A Good Hanging and other Stories (11 page)

‘So you never actually saw Mr Ford?’

‘No, and I only saw the lad Abbot afterwards, when the ambulance was taking him away.’

It was fitting into place almost too easily now. And Rebus thought, sometimes these things are only visible with hindsight, from a space of years. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he ventured, ‘you know anyone who worked at the hotel back then?’

‘Owner’s moved on,’ said Thomson, ‘who knows where to. It might be that Janice Dryman worked there then. Can’t recall if she did.’

‘Where could I find her?’

Thomson peered at the clock behind the bar. ‘Hang around here ten minutes or so, you’ll bump into her. She usually comes in of an afternoon. Meantime, I’ll have another of these if you’re buying.’

Thomson pushed his empty glass over to Rebus. Rebus, most definitely, was buying.

Miss Dryman — ‘never married, never really saw the point’ - was in her early fifties. She worked in a gift-shop in town and after her stint finished usually nipped into the Tavern for a soft drink and ‘a bit of gossip’. Rebus asked what she would like to drink.

‘Lemonade, please,’ she said, ‘with a drop of whisky in it.’ And she laughed with Jock Thomson, as though this were an old and cherished joke between them. Rebus, not used to playing the part of straight-man, headed yet again for the bar.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, her lips poised above the glass. ‘I was working there at the time all right. Chambermaid and general dogsbody, that was me.’

‘You wouldn’t see them arrive though?’

Miss Dryman looked as though she had some secret to impart.
‘Nobody
saw them arrive, I know that for a fact. Mrs Dennis who ran the place back then, she said she’d be buggered if she’d wait up half the night for a couple of fishermen. They knew what rooms they were in and their keys were left at reception.’

‘What about the front door?’

‘Left unlocked, I suppose. The world was a safer place back then.’

‘Aye, you’re right there,’ added Jock Thomson, sucking on his sliver of lemon.

‘And Mr Abbot and Mr Ford knew this was the arrangement?’

‘I suppose so. Otherwise it wouldn’t have worked, would it ?’

So Abbot knew there’d be nobody around at the hotel, not if he left it late enough before arriving.

‘And what about in the morning?’

‘Mrs Dennis said they were up and out before she knew anything about it. She was annoyed because she’d already cooked the kippers for their breakfast before she realised.’

So nobody saw them in the morning either. In fact...

‘In fact,’ said Rebus, ‘nobody saw Mr Ford at all. Nobody at the hotel, not you, Mr Thomson, nobody.’ Both drinkers conceded this.

‘I saw his stuff though,’ said Miss Dryman.

‘What stuff?’

‘In his room, his clothes and stuff. That morning. I didn’t know anything about the accident and I went in to clean.’

‘The bed had been slept in?’

‘Looked like it. Sheets all rumpled. And his suitcase was on the floor, only half unpacked. Not that there was much to unpack.’

‘Oh?’

‘A single change of clothes, I’d say. I remember them because they seemed mucky, you know, not fresh. Not the sort of stuff
I’d
take on holiday with me.’

‘What? Like he’d been working in them?’

She considered this. ‘Maybe.’

‘No point wearing clean clothes for fishing,’ Thomson added. But Rebus wasn’t listening.

Ford’s clothes, the clothes he had been working in while laying the floor. It made sense. Abbot bludgeoned him, stripped him and covered his body in fresh cement. He’d taken the clothes away with him and put them in a case, opening it in the hotel room, ruffling the sheets. Simple, but effective. Effective these past thirty years. The motive? A falling out perhaps, or simple greed. It was a small company, but growing, and perhaps Abbot hadn’t wanted to share. Rebus placed a five-pound note on the table.

‘To cover the next couple of rounds,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’d better be off. Some of us are still on duty.’

There were things to be done. He had to speak to his superior, Chief Inspector Lauderdale. And that was for starters. Maybe Ford’s Australian sister could be traced this time round. There had to be someone out there who could acknowledge that Ford had suffered from a broken leg in youth, and that he had a crooked finger. So far, Rebus could think of only one person - Alexander Abbot. Somehow, he didn’t think Abbot could be relied on to tell the truth, the whole truth.

Then there was the hotel register. The forensics lab could ply their cunning trade on it. Perhaps they’d be able to say for certain that Ford’s signature was merely a bad rendition of Abbot’s. But again, he needed a sample of Ford’s handwriting in order to substantiate that the signature was not genuine. Who did he know who might possess such a document? Only Alexander Abbot. Or Mr Hillbeith, but Mr Hillbeith had not been able to help.

