10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (232 page)

‘Well, you’re probably right, that’s probably why he did kill himself. What it doesn’t explain is the manner.’

‘You mean, why would he pick on a city councillor to witness his last rites?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Have you tried asking the councillor?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he say?’ Charters was trying to sound casually curious. Rebus stared at him.

‘Do you know the councillor?’ he asked.

‘Never met him.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

Charters sat back and folded his arms. ‘Now you’re learning subtlety, Inspector. Our contest can only improve.’

‘It’s not a game of chess, Mr Charters.’

Charters looked penitent. ‘Of course not, I’m sorry.’

‘Do you know the councillor?’ Rebus repeated.

‘I read newspapers, Inspector, I keep up with events. So to a certain extent, yes, I
know
Councillor Gillespie.’

‘And does he know you?’

‘Why should he?’

It was Rebus’s turn to smile. Charters had used the word ‘subtlety’. Rebus was learning that he must needs be oblique.

‘You ran a company called Mensung, didn’t you?’

‘A long time ago, yes.’ Rebus noticed that though he was outwardly well groomed, Charters’ teeth were the colour of dead fish. ‘I like these tangents, Inspector. Your mind moves in mysterious ways. Difficult to
zugzwang
someone who plays so erratically. Why are you interested in a company I wound up seven years ago?’

‘I told a friend of mine I was coming to speak to you. He said he attended some retraining seminars held by Mensung on Corstorphine Road.’

The response seemed to satisfy Charters. ‘Which company did he work for?’

‘He didn’t say. He still works in electronics, for one of PanoTech’s subcontractors.’

‘Then maybe the seminars did him some good.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I heard a story that you helped finance PanoTech when the company was in its infancy.’

Charters raised an eyebrow. ‘Stories tend to become confused over time.’

‘You’d nothing to do with it then?’ Charters shook his head. ‘By the way, why did Mensung go bust?’

‘It didn’t “go bust” – I wound it up. I was bored with it, and couldn’t find anyone to buy me out.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m
easily bored.’ He got up and started pacing the room again. ‘You know, Inspector, you told me you were here to ask a few questions about Hugh. We’ve strayed a long way from that particular topic, wouldn’t you say?’

Rebus stood up.

‘Going so soon?’

‘You’re enjoying yourself too much,
Derry
. This isn’t supposed to be fun. A man’s dead.’

Charters stopped pacing. ‘A man who was dying anyway. A man who chose his own route out. Luckier than most of us, I’d wager. If the doctors told me I had only a few agonising months to live, I think I’d go find myself a gun, too. But the world would look so unfair to my eyes – all those people so alive and vibrant around me, all those ill people being cured in hospitals – maybe I’d want a witness to the injustice of it all, someone representing authority in my eyes and the eyes of those around me. Maybe I’d want him to
see
my agony, to share in my horror. It would have to be an easy target though . . . and a councillor is such an easy target – accessible, public, approachable. I’d be making a point to the world. I would
refuse
to die in silence!’

The silence after Charters had finished was resonant. He had worked himself up to a pitch, and now calmed only slowly. There had been anger in his voice, and fervour, and conviction. His eyes were on Rebus’s.
He’d make a damned good salesman
.

‘I don’t buy it,’ Rebus said, going to the door.

‘Inspector.’ Rebus paused. ‘You called me “Derry” – that was a cheap shot. Apart from that, you did pretty well.’ He paced the floor again. ‘Hugh didn’t really talk about his wife that often. There was another woman . . . he described her so accurately, I could probably paint her for you even now. Her name was Maisie. He talked about her all the time. I think he loved her more than anyone in the world. Perhaps you should talk to her.’

‘I already have, Mr Charters.’

Rebus left the cell feeling that Charters had given a name to his own feelings about the investigation, Willie and Dixie, and life in general.

The word was
zugzwang
.

It was four a.m. when his phone rang. He came awake, but left it to ring. Four a.m., news just had to be bad. The caller persisted, and at last Rebus picked up the receiver.

‘Mr Rebus?’

A young voice, insolent, a bit drunk. Loud music and voices in the background: a party.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Paul. Paul Duggan.’

‘Paul, nice of you to call.’

‘Is it late? I don’t have my watch on.’

‘It sounds like a great party, Paul. Give me the address and I’ll drop by with a few uniforms.’

