air. Whatever happened now, he felt tied to the Grieves, one more thread of their history. And if Lorna put the story around, he'd be history, too.
Part Two
Fitful and Dark
Jerry had this morning routine, soon as Jayne had gone off to work. Tea, toast and the paper, and then into the living room to play a few records. Old stuff, punk 45s from his teens. Really set him up for the day. There might be thumps from upstairs, but he'd flick the Vs at the ceiling and dance on regardless. He had a few favourites -Generation X, 'Your Generation'; Klark Kent, 'Don't Care'; Spizzenergi, 'Where's Captain Kirk?' Their picture sleeves were dog-eared, and the vinyl was scratched to hell - too many lendings and parties. He still remembered gatecrashing a Ramones gig at the uni: October '78. The Spizz single was May '79: date of purchase scrawled on the back of the sleeve. He was like that back then. He'd time all his singles, make notes. A top five every week - best things he'd heard, not necessarily bought. The Virgin on Frederick Street had been shoplifting heaven for a while. Hadn't been so easy at Bruce's. The guy who ran Bruce's had gone on to manage Simple Minds. Jerry'd seen them when they'd been called Johnny and the Self Abusers.
It all used to matter, to mean something. Weekends, the adrenaline could make you dizzy.
These days, dancing did that for him. He fell on to the sofa. Three records and he was knackered. Rolled himself a joint and switched on the TV, knowing there'd be nothing worth watching. Jayne was working a double shift, wouldn't be home till nine, maybe ten. That gave him twelve hours to wash the dishes. Some days he itched to be working again, sitting in an office maybe with suit and tie on, making decisions and fielding phone calls. Nic said he had a secretary. A secretary. Who'd have thought it? He remembered the pair of them at school, kicking a football across the cul-de-sac, pogoing to punk in their bedrooms. Well, Jerry's bedroom mostly. Nic's mum had been funny about visitors; always a frown on her face when she opened her door and saw Jerry standing there. Dead now though, the old cow. Her living room had smelt of the Hamlet cigars Nic's dad smoked. He was the only person Jerry knew who didn't smoke cigarettes, had to be a cigar. Jerry, TV remote busy in his hand, chuckled now at the thought. Cigars! Who did the old sod think he was? Nic's dad had worn ties and cardigans... Jerry's dad had worn a vest most of the time, and a trouser-belt that came off whenever there was justice to dispense. But Jerry's mum, she'd been a treasure: no way he'd have swapped his parents for Nic's.
'No bloody way,' he said out loud.
He switched off the TV. The joint was down to the hot bit near the roach. He took a last draw and went to flush it down the bog. Not that he was worried about the pigs; it was Jayne didn't like him doing the wacky bac. Way Jerry looked at it, the wacko kept him sane. Government should put the stuff on the National Health, way it kept the likes of him from going off the rails.
He went to the bathroom to have a shave: little treat for Jayne when she came home. Still humming 'Captain Kirk'. Brilliant record, one of the best. He was thinking about Nic, how the two of them had become pals. You could never tell, could you, people you'd end up liking. They'd been in the same class since age five, but it was only when they went up to secondary that they started hanging around together, listening to Alex Harvey and Status Quo, trying to work out which lyrics were about sex. Nic had written a poem, hundreds of lines long, all about an orgy. Jerry had reminded him about it recently, and they'd had a good laugh. That was what it was about, at the end of the day: having a laugh.
He realised he was staring into the bathroom mirror; foam on his face and the razor in his hand. He had bags and lines under his eyes. It was catching up with him. Jayne kept talking about kids and ticking clocks; he kept telling her he'd think about it. Fact was, he didn't fancy himself as a dad, and Nic kept talking about how it ruined a relationship. Guys in the office who hadn't had sex since their nipper was born - months, sometimes years. And the mothers letting themselves go, gravity working against them. Nic would wrinkle his nose in disgust.
'Not a pretty outlook, is it?' Nic would say.
And Jerry would be bound to agree.
After school, Jerry had assumed they'd get jobs in the same place, maybe a factory or something. But Nic had dropped a bombshell: he was staying on an extra year, doing his Highers. It hadn't stopped them seeing one another, but there were all these books in Nic's room now - stuff Jerry couldn't make head or tail of. And after that there was Napier for three years, and more books, essays to hand in. They saw one another some weekends, but almost never through the week - maybe Friday night for a disco or a gig. Iggy Pop... Gang of Four... the Stones at the Playhouse. Nic hardly ever introduced Jerry to his -tudent pals, unless they met them at a gig. Once or twice they ended up in the pub. Jerry had chatted up one
of the girls, then Nic had grabbed him.
