Authors: Ian Rankin
‘That’s answer enough,’ Rebus said. He looked to Smylie, who nodded. They were being screwed around by Special Branch. But why?
‘I see something’s on your mind,’ said Yates. ‘Want to tell me about it? I’d like to hear what you know.’
Rebus placed the folder on the desk. ‘Then come to Edinburgh some time, maybe we’ll tell you.’
Yates placed all four legs of his chair on the floor. When he looked at Rebus, his face was stone, his eyes fire. ‘No need to be like that,’ he said quietly.
‘Why not? We’ve wasted a whole day for four sheets of filing paper, all because you wouldn’t send it to us!’
‘It’s nothing personal, Inspector, it’s security. Wouldn’t matter if you were the Chief fucking Constable. Perspectives tend to change when your arse is in the line of fire.’
If Yates was looking for the sympathy vote, Rebus wasn’t about to place a cross in his box. ‘The Prods haven’t always been as keen as the Provos, have they? What’s going on?’
‘First off, they’re loyalists, not Prods. Prods means Protestants, and we’re dealing only with a select few, not with all of them. Second, they’re Provies, not Provos. Third … we’re not sure. There’s a younger leadership, a keener leadership. Plus like I say, they’re not happy just to let the security forces get on with it. See, the loyalist paramilitaries have always had a problem. They’re supposed to be on the same side as the security forces, they’re supposed to be law-abiding. That’s changed. They feel threatened. Just now they’re the majority, but it won’t always be that way. Plus the British government’s more concerned with its international image than with a few hard-line loyalists, so it’s paying more attention to the Republic. Put all that together and you get disillusioned loyalists, and plenty of them. The loyalist paramilitaries used to have a bad image. A lot of their operations went wrong, they didn’t have the manpower or the connections or the international support of the IRA.
‘These days they seem to be better organised though, not so much blatant racketeering. A lot of the thugs have been put off the Road … that is, put off the Shankill Road, as in banished.’
‘But at the same time they’re arming themselves,’ Rebus said.
‘It’s true,’ added Smylie. ‘In the past, whenever we caught them red-handed on the mainland, we used to find gelignite or sodium chlorate, now we’re finding rocket launchers and armour-piercing shells.’
‘Red-handed.’ Yates smiled at that. ‘Oh, it’s getting heavy duty,’ he agreed.
‘But you don’t know why?’
‘I’ve given you all the reasons I can.’
Rebus wondered about that, but didn’t say anything.
‘Look, this is a new thing for us,’ Yates said. ‘We’re used to facing off the Provies, not the loyalists. But now they’ve got Kalashnikovs, RPG-7s, frag grenades, Brownings.’
‘And you’re taking them seriously?’
‘Oh yes, Inspector, we’re taking them seriously. That’s why I want to know what
you
know.’
‘Maybe we’ll tell you over a beer,’ Rebus said.
Yates took them to the Crown Bar. Across the street, most of the windows in the Europa Hotel were boarded up, the result of another bomb. The bomb had damaged the Crown, too, but the damage hadn’t been allowed to linger. It was a Victorian pub, well preserved, with gas lighting and a wall lined with snugs, each with its own table and its own door for privacy. The interior reminded Rebus of several Edinburgh bars, but here he drank stout rather than heavy, and whiskey rather than whisky.
‘I know this place,’ he said.
‘Been here before, eh?’
‘Inspector Rebus,’ Smylie explained, ‘was in the Army in Belfast.’
So then Rebus had to tell Yates all about it, all about 1969. He wasn’t getting it out of his system; he could still feel the pressure inside him. He remembered the republican drinking club again, and the way they’d gone in there swinging wildly, some of the toms more enthusiastic than others. What would he say if he met any of the men they’d beaten? Sorry didn’t seem enough. He wouldn’t talk about it, but he told Yates a few other stories. Talking was okay, and drinking was okay too. The thought of the return flight didn’t bother him so much after two pints and a nip. By the time they were in the Indian restaurant eating an early lunch in a private booth a long way from any other diners, Smylie had grown loquacious, but it was all mental arm-wrestling, comparing and contrasting the two police forces, discussing manpower, back-up, arrest sheets, drug problems.
As Yates pointed out, leaving aside terrorism, Northern Ireland had one of the lowest crime rates going, certainly for serious crimes. There were the usual housebreakings and car-jackings, but few rapes and murders. Even the rougher housing schemes were kept in check by the paramilitaries, whose punishments went beyond incarceration.
