10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (223 page)

Rebus almost admired the cheek. ‘What time?’

‘Five on the dot.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Rebus.

He phoned Brian Holmes back. ‘Rachman’s portfolio, anything down near the Shore?’

‘Leith? No,’ said Holmes, ‘nearest one to Leith’s the place in Granton. Why?’

‘Just that you haven’t tracked them all down yet, that’s all.’

At five minutes to five, he was across the road from the police station. He stood two steps up from the pavement in the doorway of a disused building. Leith was taking a few faltering steps towards respectability. Trendy cafés and restaurants had opened in hastily refurbished premises, usually carved out of larger blocks of unrented space. There was a temporary feel to these new businesses; they always seemed to be ‘under new management’. Leith’s revival had begun down on the Shore and had all but stopped there, with warehouse conversions and a couple of upmarket bars. Now the revival had been given fresh momentum: the new Scottish Office HQ was under construction at Victoria Dock, and a sailors’ home had been turned into a luxury hotel on Queen’s Quay.

But Leith still retained its old, unique charm: it was still just about the only part of the city where you’d see prostitutes in daytime, freezing in short skirts and skimpy jackets. Rebus had passed some on his way down Bernard Street, readying themselves for the going-home trade: one quick leap for the homeward bound.

He stood in the doorway for quarter of an hour before Paul Duggan turned up. The young man was wearing an ankle-length black woollen coat, its collar turned up. On his feet were white trainers, so new they were almost luminous when caught in the headlamps of the passing traffic.

Duggan didn’t pay any attention to Rebus as Rebus crossed the road; he was on the look-out for someone entirely different.

‘Waiting for me?’ Rebus asked.

It took Duggan a moment to place him. ‘Christ, what do you want?’

‘It was me that phoned. We didn’t know you had another place on the Shore.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Come on, Paul, let’s have a chat.’

‘In there?’

Rebus looked towards the police station. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not in there. This is just between us, understood?’

Rebus started walking, a hand on the sleeve of Duggan’s coat.

‘Where are we going?’ Duggan asked.

‘We’re just walking, that’s all. I’ve got a question for you. We know about four or five of your properties, and we know the Saughton let was the best of them by a fair old margin. So how come you only picked up two rents from it?’

Duggan stopped dead. ‘Is this a trap? Are you miked up?’

Rebus laughed. ‘For a tadpole like you? Behave, son, you’re the council’s problem, not mine.’

Rebus started walking again. Duggan caught him up. ‘So what’s the game?’

‘I’m interested in Willie and Dixie, that’s all. You told me you were their friend, so now I’m a wee bit interested in you, too.’

‘That’s why I gave them the house,’ Duggan blurted out, thinking on his feet. ‘They were my pals.’

‘You
gave
them it? They didn’t pay rent?’

‘Oh . . . oh aye, they paid rent. What I meant was –’

‘Don’t bother, son, don’t compound one lie with another, you’ll never keep track. My guess is they worked for you. What did they do?’

Duggan bit his lip. ‘They collected the rents,’ he said at last.

‘And got free rent in return? That makes more sense. When I look at you, I see a skinny young kid, a sap. The kind of tenants you must deal with, you’d need back-up, isn’t that right? Just in case someone decided not to pay.’ Duggan nodded.

‘They’d’ve been perfect for that,’ Rebus continued. ‘Willie had brains, he could reason with the non-payers, and if that didn’t work, crazy Dixie could go to work. Is that about the score?’

‘That’s it.’

Rebus sniffed, and seemed to be thinking. ‘Whose idea was the kidnap ruse?’ he said casually.

‘I’ve told you, I didn’t know anything about that! They just asked for my car!’

‘Must have been Willie’s idea,’ Rebus went on, as if Duggan hadn’t spoken. ‘Dixie didn’t have the brains.’ He turned to Duggan. ‘Unless it was your idea, of course.’

Duggan made to protest, but thought better of it. They walked on in silence. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘OK, between you and me, right?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Like I said, I’m not after you particularly, Paul, unless you lie to me. Lying to me is not advisable.’

‘I knew what they were up to.’

‘Of course you did. A tight-fisted wee bastard like you wouldn’t lend someone the steam from his breath without there being a pay-off.’ Rebus produced the photo of Kirstie Kennedy. ‘You saw her with Willie and Dixie, didn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘What about Dalgety?’