'What would Jayne say?'
Because he was seeing Jayne by then. They worked in the same factory: semiconductors. Jerry drove the fork-lift, got really good with it. He'd show off, do circuits around Ihe women. They'd laugh, say he was daft, he'd get someone killed. Then Jayne came along and that was that.
Fifteen years they'd been married. Fifteen years and no kids. How could she expect them to have kids now, with him on the dole? His only letter this morning: dole people wanted him in for an interview. He knew what that meant. They wanted to know what he was doing to find himself a job. Answer: sweet FA. And now Jayne was at him again, 'The clock's ticking, Jerry.' A double meaning there: her body clock, plus the threat that she might walk out if she didn't get what she wanted. She'd done it before, packed her bags and off to her mum's three streets away. Be as well bloody living there anyway...
He'd go mad if he stayed in the flat. He wiped the foam from his face and put his shirt back on, grabbed his jacket and was out. Walked the streets, looking for people to talk to, then into the bookies for half an hour, warming himself by the heater, pretending to study form. They knew him in there: highly unlikely he'd place a bet, but he sometimes did, always losing. When the lunchtime paper came in, he took a look. Page three, there was a story about a sexual assault. He read it closely. Nineteen-year-old student, grabbed in the Commonwealth Pool car park. Jerry flung the paper down and headed out to find a phone box.
He had Nic's office number in his pocket, called him there sometimes when he was bored, holding the receiver to the stereo so Nic could hear some song they used to dance to. He got the receptionist and asked for Mr Hughes.
'Nic, man, it's Jerry.'
'Hiya, pal. What can I do you for?'
'Just saw the paper. There was a student attacked last night.'
'The world's a terrible place.'. 'Tell me it wasn't you.'
A nervous laugh. 'That's a sick kind of joke, Jerry.'
'Just tell me.'
'Where are you? Got any mates listening in?'
The way he said it made Jerry stop. Nic was telling him something, telling him someone could be listening in -maybe the receptionist.
'I'll talk to you later,' Nic said.
'Listen, man, I'm sorry--' But the phone was dead.
Jerry was shaking when he left the phone box. Jogged all the way home, fixed another joint. Put the TV on and sat there, trying to get his heartbeat down. Safer here; wasn't anything could touch him here. This was the only place to be.
Until Jayne got home.
Siobhan Clarke had asked Register House to run a search for Chris Mackie's birth certificate. She'd also begun asking around about Mackie, concentrating on Grassmar-ket and the Cowgate, but spreading out to take in the Meadows, Princes Street and Hunter Square.
But this Thursday morning she sat in a doctor's waiting room, surrounded by pale and sickly sufferers, until her name was called and she could put aside the women's magazine with its alien articles on cookery, clothes and kids.
Where, she wondered, was the magazine for her, one that concentrated on Hibs FC, hashed relationships and homicide?
Dr Talbot was in his mid-fifties and wore a weary smile below his half-moon glasses. He already had Chris Mackie's medical records laid out on his desk, but checked that Clarke's own paperwork - death certificate; authorisation - was in order before beckoning for her to move her chair in towards the desk.
It took her a couple of minutes to substantiate that the records only went back as far as 1980. When Mackie had registered with the surgery, he'd given a previous address in London and had stated that his records were held by a Dr Mason in Crouch End. But a letter from Dr Talbot to Dr Mason's address had been returned 'No Such Street'.
'You didn't pursue this?' Clarke asked.
'I'm a doctor, not a detective.'
Mackie's Edinburgh address was the hostel. Date of birth was different from that on Drew's filing-card. Clarke had the uneasy feeling that Mackie had laid a false trail all the way along. She went back to the records. Once or twice a year he'd attended the surgery, usually with some minor complaint: a facial cut turned septic; influenza; a boil requiring to be lanced.
'He was in pretty good health, considering his circumstances,' Dr Talbot said. 'I don't think he drank or smoked, which helped.'
'Drugs?'
The doctor shook his head.
'Is that unusual in someone who's homeless?'
'I've known people with stronger constitutions than Mr Mackie.'
'Yes, but someone homeless, not doing drink or drugs...?'
'I'm no expert.'
'But in your opinion...?'
'In my opinion, Mr Mackie gave me very little trouble.'
'Thank you, Dr Talbot.'
She left the surgery and headed for the Department of Social Security office, where a Miss Stanley sat her down in a lifeless cubicle usually reserved for claimant interviews.
