10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (212 page)

Her movements had loosened her robe. She didn’t seem to notice, and Rebus tried not to look. Men, he thought, are daft bastards.

‘Want something to drink?’ she asked. ‘Or is it too early for you?’

‘One person’s early is someone else’s late.’

She went into the kitchenette. Rebus walked over to the mantelpiece and examined the array of prescription drugs. He found a bottle of paracetamol and shook two into his hand.

‘Heavy night?’ she said, coming back with two bottles.

‘Toothache,’ he explained. He took the narrow bottle. It was chilled.

‘San Miguel,’ she told him. ‘Spanish lager. Know what I
do?’ She sat down again, legs apart, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘I stick the heater on as high as it’ll go, shut my eyes and imagine I’m in Spain, poolside at some posh hotel.’ She closed her eyes to prove the point, and angled her head towards an imaginary Mediterranean sun.

Rebus washed the pills down with lager. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum though,’ he said.

She opened her eyes, not pleased to have her reverie broken. ‘Everyone tells me what a saint I am.’ She mimicked a much older woman: ‘“There’s no’ many like you, hen.” Too right, there’s not many as
daft
as me. You know how some people say life’s passing them by? Well, in this case it’s a fact. I sit on the commode between her bed and the window, and just stare out at the street for hours on end, listening to her breathing, waiting for it to stop.’ She looked over at him. ‘Have I shocked you?’

He shook his head. His own mother had been bedridden; he knew the feeling. But he hadn’t come here for any of this.

‘Sitting by the window all day,’ he said, ‘you must have seen Mr McAnally coming and going?’

‘Yes, I saw him.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’ She stood up abruptly.

‘Mrs McAnally’s all right though?’

She was moving towards the kitchenette, but stopped and turned on him. ‘I’m not the saint; that woman’s the saint! She’s suffered, you wouldn’t believe how she’s suffered.’

‘I think I would.’

She wasn’t listening. ‘Married to an animal like that.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what he did to me?’ Rebus nodded, and she took a step back, recovering. ‘You do?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘I’m here because I’m curious, Miss Finch. I mean, you still live next door, you’re friends with his wife.’

‘What? You think mum and me were going to move out . . . because of
him
?’

‘Something like that.’

‘She’s been offered sheltered accommodation, but in Granton. We’ve always lived in Tollcross. We always will.’

‘This last week, it must have been awkward.’

‘I kept out of his way. You can bet he kept out of
mine
.’ She was by the window now, staring down on to the street, her back resting against the wall. It was as if she didn’t want to be seen. ‘He deserved what he got.’

Rebus frowned. ‘You mean, what he did to himself?’

She looked at him, blinked. ‘That’s what I said.’ Then she smiled and put the bottle to her lips.

The Ballistics facility at Howdenhall Forensic Science Lab wasn’t Rebus’s idea of a good time. There were too many guns around for his liking. He read the report and looked up at the white-coated scientist who’d prepared it. The other thing Rebus didn’t like about Howdenhall, all the forensic boffins looked about nineteen years old. They’d been in their smart new building a year, and still looked pleased with themselves. The new facility had been financed by selling property, including police homes. Rebus didn’t want to know how many homes the lab had cost.

‘Not much, is there?’ he said.

The white coat, who liked to be called Dave, laughed. ‘You CID,’ he said, plunging his hands into his pockets, ‘you always want more. Who fired it? Where did he get it?’

‘We know who fired it, smart-arse. But your second question’s a good one. Where
did
he get it?’

‘I’m Ballistics, not Intelligence. It’s a common enough make of shotgun, the identifiers have been filed off. We’ve tried the usual processes, and there’s no chance of recovering them. The cartridges were common stock, too.’

‘What about the barrel?’

‘What about it?’

‘When was it filed off?’

Dave nodded. ‘The edge the file left is still shiny; say in the last couple of months.’

‘Have you checked the register?’

‘Of course.’ Dave led Rebus to a computer terminal and
punched a couple of keys. ‘There are over seventy thousand shotgun certificates on issue.’

Rebus blinked. ‘Seventy
thousand
?’