‘No, Inspector, as I told you, it was Mr Abbot who handled all the paperwork, all that side of things. If there is an invoice or a receipt, it will be in his hand, not Mr Ford’s. I don’t recall ever seeing Mr Ford writing anything.’

No through road.

Chief Inspector Lauderdale was not wholly sympathetic. So far all Rebus had to offer were more suppositions to add to those of the Fife Police at the time. There was no proof that Alexander Abbot had killed his partner. No proof that the skeleton was Hugh Ford. Moreover, there wasn’t even much in the way of circumstantial evidence. They could bring in Abbot for questioning, but all he had to do was plead innocence. He could afford a good lawyer; and even bad lawyers weren’t stupid enough to let the police probe too deeply.

‘We need proof, John,’ said Lauderdale, ‘concrete evidence. The simplest proof would be that hotel signature. If we prove it’s not Ford’s, then we have Abbot at that hotel, Abbot in the boat and Abbot shouting that his friend has drowned,
all
without Ford having been there. That’s what we need. The rest of it, as it stands, is rubbish. You know that.’

Yes, Rebus knew. He didn’t doubt that, given an hour alone with Abbot in a darkened alley, he’d have his confession. But it didn’t work like that. It worked through the law. Besides, Abbot’s heart might not be too healthy. BUSINESSMAN, 55, DIES UNDER QUESTIONING. No, it had to be done some other way.

The problem was, there
was
no other way. Alexander Abbot was getting away with murder. Or was he? Why did his story have to be false? Why did the body have to be Hugh Ford’s? The answer was: because the whole thing seemed to fit. Only, the last piece of the jigsaw had been lost under some sofa or chair a long time ago, so long ago now that it might remain missing forever.

He didn’t know why he did it. If in doubt, retrace your steps... something like that. Maybe he just liked the atmosphere. Whatever, Rebus found himself back in the National Library, waiting at his desk for the servitor to bring him his bound volume of old news. He mouthed the words of ‘Yesterday’s Papers’ to himself as he waited. Then, when the volume appeared, he unbuckled it with ease and pulled open the pages. He read past the April editions, read through into May and June. Football results, headlines — and what was this? A snippet of business news, barely a filler at the bottom right-hand corner of a page. About how the Kirkwall Construction Company was swallowing up a couple of smaller competitors in Fife and Midlothian.

‘The 1960s will be a decade of revolution in the building industry,’ said Managing Director Mr Jack Kirkwall, ‘and Kirkwall Construction aims to meet that challenge through growth and quality. The bigger we are, the better we are. These acquisitions strengthen the company, and they’re good news for the workforce, too.’

It was the kind of sentiment which had lasted into the 1980s. Jack Kirkwall, Alexander Abbot’s bitter rival. Now there was a man Rebus ought to meet...

The meeting, however, had to be postponed until the following week. Kirkwall was in hospital for a minor operation.

‘I’m at that age, Inspector,’ he told Rebus when they finally met, ‘when things go wrong and need treatment or replacing. Just like any bit of well-used machinery.’

And he laughed, though the laughter, to Rebus’s ears, had a hollow centre. Kirkwall looked older than his sixty-two years, his skin saggy, complexion wan. They were in his living-room, from where, these days, he did most of his work.

‘Since I turned sixty, I’ve only really wandered into the company headquarters for the occasional meeting. I leave the daily chores to my son, Peter. He seems to be managing.’ The laughter this time was self-mocking.

Rebus had suggested a further postponement of the meeting, but when Jack Kirkwall knew that the subject was to be Alexander Abbot, he was adamant that they should go ahead.

‘Is he in trouble then?’

‘He might be,’ Rebus admitted. Some of the colour seemed to reappear in Kirkwall’s cheeks and he relaxed a little further into his reclining leather chair. Rebus didn’t want to give Kirkwall the story. Kirkwall and Abbot were still business rivals, after all. Still, it seemed, enemies. Given the story, Kirkwall might try some underhand tactic, some rumour in the media, and if it got out that the story originally came from a police inspector, well. Hello, being sued and goodbye, pension.

No, Rebus didn’t want that. Yet he did want to know whether Kirkwall knew anything, knew of any reason why Abbot might wish, might
need
to kill Ford.

