Authors: Ian Rankin
“You think your stepdad would want you doing that, Gill?” he went on, voice softening again. “You think your poor mum would want that?”
Gill Morgan had bowed her head and seemed to be analyzing the backs of her hands. “No,” she said quietly.
“No,” Rebus agreed. “Now tell me, if I were to ask you right now where Nancy lives, could you give me an answer?”
A single tear dropped into the young woman’s lap. She squeezed her eyes with thumb and forefinger, then blinked any further tears back. “Somewhere off the Cowgate.”
“Doesn’t sound to me,” Rebus said, “as if you really know her all that well. So if the two of you aren’t what you might call bosom buddies, why are you covering for her?”
Morgan said something he didn’t catch. He asked her to repeat it. She glared at him, and this time the words were unmistakable.
“She was buying me drugs.” She let the words sink in. “Buying
us
drugs, I should say—some for her, and some for me. Just a bit of pot, nothing to send civilization crashing to its knees.”
“Is that how you became friends?”
“I dare say it’s part of the reason.” But Morgan couldn’t really see the point of lying. “Maybe quite a
lot
of the reason.”
“The party you met her at, she brought dope with her?”
“Yes.”
“Was she sharing or selling?”
“We’re not talking about some Medellín cartel here, Inspector . . .”
“Cocaine, too?” Rebus deduced. Morgan realized she’d said too much. “And you had to protect her because otherwise she was going to—pardon the pun—grass you up?”
“Is that the punch line you were talking about?”
“I didn’t think you’d heard that.”
“I heard.”
“So Nancy Sievewright wasn’t here that night?”
“She was supposed to turn up at midnight with my share. It annoyed me at the time, because I’d had to rush home.”
“Where from?”
“I’ve been helping out one of my drama teachers. He has a sideline running one of those nighttime walking tours of the city.”
“Ghost tours, you mean?”
“I know they’re preposterous, but the tourists like them and it’s a bit of a giggle.”
“So you’re one of the actors? Jumping out from the shadows and going ‘Boo!’?”
“I have to play several roles, actually.” She sounded hurt by his glibness. “And between setups, I have to run like blazes to the next location, changing costume as I go.”
Rebus remembered Gary Walsh saying something about the ghost tours. “Where does it happen?” he asked now.
“St. Giles to the Canongate, same route each night.”
“Do you know of any tours that take in King’s Stables Road?”
“No.”
Rebus nodded thoughtfully. “So who exactly do you play?”
She gave a puzzled laugh. “Why the interest?”
“Indulge me.”
She puckered her lips. “Well,” she said at last, “I’m the plague doctor . . . I have to wear a mask like a hawk’s beak—the doctor would fill it with potpourri to ward off the stench from his patients.”
“Nice.”
“And then I’m a ghost . . . and sometimes even the Mad Monk.”
“Mad Monk? Bit of a challenge for a woman, isn’t it?”
“I only have to do a bit of moaning and groaning.”
“Yes, but they can see you’re not a bloke.”
“The hood covers most of my face,” she explained, smiling again.
“Hood?” Rebus echoed. “I wouldn’t mind having a look at that.”
“The costumes stay with the company, Inspector. That way, when one actor’s off sick, they can use another as cover.”
Rebus nodded as if satisfied by the explanation. “Tell me,” he asked, “did Nancy ever come to see you perform?”
“A couple of weeks back.”
“Enjoy herself, did she?”
“Seemed to.” She gave another nervy little laugh. “Am I walking into some trap here? I can’t see what any of this has to do with your case.”
“Probably nothing,” Rebus assured her.
Morgan grew thoughtful. “You’re going to talk to Nancy now, aren’t you? She’ll know I’ve told you.”
“Afraid you may be in the market for another supplier, Miss Morgan. Shouldn’t worry, though—there are plenty of them about.” Rebus got to his feet. She followed suit, standing on tiptoe and still below the height of his chin.
“Is there . . .” She swallowed back the rest of the question but decided she had to know. “Is there any reason why my mother might get to hear of this?”
“Depends, really,” Rebus said, after a moment’s pretend thought. “We catch the killer . . . it comes to trial . . . the timeline is gone through minute by minute. Defense is going to want some doubt in the jury’s minds, and that means showing any witnesses to be less than trustworthy. They show Nancy’s original statement to be a pile of dung, and it all starts to smell from then on in . . .” He gazed down at her. “That’s the worst-case scenario,” he offered. “Might never happen.”
