10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (189 page)

‘Just a few questions about Billy.’

‘Billy.’ The dismissive shake of the head told Rebus something.

‘She got on better with Billy than you did, Mr Murdock?’

‘I didn’t dislike the guy.’

‘Was there anything between the two of them?’

But Murdock wasn’t about to answer that. He paced the room again, flapping his arms as though attempting flight. ‘She hasn’t been the same since he died.’

‘It was upsetting for her.’

‘Yes, it was. But to run off . . .’

‘Can I see her room?’

‘What?’

Rebus smiled. ‘It’s what we usually do when someone goes missing.’

Murdock shook his head again. ‘She wouldn’t want that. What if she comes back, and sees someone’s been through her stuff? No, I can’t let you do that.’ Murdock looked ready for physical resistance if necessary.

‘I can’t force you,’ Rebus said calmly. ‘Tell me a bit more about Billy.’

This quietened Murdock. ‘Like what?’

‘Did he like computers?’

‘Billy? He liked video games, so long as they were violent. I don’t know, I suppose he was interested in computers.’

‘He could work one?’

‘Just about. What are you getting at?’

‘Just interested. Three people sharing a flat, two of them work with computers, the third doesn’t.’

Murdock nodded. ‘You’re wondering what we had in common. Look around the city, Inspector, you’ll see flats full of people who’re only there because they need a room or the rent money. In an ideal world, I wouldn’t have needed someone in the spare room at all.’

Rebus nodded. ‘So what should we do about Miss Docherty?’

‘What?’

‘You called me, I came, where do we go from here?’ Murdock shrugged. ‘Normally we’d wait another day or so before listing her missing.’ He paused. ‘Unless there’s reason to suspect foul play.’

Murdock seemed lost in thought, then recovered. ‘Let’s wait another day then.’ He started nodding. ‘Maybe I’m overreacting. I just . . . when Steve told me . . .’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t anything I said to her,’ Rebus lied, getting to his feet. ‘Can I have another look at Billy’s room while I’m here?’

‘It’s been gutted.’

‘Just to refresh my memory.’ Murdock said nothing. ‘Thanks,’ said Rebus.

The small room had indeed been gutted, the bed stripped of duvet and sheet and pillowcase, though the pillow still lay there. It was stained brown, leaking feathers. The bare mattress was pale blue with similar brown patches. There seemed a little more space in the room, but not much. Still, Rebus doubted Murdock would have any trouble finding a new tenant, not with the student season approaching.

He opened the wardrobe to a clanging of empty wire hangers. There was a fresh sheet of newspaper on the floor. He closed the wardrobe door. Between the corner of the bed and the wardrobe there was a clear patch of carpet. It lay hard up against the skirting-board beneath the still unwashed window. Rebus crouched down and tugged at the carpet’s edge. It wasn’t tacked, and lifted an inch or so. He ran his fingers underneath it, finding nothing. Still crouched, he lifted the mattress, but saw only bedsprings and the carpet beneath, thick balls of dust and hair marking the furthest reach of the hoover.

He stood up, glancing at the bare walls. There were small rips in the wallpaper where Blu-Tak had been removed. He looked more closely at one small pattern of these. The wallpaper had come away in two longer strips. Wasn’t this where the pennant had hung? Yes, you could see the hole made by the drawing-pin. The pennant had hung from a maroon cord which had been pinned to the wall. Meaning the pennant had been hiding these marks. They didn’t look so old. The lining paper beneath was clean and fresh, as though the Sellotape had been peeled off recently.

Rebus put his fingers to the two stripes. They were about three inches apart and three inches long. Whatever had been taped there, it had been square and thin. Rebus knew exactly what would fit that description.

Out in the hall, Murdock was waiting to leave.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ Rebus said.

The Carlton sounded like another old ladies’ tea-room, but in fact was a transport cafe with famed large helpings. When Mairie Henderson finally got back to Rebus, he suggested taking her to lunch there. It was on the shore at Newhaven, facing the Firth of Forth just about where that broad inlet became inseparable from the North Sea.

Lorries bypassing Edinburgh or heading to Leith from the north would usually pause for a break outside the Carlton. You saw them in a line by the sea wall, between Starbank Road and Pier Place. The drivers thought the Carlton well worth a detour, even if other road users and the police didn’t always appreciate their sentiments.

