Authors: Ian Rankin
Sir Iain was admiring the view. ‘Wild inaccuracies compounded by conjecture.’
‘Charters had sleeping partners. See, once the fake companies were running, he could apply for grants and other incentives, but to get the companies going in the first place required cash, working capital, and that’s where the sleeping partners came in. He could guarantee a huge return on investment, provided the grant money came through. He was a wizard at playing the system, running rings around it. He made quick money for a lot of people, including Robbie Mathieson. I’m sure Mathieson wouldn’t want anyone to know that the early money for PanoTech
came from ripping off SDA and European Community schemes.
‘Then there’s Haldayne at the US Consulate. He’d met Charters socially, and was keen to make money. As an aside, I’d guess that once he was involved, you were able to pressure Haldayne into helping persuade American companies to move here. Same goes for Robbie Mathieson – he had US connections in the computer industry.’
‘That’s slanderous,’ Sir Iain remarked, his smile unimpeachable.
‘Well, Haldayne’s been to your Royal Circus
pied-à-terre
plenty of times – we’ve got the parking tickets. You must have had
something
to talk about. Charters couldn’t have got away with it, not to the same extent, without a network of friends and people he bribed. Civil servants predominantly. I’ve been asking around, Sir Iain. Eight years ago, you weren’t nearly so high up the pecking order. But then you started a string of successes bringing new business into Scotland, and you started your ascent. And Ruthie Estate must have cost a bit. I wonder, did you buy that in the past eight years?
‘The whole thing worked brilliantly for a long time. Companies came and went, and sometimes their registration documents disappeared with them. Then the SDA became Scottish Enterprise, accounting procedures changed, and nobody was going to be looking back at old projects financed by a dead organisation. But Charters couldn’t stop, and one time he got sloppy, and was caught early on. He pled guilty, protecting his friends and making sure nothing would come out at a trial, and then Gillespie caught a glimpse of something, and it got him wondering. He started digging, and word got back to Charters.’ Rebus paused. ‘You told me once that you liked a bit of intrigue: how am I doing?’
Sir Iain just shrugged, looking bemused.
‘Well,’ said Rebus, ‘I’m just getting to the best bit. Now, who passed the word back to Charters? Because whoever did is partly to blame for Gillespie’s eventual murder. Gillespie had told his story to the Lord Provost – only natural that he’d tell somebody – but he never guessed the Lord Provost would go straight to Mathieson and tell
him
. But what else was he going to do? Mathieson is the biggest employer in his ward; the Lord Provost thought he’d warn him what was coming.’
‘You think Mathieson told Charters?’
‘Possibly. It could have been any of you.’
‘
Us
?’
‘You’re in it up to your cashmere scarf.’
‘Careful what you say, Inspector. Be
very
careful.’
‘Why? So I don’t get a knife in the guts?’
Hunter’s cheeks coloured. ‘That was …’ He swallowed back the rest.
‘Charters’ doing?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Well, someone had to tell Charters in the first place, and they did so knowing
he’d
do something about it, something they were scared to do themselves.’
Sir Iain’s eyes were watering, but it was from the breeze, not contrition.
‘What are you going to do, Inspector?’
‘I’m going to nail as many of you as I can.’
Finally Hunter turned to him. ‘Do you recall what I said to you that day on my estate? Jobs are at risk,
lives
are at risk.’ He sounded grotesquely sincere.
‘It’s all just policy to you, isn’t it?’ Rebus said. ‘No right and wrong, legal and illegal, no fair and corrupt, just politics.’
‘Listen to yourself, man,’ Sir Iain Hunter spat. ‘Who are you, some Old Testament prophet? What gives you the right to hold the scales?’ He dug the tip of his umbrella into
the ground, and waited for his breathing to ease. ‘If you’d look into your heart, you’d see we’re not on opposite sides.’
‘But we are,’ Rebus said determinedly.
‘If this ever became public, there’d be more than a scandal – there’d be a crisis. Trust would be lost, overseas investors and corporations would turn away from Scotland. Don’t tell me you want that.’
Rebus thought of Aidan Dalgety, busying himself with an endless wall – his only answer to frustration and anger. ‘None of it’s worth a single human life,’ he said quietly.
‘I think it is,’ Hunter said. ‘I really do think it is.’