“Which is another way of saying it might.”
“You should have told the truth from the start, Gill. Lying is all very well for an actor, but out here in the real world we tend to call it perjury.”
I
’m not sure I can take all this in,” Siobhan Clarke admitted. They were gathered in the CID suite. Clarke was pacing up and down in front of the Murder Wall. She passed by photos of Alexander Todorov in life and in death, a photocopied pathology report, names and phone numbers. Rebus was polishing off a ham salad sandwich, washed down with polystyrene tea. Hawes and Tibbet sat at their desks, swaying gently in their chairs, as if in time to a piece of music only they could hear. Todd Goodyear was sipping milk from a half-liter carton.
“Want me to recap for you?” Rebus offered. “Gill Morgan’s stepdad runs First Albannach, she buys drugs from Nancy Sievewright, and she has ready access to a hooded cape.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Oh, and Sievewright knew about the cape, too.”
“We need to bring her in,” Clarke decided. “Phyl, Col—go fetch.”
They managed a synchronized nod as they rose from their chairs. “What if she’s not there?” Tibbet asked.
“Find her,” Clarke demanded.
“Yes, boss,” he said, sliding his jacket back on. Clarke was glaring at him, but Rebus knew Tibbet hadn’t been trying for sarcasm. He’d called her “boss” because that was what she was. She seemed to sense this, and glanced towards Rebus. He balled up the wrapper from his sandwich, and missed the waste bin by about three feet.
“She doesn’t seem like a dealer to me,” Clarke said.
“Maybe she’s not,” Rebus responded. “Maybe she’s just a friend who likes to share.”
“But if she charges for that share,” Goodyear argued, “doesn’t that make her a dealer?” He had walked over to the waste bin and picked up Rebus’s wrapper, making sure it found its target. Rebus wondered if the young man was even aware that he’d done it.
“So if she wasn’t at Gill Morgan’s flat that night, where was she?” Clarke asked.
“While we’re adding ingredients to the broth,” Rebus interrupted, “here’s another for you. Barman at the hotel saw Andropov and Cafferty with another man the night Todorov was murdered. The man in question is a Labour minister called Jim Bakewell.”
“He was on
Question Time,
” Clarke stated. Rebus nodded slowly. He’d decided not to mention his own run-in with Andropov at the Caledonian.
“Did he talk to the poet?” Clarke asked.
“I don’t think so. Cafferty bought Todorov a drink at the bar, then, when the poet hoofed it, he went and joined Andropov and Bakewell at their table. I sat where they’d been sitting—there’s a blind spot, doubtful Andropov saw Todorov.”
“Coincidence?” Goodyear offered.
“We’ve not much room for that in CID,” Rebus told him.
“Doesn’t that mean you often see connections where none exist?”
“Everything’s connected, Todd. Six degrees of separation, they call it. I’d’ve thought a Bible-thumper would concur.”
“I’ve never thumped a Bible in my life.”
“You should try it—good way of letting off steam.”
“When you two boys have quite finished,” Clarke chided them. “You want us to talk to this Bakewell character?” she asked Rebus.
“At this rate, we’d be as well precognosing the whole Parliament,” Goodyear stated.
“How do you mean?” Rebus asked.
So then it was their turn to tell him about their morning: Roddy Denholm’s project and the Urban Regeneration Committee recordings. As if to prove the point, Goodyear held up a box of DAT tapes.
“Now if only we had a player,” he said.
“One’s on its way from Howdenhall,” Clarke reminded him.
“Hours and hours of fun,” he muttered, laying the small cassettes out in a row across the desk in front of him. He stood them on their sides, as if attempting to build a run of dominoes.
“I think the allure of CID is beginning to wane,” Rebus suggested to Clarke.
“You could be right,” she agreed, giving the desk a nudge so that the tape cases fell over.
“Think we need to talk to Megan Macfarlane again?” was Rebus’s next question.
“On what grounds?”
“That she probably knew Riordan. Funny she has links to both the victims . . .”
Clarke was nodding, without looking entirely convinced. “This case is a bloody minefield,” she eventually groaned, turning back to the Murder Wall. Rebus noticed for the first time that a photo of Charles Riordan had been added to the collection.
“A single killer?” he suggested.
“Let me just go ask the Ouija board,” she shot back.