Inside, the Carlton was a clean well-lit place and as hot as a truck engine. For air conditioning, they kept the front door wedged open. You never ate alone, which was why Rebus phoned in advance and booked a table for two.

‘The one between the counter and the toilets,’ he specified.

‘Did I hear you right?
Book
a table?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Nobody’s
booked
a table all the years we’ve been open.’ The chef held the phone away from his face. ‘Hiy, Maggie, there’s somebody here wants tae
book
a table.’

‘Cut the shite, Sammy, it’s John Rebus speaking.’

‘Special occasion is it, Mr Rebus? Anniversary? I’ll bake yis a cake.’

‘Twelve o’clock,’ said Rebus, ‘and make sure it’s the table I asked for, okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’

So when Rebus walked into the Carlton, and Sammy saw him, Sammy whipped a dishtowel off the stove and came sauntering between the tables, the towel over his arm.

‘Your table is ready, sir, if you’ll follow me.’

The drivers were grinning, a few of them offering encouragement. Maggie stood there holding a pillar of empty white plates, and attempted a curtsy as Rebus went past. The small Formica-topped table was laid for two, with a bit of card folded in half and the word RESERVED written in blue biro. There was a clean sauce bottle, into the neck of which someone had pushed a plastic carnation.

He saw Mairie look through the cafe window, then come in through the door. The drivers looked up.

‘Room here, sweetheart.’

‘Hiy, hen, sit on my lap, no’ his.’

They grinned through the smoke, cigarettes never leaving their mouths. One of them ate camel-style, lower jaw moving in sideways rotation while his upper jaw chewed down. He reminded Rebus so strongly of Ormiston, he had to look away. Instead he looked at Mairie. Why not, everyone else was. They were staring without shame at her bum as she moved between the tables. True to form, Mairie had worn her shortest skirt. At least, Rebus hoped it was her shortest. And it was tight, one of those black Lycra numbers. She wore it with a baggy white t-shirt and thick black tights whose vertical seams showed pinpricks of white leg flesh. She’d pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and swung her shoulder-bag onto the floor as she took her seat.

‘I see we’re in the members’ enclosure.’

‘It took money but I thought it was worth it.’

Rebus studied her while she studied the wall-board which constituted the Carlton’s menu.

‘You look good,’ he lied. Actually, she looked exhausted.

‘Thanks. I wish I could say the same.’

Rebus winced. ‘I looked as good as you at your age.’

‘Even in a mini-skirt?’ She leaned down to lift a pack of cigarettes from her bag, giving Rebus a view of her lace-edged bra down the front of her t-shirt. When she came up again he was frowning.

‘Okay, I won’t smoke.’

‘It stunts your growth. And speaking of health warnings, what about that story of yours?’

But Maggie came over, so they went through the intricacies of ordering. ‘We’re out of Moët Shandy,’ Maggie said.

‘What was that about?’ Mairie asked after Maggie had gone.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You were about to tell me . . .?’

‘Was I?’ She smiled. ‘How much do you know?’

‘I know you’ve been working on a story, a chunk of which you’ve sold to
Snoop
but the bulk of which is destined for some US magazine.’

‘Well, you know quite a lot then.’

‘You took the story to your own paper first?’

She sighed. ‘Of course I did, but they wouldn’t print it. The company lawyers thought it was close to libel.’

‘Who were you libelling?’

‘Organisations rather than individuals. I had a blow-up with my editor about it, and handed in my resignation. His line was that the lawyers were paid to be over-cautious.’

‘I bet their fees aren’t over-cautious.’ Which reminded him: Caro Rattray. He still had to contact her.

‘I was planning on going freelance anyway, just not quite so soon. But at least I’m starting with a strong story. A few months back I got a letter from a New York journalist. His name’s Jump Cantona.’

‘Sounds like a car.’

‘Yes, a four-by-four, that’s just what I thought. Anyway, Jump’s a well known writer over there, investigations with a capital I. But then of course it’s easier in the US.’

‘How’s that?’

‘You can go further before someone starts issuing writs. Plus you’ve got more freedom of information. Jump needed someone this end, following up a few leads. His name comes first in the main article, but any spin-offs I write, I get sole billing.’

‘So what have you found?’