‘Don’t be like that Mr Rebus. I bring glad tidings. I’ve found her.’

‘Kirstie Kennedy?’

‘Aye.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Not bad for a junkie.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘Listen, she’s adamant she’s not going home. She says her stepmum’s a lunatic.’

‘I’d like to see her. There’s no question of her having to go home.’

‘I don’t know.’ Duggan sounded doubtful.

‘Paul, don’t hang up! Listen, would she talk to me if I paid her?’

‘Look, I’ll have a word with her. No promises, but I’ll have a word, see what she says.’

‘Just do me a favour. Phone in daylight next time.’

‘If you’re lucky, I might even phone when I’m sober.’

It was eight a.m. when his phone next rang.

‘Yes?’ he croaked, trying to find some saliva in his mouth.

‘John?’ It was the Farmer’s voice.

Here it comes, thought Rebus. ‘Morning, sir. What’s it to be – reprimand, suspension, or dismissal?’

‘Damn you, John. I had a hell of a weekend because of you.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I never meant to get you into trouble.’

‘That’s your problem, Inspector – you’re selfish, no other word for it. I think you know damned well that these obsessions of yours end up damaging everyone around you, friend, foe and civilians alike.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But it doesn’t bother you, does it?’ Rebus didn’t answer. The Farmer had obviously been preparing his speech for a while. ‘As long as your own personal morality is satisfied, that’s all that counts. Sod everybody else, isn’t that right?’

‘It feels that way sometimes, sir,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘Well, maybe you should consider that morality of yours, because it’s no code
I’d
want to live with.’

‘You don’t have to live with it, sir. I do.’

‘Well, you lead a charmed existence, that’s all I can say.’

Rebus frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I’ve discussed things with the DCC. He said he’d apologise to the Lord Provost on your behalf. He also said
he thought HMIC would be investigating F Troop instead of us.’

F Troop: meaning F Division, Livingston. ‘What are you saying, sir?’

‘I’m saying I want you back here. The holiday’s over. Report to my office this morning.’

‘I’ve a dentist’s appointment.’

‘Well, this afternoon then.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Look, John, have you and the DCC had any contact?’

‘I’ve been on holiday, sir.’

‘Yes, but all the same?’

‘Well, maybe I did bump into him by the pool . . .’

It was another grim day. No snow or ice, but a freezing wind and gusts of rain, the sky oppressively weighted with cloud. It was like the city was in a box, and someone had pushed the lid on too tightly.

Rebus’s second visit to Dr Keene wasn’t so traumatic. You could get used to anything. The tooth had drained nicely, and Keene did the root canal while Rebus concentrated on the photograph on the ceiling. He plotted Paul Duggan’s property portfolio. Maybe Duggan had a point: nobody was suggesting he was overcharging his ‘tenants’ – he was making a profit out of each house and flat, but nothing outrageous. And meantime, he was putting roofs over heads. Rebus knew there might needs be a trade-off: if he wanted to see Kirstie, Duggan might want Rebus to put in a good word come trial time. Always supposing it came to trial. The district council was about to be replaced with another body. Who knew what would be written off?

Suddenly, something clicked in Rebus’s brain. He saw something he should have seen before. He was so busy thinking that he didn’t hear Dr Keene say that, while Rebus was there, he might as well start on the fillings . . .

There were no cheers, no banners or bunting as Rebus walked back into St Leonard’s and poured himself a cup of coffee.

‘A word to the wise,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

‘What?’

‘You’re pouring coffee down your tie.’

It was true: with his mouth still numb, he was dribbling. He went to the toilets and pulled out a clump of paper towels, soaked them in water and dabbed at his tie.

‘Here he is,’ said Flower, pushing open the door, ‘the proverbial bad penny.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Rebus retorted. Flower came to the sink and checked his hair in the mirror. ‘I see you managed to start a fire, then take credit for putting it out.’

Flower chuckled. ‘Word gets around, eh?’

‘Speaking of words that get around, I had a chat with someone about your snitch.’

‘Which one?’

‘Shug McAnally. We could all have been spared some grief if you’d told me at the start he was working for you.’

‘It’s not the sort of thing you can publicise. I mean,’ Flower looked around, ‘planting a snitch in somebody’s cell.’

‘You don’t mind telling me now though. Has the DCC had a word?’

