10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (239 page)

‘Well, Inspector?’ Mathieson could see something in Rebus’s eyes – a red light that had changed to amber. He rose from the throne. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

Rebus hadn’t noticed that the far wall was a series of recessed cupboards, their doors flush and handleless. Mathieson pushed the edge of one door and it opened automatically.

‘I hope malt whisky’s all right for everyone,’ Mathieson said, as lightly as if they’d just finished a few rubbers of bridge.

‘You don’t have a drop of gin?’ Joe Simpson squawked.

‘You’re right, Joe, I don’t.’

‘Then I’ll take whisky.’

‘Yes, Joe, you will.’

‘Inspector,’ Haldayne said in reasoned tones, ‘we’re in your hands. It’s your decision now.’

‘Let the man have a drink first,’ Mathieson chided.

Sir Iain was staring levelly at Rebus, his mouth a moral pout. There was a line from a song stuck in Rebus’s head, just when he least needed it: ‘
you can’t always get what you want, but if you try some time, you’ll find you get what you need
’.

I need a drink, he thought. And Robbie Mathieson – caring, smiling – brought him one.

‘You’re all right anyway,’ Rebus told Haldayne. ‘You’ll have diplomatic immunity, the Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card.’

Haldayne snorted his porcine laugh. ‘I’m also the only
one here who lost five grand to Derwood Charters over Albavise.’

‘And you should have stayed out of it,’ Sir Iain snarled.

‘Hey,’ Haldayne said, light glinting from his glasses, ‘it worked in the past, didn’t it?’

‘You know, Inspector,’ Mathieson said, rising above all this, ‘any other policeman, any other public official, I might have been tempted to try offering a financial incentive.’

They all shut up to listen. Rebus sipped from his crystal tumbler.

‘But with you,’ Mathieson went on, ‘I think that might have the opposite effect from the one intended.’

‘And how much cash would I be worth to you, Mr Mathieson?’

‘To me, nothing. But if it were a question of saving PanoTech . . . Well, it wouldn’t be a matter of actual cash, of course. Cash is messy, and you wouldn’t want any problems with the Inland Revenue.’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘But a new house with its own grounds, a trust fund for a daughter, shares in a company which is going to do extraordinarily well in the next few years . . . And then there are less tangible rewards – but no less valuable for that: friends in the right places, help when needed, a word in the right ear come promotion time . . .’ Mathieson’s voice died away as he handed out the final drink – a very mean whisky for Joe Simpson – and took one for himself. He stood behind his throne, a plane droning in the night sky behind him.

‘A little bit of bribery, eh?’ Rebus commented.

Sir Iain Hunter sat forward. He looked like he was losing patience fast. He tapped his stick on the floor as he spoke. ‘Is it wrong,’ he said, ‘to bribe rich foreign companies to come to a depressed region? I’d say, Inspector, that morally speaking, anyone who did that would be in the right.’

‘Blackmail’s blackmail,’ Rebus said.

‘I disagree.’

‘And tell me, is nobody lining their own pockets?’

Sir Iain savoured his whisky. ‘There must needs be incentives,’ he said drily.

Rebus laughed. He felt a little looser after the drink. ‘Exactly. And all this love of country and duty to the workers stuff is just so much shite. Tell me, why did you bring the DCC and me together that day?’

Sir Iain twisted in his chair. ‘I saw how dangerous Charters had become. I wanted him stopped, but my position would not allow me to . . . I felt it best to point you in the right direction rather than leading you there.’

Rebus laughed again. ‘You old fraud. We were there to put the wind up Mathieson, to stop him even
thinking
about talking.’ He turned to Mathieson. ‘You were sweating like a pig in the killing pen.’ Then back to Sir Iain. ‘You used us the same way Charters used McAnally.
And
you’ve blackmailed Haldayne into helping bring firms here. What is it, is corruption part of the job description?’

Hunter said nothing. He was too angry to speak.

‘Answer me this. Charters had a client called Quinlon, a building contractor who’d made money illicitly through a deal with someone in the SDA. Charters shopped Quinlon to the authorities so they’d think more seriously about closing down the SDA. Now, you all knew Charters back then, didn’t you? You all knew that if the SDA disappeared, all accounts would be closed and the various frauds would remain undiscovered. So did you know about Quinlon?’ He looked at Sir Iain. ‘Did Charters maybe come to you with the story, and leave
you
to see that the right people heard about it?’

