10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (211 page)

A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.

‘You know the way, sir?’

‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’

‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’

Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.

‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.

Davidson looked up, then groaned.

‘I want a favour,’ Rebus said, walking into the room.

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

‘Have you heard about Warrender?’

‘Shotgun suicide?’ News got around. Davidson closed his paper.

‘The man with the plan was called Hugh McAnally, lived in Tollcross.’

‘I know Wee Shug. Wee Bastard’s more like it. He’d only just come out of Saughton.’

‘Maybe he was pining.’

‘Want a drink?’

‘Coffee maybe.’

But Davidson was reaching for his coat. ‘I said a
drink
.’

‘So long as you’re not suggesting the Hopscotch. Rat-Arse Reynolds is in there.’

Davidson knotted his tartan scarf. ‘All right, let’s scotch the Hopscotch. And since you’re buying, you get to choose.’

Rebus chose a big public house near Haymarket Station. The public bar was seething, but the saloon was quiet. They ordered doubles.

‘Too cold outside to be drinking lager,’ Davidson said. ‘Your health.’

‘And yours.’ Rebus sipped and swallowed, feeling the liquid doing its immediate, no-nonsense business. It was almost too good sometimes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about Wee Shug.’

‘Ach, he was a small-timer, used to specialise in hopeless house-breakings.’

‘Used to?’

‘He moved on to reset, counterfeiting, this and that.’

‘So how long had he been inside?’

‘This stretch, you mean? Funny that, when I heard he was out I did a quick calculation. He’s out early, served a bit under four years.’

‘Well, if all we had him on was reset . . .’

Davidson was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, you misunderstand. My fault. He wasn’t sent down for any of his usual tricks.’

‘What then?’

‘Rape of a minor.’

‘What?’

Davidson nodded. ‘Thing is, we nailed him for it, but with hand on heart I don’t know if it was a clean result.’

‘Explain.’ Rebus signalled for two more whiskies.

‘Well, the lassie was fifteen, but everyone said the same thing – fifteen going on thirty-five. Not a shy lass at all, you should read the interview transcripts. But she was adamant he’d raped her. She was a minor, and the Procurator-fiscal went ahead with the prosecution. I wasn’t too bothered; getting Wee Shug off the street was fine by me.’

‘Was he living in Tollcross at that time?’

‘That’s always been his patch.’

Rebus paid for the second round of drinks. ‘Was he the violent type?’

‘Not that I ever saw. I mean, he had a temper when
roused, but who doesn’t? That was the thing about the rape, there were no physical injuries.’

‘What about corroboration?’

‘We had a bundle of circumstantial evidence. Neighbours heard raised voices, a scream, the girl herself was in a terrible state, crying and all. Plus Wee Shug admitted having sex with her, said he knew it was illegal and all but, as he put it, “only by a few months”. The girl said it wasn’t consensual, and we just about put together a case.’

‘Say, for the sake of argument, that it
was
consensual.’

‘Yes?’

‘Then he’s just come out of a four-year stretch for something he didn’t do.’

Davidson shrugged. ‘You’re looking for a motive behind the suicide?’

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Suicides interest me right now.’

‘And we’re always looking for motives, eh, John?’

Rebus drank his drink. ‘What about guns? Did he ever have anything to do with firearms?’

‘Nothing. But he’s probably still got cronies out there who know where to get them.’

‘It was a sawn-off.’

‘I can believe it. You couldn’t get a full-length shotgun in your mouth and be able to pull the trigger. Far easier with something shorter.’

‘Messy though.’

‘No doubt, but it would do the job. You don’t want to go off half-cocked, do you? With a sawn-off, there’s less margin for error.’

‘No margin at all,’ said Rebus.

It was only when they were leaving that he thought to ask a question.

‘McAnally’s victim, what was her name again?’

Davidson had to think about it. ‘Mary something. Mary Finlay. ‘No . . .’ He screwed shut his eyes. ‘Mary Finch.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘Maisie Finch?’

Davidson thought again. ‘That’s it, Maisie.’

‘She lives next door to the McAnallys.’

‘Did then, too. She’d known them for years.’

‘Christ,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I’ve just sent her down to the mortuary to help Tresa McAnally identify her husband.’

‘What?’

‘Do me a favour, will you? Lend me a car and a driver.’

‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you myself.’

But by the time they reached the mortuary, it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back towards the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.

‘He what?’ Rebus said.

He was on the phone from St Leonard’s to Dr Curt at the university’s Pathology Department. They kept Curt and his colleagues busy, no mistake about that. On top of police work, Curt had a full teaching load in the Faculty of Medicine, and did crossover lectures to law students too.

But then Curt had an advantage over mere mortals: he never slept. You could call him out at any hour, and he was always alert. You could catch him in his office at eight in the morning.

It was actually eight-fifteen, and Rebus was nursing a large black decaf coffee from the early-opening deli on the Pleasance.

‘Morning deafness, John?’ Dr Curt said. ‘I repeat, he was dying anyway.’

‘Dying how?’

‘Great big bloody tumours. Pancreas and large colon to start with. The man must have been in agony. I’m willing to bet the toxicology tests show the presence of powerful painkillers.’

‘You mean he was out of his box?’

‘He’d have to be to stand the pain.’

Rebus frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Haven’t you heard of voluntary euthanasia, self-inflicted in this case?’

‘Yes, but with a sawn-off shotgun?’

‘Well, that’s not my department. I can give you effect, not cause.’

Rebus terminated the call and went to see his chief inspector.

Gill Templer had made more changes to Lauderdale’s office. She’d brought in a few framed photographs of nieces and nephews, and a thriving yucca plant had appeared. There were also a couple of cards wishing her well in her new job.

‘I hear you were at that suicide last night,’ she said, motioning for him to sit.

He nodded distractedly. ‘There’s something not right about it.’

‘Oh?’

So he set out what he knew. Gill Templer listened with her chin resting on both hands, a gesture he knew of old. He recognised the perfume she was wearing, too.

‘Hmm,’ she said when he’d finished, ‘a lot of questions. But are they any of our concern?’

He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. Give me a day or two, I might have an answer.’

‘Those two lads on the bridge,’ she said. ‘Another suicide, another connection with the district council.’

‘I know. It could just be coincidence.’

‘I don’t see how it could be anything else. OK, take a day or two, see what you come up with. But report back to me regularly – at least a couple of times a day.’

Rebus stood up. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You’re already managing to sound like a chief inspector.’

‘John,’ she said warningly, ‘remember what I said.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else?’

Gill Templer shook her head. She was already getting down to some paperwork.

Rebus left her office – it was hers now, no doubt about it – and walked straight into Siobhan Clarke.

‘Any news on Paul Duggan?’

‘He’s coming in for a chat this afternoon.’

‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘Need me along?’

She shook her head. ‘Brian and me have perfected our Jekyll and Hyde routine.’

‘Which one of you plays Hyde?’

She ignored this. ‘So what are you up to today?’

It was a good question. Rebus formed his answer. ‘Chasing ghosts,’ he said, making for his desk.

He phoned Tresa McAnally. She’d identified her husband’s clothes, and had been able to identify his body, albeit with the face discreetly covered. Now all that was left for her were the funeral arrangements.

‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Rebus said, after introducing himself.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just wondered how you were coping.’

‘Oh aye?’ He should’ve known she wouldn’t fall for that sort of patter.

‘You knew your husband was ill, Mrs McAnally?’

‘He told me he was.’

‘Seriously ill though?’

‘He never really said.’

‘Well, what did he tell you was wrong with him?’

‘Where do you want me to start? High blood pressure, kidney stones, ulcers, a heart murmur, emphysema . . . see, Wee Shug was a bit of a hypochondriac.’

‘But he
was
ill; he was on medication.’