‘Eh?’ The name clearly meant nothing to Duggan.

‘Come on,’ Rebus said, ‘I
know
you’ve seen her. You spend a lot of time in drop-in centres –’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You told me yourself your cards are up on half a dozen
noticeboards. How do they get there: by magic?’ Rebus pushed the photo towards Duggan. ‘You’ve seen her.’

‘No.’

‘You’re lying. What are you afraid of, Paul?’

They were down on the Shore, and Duggan was just realising it. They walked close to the water’s edge, across the street from the bars. Soon they’d be up to the dock entrance. Rebus stopped and tugged on Duggan’s arm. ‘Look at her!’ he spat. Duggan averted his face. ‘Look at her!’

Duggan glanced at the photo, then away again. His eyes were glinting in the streetlight.

‘She knew Willie well enough to leave something in his bedroom. She
knew him
. . . and I know damned well
you
knew her!’

Duggan blinked. ‘What did she leave in his bedroom?’ he asked quietly.

‘Just tell me where she is.’

Duggan started to shake his head, and Rebus hauled him by the coat-sleeve to the water’s edge. The street was empty save for a line of cars whose owners were all in the howffs.

‘Fancy a dip, Paul? It can be invigorating at this time of year, if the sewage and the rats don’t get you.’

‘This coat cost a fortune!’ Duggan squealed.

‘You won’t need it in jail, son. You’ll be tucked up in bed with some big bad bastard keeping you warm.’

‘All right, all right!’

Rebus released his grip. Duggan looked up and down the street.

‘Run if you like, Paul. I’ll find you.’

‘Jesus, calm down, will you? OK, I’ve seen her. She hung around for a while with Willie and Dixie.’

‘How long?’

‘A week, maybe a bit longer.’

‘Is she still around?’

‘I haven’t seen her. I only saw her a couple of times.’

‘At the house in Saughton?’

‘No, no, at a couple of drop-in centres.’

‘But you don’t know where she is, or what she’s doing?’ Duggan shook his head. ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to find her for me.’

‘What?’

‘Somebody like you, lots of contacts . . . should be easy.’

‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

Rebus pointed to the water. ‘There’s your alternative.’ He held out the photo. ‘Take this, it might help.’

‘It won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s not what she looks like. We had a laugh when we saw that picture in all the papers. I mean, I can believe she might have looked like that before she started using.’

‘Drugs?’

‘And plenty of them by the look of her.’

Rebus frowned. ‘You think she’s been on them long?’

‘Long enough. Maybe a year or so.’

‘A
year
?’

Duggan shrugged. ‘Only a guess; I’m not into that scene.’

‘I’ll bet you don’t mind them as tenants though, eh?’

Duggan straightened his shoulders. ‘How about looking at it this way – I’m doing the council’s work for it, putting roofs over the heads of people who’d be on the street otherwise.’

‘Mr Social Conscience. They’ll be giving you the keys to the city next. Get out of my sight, and take the photo, it’s got my phone number on the back. If I don’t hear from you in a day or two, we’ll have another chat. Maybe at your place this time, with your mum and dad listening. How would you like that?’

Duggan didn’t answer. He rearranged his coat, which had fallen down over one shoulder, then pocketed the photograph. Rebus watched him shuffle away, back towards the traffic.

So, now he knew for certain why the Lord Provost hadn’t had a more recent photo of his daughter. He wondered why Duggan had been so curious about whatever Kirstie had left in Willie Coyle’s bedroom. But Rebus was beginning to get an idea about that, too.

He drove to the Ox, where Doc and Salty stood in their allotted places. Room was made for Rebus, and Doc ordered him a pint.

‘Oh what blessed company,’ Rebus said, lifting the glass. He turned to Salty Dougary. ‘I was out at Gyle Park West the other day.’

‘In your professional capacity?’

‘Sort of. What can you tell me about the place?’

‘It’s an industrial estate. I work there. What else is there to know?’

‘The businesses there, would they have dealings with Scottish Enterprise?’

Salty nodded. ‘LEEL,’ he said. ‘Our boss at Deltona is mad keen on “worker participation”, which means once a week we have to sit in the canteen for twenty minutes listening to him rattle on about client satisfaction, inward investment, productivity and the like. He’s always on about LEEL.’

‘So Deltona has had money from LEEL?’

