Beggars Banquet (27 page)

‘Get your coat,’ he said.

She angled her head back towards her desk. ‘But I’m in the middle of—’

‘You’re in the middle of
my
catchment, Siobhan. Now fetch your coat.’

Never be nosy, and always keep your head down: somehow Siobhan Clarke hadn’t yet learned those two golden rules of the easy life. Not that anything was easy when John Rebus was in the office. Which was precisely why she liked working near him.

‘Where are we going?’ she said.

Rebus told her on the way. He also handed the file to her so she could read it through.

‘Not guilty,’ she said at last.

‘And I’m Robbie Coltrane,’ said Rebus. They were both talking about a case from a few months before. A veteran hard man had been charged with the attempted armed hold-up of a security van. There had been evidence as to his guilt - just about enough evidence - and his alibi had been shaky. He’d told police of having spent the day in question in a bar near his mother’s home in Muirhouse, probably the city’s most notorious housing scheme. Plenty of witnesses came forward to agree that he had been there all day. These witnesses boasted names like Tam the Bam, Big Shug, the Screwdriver, and Wild Eck. The look of them in the witness-box, police reasoned, would be enough to convince the jury of the defendant’s guilt. But there had been one other witness . . .

‘Miss June Redwood,’ quoted DC Clarke, rereading the casenotes.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘Miss June Redwood.’

An innocent, dressed in a solemn two-piece as she gave her evidence at the trial. She was a social worker, caring for the most desperate in Edinburgh’s most desperate area. Needing to make a phone call, and sensing she’d have no luck with Muirhouse’s few public kiosks, she had walked into the Castle Arms, probably the first female the regulars had seen in the saloon bar since the landlord’s wife had walked out on him fifteen years before. She’d asked to use the phone, and a man had wandered over to her from a table and, with a wink, had asked if she’d like a drink. She’d refused. She could see he’d had a few - more than a few. His table had the look of a lengthy session about it - empty pint glasses placed one inside another to form a leaning tower, ashtray brimming with butts and empty packets, the newspaper’s racing page heavily marked in biro.

Miss Redwood had given a quietly detailed account, at odds with the loud, confident lies of the other defence witnesses. And she was sure that she’d walked into the bar at 3 p.m., five minutes before the attack on the security van took place. The prosecution counsel had tried his best, gaining from the social worker the acknowledgement that she knew the accused’s mother through her work, though the old woman was not actually her client. The prosecutor had stared out at the fifteen jury members, attempting without success to plant doubt in their minds. June Redwood was a rock-solid witness. Solid enough to turn a golden prosecution case into a verdict of ‘not guilty’. The accused had walked free. Close, as the fairground saying went, but definitely no goldfish.

Rebus had been in court for the verdict, and had left with a shrug and a low growl. A security guard lay in hospital suffering from shotgun wounds. Now the case would have to be looked at again, if not by Rebus then by some other poor bugger who would go through the same old steps, knowing damned fine who the main suspect was, and knowing that he was walking the streets and drinking in pubs, and chuckling at his luck.

Except that it wasn’t luck: it was planning, as Rebus now knew.

DC Clarke finished her second reading of the file. ‘I suppose you checked on Redwood at the time?’

‘Of course we did. Not married, no boyfriends. No proof - not even the faintest rumour - that she knew Keith.’

Clarke looked at the photo. ‘And this is her?’

‘It’s her, and it’s him - Keith Leyton.’

‘And it was sent to . . . ?’

‘It was addressed to a Mr K. Leighton. They didn’t get the spelling right. I checked in the phone book. Keith Leyton’s ex-directory. Either that or he doesn’t have a phone. But our little tax collector is in there under K. Leighton.’

‘And they sent the letters to him by mistake?’

‘They must know Keith Leyton hangs out in Muirhouse. His mum lives in Muirhouse Crescent.’

‘Where does Kenneth Leighton live?’

Rebus grinned at the windscreen. ‘Muir
wood
Crescent - only it’s not in Muirhouse, it’s in Currie.’

Siobhan Clarke smiled too. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

Rebus shrugged. ‘It happens. They looked in the phone book, thought the address looked right, and started sending the letters.’

‘So they’ve been trying to blackmail a criminal . . .’

‘And instead they’ve found a taxman.’ Now Rebus laughed outright. ‘They must be mad, naïve, or built like a hydro-electric station. If they’d
really
tried this bampot caper on with Leyton, he’d have dug a fresh grave or two in Greyfriars for them. I’ll give them one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They know about Keith’s wife.’

‘His wife?’

Rebus nodded. ‘She lives near the mum. Big woman. Jealous. That’s why Keith would keep any girlfriend secret - that’s why he’d
want
to keep her a secret. The blackmailers must have thought that gave them a chance that he’d cough up.’

