10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (222 page)

‘Permanent?’

McAllister nodded. He took some soup and chewed on his roll, preparing for another onslaught. The wine had arrived, and he poured a glass of white for himself. Rebus opted for red.

‘Now,’ McAllister said, ‘we come to the departments.’
He counted them off on his fingers: ‘SOID, SOED, SOEnD, SOHHD, SOAFD, and – shamefully prosaic – Central Services.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Mr McAllister, I think you’re purposely trying to bamboozle me.’

McAllister looked shocked. ‘No, I assure you . . .’

‘Look, what I really want is a rundown on the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

‘We’ll get to them, don’t worry.’ The waiter came to take their bowls. ‘Bit peppery today,’ McAllister told him; not a complaint, a simple matter of interpretation.

The civil servant was halfway through his next dissertation before Rebus realised they’d moved on to the topics he was interested in.

‘. . . so he was at SOHHD until the LECs came along. The SDA and HIDB became SE and HIE and the poor man, who’d been responsible for RDGs and RSA found himself –’

‘Keep going, you might just drift back into English.’

McAllister produced another snorted laugh. ‘Maybe I don’t have enough dealings with the public. I’m used to people who understand the codes.’

‘Well, I don’t understand the codes, so humour me.’

McAllister took a deep breath. ‘The SDA,’ he began, ‘was set up by Wilson in 1975, some say to appease the rising nationalism of that time. It had a budget of
£
200 million – which was not inconsiderable for the time – and took over from three old existing bodies, including the SIEC – the Scottish Industrial Estates Corporation. The SIEC brought with it twenty-five
million
square metres of factory space.’

‘Sounds like a lot.’

‘A hellish lot, a lot to keep occupied. The SDA got busy. It’s been estimated there were as many as five thousand projects under its aegis at any one time. And remember, the
SDA didn’t cover the whole of Scotland – there was the Highlands and Islands Development Board, too. In fact, HIDB was by far the elder of the two.’ The pasta starters arrived. McAllister sprinkled parmesan cheese over his and got to work with his fork. ‘Then someone had the bright idea of getting rid of the SDA.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you know the old saying, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it? The SDA was in good fettle. It had been investigated by several bodies and committees and given a clean bill of health. It
did
get into trouble over the Glasgow Garden Festival, and over a deal with a building contractor called Quinlon, but by then the blueprint for Scottish Enterprise had already been set up.

‘On the first of April – note the date – 1991, the SDA and HIDB became Scottish Enterprise and Highlands and Islands Enterprise. Basically, the changes were twofold: the new agencies took on the Scottish remit of the Training Agency and, more importantly, the central role of the SDA became more devolved.’

‘How so?’ Rebus wasn’t touching the wine; he needed all his wits about him.

‘Authority was devolved to a network of private-sector-led local enterprise companies, LECs for short.’

‘Like Lothian and Edinburgh Enterprise Limited?’

‘Yes, LEEL’s one.’

‘Is there any Scottish Office control?’

‘Oh yes, Scottish Enterprise is sponsored by SOID.’

‘The Scottish Office Industry Department?’ McAllister gave a round of silent applause. ‘Which leads us,’ Rebus said, ‘to funding.’

‘Oh, I could talk all afternoon about funding, it’s my specialty.’

‘So what’s Scottish Enterprise’s annual budget?’

McAllister puffed out his cheeks. ‘Around four hundred and fifty million.’

Rebus swallowed the last of his pasta. ‘Forgive me, that sounds like a lot.’

‘Well, the money has to be split: it covers Enterprise, environment, youth and adult training, plus admin costs.’

‘Well, put like that I can see it represents excellent value for money.’

McAllister nearly choked with laughter. ‘You sound just like a civil servant!’

‘I was being ironic. Tell me, Mr McAllister, why did you agree to meet me?’

The question took McAllister by surprise. He took time forming his answer. ‘I’ve never met a police officer before,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was curious. Besides, it’s nice to meet someone who’s actually
interested
in what we do, no matter what his motives. You know, only about one in three voters in this country even
knows
there’s such a thing as the Scottish Office. One in three!’ He sat back and opened his arms. ‘And we’ve got a budget of millions!’