‘He said you’d been asking.’ Flower looked unnaturally pleased with himself. Rebus could guess why.

‘You think you’re quids-in with the DCC, don’t you?’

‘Well, if it ever came out about McAnally, the DCC could get into trouble.’ Flower winked. ‘He needs to keep me sweet.’

‘What you mean is, you’ve got him either way. If the plan succeeded, it’d be because of you. If it went badly, it would need covering up – which would take your help.
Gunner would still owe you. That’s why you’ve been blocking me: you didn’t want me getting to the DCC – he’s your little investment.’

Flower chuckled again, and tucked a stray hair back behind his ear. There was a sound of flushing from one of the two cubicles. Flower’s head jerked around, his mouth open, as the cubicle door opened and the Farmer came out.

This came as no surprise to Rebus: he’d seen the Farmer enter the toilets just before him.

‘Morning, sir,’ he said.

Flower didn’t say anything. The Farmer pointed at him. ‘My office, Inspector Flower,
now
!’ Then he opened the door and was gone. Flower turned on Rebus.

‘You knew! You bloody well knew!’

Rebus tossed the ball of sodden paper into the bin.

One-nil.

Someone was at the front desk asking for him, that was the message. But when Rebus got there, there was nobody about. Then he saw a figure outside, motioning to him. It was Paul Duggan. He was wearing his long black coat again, but it had a small tear in the sleeve, and a white smudge on one shoulder.

‘Nothing personal like,’ he said when Rebus joined him outside, ‘but I hate police stations.’

‘There’s a café across –’

Duggan was shaking his head. ‘She’s waiting for us.’

‘Kirstie?’ Duggan nodded. ‘Where?’

‘Have you got a car?’

They went to Rebus’s car.

Duggan directed him down the Pleasance and right on Holyrood Road. This was a dispiriting part of town; all empty sites and disused warehouses. The Younger Universe was under construction, and was going to make everything all right again, if you believed the publicity.
Rebus hoped it would succeed; he liked the symbolism: the USA had Disneyland, and Scotland gets a theme park built by a brewery. The theme park would be a neighbour to Holyrood Palace, the monarch’s Edinburgh residence. This, too, Rebus liked.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Just park by the palace gates.’

It was easy to park this time of year; in warmer seasons, the place was a log-jam of tourist coaches. A kid was at the locked gates, peering through them at the palace beyond.

‘Toot your horn,’ Duggan ordered. Rebus did so, to no effect.

‘She’s on another planet.’ Duggan wound down his window. ‘Hiy, Kirstie!’

Slowly the ‘kid’ turned, and Rebus saw a face older than the frame which supported it. Nobody had said Kirstie Kennedy would be so scrawny, so tiny. But as she walked towards the car her face was set like cement. Lipstick, eyeshadow and panstick provided her with a mask. She wore tight black jeans, accentuating her matchstick legs, and a long shapeless black jumper whose arms stretched down past her hands. Her hair was greasy, shoulderlength, tied back with a band. A spiky fringe, dyed blood-red, fell into her eyes. She was chewing gum. She pulled open the back door and climbed in.

‘Hello, Kirstie,’ Rebus said. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I want ice cream.’

Rebus thought of Luca’s, but it was too far. ‘Tollcross?’ he suggested.

Tollcross would do her.

They sat in the ice-cream parlour and she ordered the biggest concoction on the menu, plus a giant Coke. The place was quiet: an old couple, smoking and drinking frothy
coffee; a harassed mother hissing at her two children who were arguing over bowls of garish ice cream.

Rebus had ordered coffee, Duggan orange juice and some apple pie with cream. Rebus remembered that he used to bring Sammy in here when she was a kid. He looked at the Lord Provost’s daughter and tried to remember she was seventeen.

‘Paul says you want a word.’ Her voice was polite in a way no attitude could hide. Rebus knew that her street diction, her low-class language, had been only recently learned.

‘How long have you been on the Bob Hope, Kirstie?’

‘You mean the Merry?’

Duggan looked at Rebus. ‘Merry Mac, crack,’ he explained.

‘Long enough,’ Kirstie answered.

‘Long enough to be tired of it?’

‘Long enough to know you never get tired of it.’ Her ice cream arrived: three different flavours with chocolate sauce, nuts, tinned peaches and wafers. The sight of it made Rebus’s teeth crackle.