Rebus stopped the car. He had parked outside a block of flats in Oxgangs. The block was one of three, each one shaped like a capital H lying on its face. Caerketton Court: Rebus had once had a fling with a school-dinner lady who lived on the second floor . . .

‘I checked with June Redwood’s office,’ he said. ‘She’s off sick.’ He craned his neck out of the window. ‘Tenth floor apparently, let’s hope the lift’s working.’ He turned to Siobhan. ‘Otherwise we’ll have to resort to the telephone.’

‘I’d hate to see you on a football terrace in January,’ said Rebus.

There was a sound from inside the door, then the door itself was opened by a woman with unwashed hair, a tissue to her nose, and wrapped in a thick dressing-gown.

‘Hello there, Miss Redwood,’ said Rebus brightly. ‘Remember me?’ Then he held up the photograph. ‘Doubtless you remember him too. Can we come in?’

They went in. As they sat in the untidy living-room, it crossed Siobhan Clarke’s mind that they had no way of proving
when
the photo was taken. And without that, they had nothing. Say the party had taken place after the trial - it could well be that Leyton and June Redwood had met then. In fact, it made sense. After his release, Leyton probably
would
want to throw a party, and he would certainly want to invite the woman who had been his saviour. She hoped Rebus had thought of this. She hoped he wasn’t going to go too far . . . as usual.

‘I don’t understand,’ said June Redwood, wiping her nose again.

‘Come on, June,’ said Rebus. ‘Here’s the proof. You and Keith together in a clinch. The man you claimed at his trial was a complete stranger. Do you often get this comfortable with strangers?’

This earned a thin smile from June Redwood.

‘If so,’ Rebus continued, ‘you must invite me to one of your parties.’

Siobhan Clarke swallowed hard. Yes, the Inspector was going to go too far. Had she ever doubted it?

‘You’d be lucky,’ said the social worker.

‘It’s been known,’ said Rebus. He relaxed into his chair. ‘Doesn’t take a lot of working out, does it?’ he went on. ‘You must have met Keith through his mum. You became . . . friends, let’s call it. I don’t know what his wife will call it.’ Blood started to tinge June Redwood’s neck. ‘You look better already,’ said Rebus. ‘At least I’ve put a bit of colour in your cheeks. You met Keith, started going out with him. It had to be kept secret though. The only thing Keith Leyton fears is
Mrs
Keith Leyton.’

‘Her name’s Joyce,’ said Redwood.

Rebus nodded. ‘So it is.’

‘I could know that from the trial,’ she snapped. ‘I wouldn’t have to know him to know that.’

Rebus nodded again. ‘Except that you were a witness, June. You weren’t in court when Joyce Leyton was mentioned.’

Her face now looked as though she’d been lying out too long in the non-existent sun. But she had a trump card left. ‘That photo could have been taken any time.’

Siobhan held her breath: yes, this was the crunch. Rebus seemed to realise it too. ‘You’re right there,’ he said. ‘Any time at all . . . up to a month before Keith’s trial.’

The room was quiet for a moment. The wind found a gap somewhere and rustled a spider-plant near the window, whistling as though through well-spaced teeth.

‘What?’ said June Redwood. Rebus held the photograph up again.

‘The man behind you, the one with long hair and the tattoo. Ugly-looking loon. He’s called Mick McKelvin. It must have been some party, June, when bruisers like Keith and Mick were invited. They’re not exactly your cocktail crowd. They think a canapé’s something you throw over a stolen car to keep it hidden.’ Rebus smiled at his own joke. Well, someone had to.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Mick went inside four weeks before Keith’s trial. He’s serving three years in Peterhead. Persistent B and E. So you see, there’s no way this party could have taken place
after
Keith’s trial. Not unless Peterhead’s security has got a bit lax. No, it had to be before, meaning you
had
to know him before the trial. Know what that means?’ Rebus sat forward. June Redwood wasn’t wiping her nose with the tissue now; she was hiding behind it, and looking frightened. ‘It means you stood in the witness-box and you lied, just like Keith told you to. Serious trouble, June. You might end up with your own social worker, or even a prison visitor.’ Rebus’s voice had dropped in volume, as though June and he were having an intimate tête-à-tête over a candlelit dinner. ‘So I really think you’d better help us, and you can start by talking about the party. Let’s start with the photograph, eh?’

‘The photo?’ June Redwood looked ready to weep.

‘The photo,’ Rebus echoed. ‘Who took it? Did he take any other pics of the two of you? After all, at the moment you’re looking at a jail sentence, but if any photos like this one get to Joyce Leyton, you might end up collecting signatures.’ Rebus waited for a moment, until he saw that June didn’t get it. ‘On your plaster casts,’ he explained.