‘Compared to thirty-odd thousand for all other firearms combined. Nobody’s really concerned about the amount of shotguns around.’ He tapped another key. ‘See? Owner-ship’s highest in rural areas – Northern, Grampian, Dumfries and Galloway. It’s not some brewhead from Gorgie that’s buying these things, it’s the establishment: farmers, landowners.’

‘What about thefts?’

‘They’re on the computer, but I’ve checked. Nobody around Edinburgh has lost a shotgun recently.’

‘Can I take a look anyway?’

‘Sure.’ Rebus sat down and Dave punched the keyboard again. The list of recently reported thefts was not large; nearly all of them were south of the border. ‘Want a print-out?’

‘Yes.’ Not that a print-out would help him.

‘What’s the big deal anyway?’ Dave asked. ‘It’s a simple suicide, isn’t it?’

‘Suicide’s still an offence.’

‘The only one we don’t prosecute after the fact. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘No,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘But there may be things some people aren’t telling
me
.’ He took the print-out and folded it into his pocket. ‘One other thing.’

‘What?’

‘The prints on the gun, were they the deceased’s?’

Dave seemed amused by the question. ‘His and his alone. What are you up to, Inspector?’

But John Rebus wasn’t about to answer that.

‘Thank you for coming in, Councillor.’

Rebus had just come into the interview room. He’d been
biding his time outside the door, letting Tom Gillespie get a bit nervous. An interview room could do that; it could destroy all your pre-planning. You walked in knowing what you were going to say, the line you were going to take with the police, but then the room started to work on you.

The thing was, it was just a room – crime prevention posters on the walls, a table, three chairs, four electrical sockets. There was a tin ashtray, commandeered from a local pub. The walls were creamy matt custard, institution yellow, and there was strip lighting on the ceiling. The lights burred continuously, an almost subliminal electric hum. Rebus wondered if it was that noise that got to people. He guessed there was a simpler truth: the interview room was in a police station, and if you were there, you were going to be interviewed by the police.

And when it came down to it, everyone had something to hide.

‘Not at all,’ Gillespie said, crossing one leg over the other to let Rebus know how relaxed he was. ‘I hear the poor devil was an ex-prisoner.’

‘He’d served just under four years for the rape of a minor.’

‘Four years doesn’t seem very long.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ They sat in silence for a moment, until Gillespie broke it.

‘I had a friend once who committed suicide. He was still at university – this is going back a while. He was worried about exams, and his girlfriend had left him.’ He paused. ‘Left him for me. I should add.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Rebus asked.

‘I thought smoking was forbidden in police stations.’

‘If it bothers you, I won’t light it.’ He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and offered one to Gillespie. The councillor shook his head.

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t light up.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus, putting away cigarettes and lighter both. Well, he thought, this is interesting. The guy’s been studying for
this
exam. Tells a personal story, one that doesn’t paint him in the rosiest glow, and then asserts his authority. And all it was supposed to be was a few follow-up questions.

‘How did he do it?’ Rebus asked.

‘Who?’

‘Your friend.’

‘Flung himself out of the halls of residence. Fifth floor. He was still alive, so they took him to hospital, checking for broken bones and internal bleeding. They were so busy, they didn’t notice he’d taken an overdose before the jump.’

‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘both are fairly common roads out, aren’t they? You leap or you sleep. Mr McAnally, on the other hand . . .’

‘You were at the Forth Road Bridge, weren’t you? When those two kids jumped? I saw your name in the paper.’

‘We’re here to talk about McAnally, Councillor.’

‘Well, guns are a popular mode of suicide too, aren’t they?’

‘Maybe among gun owners, but McAnally didn’t own a gun and probably had never used one before.’

Gillespie uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. ‘But given his background, he’d find it easy enough to take possession of a gun.’

‘I agree,’ said Rebus. ‘All the same . . .’

‘What?’

