Authors: Ian Rankin
Not that he’d any intention of seeing his
own
name in the story. They went through it carefully together, back at the newspaper office. So Rebus got his tour of the building at last. It was a bit disappointing, all stairwell and open-plan and not much action. What action there was centred exclusively on Mairie’s desk and its up-to-date word processor.
There was even a discussion with the editor of the Sunday. They needed to be sure of a few things. It was always like this with unattributed stories. In Scots law, there was no place for uncorroborated evidence. The press seemed to be following suit. But Rebus had a staunch defender in the woman whose byline would appear with the story. After a conference call with the paper’s well-remunerated lawyer, the nod was given and Mairie started to hammer the keyboard into submission.
‘I can’t promise front page,’ the editor warned. ‘Beware the breaking story! As it is, you’ve just knocked a car crash and its three victims to the inside.’
Rebus stayed to watch the whole process. A series of commands on Mairie’s computer sent the text to typesetting, which was done elsewhere in the building. Soon a laser printer was delivering a rough copy of how the front page might look tomorrow morning. And there along the bottom was the headline: GUN RECOVERED IN FIVE-YEAR-OLD MURDER MYSTERY.
‘That’ll change,’ said Mairie. ‘The sub will have a go at it once he’s read the story.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, for one thing, it looks like the murder victim is a five-year-old.’
So it did. Rebus hadn’t noticed. Mairie was staring at him.
‘Isn’t this going to get you in even
more
trouble?’
‘Who’s going to know it was me gave you the story?’
She smiled. ‘Well, let’s start with everyone in the City of Edinburgh Police.’
Rebus smiled too. He’d bought some caffeine pills this morning to keep him moving. They were working fine. ‘If anyone asks,’ he said, ‘I’ll just have to tell them the truth.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘That it wisnae me.’
Rebus dished out yet more money to the students that afternoon to get them out of the flat until midnight. He wondered if it were unique in Scottish social history for a landlord to be paying his own tenants. There were only two of them there, the other two (he’d now established that he had four permanent tenants, whose names he still had trouble with so never tried using) having headed home for purposes of cosseting and feeding-up.
Michael, however, stayed put. Rebus knew he wouldn’t be any bother. He’d either be dozing in the box room or else watching the TV. He didn’t seem to mind if the sound were turned off, just so long as there was a picture to stare at.
Rebus bought a bag of provisions: real coffee, milk, beer, soft drinks, and snacks. Back in the flat he remembered Siobhan was a vegetarian, and cursed himself for buying smoky bacon crisps. Bound to be artificial flavourings though, so maybe it didn’t matter. She arrived at five-thirty.
‘Come in, come in.’ Rebus led her through the long dark hallway to the living room. ‘This is my brother Michael.’
‘Hello, Michael.’
‘Mickey, this is DC Siobhan Clarke.’ Michael nodded his head, blinking slowly. ‘Here, let me take your jacket. How was the game, by the way?’
‘Goalless.’ Siobhan put down her two carrier-bags and slipped off her black leather jacket. Rebus took the jacket into the hall and hung it up. When he came back, he noticed her studying the living room doubtfully.
‘Bit of a tip,’ he said, though he’d spent quarter of an hour tidying it.
‘Big, though.’ She didn’t deny it was a tip. You could hardly see out of the huge sash window. And the carpet looked like it had moulted from a buffalo’s back. As for the wallpaper … she could well understand why the students had tried covering every inch with kd lang and Jesus & Mary Chain posters.
‘Something to drink?’
She shook her head. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ This wasn’t quite what she’d imagined. The zombie brother didn’t help, of course. But he wasn’t much of a distraction either. They got down to work.
An hour later, they had scraped the surface of the files. Siobhan was lying on her side on the floor, legs curled up, one arm supporting her head. She was on her second can of cola. The file was on the floor in front of her. Rebus sat near her on the sofa, files on his lap and in a heap beside him. He had a pen behind his ear, just like a butcher or a turf accountant. Siobhan held her pen in her mouth, tapping it against her teeth when she was thinking. Some bad quiz show was playing to silent hysterics on the TV. For all the reaction on his face, Michael could have been watching a war trial.
He pulled himself out of the chair. ‘I’m going to take forty winks,’ he informed them. Siobhan tried not to look surprised when he made not for the living-room door but for the box room. He closed the door behind him.