“Not in front of the children,” Rebus teased her. Goodyear had found a biscuit wrapper on the floor and was tidying it into the bin.
“We’ve got cleaners to do that, Todd,” Rebus reminded him. Then, to Siobhan Clarke: “One killer or two?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Close enough—the correct answer should be ‘doesn’t matter.’ All that’s important at this stage is that we’re treating the two deaths as connected.”
She nodded her agreement. “Macrae’s going to want the team enlarged.”
“The more the merrier.”
But when her eyes drilled into his, he could see she wasn’t confident. She’d never led a full-scale inquiry before. The death at the G8 last year had been kept low-key, so as not to grab headlines. But once the media got to hear that they were dealing with a double murder, they’d be resetting their front pages and demanding plenty of action and a quick result.
“Macrae’s going to want a DI heading it up,” Clarke stated. Rebus wished Goodyear wasn’t there—the pair of them could talk properly. He shook his head.
“Make your case,” he said. “If you’ve anyone in mind for the team, tell him. That way you get the people you want.”
“I’ve already got the people I want.”
“Aww, isn’t that sweet? But what the public needs to hear is that there’s a twenty-strong force of detectives prowling the badlands, hot on the villain’s scent. Five of us in a room in Gayfield Square doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
“Five was enough for Enid Blyton,” Clarke said with a thin smile.
“Worked for Scooby-Doo, too,” Goodyear added.
“Only if you include the dog,” Clarke corrected him. Then, to Rebus: “So who do I start annoying first—Macrae, Macfarlane, or Jim Bakewell?”
“Go for the hat trick,” he told her. The phone on his desk started ringing, and he picked it up.
“DI Rebus,” he announced to the caller. He pursed his lips, gave a couple of grunts in response to whatever was being said, and let the receiver clatter back into its cradle.
“The chiefs are demanding a sacrifice,” he explained, hauling himself to his feet.
James Corbyn, Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police, was waiting for Rebus in his office on the second floor of the Fettes Avenue HQ. Corbyn was in his early forties, a parting in his black hair and a face that shone as though freshly shaved and cologned. People usually paid too much attention to the Chief Constable’s grooming, as a way of not staring at the oversized mole on his right cheek. Officers had noticed that, when interviewed on TV, he always stayed right of screen, so that the other side of his face would be in profile. There had even been discussion as to whether the blemish most resembled the coastline of Fife or a terrier’s head. His initial nickname of Trouser Press had soon been supplanted by the more telling Mole Man, which Rebus seemed to think was also the name of a cartoon villain. He’d met Corbyn only three or four times, never (so far) for a pat on the back or a congratulatory handshake. Nothing he’d heard over the phone had suggested a change of script this time round.
“In you come, then,” Corbyn himself snapped, having opened his door just wide enough to stick his head around. By the time Rebus rose from the corridor’s only chair and pushed the door all the way open, Corbyn was back behind his large and unfeasibly tidy desk. There was a man seated across from the Chief Constable. He was bulky and balding, with an overfed face tinged pink by hypertension. He rose up just long enough to shake Rebus’s hand, introducing himself as Sir Michael Addison.
“She works fast, your stepdaughter,” Rebus told the banker. And Addison was no slouch himself; no more than ninety minutes since Rebus had left Gill Morgan’s flat, and here they all were. “Nice to have friends, isn’t it?”
“Gill’s explained everything,” Addison was saying. “Seems she’s fallen in with a bad lot, but her mother and I will deal with that.”
“Her mother knows, does she?” Rebus decided to probe.
“We’re hoping that may not be necessary . . .”
“Wouldn’t want her falling off the wagon,” Rebus agreed.
The banker seemed stunned by this; Corbyn took the silence as his cue. “Look, John, I can’t see what you’ve got to gain from pressing the point.” His use of Rebus’s first name was a message that they were all on the same side here.
“What point might that be, sir?” Rebus asked, refusing to play along.
“You know what I mean. Young girls are susceptible . . . maybe Gill was scared to tell the truth.”
“Because she’d be losing her supplier?” Rebus pretended to guess. He turned towards Addison. “The friend’s called Nancy Sievewright, by the way—mean anything to you?”
“I’ve never met her.”
“One of your colleagues has, though—name of Roger Anderson. Seems he can’t keep away from her.”
“I know Roger,” Addison admitted. “He was there when that poet’s body was found.”
“Found by Nancy Sievewright,” Rebus stressed.