Which brought them back to Mary King’s Close. Were they any nearer, Rebus wondered, to finding out why Billy Cunningham had been tortured and killed and who had killed him? The letters SaS on an arm, the word Nemo on the floor, the style of the assassination and Cunningham’s own sympathies. What did it all add up to?
Yates meantime talked a little more freely, while helping Smylie polish off the remaining dishes. He admitted they weren’t all angels in the RUC, which did not exactly surprise Rebus and Smylie, but Yates said they should see some of the men in the Ulster Defence Regiment, who were so fair-minded that their patrols had to be accompanied by RUC men keeping an eye on them.
‘You were here in ’69, Inspector, you’ll remember the B Specials? The UDR was formed to replace the B Spesh. The same madmen joined. See, if a loyalist wants to do something for his cause, all he has to do is join the UDR or the RUC Reserve. That fact has kept the UDA and UVF small.’
‘Is there still collusion between the security forces and the loyalists?’
Yates pondered that one over a belch. ‘Probably,’ he said, reaching for his lager. ‘The UDR used to be terrible, so did the Royal Irish Rangers. Now, it’s not so widespread.’
‘Either that or better hidden,’ said Rebus.
‘With cynicism like that, you should join the RUC.’
‘I don’t like guns.’
Yates wiped at his plate with a final sliver of nan bread. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘the essential difference between us. I get to shoot people.’
‘It’s a big difference,’ Rebus suggested.
‘All the difference in the world,’ Yates agreed.
Smylie had gone quiet. He was wiping his own plate with bread.
‘Do the loyalists get aid from overseas?’ Rebus asked.
Yates sat back contentedly. ‘Not as much as the republicans. The loyalists probably rake in £150,000 a year from the mainland, mostly to help families and convicted members. Two-thirds of that comes from Scotland. There are pockets of sympathisers abroad – Australia, South Africa, the US and Canada. Canada’s the big one. The UVF have some Ingrams submachine guns just now that were shipped from Toronto. Why do you want to know?’
Rebus and Smylie shared a look, then Smylie started to talk. Rebus was happy to let him: this way, Yates only got to know what Smylie knew, rather than what Rebus suspected. Toronto: headquarters of The Shield. When Smylie had finished, Rebus asked Yates a question.
‘This group, Sword and Shield, I didn’t see any names on the file.’
‘You mean individuals?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Well, it’s all pretty low-key. We’ve got suspicions, but the names wouldn’t mean anything to you.’
‘Try me.’
Yates considered, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
‘For instance, who’s the leader?’
‘We haven’t breached their command structure … not yet.’
‘But you have your suspicions?’
Yates smiled. ‘Oh yes. There’s one bastard in particular.’ His voice, already low, dropped lower still. ‘Alan Fowler. He was UVF, but left after a disagreement. A right bad bastard, I think the UVF were glad to be shot of him.’
‘Can I have a photo? A description?’
Yates shrugged. ‘Why not? He’s not my problem just now anyway.’
Rebus put down his glass. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because he took the ferry to Stranraer last week. A car picked him up and drove him to Glasgow.’ Yates paused. ‘And that’s where we lost him.’
Ormiston was waiting at the airport with a car.
Rebus didn’t like Ormiston. He had a huge round face marked with freckles, and a semi-permanent grin too close to a sneer for comfort. His hair was thickly brown, always in need of a comb or a cut. He reminded Rebus of an overgrown schoolboy. Seeing him at his desk next to the bald and schoolmasterly Blackwood was like seeing the classroom dunce placed next to the teacher so an eye could be kept on his work.
But there was something particularly wrong with Ormiston this afternoon. Not that Rebus really cared. All he cared about was the headache which had woken him on the approach to Edinburgh. A midday drinking headache, a glare behind the eyes and a stupor further back in the brain. He’d noticed at the airport, the way Ormiston was looking at Smylie, Smylie not realising it.
‘Got any paracetamol on you?’ Rebus asked.
‘Sorry.’ And he caught Rebus’s eye again, as if trying to communicate something. Normally he was a nosy bugger, yet he hadn’t asked about their trip. Even Smylie noticed this.
‘What is it, Ormiston? A vow of
omerta
or something?’
Ormiston still wasn’t talking. He concentrated on his driving, giving Rebus plenty of time for thought. He had things to tell Kilpatrick … and things he wanted to keep to himself for the time being.