‘Go on, Inspector.’

‘It goes back quite a way, sir. 1960, to be precise. Your firm was at that time in the process of expansion.’

‘Correct.’

‘What did you know about Abbot & Ford?’

Kirkwall brushed the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other. ‘Just that they were growing, too. Of course, they were younger than us, much smaller than us. ABC still is much smaller than us. But they were cocky, they were winning some contracts ahead of us. I had my eye on them.’

‘Did you know Mr Ford at all?’

‘Oh yes. Really, he was the cleverer of the two men. I’ve never had much respect for Abbot. But Hugh Ford was quiet, hardworking. Abbot was the one who did the shouting and got the firm noticed.’

‘Did Mr Ford have a crooked finger?’

Kirkwall seemed bemused by the question. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said at last. ‘I never actually met the man, I merely knew
about
him. Why? Is it important?’

Rebus felt at last that his meandering, narrowing path had come to the lip of a chasm. Nothing for it but to turn back.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would have clarified something.’

‘You know, Inspector, my company
was
interested in taking Abbot & Ford under our wing.’

‘Oh?’

‘But then with the accident, that tragic accident. Well, Abbot took control and he wasn’t at all interested in any offer we had to make. Downright rude, in fact. Yes, I’ve always thought that it was such a
lucky
accident so far as Abbot was concerned.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘I mean, Inspector, that Hugh Ford was on our side. He wanted to sell up. But Abbot was against it.’

So, Rebus had his motive. Well, what did it matter? He was still lacking that concrete evidence Lauderdale demanded.

‘... Would it show up from his handwriting?’

Rebus had missed what Kirkwall had been saying. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that.’

‘I said, Inspector, if Hugh Ford had a crooked finger, would it show from his handwriting?’

‘Handwriting ?’

‘Because I had his agreement to the takeover. He’d written to me personally to tell me. Had gone behind Abbot’s back, I suppose. I bet Alex Abbot was mad as hell when he found out about that.’ Kirkwall’s smile was vibrant now. ‘I always thought that accident was a bit too lucky where Abbot was concerned. A bit too neat. No proof though. There was never any proof.’

‘Do you still have the letter?’

‘What?’

‘The letter from Mr Ford, do you still have it?’

Rebus was tingling now, and Kirkwall caught his excitement. ‘I never throw anything away, Inspector. Oh yes, I’ve got it. It’ll be upstairs.’

‘Can I see it? I mean, can I see it now?’

‘If you like,’ Kirkwall made to stand up, but paused. ‘Is Alex Abbot in trouble, Inspector?’

‘If you’ve still got that letter from Hugh Ford, then, yes, sir, I’d say Mr Abbot could be in very grave trouble indeed.’

‘Inspector, you’ve made an old man very happy.’

It was the letter against Alex Abbot’s word, of course, and he denied everything. But there was enough now for a trial. The entry in the hotel, while it was
possibly
the work of Alexander Abbot was
certainly
not the work of the man who had written the letter to Jack Kirkwall. A search warrant gave the police the powers to look through Abbot’s home and the ABC headquarters. A contract, drawn up between Abbot and Ford when the two men had gone into partnership, was discovered to be held in a solicitor’s safe. The signature matched that on the letter to Jack Kirkwall. Kirkwall himself appeared in court to give evidence. He seemed to Rebus a different man altogether from the person he’d met previously: sprightly, keening, enjoying life to the full.

From the dock, Alexander Abbot looked on almost reproachfully, as if this were just one more business trick in a life full of them. Life, too, was the sentence of the judge.

Seeing Things

To be honest, if you were going to see Christ anywhere in Edinburgh, the Hermitage was perfect.

Or, to give it its full title, the Hermitage of Braid, named after the Braid Burn which trickled through the narrow, bushy wilderness between Blackford Hill and Braid Hills Road. Across this road, the Hermitage became a golf course, its undulations cultivated and well-trodden, but on sunny weekend afternoons, the Hermitage itself was as wild a place as your imagination wished it to be. Children ran in and out of the trees or threw sticks into the burn. Lovers could be seen hand-in-hand as they tackled the tricky descent from Blackford Hill. Dogs ran sniffing to stump and post, watched, perhaps, by punks seated atop an outcrop. Can would be tipped to mouth, the foam savoured. Picnic parties would debate the spot most sheltered from the breeze.