‘This is sheer paranoia,’ Sir Iain said. ‘I refuse to discuss it.’

‘OK, let’s try this – Charters made a couple of million
through his paper companies. Enough to make a stint in jail worth while. That’s why he pled guilty. And when he gets out, the money’s waiting for him. You all know that, and you’re not going to do a thing about it. You know he’s a murderer, too, but you’ve kept quiet about that as well.’

‘Inspector,’ Haldayne said, ‘we’re not leeches.’

‘I know that – leeches are medicinal. You know something?’ He was talking to all of them now. ‘Tom Gillespie said something to me. He told me I was making a mistake. At the time, I took it as a threat, but it wasn’t – it was the literal truth. I thought because he had something to hide it must be something illicit. I was wrong about him all down the line; all he was was scared. He was terrified. Those last days of his life, all he felt was fear.’ And dear God, Rebus knew what that felt like.

‘Nobody’s mourning him!’ Sir Iain snapped.

Rebus turned to him. ‘Now how do you know that?’

‘What?’

‘He’s got a widow: you don’t think she’s in mourning?’

Sir Iain studied the handle of his cane. ‘I forgot,’ he said.

‘No, you didn’t,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘So, what’s it to be, Inspector?’ Mathieson himself was beginning to look impatient. He knew he had won the argument, but might still lose the fight. He had his glass half raised, ready for a toast if Rebus gave the right answer, the answer everybody wanted. ‘Just remember, if you want it, there’s a place for you.’

Rebus was still staring at Sir Iain Hunter. He finished his whisky in one go and put the glass down. With his hands on the table, he pushed himself upright out of the chair.

‘Here’s my answer, Mr Mathieson,’ he said.

He walked out without saying another word.

Because he hadn’t decided.

His pride wouldn’t let him kowtow to people like Hunter and Mathieson – they were men, not gods. And he hated people putting one over on him, which was exactly what would be happening if he gave in. But . . . but . . . He kept seeing those hundreds of faceless workers, driving to work in their new cars, or signing on in a sweltering dole office. One man’s life against thousands . . . It wasn’t fair, it shouldn’t be down to him to decide.

Well, what was stopping him taking it elsewhere? He drove into town along Corstorphine Road, past the office suite used by Mensung, and decided to drop into Torphichen Place. Davidson probably wouldn’t be there at this hour, but he could find out what was happening with Gillespie’s files.

The duty desk officer let him through the door. Rebus walked along the silent hall and up the stairs. The only person in the CID room was Rab Burns.

‘Hiya, John, what brings you here? The urbane conversation? The ersatz coffee?’

‘Bags of rubbish, to be precise.’

‘Eh?’

So Rebus explained, and Burns shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about them.’

‘Maybe they were locked away at close of play.’

‘They’d be in the cupboard. Hold on, I’ll fetch the key.’
But there was nothing in the cupboard. ‘You don’t suppose they could have been thrown out by mistake?’

A shiver went across Rebus’s shoulders. ‘Mind if I use your phone?’ He punched in Davidson’s number and waited until the detective answered. ‘It’s me, where are the files?’

‘John, I was going to call you.’

‘Where are the files?’

‘Orders, John.’

‘What?’

‘They were requisitioned. I was going to tell you in the morning.’

‘Who was it?’

Davidson was a long time answering. ‘The DCC’s office.’

Rebus slammed down the receiver. Allan bloody Gunner! ‘Any idea of the DCC’s home number, Rab?’

‘Oh aye, we’re close friends like.’

Rebus’s look shut him up. They found the number on the Emergency roster. Rebus rang and waited and waited. A woman picked up the receiver. There was laughter in the background. A party, maybe a dinner party.

‘Mr Gunner, please.’

‘Who shall I say?’

‘Walt Disney.’

‘Pardon?’

Rebus was shaking with anger. ‘Just get him.’

A full minute later, Gunner lifted the receiver. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Rebus. What the fuck are you playing at?’

‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ The words were hissed, Gunner not wanting his guests in the other room to hear.

‘All right then. With respect, sir, what the fuck are you playing at?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Gillespie files, where are they?’

‘In the incinerator.’

And Gunner cut the connection. Rebus tried again, but the line was busy – the receiver had been left off the hook. Rebus grabbed the Emergency roster from Burns and looked down it for Gunner’s address.

‘You can borrow my computer if you like,’ Burns said.