‘Why go to all the bother? I mean, even if you’re determined to blow your head off, why walk from Tollcross to Warrender in the middle of a blizzard with this big heavy gun clutched beneath your jacket? And why walk into a school which would have been locked tight on every night of the month except one?’ Rebus had risen to his feet. He rested his buttocks against the edge of the table and folded
his arms. ‘Why walk into a classroom and make sure Councillor Tom Gillespie is present? Why do that? Why did he specifically want to top himself in front of
you
? No other witnesses, no one else invited. It doesn’t make sense to me.’

‘Well, the man was obviously unhinged . . . maybe on drugs.’

‘I’ve just seen the toxicology results. The police lab has all these smart machines –’

‘At Howdenhall?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I was there for the official opening.’

‘Well, the results show that the deceased had had a couple of drinks, but no drugs, not one single painkiller.’

‘What’s your point, Inspector?’

Rebus turned around so that his hands were resting on the table. He was leaning over Gillespie, and Gillespie wasn’t enjoying it.

‘See, Councillor, Wee Shug McAnally was dying. He didn’t have long to live at all. His insides were rotten, and he should have been doped to the eyeballs to stand the pain. Those drugs, though, they make your brain mushy, and Wee Shug didn’t want that. He wanted to be
compos mentis
when he pulled the trigger.’ Rebus stood up straight. ‘Makes even less sense now, eh?’ He popped the cigarette back into his mouth.

‘Look, I don’t see what any of this has to do with me.’

‘Frankly neither do I. All I know is, it has
some
thing to do with you. Now what could that be?’

‘There was a line of perspiration on Gillespie’s top lip. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Rebus walked to the far wall and lit his cigarette. He didn’t think the councillor would object.

‘Look,’ Gillespie said quietly, ‘I really don’t see any connection between this man McAnally and me, none at all. I’ve never met him, never heard of him, and he didn’t live
in my ward.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he held some sort of mad grudge, something linked to his time in prison.’

Rebus walked slowly back to the table and sat down opposite Gillespie. ‘That’s it?’ he said. ‘That’s your explanation?’

‘I don’t
have
an explanation! I just . . . give me a cigarette, please.’

Rebus lit the cigarette for him.

Gillespie studied the burning tip, then looked at Rebus. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I’ve already told you, Councillor, I’ve to prepare a report on a sudden, violent death, and there are inconsistencies.’

‘You mean you don’t know why he did it?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘Well, I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’ Gillespie got to his feet, making ready to leave.

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Gillespie glared at Rebus, then sat down again. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I think you’re hiding something.’

‘Such as?’

‘That’s what I have to find out . . . before I can finish my report.’

‘Are all policeman like you?’

‘No. Some of them you wouldn’t want to meet.’

‘I meet quite a few actually. A colleague of mine – regional councillor rather than district, but the same party – is chair of Lothian and Borders Joint Police Board.’ Gillespie drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thin stream. ‘He’s quite a good friend.’

‘It’s always nice to have friends.’ Rebus said.

Gillespie got to his feet again. ‘Look,’ he began. He swung his arms, as if he was deciding to say something he’d rather not say. ‘I promised . . .’ He sighed and sat down yet
again. ‘This may mean something or nothing, Inspector.’ Rebus busied himself tidying the end of his cigarette against the ashtray. ‘It’s Helena, Helena Profitt.’

‘Your ward secretary?’

‘She . . . she told me she knew him.’

‘McAnally?’

Gillespie nodded. ‘When McAnally came into the room and saw her . . . there was a moment when he just stared. I asked her about it afterwards, and she told me she’d known him a long time ago. She wouldn’t say any more than that.’

‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’

‘Huh.’

‘You keep poking it with your finger.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it.’ But Rebus knew something was wrong; he was just hoping it would go away. There was pressure inside his gum and top lip, a dull, unpleasant sensation that was now spreading either side of his nose. It felt as if his whole face should be swollen, but it was just a little red beneath the nose – and that could have been the drink or the weather.

‘Whose idea was this?’ he said, folding his arms around himself. They were walking on Portobello beach, the only souls mad enough in this seizure-inducing wind.

‘Mine,’ said Mairie Henderson.

Rebus had turned up at her flat expecting a hot drink and a soft couch, but instead she’d dragged him out for what she euphemistically called her ‘constitutional’.