‘A can of worms.’ Maggie was coming with their food. She heard Mairie’s closing words and gave her a cold look as she placed the fry-up in front of her. For Rebus, there was a half-portion of lasagne and a green salad.

‘How did Cantona find you?’ Rebus asked.

‘Someone I met when I was on a journalism course in New York. This guy knew Cantona was looking for someone who could do some digging in Scotland. I was the obvious choice.’ She attacked four chips with her fork. Chewing, she reached for the salt, vinegar, and tomato sauce. After momentary consideration, she poured some brown sauce on as well.

‘I knew you’d do that,’ Rebus said. ‘And it still disgusts me.’

‘You should see me with mustard and mayonnaise. I hear you got moved to SCS.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Why?’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were keeping an eye on me.’

‘Only, they were there at Mary King’s Close, a murder that looks like an execution. Then next thing you’re off to SCS, and I know SCS are investigating gun-running with an Irish slant.’ Maggie arrived with two cans of Irn-Bru. Mairie checked hers was cold enough before opening it. ‘Are we working on the same story?’

‘The police don’t have stories, Mairie, we have cases. And it’s hard to answer your question without seeing your story.’

She slipped a hand into her shoulder-bag and pulled out several sheets of neatly typed paper. The document had been stapled and folded in half. Rebus could see it was a photocopy.

‘Not very long,’ he said.

‘You can read it while I eat.’

He did. But all it did was put a lot of speculative meat on the bones he already had. Mostly it concentrated on the North American angle, mentioning the IRA fundraising in passing, though the Orange Loyal Brigade was mentioned, as was Sword and Shield.

‘No names,’ Rebus commented.

‘I can give you a few, off the record.’

‘Gavin and Jamesie MacMurray?’

‘You’re stealing my best lines. Do you have anything on them?’

‘What do you think we’ll find, a garden shed full of grenade launchers?’

‘That could be pretty close.’

‘Tell me.’

She took a deep breath. ‘We can’t put anything in print yet, but we think there’s an Army connection.’

‘You mean stuff from the Falklands and the Gulf? Souvenirs?’

‘There’s too much of it for it to be souvenirs.’

‘What then? The stuff from Russia?’

‘Much closer to home. You know stuff walks out of Army bases in Northern Ireland?’

‘I’ve heard of it happening.’

‘Same thing happened in the ’70s in Scotland, the Tartan Army got stuff from Army bases. We think it’s happening again. At least, Jump thinks it is. He’s spoken to someone who used to be in American Shield, sending money over here. It’s easier to send money here than arms shipments. This guy told Jump the money was buying
British
armaments. See, the IRA has good links with the East and Libya, but the loyalist paramilitaries don’t.’

‘You’re telling me they’re buying guns from the Army?’ Rebus laughed and shook his head. Mairie managed a small smile.

‘There’s another thing. I know there’s nothing to back this up. Jump knows it too. It’s just one man’s word, and that man isn’t even willing to go public. He’s afraid American Shield would get to him. Anyway, who’d believe him: he’s being paid to tell Jump this stuff. He could be making it all up. Journalists like a juicy conspiracy, we lap them up like cream.’

‘What are you talking about, Mairie?’

‘A policeman, a detective, someone high up in The Shield.’

‘In America?’

She shook her head. ‘At the UK end, no name or anything. Like I say, just a story.’

‘Aye, just a story. How did you find out we had a man undercover?’

‘That was strange. It was a phone call.’

‘Anonymous of course?’

‘Of course. But who could have known?’

‘Another policeman, obviously.’

Mairie pushed her plate away. ‘I can’t eat all these chips.’

‘They should put up a plaque above the table.’

Rebus needed a drink, and there was a good pub only a short walk away. Mairie went with him, though she complained she didn’t have room for a drink. Still, when they got there she found space for a white wine and soda. Rebus had a half-pint and a nip. They sat by the window, with a view out over the Forth. The water was battleship grey, reflecting the sky overhead. Rebus had never seen the Forth look other than forbidding.

‘What did you say?’ He’d missed it completely.

‘I said, I forgot to say.’

‘Yes, but the bit after that?’

‘A man called Moncur, Clyde Moncur.’

‘What about him?’

‘Jump has him pegged as one of The Shield’s hierarchy in the US. He’s also a big-time villain, only it’s never been proven in a court of law.’