‘Tell me,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘any word of any . . . impropriety?’

‘At Scottish Enterprise?’

Rebus nodded.

‘No, none at all.’

‘What about the SDA?’

One waiter removed their bowls, another set down the main course and accompanying vegetables. McAllister tucked in. He swallowed the first mouthful before answering Rebus’s question.

‘If there had been, Inspector, it would be dead and buried by now. When the SDA became Scottish Enterprise, the accounting procedures were changed: new set-up, new set of books. Like wiping the slate clean.’

‘So what would have happened if any impropriety
had
been found?’

McAllister made a sweeping motion with his fork. ‘Under the carpet with it.’

Rebus pondered this: wiping the slate clean, under the carpet . . . The district council was about to disappear, just as the SDA had done.

‘You know, Mr McAllister, you don’t seem very curious about
why
I want to know about the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

McAllister chewed on that. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me if and when you’re ready. Until then, I don’t see that it’s any of my business. I’m not the curious sort, Inspector. In my line of work, that’s seen as a strength.’

After a while Rebus asked: ‘Who appoints the boards?’

‘At SE and HIE, the Secretary of State.’ McAllister poured the last of the wine into his glass. ‘Not on his own, of course. He’d be advised by the Permanent Secretary. That, after all is the job of the Permanent Secretary: to advise. Though he implements too, of course.’ McAllister glanced at his watch, then signalled for the waiter. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said to Rebus, ‘but I think I might skip pud.’ And he patted his ample stomach. When the waiter approached, McAllister ordered espresso.

‘Is that what you’re investigating, Inspector – impropriety at the SDA?’

Rebus smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t curious. Tell me, does the word Mensung mean anything to you?’

McAllister tried it out. He’d torn open a plastic toothpick, and was working on his mouth. The sight made Rebus’s teeth jangle. ‘I
do
seem to know it . . . can’t think why or what it is. Want me to check?’

‘I’d be grateful, sir. One other thing, any connection between the SDA or Scottish Enterprise and the US Consulate?’

Again, McAllister seemed surprised by the question. ‘Well, yes,’ he said at last, as his coffee arrived. ‘I mean, we
do try to persuade American companies to locate here, so contacts at a consular level are helpful – vital, even. They were especially so in the eighties.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Microelectronics was booming. Silicon Glen. Locate in Scotland was working superbly. Did I mention LiS? It was part-SDA, part-Scottish office, with a remit to get foreign companies to locate here. Most of its successes were American, mostly in the early to mid-eighties. Rumour had it that its successes had less to do with canny persuasion and economic argument than with a kind of informal freemasonry.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, a lot of top executives in American companies were and are Scottish, either born here or with Scottish roots. LiS would target those individuals and work on them, trying to get them not only to open a factory here, but to persuade other Scots in positions of influence. Look at IBM. Actually, this isn’t an example of LiS at work; IBM has had a presence in Scotland for forty years. They started in Greenock, and they’re still there – the plant’s massive, about a mile and a half long. But what took them to Greenock in the first place? I’ll tell you. It wasn’t economics or a skilled workforce – it was
sentimentality
. The head of IBM at that time was in love with the west coast of Scotland; and that’s all it was.’ McAllister shrugged and blew on his coffee.

Rebus wanted to go back a stage or two. ‘Is that how a lot of it works? Who you know?’

‘Oh, definitely.’

‘And bribes?’

‘Not for me to say.’

Why not? thought Rebus. You’ve said every bloody thing but. It was two-thirty, the restaurant empty save for their table.

‘I mean,’ McAllister said, ‘one man’s bribe is another’s “financial incentive”. Look at Pergau Dam. There’s always room to bend the rules without necessarily breaking them. Regional Selective Assistance, for example, was and is discretionary. Who’s to say it doesn’t make a difference if the person applying for it went to school with the person who’ll make the final decision? It’s the way the world turns, Inspector.’ He tried to find some dregs of coffee in his cup, then unwrapped the amaretto biscuit.

Rebus paid their bill, and the waiter locked the door after them. McAllister’s face was flushed, his cheeks a network of broken blood vessels. Now that he’d asked his questions, Rebus was keen to be elsewhere. There was something about McAllister he didn’t like. He knew how easy it was to cover something up by talking about it at length. One confession could be made to disguise another. He’d had cleverer men than McAllister in the interview room, but not very many . . .

