Beggars Banquet (26 page)

And when Hunter let his brother go, and watched him put an arm around Panda, and saw them vanish into the haze in front of his eyes, he felt a stab of terror for what he would have to become in this new millennium, and for all the things he would do, and the pleasures he would of necessity forgo.

There were three of them. Small, plain white envelopes, locally franked, the same name and address printed on each in a careful hand. The name was K. Leighton. Rebus looked up from the envelopes to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. He was in his forties, frail-looking and restless. He had started talking the moment he’d entered Rebus’s office, and didn’t seem inclined to stop.

‘The first one arrived on Tuesday, last Tuesday. A crank, I thought, some sort of malicious joke. Not that I could think of anyone who might do that sort of thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘My neighbours over the back from me . . . well, we don’t always see eye to eye, but they wouldn’t resort to this.’ His eyes glanced up towards Rebus for a second. ‘Would they?’

‘You tell me, Mr Leighton.’

As soon as he’d said this, Rebus regretted the choice of words. Undoubtedly, Kenneth Leighton
would
tell him. Rebus opened the first envelope’s flap, extracted the sheet of writing-paper and unfolded it. He did the same with the second and third letters and laid all three before him.

‘If it had been only the one,’ Kenneth Leighton was saying, ‘I wouldn’t have minded, but it doesn’t look as though they’re going to stop. Tuesday, then Thursday, then Saturday. I spent all weekend worrying about what to do . . .’

‘You did the right thing, Mr Leighton.’

Leighton wriggled pleasurably. ‘Well, they always say you should go to the police. Not that I think there’s anything serious. I mean,
I’ve
not got anything to hide. My life’s an open book . . .’

We’ve got photos you wouldn’t want your wife to see, believe us. Think about it. We’ll be in touch.

We’ll be sending one reprint to show we mean business. You’d better get to it before your wife does. There are plenty more copies.

‘You haven’t received the photo yet?’

Leighton shook his head. ‘I’d have brought it along, wouldn’t I?’

‘And you’ve no idea what sort of photo it might be?’

‘None at all. The last time somebody took my picture was at my niece’s wedding.’

‘And when was that?’

‘Three years ago. You see what I’m saying, Inspector? This doesn’t make any sense.’

‘It must make sense to at least one person, Mr Leighton.’ Rebus nodded towards the letters.

They had been written in blue ball-point, the same pen which had been used to address the envelopes. A cheap blue ball-point, leaving smears and blots of ink. It was anything but professional-looking. The whole thing looked like a joke. Since when did blackmailers use their own handwriting? Anyone with a rudimentary education in films, TV cop shows and thriller novels knew that you used a typewriter or letters cut out of newspapers, or whatever; anything that would produce a dramatic effect. These letters were too personal to look dramatic. Polite, too: that use of ‘Mr Leighton’ at the start of each one. A particular word caught Rebus’s attention and held it. But then Leighton said something interesting.

‘I don’t even have a wife, not now.’

‘You’re not married?’

‘I was. Divorced six years ago. Six years and one month.’

‘And where’s your wife now, Mr Leighton?’

‘Remarried, lives in Glenrothes. I got an invite to the wedding, but I didn’t go. Can’t remember what I sent them for a present . . .’ Leighton was lost in thought for a moment, then collected himself. ‘So you see, if these letters are written by someone I know, how come they
don’t
know I’m divorced?’

It was a good question. Rebus considered it for a full five seconds. Then he came to his conclusion.

‘Let’s leave it for now, Mr Leighton,’ he said. ‘There’s not much we can do till this photo arrives . . .
if
it arrives.’

Leighton looked numb, watching Rebus fold the letters and replace them in their envelopes. Rebus wasn’t sure what the man had expected. Fingerprints lifted from the envelopes by forensic experts? A tell-tale fibre leading to an arrest? Handwriting identified . . . saliva from the stamps and the envelope-flaps checked . . . psychologists analysing the wording of the messages themselves, coming up with a profile of the blackmailer? It was all good stuff, but not on a wet Monday morning in Edinburgh. Not with CID’s case-load and budget restrictions.

‘Is that it?’

Rebus shrugged. That was it. We’re only human, Mr Leighton. For a moment, Rebus thought he’d actually voiced his thoughts. He had not. Leighton still sat there, pale and disappointed, his mouth set like the bottom line of a balance sheet.

‘Sorry,’ said Rebus, rising.

‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Leighton.

‘What?’

‘Six wine glasses, that’s what I gave them. Caithness glass they were too.’

‘Very nice I’m sure,’ said Rebus, stifling a post-weekend yawn as he opened the office door.

No wife these past six years, and the last photograph of Leighton dated back three years to a family wedding. Where was the material for blackmail? Where the motive? Means, motive and opportunity. Means: a photograph, apparently. Motive: unknown. Opportunity . . . Leighton was a nobody, a middle-aged civil servant. He earned enough, but not enough to make him blackmail material. He had confided to Rebus that he barely had £2,000 in his building society account.

‘Hardly enough to cover their demand,’ he had said, as though he were considering actually paying off the blackmailers, even though he had nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Just to get them off his back? Or because he
did
have something to hide? Most people did, if it came to it. The guilty secret or two (or more, many more) stored away just below the level of consciousness, the way suitcases were stored under beds. Rebus wondered if he himself were blackmail material. He smiled: was the Pope a Catholic? Was the Chief Constable a Mason? Leighton’s words came back to him:
Hardly enough to cover their demand
. What sort of civil servant was Leighton anyway? Rebus sought out the day-time telephone number Leighton had left along with his home address and phone number. Seven digits, followed by a three-figure extension number. He punched the seven digits on his receiver, waited, and heard a switchboard operator say, ‘Good afternoon, Inland Revenue.’ Rebus replaced the receiver with a guilty silence.