“And does any of this,” Corbyn broke in, “really concern Gill?”
“She lied to a murder inquiry.”
“And now she’s told you the truth,” Corbyn pressed. “Surely that’s good enough?”
“Not really, sir.” He turned to Addison. “Here’s another name for you—Stuart Janney.”
“Yes?”
“He works for you, too.”
“He works for the bank rather than for me personally.”
“And spends his days hanging out with MSPs and trying to protect dodgy Russians.”
“Now wait a minute.” Addison’s fleshy face had gone from pink to red, highlighting razor rash at the neck.
“I’ve just been talking with my colleagues,” Rebus plowed on, “about how everything’s connected. Country the size of Scotland, city as small as Edinburgh, you start to see the truth of it. Your bank’s hoping to do some big deals with the Russians, isn’t it? Maybe you took some time out of your busy schedule for a round of golf with them at Gleneagles? Stuart Janney making sure everything went smoothly . . . ?”
“I really don’t see what any of this has to do with my step daughter.”
“Might be a bit embarrassing if it turns out she’s linked to the Todorov murder . . . doesn’t matter how many degrees of separation you try to make out there are. She leads straight to you, straight to the top of FAB. Don’t suppose Andropov and his pals will be too thrilled with that.”
Corbyn banged his fists against the table, eyes like burning coals. Addison was shaking, levering himself to his feet. “This was a mistake,” he was saying. “I blame myself for not wanting to see her hurt.”
“Michael,” Corbyn started to say, but then broke off, having nothing with which to finish the sentence.
“I notice your stepdaughter hasn’t taken your surname, sir,” Rebus said. “Doesn’t stop her asking for favors, though, does it? And that lovely apartment of hers—owned by the bank, is it?”
Addison’s overcoat and scarf were hanging on a peg behind the door, and that was his destination.
“An appeal to common decency, that’s all,” the banker was saying, more to himself than anyone else. He’d managed to get one arm into a sleeve but was struggling with the other. Nevertheless, his need to get out was too great, and the coat was hanging off him as he left. The door stayed open. Corbyn and Rebus were on their feet, facing each other.
“That seemed to go well,” Rebus commented.
“You’re a bloody fool, Rebus.”
“What happened to ‘John’? Reckon he’ll hike your mortgage, just out of spite?”
“He’s a good man—and a personal friend,” Corbyn spat.
“And his stepdaughter is a lying drug user.” Rebus offered a shrug. “Like they say, you can’t choose your family. You
can,
however, choose your friends . . . but FAB’s friends seem to be a fairly rum bunch, too.”
“First Albannach is one of the few bloody success stories this country has!” Corbyn erupted again.
“Doesn’t make them the good guys.”
“I suppose you opt to see yourself as the ‘good guy’?” Corbyn let out a jagged laugh. “Christ, you’ve got a nerve.”
“Was there anything else, sir? Maybe a neighbor who wants CID to focus its scant resources on the theft of a garden gnome?”
“Just one last thing.” Corbyn had seated himself again. His next three words were spaced evenly. “You . . . are . . . history.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“I mean it. I know you’ve got three days left till retirement, but you’re going to spend them on suspension.”
Rebus stared hard at the man. “Isn’t that just a tiny bit petty and pathetic, sir?”
“In which case, you’re going to love the rest of it.” Corbyn took a deep breath. “If I hear you’ve so much as crossed the threshold at Gayfield Square, I’ll demote each and every officer within your compass. What I want you to do, Rebus, is crawl away from here and tick off the days on the calendar. You’re no longer a serving detective and never will be.” He held out the palm of one hand. “Warrant card, please.”
“Want to fight me for it?”
“Only if you’re ready to spend time in the cells. I
think
we could hold you for three days without too much trouble.” The hand twitched, inviting Rebus’s cooperation. “I can think of at least three chief constables before me who would love to be here right now,” Corbyn cooed.
“Me, too,” Rebus agreed. “We’d get a barbershop quartet going and sing about the fuckwit sitting in front of us.”
“And
that,
” Corbyn added triumphantly, “is the reason you’re being suspended.”
Rebus couldn’t believe the hand was still there. “You want my warrant card,” he said quietly, “send the boys round for it.” He turned and headed for the door. There was a secretary standing there, clutching a file to her chest, eyes and mouth gawping. Rebus confirmed with a nod that her ears had not deceived her, and mouthed the word “fuckwit,” just to be on the safe side.