‘I’d like two things,’ said Rebus. ‘To identify the murder victim, once and for all.’
‘And to identify the killer?’ Siobhan guessed.
But Rebus shook his head. ‘To place Big Ger at the scene.’
‘There’s no evidence he was anywhere near.’
‘And maybe there never will be. But all the same … We still don’t know who was at the poker game. It can’t just have been the Bru-Head Brothers.’
‘We could talk to all the hotel’s customers that night.’
‘Yes, we could.’ Rebus didn’t sound enthusiastic.
‘Or we could find the brothers – always supposing they’re still alive – and ask them.’
‘Their cousin might know where they are.’
‘Who? Radiator McCallum?’
Rebus nodded. ‘But then we don’t know where he is either. Eddie Ringan was there, but he was never on the official list. Black Aengus wasn’t on the list, and neither were the Bru-Head Brothers. I’m surprised we got any names at all.’
‘We
are
talking about a long time ago.’ Siobhan sounded more relaxed with Michael out of the room.
‘We’re also talking about long memories. Maybe I should have another go at Black Aengus.’
‘Not if you know what’s good for you.’ Siobhan could have said something about Dundee, but she wanted it to be confirmed first, and she wanted it to be a surprise. She’d know by Monday.
The phone rang. Rebus picked it up.
‘John? It’s Patience.’
‘Oh, hello there.’
‘Hello yourself. I thought maybe we’d fix up that date.’
‘Oh, right. For a drink?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? No, I know what it is: you’re just playing hard to get. Don’t push it
too
far, Rebus.’
‘No, it’s not that, I’m just a bit busy right this minute.’ Siobhan seemed to take a hint, and got up, motioning that she’d make some coffee in the kitchen. Rebus nodded.
‘Well, I’m sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re –’
‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Patience. I’ve just got things on my mind.’
‘And I’m not included?’
Rebus made an exasperated sound. From the kitchen there came the louder sound of a sneeze. Aye, those Easter Road terraces could be snell.
‘John,’ said Patience, ‘is there a woman in the flat?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘One of the students?’
He seldom lied to her. ‘No, a colleague. We’re working through some case-notes.’
‘I see.’
Christ, he should have tried lying. His head was too full of the Central Hotel to be able to cope with Patience’s jousting. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘have you got a time and place in mind for that drink?’
But Patience had rung off. Rebus stared at the receiver, shrugged, and placed it on the carpet. He didn’t want any more interruptions.
‘Coffee’s on,’ said Siobhan.
‘Great.’
‘Was it something I said?’
‘What? No, no, just … nothing.’
But Siobhan was canny. ‘She heard me sneeze and thought you had another woman here.’
‘I
do
have another woman here. It’s just the way her mind works … She doesn’t exactly trust me.’
‘And she should trust you?’
Rebus sighed. ‘Tell me about the Robertson brothers again.’
Siobhan sat down on the floor and started to read from the file. From the sofa, Rebus looked down on her. The top of her head, the nape of her neck with its fine pale hairs disappearing into her collar. Small pierced ears …
‘We know they get on well. It was a close family, six kids in a one-bedroom cottage.’
‘What happened to the other brothers and sisters?’
‘Four sisters,’ Siobhan read. ‘Law-abiding wives and mothers these days. The boys were the only wild ones. Both like gambling, especially cards and the horses. Tam is the better card player of the two, but Eck has more luck on the horses … Remember this stuff is six years old, and all hearsay in the first place.’
Rebus nodded. He was remembering the old man in that last pub in Lochgelly, the one who’d come cadging drinks from the painters and decorators. He’d said one of the drawings looked familiar. Then one of the painters had cut him short with a story about how he’d recognise a horse easier than a man. So the old guy was keen on the gee-gees, and so were Eck and Tam.
‘Maybe he saw him in a bookie’s,’ Rebus wondered aloud.
‘Sorry?’
So Rebus told her.
‘It’s worth a try,’ she conceded. ‘What else do we have to go on?’
Rebus had one good contact at Dunfermline CID, Detective Sergeant Hendry. It was rumoured that Hendry was too good at his job ever to merit promotion. Only the incompetent were promoted. It shuffled them out of the way. As a DI, Rebus didn’t necessarily agree. But he knew Hendry should have been an Inspector long ago, and wondered what or who was blocking him. It couldn’t be that Hendry was too abrasive: he was one of the calmest people Rebus had ever met. His hobby, bird-watching, reflected his nature. They’d exchanged home phone numbers once on a case. Yes, it was worth a try.