‘You know what doctors are like, they’ll hand you a placebo and kiss you goodbye. I’ve read the stories, I know what goes on.’ She paused. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the point asking about his health now?’

‘Well, I’ve reason to believe your husband was seriously ill. Terminally ill, Mrs McAnally.’

‘I should’ve guessed,’ she said finally, her tone chastened. ‘He was different when he came out this time, quieter like. Was it the big C?’

‘Yes.’

‘Used to smoke rollies. I always told him, that’s the way my own mother went.’ Another pause as she dragged on her filter-tip. ‘Is that why he did himself in?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Makes sense, eh? Poor wee bugger.’

Rebus cleared his throat. ‘Mrs McAnally, have you any idea where he could have got the gun?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What’s the difference where he got it? He only hurt himself.’

Thinking back to Councillor Gillespie and Miss Profitt, Rebus wondered about that. It seemed to him that Wee Shug McAnally had managed to hurt a lot of people . . . which brought him to thoughts of Maisie Finch.

‘The funeral’s next Tuesday, Inspector. You’d be welcome at the house.’

‘Thanks, Mrs McAnally. I’ll do my best.’

The sun was out, bathing the tired buildings in dazzling light. Edinburgh’s architecture was best suited to winter, to sharp, cold light. You got the feeling of being a long way north of anywhere, some place reserved for only the hardiest and most foolhardy.

Rebus was glad to be out of the office. He knew he worked best on the street. Besides, the office was a battleground. He knew Flower would already be plotting against Gill Templer, marshalling his forces, waiting for her defences to slip. But she was tough – the way she was handling Rebus was proof of that. He knew she would keep him at arm’s length and beyond. She was right, he did have
a bad reputation. She wouldn’t want any of his failures to rub off on her. So what if they’d known one another, had been an item? She was right – it was a long time ago. Now they were colleagues; more than that, she was his acting superior. He hadn’t known many women make chief inspector. Good luck to her.

He drove past the Infirmary, chiding himself for not stopping to visit Lauderdale, and headed for Tollcross. He didn’t want Tresa McAnally this time though.

He wanted her neighbour.

He pressed the buzzer marked
FINCH
and waited, shuffling his feet. His tooth was acting up. He’d made the mistake of opening his mouth to take a deep breath, and the frozen air had made straight for the nerve. He pressed the buzzer again, hoping he wouldn’t have to visit a dentist.

The intercom came to life.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was neutral.

‘Miss Finch? My name’s Inspector Rebus, we sort of met last night.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Can I come up?’

The door buzzed and Rebus pushed it open. At the top of the stairs, he all but tiptoed past Tresa McAnally’s door. Maisie Finch’s door was ajar. He closed it after him.

‘Miss Finch?’

She emerged suddenly from the bathroom, wearing a short towelling-robe and brushing her hair. He could smell soap and feel the warmth from her body.

‘I was in the bath,’ she said.

‘Sorry to trouble you.’

He followed her into the living room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Half the space was taken up with what looked like a hospital bed, with cast-iron frame, roller wheels, and a side-guard. Next to it was a liver-coloured commode. The
mantelpiece was like a chemist’s display, two dozen assorted boxes and bottles standing in a row.

Maisie Finch was moving magazines from the sofa. She motioned for him to sit, and took the commode for herself, tucking one leg under the other.

‘What’s the problem, Inspector?’

Her face was too angular to be good-looking, and she had slightly protruberant eyes, yet she was undeniably . . . the word that came to his mind was
charged
. He shifted on the sofa.

‘Well, Miss Finch . . .’

‘I suppose it’s about Tresa?’

‘In a way, yes.’ He looked at the bed again.

‘It’s my mum’s,’ she explained. ‘She’s house-bound, I have to look after her.’ Rebus made show of looking around for the missing parent, and Maisie Finch laughed. ‘She’s in hospital.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. They take her every few months, just for a few days. It’s to give me a break. This,’ she said, opening her arms wide, ‘is my winter holiday.’