Rebus turned to walk away.
‘Inspector? I’d like you to talk with some people.’
It was the invitation Rebus had been waiting for. ‘When?’
‘Tonight if at all possible. I’ll phone you with the details.’
‘I’ll be at St Leonard’s till six,’ Rebus said, leaving the old man to his view.
But Rebus couldn’t face the police station, so went home instead.
And found, slowly but with growing confidence, that his flat had been broken into in his absence. It was a clean, meticulous job. There were no signs of forced entry, nothing had been taken, almost nothing looked out of place. But his books had been moved. He had them in what looked like unplanned towers, but were actually the order in which he’d bought them and intended to read them. One of the towers had been knocked over and put back up again out of order. His drawers had been closed, too, though he always left them open. And his record collection had been rifled – as if he could hide sacks of shredded paper inside album sleeves …
He sat down with a glass of whisky and tried not to think
any thoughts. If he thought, he might not act. He might drop out, like Dalgety, and let them get on with it. He loathed Sir Iain Hunter for the way he used people. But then Paul Duggan used people too, if it came down to it. Kirstie, too, had used and abused her friends. Everybody used someone. The difference was, Sir Iain and his kind had everything – heart, soul, silver and gold – only nobody knew it, never even gave it a thought.
What was more, probably nobody cared.
His phone rang at seven.
‘I did try St Leonard’s,’ Sir Iain said. ‘They told me you’d not been back this afternoon.’
‘Don’t worry, your friends had left before I got back.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing, forget it. But hear this: Gillespie’s files are in a safe place, and I mean
safe
.’
‘You’re not making much sense, Inspector.’
‘Is that for the benefit of anyone listening in?’
‘I only called to remind you of our meeting. Nine tonight, would that suit?’
‘Let me just check my social calendar.’
‘You know Gyle Park West?’
‘I know it.’
‘The PanoTech factory. You’ll be expected at nine.’
PanoTech had won awards for the design of its Gyle Park West factory, with its automated shopfloor delivery system (a series of robot fork-lifts on a network of rails), and its bulbous shape with optimised interior light. The reception area was chrome and grey metal with a black rubberised floor.
There was a security guard on the desk, but Rebus was expected. As he walked through the automatic doors, an automatic voice telling him he was entering a ‘Positively No Smoking Zone’, he saw Sir Iain Hunter standing by a display case. There was a sheet over the case, but Sir Iain had lifted it, the better to inspect the model beneath.
‘The new LABarum building,’ he explained. ‘They’ll start construction in the spring.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘New jobs, Inspector.’
‘And another feather in your cap. What’ll it be this time –
Lord
Hunter of Ruthie?’
Sir Iain’s smile evaporated. ‘They’re waiting for us in the boardroom.’
They took a bright elevator to the third and top floor, and emerged into a compact hallway with three doors off. Sir Iain pressed four numbers on a wall console, and pushed open one of the doors. Inside, three men were waiting, standing by the window. A light airplane was taking off from Turnhouse, so close you could almost see the exhausted executives inside.
Rebus looked at Haldayne first, then at J Joseph
Simpson, and finally at Robbie Mathieson. ‘The gang’s all here,’ he commented.
‘That’s a cheap shot.’ Mathieson came forward to take Rebus’s hand. He was wearing an expensive suit, but showed he’d put aside the day’s cares by having shed his tie and undone the top button of his shirt.
‘Good of you to come,’ he told Rebus, with what some people would have taken for sincerity.
‘Good of you to ask me,’ Rebus said, playing the game.
Mathieson waved a hand around the room. It had cream walls, some blown-up photos of computer chips, and a dozen framed awards for export, industry and achievement. There was a large oval table placed centrally, black like the floor. ‘I have this place swept for bugs once a week, Inspector. Industrial espionage is a constant threat. Unfortunately, this meeting was arranged at short notice …’
‘So?’
‘So I don’t have any of the relevant devices to hand. How can I be sure
you’re
not bugged?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
Mathieson tried to look embarrassed. It was just an act. ‘I’d like you to remove your clothes.’
‘Nobody said it was going to be that sort of party.’
Mathieson smiled, but angled his head, expecting compliance.
‘Anyone want to join me?’ Rebus said, removing his jacket.