The two men shook hands.

‘I appreciate you taking the time and trouble, sir,’ Rebus said.

‘Not at all, Inspector. I appreciate you paying for lunch. Besides, who knows? Maybe one day I might need a favour from you.’ McAllister winked.

‘You might at that,’ Rebus said.

After all, it was the way the world turned, the civil servant was right about that. Rebus turned and headed off in any direction that wasn’t McAllister’s.

‘All I’ve got,’ Rebus admitted, ‘are questions and loose ends, and none of it is getting me any closer to why McAnally killed himself or why the councillor’s so scared. Added to that, the Lord Provost sees the word Dalgety scrawled on a sheet of paper and suddenly doesn’t want us looking for his daughter any more.’

He was on the phone to St Leonard’s, speaking with Brian Holmes. The drip from the radiator was getting worse. His mouth was getting worse. Behind him in the living room were the binbags full of paper. All the answers, he felt, were there, just beyond his abilities.

‘So?’ said Holmes.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

Rebus pushed at the skin around his nose, feeling the pressure increase on his poor tooth. ‘The reason I phoned,’ he said, ‘is to ask what the state of play is with friend Duggan.’

Holmes rustled some papers. ‘Now there I can help you. Paul Duggan is Edinburgh’s answer to Rachman. He’s been cheating the council for years. Lives with his parents, doesn’t pay them a penny rent, but he’s applied for and been allotted four council properties . . . that’s how many we’ve traced so far, there could be others. He doesn’t mind hard-to-let flats, that’s his secret.’

‘How does he do it?’

‘A series of pseudonyms, plus girls he drags along to
Housing Office interviews with a few bambinos in tow. The girls are friends of his, the kids aren’t his.’

‘But he becomes their father for the duration of the interview?’

‘And gets himself priority listed. Once he’s been allocated a place, all he does is let it out. I’m amazed he can find anyone for some of them. That place in Saughton was a palace compared to the others in his portfolio.’

Rebus dug into his back pocket and brought out the card he’d taken from the Waverley drop-in. Paul. Cheap rooms.

‘Why do you think,’ Rebus asked, ‘Willie and Dixie had the pick of Duggan’s properties? House that size, he could have squeezed a few more bodies in.’

‘Right enough, the flat I checked in Granton had sleeping-bags in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom.’

Rebus studied the telephone number on the card. ‘Maybe I’ll have a wee word with our friendly slum landlord. Is the Farmer keeping you busy?’

‘He keeps asking if I know what you’re up to.’

‘And what do you tell him?’

‘I can keep my mouth shut. I just hope you know what you’re doing, sir.’

‘Well, Brian, there’s a first time for everything.’

Rebus broke the connection and called the number on the card.

‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice, polite, not young.

‘Eh, is Paul there?’

‘I’ll just get him for you.’

‘Thanks.’

She put the receiver next to the phone, and he could hear her calling for her son, who was probably in his bedroom counting shillings into a sock. Finally, the receiver was picked up.

‘Aye?’

‘Paul?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘My name’s John, I saw your notice at the drop-in centre.’

‘Which one? I’ve got half a dozen notices up.’

‘The one behind Waverley.’

‘Oh aye, right.’

‘I need a room.’

‘Are you claiming social security?’

Rebus winged it. ‘I’d be paying cash, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘No, it’s just that you’ve caught me at a bad time, John. Bit of pressure on me at the moment, if you know what I mean.’

‘I know all about pressure.’

‘So I’m not really opening any new transactions right this minute.’ There was a pause. ‘Did you say cash? Would you need a rentbook?’

‘Cash, no rentbook.’

‘Tell you what, John, can we maybe meet?’

Rebus’s smile didn’t translate to his voice. ‘What’s the address?’

‘No address. Do you know Leith cop shop?’

Rebus stopped smiling. He’d been rumbled. But Duggan misinterpreted his silence.

‘Not keen, eh? Been in trouble, have you?’

‘A little bit.’

‘We’re only meeting outside. I can take you to a flat near there, down by the Shore. And that area’s coming up in the world, by the way.’