'Looks like he didn't have a National Insurance number,' she said, going through the file. 'We had to issue an emergency one at the start.'
'When was this?'
It was 1980, of course: the year of Christopher Mackie's invention.
'I wasn't here at the time, but there are some notes from whoever it was interviewed him initially.' Miss Stanley read from these. ' "Filthy, not sure of where he is, no NI number or tax reference." Previous address is given as London.'
Clarke dutifully jotted it all down.
'Does it answer your questions?'
'Pretty much,' she admitted. The night he'd died, that was as close to 'Chris Mackie' as she was going to get.
Since then she'd been moving away from him, because he didn't exist. He was a figment, imagined by someone with something to hide.
The who and what she might never discover.
Because Mackie had been clever. Everyone else had said he kept himself clean, but for the DSS he'd camouflaged himself with filth. Why? Because it made his act the more believable: bumbling, forgetful, unhelpful. The sort of person a hard-pressed official would want rid of pronto. No NI number? Never mind, issue an emergency one. Vague address in London? Fine, leave it be. Just sign your name to his claim and get him out of the cubicle.
A call on her mobile to Register House confirmed that there was no birth record of a Christopher Mackie on the date she'd given. She could try the other date she had, or spread the net wider, ask Register House in London... But she knew she was chasing shadows. She sat in a cramped cafe, drinking her drink, staring into space, and wondered if it was time to write up her report and call an end to the hunt.
She could think of half a dozen reasons for doing so.
And just four hundred thousand for not.
Back at her desk, she found over a dozen messages waiting for her. A couple of the names she recognised: local journalists. They'd tried calling three times apiece. She screwed shut her eyes and mouthed a word her grandmother would have clapped her ear for using. Then she headed downstairs to the Corns Room, knowing someone there would have the latest edition of the News. Front page: TRAGIC MYSTERY OF MILLIONAIRE TRAMP. As they didn't have a photograph of Mackie, they'd opted for one of the spot where he'd jumped. There wasn't much to the piece: well-known face around city centre... bank account well into six figures... police trying to establish who might have 'a claim on the cash'. Siobhan Clarke's worst nightmare.
When she got upstairs, her phone was ringing again. Hi-Ho Silvers came across the floor on his knees, hands held in mock prayer.
'I'm his love child,' he said. 'Give me a DNA test, but for God's sake give me the dosh!'
Laughter in the CID suite. 'It's for yoo-ou,' someone else said, pointing to her phone. Every nutter and chancer in the kingdom would be getting ready. They'd call 999 or Fettes, and to get them off the line, someone would eventually admit that it was a St Leonard's matter.
They all belonged to Siobhan now. They were her children.
So she turned o
n her heels and left, ignoring the pleas from behind her.
And headed back on to the streets, finding new people to ask about Mackie. She knew she had to be quick: news travelled. Soon they'd all claim to have known him, to have been his best pal, his nephew, his executor. The street people knew her now, called her 'doll' and 'hen'. One old man had even christened her 'Diana, the Huntress'. She was wise to some of the younger beggars, too; not the ones who sold the Big Issue, but the ones who sat in doorways, blankets around them. She'd been sheltering from a downpour when one had come into Thin's Bookshop, blanket discarded and a mobile phone to his ear, complaining because his taxi hadn't turned up. He'd seen her, recognised her, but kept the diatribe going.
The foot of the Mound was quiet. Two young guys with ponytails and cross-breeds; the dogs licking themselves while their owners shared a can of headnip.
'Don't know the guy, sorry. Got a fag on you?'
She had learned to carry a packet with her, offered them each a cigarette, smiling when they took two. Then it was back up the Mound. John Rebus had told her something: the steep hill had been constructed from New Town rubble. The man whose idea it had been had owned a business at the top. Construction had meant the demolition of his shop. John Rebus hadn't found the story amusing; he'd told her it was a lesson.
'In what?' she'd asked.
'Scots history,' he'd replied, failing to explain.
She wondered now if it had been a reference to independence, to self-made, self-destructing schemes. It did seem to amuse him that, when pushed, she would defend independence. He wound her up, telling her it was a trick and she was an English spy, sent to undermine the process. Then he'd call her a 'New Scot', a 'settler'. She never knew when he was being serious. People in Edinburgh were like that: obtuse, thrawn. Sometimes she thought he was flirting, that the jibes and jokes were part of some mating ritual made all the more complex because it consisted of baiting the subject rather than wooing them.