‘You didn’t tell me you were a taxman, Mr Leighton.’

‘What?’

‘A taxman.’

‘What does it matter?’

What did it matter? How many enemies could one taxman make? Rebus swallowed back the question. He could always use a friend in Her Majesty’s Inland Revenue, for personal as well as strictly professional use . . .

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Leighton was saying, though Rebus doubted it. ‘And it’s true that I work in the Collector’s office, sending out the demands. But my name’s never on the demands. The Inspector of Taxes might be mentioned by name, but I’m a lowly cog, Inspector.’

‘Even so, you must write to people sometimes. There might be somebody out there with a grudge.’

‘I’ve given it some thought, Inspector. It was my
first
thought. But in any case I don’t deal with Edinburgh.’

‘Oh?’

‘I deal with south London.’

Rebus noted that, phoning from his place of work, Leighton was less nervous-sounding. He sounded cool, detached. He sounded like a tax collector. South London: but the letters had local postmarks - another theory sealed under cover and posted into eternity, no return address.

‘The reason I’m calling,’ Leighton was saying, ‘is that I had another letter this morning.’

‘With a photo?’

‘Yes, there’s a photo.’

‘And?’

‘It’s difficult to explain. I could come to the station at lunchtime.’

‘Don’t bother yourself, Mr Leighton. I’ll come to the tax office. All part of the service.’

Rebus was thinking of back-handers, gifts from grateful members of the public, all the pubs where he could be sure of a free drink, chip shops that wouldn’t charge for a feed, all the times he’d helped out for a favour, the way those favours accumulated and were paid off . . . Tax forms asked you about tips received. Rebus always left the box blank. Had he always been accurate about amounts of bank interest? More crucially, several months ago he had started renting his flat to three students while he lived rent-free with Dr Patience Aitken. He had no intention of declaring . . . well, maybe he would. It helped to know a friendly taxman, someone who might soon owe him a favour.

‘That’s very good of you, Inspector,’ Leighton was saying.

‘Not at all, sir.’

‘Only it all seems to have been a mistake anyway.’

‘A mistake?’

‘You’ll see when I show you the photograph.’

He saw a man and a woman. In the foreground was a coffee table, spread with bottles and glasses and cans, an ashtray full to overflowing. Behind this, a sofa, and on the sofa a man and a woman. Lying along the sofa, hugging one another. The photographer had caught them like this, their faces just beginning to turn towards the camera, grinning and flushed with that familiar mix of alcohol and passion. Rebus had been to these sorts of party, parties where the alcohol was necessary before there could be any passion. Behind the couple, two men stood in animated conversation. It was a good clear photo, the work of a 35mm camera with either a decent flash-gun or else no necessity for one.

‘And here’s the letter,’ said Leighton. They were seated on an uncomfortable, spongy sofa in the tax office’s reception area. Rebus had been hoping for a sniff behind the scenes, but Leighton worked in an open-plan office with less privacy even than the reception area. Few members of the public ever visited the building, and the receptionist was at the other end of the hallway. Staff wandered through on their way to the coffee machine or the snack dispenser, the toilets or the post-room, but otherwise this was as quiet as it got.

Here is the photo. We have plenty more, plus negatives. Cheap at £2,000 the lot, and your wife will never know. The money should be in fives and tens, nothing bigger. Put it in a William Low’s carrier-bag and go to Greyfriars Kirkyard on Friday at 3 p.m. Leave the bag behind Greyfriars Bobby’s gravestone. Walk away. Photos and negatives will be sent to you.

‘You see what I mean?’ Leighton said. ‘I can only think that if it isn’t a joke, then it’s a case of mistaken identity.’

True enough, Leighton wasn’t any of the three men in the photo, not by any stretch of the will or imagination. Rebus concentrated on the woman. She was small, heavy, somehow managing to fit into a dress two sizes too small for her. It was black and short, rumpled most of the way to her bum, with plenty of cleavage at the other end. She also wore black tights and black patent-leather shoes. But somehow Rebus didn’t think he was looking at a funeral.

‘I don’t suppose’, he said, ‘this is your wife?’

Leighton actually laughed, the sound of paper shredding.

‘Thought not,’ Rebus said quietly. He turned his attention to the man on the sofa, the man whose arms were trapped beneath the weight of the smirking woman. There was something about that face, that hairstyle. Then it hit Rebus, and things started to make a little more sense.

‘I didn’t recognise him at first,’ he said, thinking out loud.

‘You mean you know him?’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Only I’ve never seen him smile before, that’s what threw me.’ He studied the photo again, then stabbed it with a finger. The tip of his finger was resting on the face of one of the other men, the two behind the sofa. ‘And I know him,’ he said. ‘I can place him now.’ Leighton looked impressed. Rebus moved his finger on to the recumbent woman. ‘What’s more, I know her too. I know her quite well.’

Leighton didn’t look impressed now, he looked startled, perhaps even disbelieving.

‘Three out of four,’ Rebus said. ‘Not a bad score, eh?’ Leighton didn’t answer, so Rebus smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll take care of this. You won’t be bothered any more.’

‘Well . . . thank you, Inspector.’

Rebus got to his feet. ‘All part of the service, Mr Leighton. Who knows, maybe
you’ll
be able to help
me
one of these days . . .’