When Ormiston stopped the car at Fettes, he turned to Rebus.
‘Not you. We’ve got to meet the Chief somewhere.’
‘What?’
Smylie, half out of his door, stopped. ‘What’s up?’
Ormiston just shook his head. Rebus looked to Smylie. ‘See you later then.’
‘Aye, sure.’ And Smylie got out, relieving the car’s suspension. As soon as he’d closed the door, Ormiston moved off.
‘What is it, Ormiston?’
‘Best if the Chief tells you himself.’
‘Give me a clue then.’
‘A murder,’ Ormiston said, changing up a gear. ‘There’s been a murder.’
The scene had been cordoned off.
It was a narrow street of tall tenements. St Stephen Street had always enjoyed a rakish reputation, something to do with its mix of student flats, cafes and junk shops. There were several bars, one of them catering mainly to bikers. Rebus had heard a story that Nico, ex-Velvet Underground, had lived here for a time. It could be true. St Stephen Street, connecting the New Town to Raeburn Place, was a quiet thoroughfare which still managed to exude charm and seediness in equal measures.
The tenements either side of the street boasted basements, and a lot of these were flats with their own separate stairwells and entrances. Patience lived in just such a flat not seven minutes’ walk away. Rebus walked carefully down the stone steps. They were often worn and slippy. At the bottom, in a sort of damp courtyard, the owner or tenant of the flat had attempted to create a garden of terracotta pots and hanging baskets. But most of the plants had died, probably from lack of light, or perhaps from rough treatment at the hands of the builders. Scaffolding stretched up the front of the tenement, much of it covered with thick polythene, crackling in the breeze.
‘Cleaning the façade,’ someone said. Rebus nodded. The front door of the flat faced a whitewashed wall, and in the wall were set two doors. Rebus knew what these were, they were storage areas, burrowed out beneath the surface of the pavement. Patience had almost identical doors, but never used the space for anything; the cellars were too damp. One of the doors stood open. The floor was mostly moss, some of which was being scraped into an evidence-bag by a SOCO.
Kilpatrick, watching this, was listening to Blackwood, who ran his left hand across his pate, tucking an imaginary hair behind his ear. Kilpatrick saw Rebus.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Sir.’
‘Where’s Smylie?’
Ormiston was coming down the steps. Rebus nodded towards him. ‘The Quiet Man there dropped him at HQ. So what’s the big mystery?’
Blackwood answered. ‘Flat’s been on the market a few months, but not selling. Owner decided to tart it up a bit, see if that would do the trick. Builders turned up yesterday. Today one of them decided to take a look at the cellars. He found a body.’
‘Been there long?’
Blackwood shook his head. ‘They’re doing the postmortem this evening.’
‘Any tattoos?’
‘No tattoos,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Thing is, John, it was Calumn.’ The Chief Inspector looked genuinely troubled, almost ready for tears. His face had lost its colour, and had lengthened as though the muscles had lost all motivation. He massaged his forehead with a hand.
‘Calumn?’ Rebus shook away his hangover. ‘Calumn Smylie?’ He remembered the big man, in the back of the HGV with his brother. Tried to imagine him dead, but couldn’t. Especially not here, in a cellar …
Kilpatrick blew his nose loudly, then wiped it. ‘I suppose I’d better get back and tell Ken.’
‘No need, sir.’
Ken Smylie was standing at street level, gripping the gloss-black railings. He looked like he might uproot the lot. Instead he arched back his head and gave a high-pitched howl, the sound swirling up into the sky as a smattering of rain began to fall.
Smylie had to be ordered to go home, they couldn’t shift him otherwise. Everyone else in the office moved like automatons. DCI Kilpatrick had some decisions to make, chief among them whether or not to tie together the two murder inquiries.
‘He was stabbed,’ he told Rebus. ‘No signs of a struggle, certainly no torture, nothing like that.’ There was relief in his voice, a relief Rebus could understand. ‘Stabbed and dumped. Whoever did it probably saw the For Sale sign outside the flat, didn’t reckon on the body being found for a while.’ He had produced a bottle of Laphroaig from the bottom drawer of his desk, and poured himself a glass.
‘Medicinal,’ he explained. But Rebus declined the offer of a glass. He’d taken three paracetamol washed down with Irn-Bru. He noticed that the level in the Laphroaig bottle was low. Kilpatrick must have a prescription.
‘You think he was rumbled?’