‘What for?’

‘To write your letter of resignation.’

‘Rab,’ Rebus said to him, ‘you stole that line from me.’

Rebus gave the bell a good long ring. Gunner didn’t look surprised as he unlocked the door.

‘Come into the study,’ he said angrily.

As Rebus followed him, he heard the sounds of the dinner party. Instead of following Gunner into the study, he walked to a closed door and opened it.

‘Evening,’ he said. ‘Sorry to drag the host away, we’ll only be a minute.’

Then he smiled at the guests, closed the door again, and went into the study. Around the table had been seated the Lord Provost and his wife, the chief constable and his wife, and Gunner’s wife. There were two other place settings, one for Gunner himself.

‘Sir Iain couldn’t make it then?’ Rebus guessed.

Gunner closed the study door. ‘He’ll be joining us for coffee.’

‘Cosy.’

‘Look, Rebus –’

‘I had a little think on the way here, and something occurred to me. Here it is. McAnally wasn’t in Charters’ cell to get to the bottom of anything; he was there so you could be sure Charters
was
keeping his mouth shut. And you got proof of that, because Charters paid McAnally to
scare off the councillor. It was a cover-up from the beginning, whether Flower knew that’s how you were playing it or not. You wanted the whole thing kept hidden, and now that you’ve burnt those papers, that’s the way it’ll stay.’

‘That’s up to you.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘No, I’m worthless. It’s up to people like
you
, and you’re not going to do a damned thing. You’re going to remain Hunter’s puppet, all the way to chief constable.’

The doorbell rang again, and Gunner walked out, returning with Sir Iain Hunter.

‘Well, Inspector,’ Hunter said, removing his topcoat, ‘you do seem to pop up everywhere.’ He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a cassette. ‘It’s all there,’ he said, handing it to Gunner.

Rebus felt the floor move beneath him. ‘You were bugged?’ he said.

Hunter smiled. ‘Thank God he didn’t make us
all
strip.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I begin to get it.’

‘Sir Iain,’ Gunner said, ‘has been gathering evidence of an embarrassing scandal.’

‘A scandal,’ Rebus added, ‘that will conveniently lack one important name. I should’ve known the Scottish Office was involved from the start. I can’t see a prison governor, especially one like Big Jim Flett, covering up McAnally’s record on the say-so of the police alone. But the DCC backed up by the Permanent Secretary . . . well, that would be a different story. After all, the Scottish Office pulls the purse-strings.’ His eyes fixed on Hunter. ‘And a lot of other strings besides.’

‘Inspector Rebus,’ Hunter said coolly, ‘it is a fact of life that you simply
can’t
have the Permanent Secretary mixed up in anything unsavoury. For the good of the country, he must be protected.’

‘Even if he’s in it up to his eyeballs?’

‘Even then.’

‘This stinks,’ Rebus said. ‘What’s the tape? An insurance policy?’

‘I’m preparing a file,’ Gunner said. ‘Unofficially, and to be kept under lock and key.’

‘And if anything should happen to leak out in future . . .?’

‘The file will show,’ said Hunter, ‘that Charters and others acted unlawfully.’

‘To the extent of murder?’ Hunter nodded. ‘What about Mathieson? Will he be implicated?’ Rebus smiled. ‘Sorry, daft question. Of course he will. You’d sell everything to the court to save your own neck, you –’

‘Hypocrite?’ Hunter suggested. ‘Hypocrisy is acceptable if it is for the public good.’

‘You know,’ Gunner added, ‘I could have you booted off the force.’

‘I’d fight you all the way.’

Gunner smiled. ‘I know you would.’

Hunter touched Gunner’s arm. ‘We’ve kept your guests waiting long enough, Allan.’

Gunner’s eyes were still on Rebus. ‘Under normal circumstances, you’d be welcome to join us.’

‘I wouldn’t join you if you were coming apart at the seams.’

‘The stories I hear,’ Gunner said, ‘it’s
you
that’s been coming apart at the seams.’

‘Bear something in mind, Inspector,’ Hunter said, examining his cane. ‘
You
were at that meeting, too. You’re on the tape, listening to men confess their part in illegal acts. I didn’t hear you caution them, I didn’t hear you do anything much. If questions should ever be asked, they’ll be asked of you along with everyone else.’

‘I’ll see you to the door,’ the chief constable-in-waiting told Rebus.