‘Hello there, Hendry,’ he said. ‘It’s Rebus here.’
‘Rebus, trust you to disturb a working man’s rest.’
‘Been bird-watching?’
‘I saw a spotted woodpecker this morning.’
‘I saw a spotted dick once.’
‘Ah, but I’m not a man of the world like you. So what do you want?’
‘I want you to look in your local phone directory. I’m after bookie’s shops.’
‘Any one in particular?’
‘No, I’m not picky. I need the names and addresses of all of them.’
‘Which towns?’
Rebus thought. ‘Dunfermline, Cowdenbeath, Lochgelly, Cardenden, Kelty, Ballingry. That’ll do for starters.’
‘This could take a bit of time. Can I phone you back?’
‘Aye, sure. And ponder on two names for me. Tom and Eck Robertson. They’re brothers.’
‘Okay. You’re at Arden Street, I hear.’
‘What?’
‘You got the heave from the doctor. What was it, your bedside manner?’
‘Who told you?’
‘Word gets around. Isn’t it true then?’
‘No, it’s not. It’s just that my brother’s here for a … ach, forget it.’
‘Talk to you later.’
Rebus put down the phone. ‘Would you credit that? Every bugger seems to know about Patience and me. Was there a notice in the papers, or something?’
Siobhan smiled. ‘What now?’
‘Hendry’s going to get back with the details. Meantime, we could nip out and get a curry or something.’
‘What if he phones while we’re out?’
‘He’ll try again.’
‘Haven’t you got an answering machine?’
‘I could never get it to work, so I chucked it out. Besides, there are that many bookie’s shops in Fife, Hendry’d be on it for hours.’
They walked to Tollcross, Siobhan insistent that she could do with some fresh air.
‘I thought you’d have had enough of that at the game.’
‘Are you joking?
Fresh air?
Between the smoking and the smells of dead beer and pie-grease …’
‘You’re putting me off my curry.’
‘I bet you’re the vindaloo type too.’
‘Strictly Madras,’ said Rebus.
During the meal, he reasoned that Siobhan might as well toddle off home afterwards. It wasn’t as if they could do anything tonight with the list of betting shops. And tomorrow the shops would be closed. But Siobhan wanted to stick around at least until Hendry phoned.
‘We haven’t covered all the files yet,’ she argued.
‘True enough,’ said Rebus. After the meal, while Siobhan drank a cup of coffee Rebus ordered some takeaway for Michael.
‘Is he all right?’ Siobhan asked.
‘He’s getting better,’ Rebus insisted. ‘Those pills are nearly finished. He’ll be fine once he’s shot of them.’
As if to prove the point, when they got back to the flat Michael was in the kitchen, dunking a teabag in a mug of hot milky water. He looked like he’d just had a shower. He’d also shaved.
‘I fetched you a curry,’ Rebus said.
‘You must be a mind reader.’ Michael sniffed into the brown paper bag. ‘Rogan Josh?’ Rebus nodded and turned to Siobhan. ‘Michael is the city’s Rogan Josh expert.’
‘There was a call while you were out.’ Michael lifted the cardboard containers out of the bag.
‘Hendry?’
‘That was the name.’
‘Did he leave a message?’
Michael unpeeled both cartons, meat and rice. ‘He said you should get a pen and a lot of paper ready.’
Rebus smiled at Siobhan. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s save Hendry’s phone bill.’
‘I’m glad you phoned back,’ were Hendry’s first words. ‘For one thing, I’m due at an indoor bowls tourney in half an hour. For another, this is a big list.’
‘So let’s have it,’ said Rebus.
‘I could fax it to you at the station?’
‘No you couldn’t, I’m out of the game.’
‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘Funny, that; you hear about my love life fast enough. Ready when you are.’
As Hendry reeled off the names, addresses and phone numbers, Rebus relayed them to Siobhan. She claimed to be a fast writer, so was given the job of transcribing. But after ten minutes they switched over, her hand being sore. The final list covered three sides of A4. As well as the basic information, Hendry dropped in snippets of his own, such as licensing wrangles, suspected handling of stolen goods, hangouts for ne’er-do-wells and the like. Rebus was grateful for all of it.