‘John,
everyone
on that estate has had help of some kind: relocation incentives, start-up incentives, retraining incentives, you name it.’ He raised his glass. ‘God bless Scottish Enterprise.’

‘Why the interest?’ Dr Klasser asked. This was not their usual level of conversation.

‘It could be peripheral to a case I’m working on.’ Except
that there was no case and he wasn’t supposed to be working.

‘Well, keep your paws off Deltona,’ Salty Dougary warned.

Rebus smiled. ‘Ever heard of Mensung?’ he asked.

‘Don’t they measure your intelligence?’

There was a snort from down the bar. ‘They’d only need a six-inch ruler to measure yours, Salty.’

Salty laughed, so the speaker would know he wasn’t amused. Rebus was still looking at him. ‘To be honest,’ Salty told him, ‘it does ring a bell, way at the back of the old brainpan. I think it was a company.’

‘On the estate?’

Dougary shrugged. The barman was taking a phone call. His eyes met Rebus’s.

‘For you, John.’ He brought the telephone over. Rebus had another question for Salty.

‘What about LABarum, ever heard of that?’

‘What is this, “Mastermind”?’

Rebus took the receiver from the barman. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that you, John?’

Rebus recognised the voice – but it couldn’t be, not calling him by his first name.

‘Is that you, Flower?’

‘Yes.’

DI Alister Flower – the Little Weed – calling Rebus ‘John’. Something was wrong.

‘What’s up?’

‘Just wondered if you could drop into the station for a chat.’

‘A chat? Will you have the tea and biscuits ready?’

Flower laughed like he hadn’t heard a better one all day. Rebus was more than curious.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘Whenever you like.’

Rebus said he’d be there in half an hour.

The station was mid-evening quiet. To keep busy, most of the CID contingent had gone off to the scene of a car smash. The smash had taken place outside one of the neighbourhood’s better Indian restaurants. So there was no one around the main office; no one but Alister Flower.

‘John, how’s the holiday?’

‘I’m having a bit of trouble getting a tan.’

Rebus studied Alister Flower. There were a hundred reasons to dislike or even thoroughly loathe the man. The fact that he was a complete prick came pretty close to the top. Flower’s eyes were always in movement, seeking out an angle or the main chance. The eyes were puffy, like the skin around them was constantly swollen. It could be genetic or to do with boozing, and it turned his eyes into slits. Rebus didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t always see those eyes.

Flower had friends around the station: spies, junior officers, who were a bit like him and would even like to
be
him. It scared Rebus. But there were no allies with him tonight. He sat on a desk, his feet on a chair. It wasn’t his desk, wasn’t his chair. Walking past his own desk, Rebus saw the new computer console. It didn’t interest him at all.

‘I was promised tea and biscuits,’ he said.

‘We can nip down the canteen after.’

‘After what?’

‘After I’ve shown you something. Come on.’

And he led Rebus down to the cells. There was a man in there, long-haired, unshaven, not happy.

‘So who is he?’

‘His name’s Terry Shotts,’ Flower explained. ‘He’s from Newcastle. We found him leaving a house in Prestonfield Avenue . . . with half the contents under his arm.’

‘So?’ Rebus closed the viewing-flap in the cell door.

‘So we went to his digs. There was some other stuff there, including some that we could trace immediately from the register. His scam is, he thieves here and sells in Newcastle, and what he thieves there he lays off
here
.’

‘It’s a tremendous feat of detection, Flower. I want to thank you for sharing it with me.’

Rebus started back upstairs, Flower following. He handed Rebus a folded sheet of paper.

‘This is a list of the stuff the Geordies found in his flat. They traced some of it to a couple of break-ins, but the lists didn’t match. Looks like he’d already sold some of the stuff on. Including a shotgun.’ Rebus began to see the point. ‘Shotts has been up here three weeks. I think he sold it to Shug McAnally.’

‘Have you asked Mr Shotts?’

‘He’s as good as admitted it.’

Rebus stopped. ‘Maybe I should talk to him.’

Flower blocked his path. ‘I don’t think that would do any good.’ Rebus wasn’t in the mood for a fight, so kept on walking. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I mean, it ties up the loose ends, doesn’t it?’

‘It might tie up one of them, but it just unravels a couple more. Want to know what they are? Number one, why are you interested? Number two, why would you want me to be “pleased”?’