Sir Iain Hunter laughed.
Rebus studied the four men as he stripped. Simpson looked the most ill at ease; probably because he was the least of the group. Haldayne had seated himself at the table and was toying with a fat chrome pen, as if already bored with proceedings. Mathieson stood by the window, averting
his eyes from the disrobing. But Sir Iain stood fast and watched.
Rebus got down to underpants and socks.
‘Thank you,’ Mathieson said. ‘Please get dressed again, and I apologise for putting you through that.’ He was using his business voice, deep and confident, the American burr touched with Scots inflexions. ‘Let’s all sit down.’
Simpson hadn’t even reached his chair before he started blurting out that he didn’t know what he was doing here, it was all such a long time ago …
‘You’re here, Joe,’ Mathieson reminded him firmly, ‘because you broke the law of the land. We all did.’
Then he turned to Rebus.
‘Inspector, a long time ago, almost in another age, we all profited from enterprises set up and run by Derwood Charters. Now, the question in court would be: did we know at the time that those profits were being made by fraudulent means?’ He shrugged. ‘That’s a question for the lawyers, and you know how lawyers can be, especially with questions of corporate law. They might take years and several million pounds to come to their conclusions. A lot of time, a lot of money …’ He opened his palms wide, a showman with his spiel. ‘And for what? The fact of the matter is, some of those profits – illicitly gained – went to build this very factory, bringing jobs to hundreds, with spin-off benefits creating and sustaining hundreds, maybe thousands more. Including, as you told me yourself, a friend of yours. Now, in
law
, none of this would count for anything – quite rightly so. The law is a stern mistress, that’s what they say.’ A little smile. ‘But the law, I would argue, isn’t everything. There are considerations of a moral, ethical and economic order.’ He raised a finger to stress the point, then touched it to his lips. ‘Moral law, Inspector, is something else again. If bad money is used to good purpose, can it really be called bad money? If a child stole
some apples, then went on to be a life-saving surgeon, would any court convict him of the original theft?’
Mathieson had prepared his lines well. Rebus tried not to listen, but his ears were working too well. Mathieson seemed to sense a change in him, and got up to walk around the table.
‘Now, Inspector, if you want to drag up ancient history, you must do so, but the consequences will rest on
your
conscience. They sure as hell won’t be on mine.’
Rebus wondered if it was possible that Mathieson had compiled a dossier on him, had people watch him, talk to acquaintances. No, those methods would not have told the essential truths, they wouldn’t have revealed the man to whom Mathieson was appealing so subtly and cleverly. It had to be more than that. It had to be instinct.
‘A murder has been committed,’ Rebus said.
Mathieson had been expecting this argument. ‘Not with the knowledge of anyone in this room,’ he said.
‘You’re saying it was Charters alone?’
Mathieson nodded, stroking his beard. Rebus wondered if he’d grown it in memory of Aidan Dalgety. ‘Derwood has most to lose,’ he was explaining. ‘He’s been in prison all these years, and if you make public what you know, he’ll stay there.’
‘But Gillespie was set up by someone he knew. He wouldn’t have been in that alley otherwise.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he was scared.’
‘Then who was it?’ Mathieson asked.
‘I would guess Sir Iain,’ Rebus said. Four pairs of eyes fixed the Permanent Secretary. ‘Maybe Charters himself will tell us. As you say, he’s got most to lose. He might be all too willing to bargain down any extension to his sentence.’
‘This is preposterous,’ Hunter said, thumping the floor with his cane.
‘Is it?’ Rebus said. ‘You like guns, Sir Iain. You’ve got a whole room full of shotguns. What if I checked them against the records? Would they all be there, or would one be missing – the one you passed on to Shug McAnally?’ Rebus turned to Mathieson. ‘I want him. I want him tonight. The rest of you, maybe later.’
‘Hold on,’ Haldayne interrupted, ‘what evidence do you have? We’ve told you we don’t know any –’
‘Save your defence, Mr Haldayne. I know Sir Iain’s been controlling you all these years.’
Mathieson was shaking his head slowly. ‘It would be very unfortunate indeed if
any
of this leaked out. If you arrest Sir Iain, you’ll precipitate a media circus as well as political questions. Why can’t you just charge Charters?’