He was sitting in the interview room, and he was nervous. Rebus stood against one wall, arms folded, examining the scuffed toes of his black Dr Martens shoes. He’d only bought them three weeks ago. They were hardly broken in - the tough leather heel-pieces had rubbed his ankles into raw blisters - and already he’d managed to scuff the toes. He knew how he’d done it too: kicking stones as he’d come out of June Redwood’s block of flats. Kicking stones for joy. That would teach him not to be exuberant in future. It wasn’t good for your shoes.

‘Blackmail?’ Mitchell repeated.

‘Good echo in here,’ Rebus said to Siobhan Clarke, who was standing by the door. Rebus liked having Siobhan in on these interviews. She made people nervous. Hard men, brutal men, they would swear and fume for a moment before remembering that a young woman was present. A lot of the time, she discomfited them, and that gave Rebus an extra edge. But Mitchell, known to his associates as ‘Roscoe’ (for no known reason), would have been nervous anyway. A man with a proud sixty-a-day habit, he had been stopped from lighting up by a tutting John Rebus.

‘No smoking, Roscoe, not in here.’

‘What?’

‘This is a non-smoker.’

‘What the f—what are you blethering about?’

‘Just what I say, Roscoe. No smoking.’

Five minutes later, Rebus had taken Roscoe’s cigarettes from where they lay on the table, and had used Roscoe’s Scottish Bluebell matches to light one, which he inhaled with great delight.

‘Non-smoker!’ Roscoe Mitchell fairly yelped. ‘You said so yourself !’ He was bouncing like a kid on the padded seat. Rebus exhaled again.

‘Did I? Yes, so I did. Oh well . . .’ Rebus took a third and final puff from the cigarette, then stubbed it out underfoot, leaving the longest, most extravagant stub Roscoe had obviously ever seen in his life. He stared at it with open mouth, then closed his mouth tight and turned his eyes to Rebus.

‘What is it you want?’ he said.

‘Blackmail,’ said John Rebus.

‘Blackmail?’

‘Good echo in here.’

‘Blackmail? What the hell do you mean?’

‘Photos,’ said Rebus calmly. ‘You took them at a party four months ago.’

‘Whose party?’

‘Matt Bennett’s.’

Roscoe nodded. Rebus had placed the cigarettes back on the table. Roscoe couldn’t take his eyes off them. He picked up the box of matches and toyed with it. ‘I remember it,’ he said. A faint smile. ‘Brilliant party.’ He managed to stretch the word ‘brilliant’ out to four distinct syllables. So it really had been a good party.

‘You took some snaps?’

‘You’re right. I’d just got a new camera.’

‘I won’t ask where from.’

‘I’ve got a receipt.’ Roscoe nodded to himself. ‘I remember now. The film was no good.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I put it in for developing, but none of the pictures came out. Not a one. They reckoned I’d not put the film in the right way, or opened the case or something. The negatives were all blank. They showed me them.’

‘They?’

‘At the shop. I got a consolation free film.’

Some consolation, thought Rebus. Some swap, to be more accurate. He placed the photo on the table. Roscoe stared at it, then picked it up the better to examine it.

‘How the-?’ Remembering there was a woman present, Roscoe swallowed the rest of the question.

‘Here,’ said Rebus, pushing the pack of cigarettes in his direction. ‘You look like you need one of these.’

Rebus sent Siobhan Clarke and DS Brian Holmes to pick up Keith Leyton. He also advised them to take along a back-up. You never could tell with a nutter like Leyton. Plenty of back-up, just to be on the safe side. It wasn’t just Leyton after all; there might be Joyce to deal with too.

Meantime, Rebus drove to Tollcross, parked just across the traffic lights, tight in at a bus stop, and, watched by a frowning queue, made a dash for the photographic shop’s doorway. It was chucking it down, no question. The queue had squeezed itself so tightly under the metal awning of the bus shelter that vice might have been able to bring them up on a charge of public indecency. Rebus shook water from his hair and pushed open the shop’s door.

Inside it was light and warm. He shook himself again and approached the counter. A young man beamed at him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I wonder if you can help,’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve got a film needs developing, only I want it done in an hour. Is that possible?’

‘No problem, sir. Is it colour?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fine then. We do our own processing.’

Rebus nodded and reached into his pocket. The man had already begun filling in details on a form. He printed the letters very neatly, Rebus noticed with pleasure.

‘That’s good,’ said Rebus, bringing out the photo. ‘In that case, you must have developed this.’

The man went very still and very pale.

‘Don’t worry, son, I’m not from Keith Leyton. In fact, Keith Leyton doesn’t know anything about you, which is just as well for you.’

The young man rested the pen on the form. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph.

‘Better shut up shop now,’ said Rebus. ‘You’re coming down to the station. You can bring the rest of the photos with you. Oh, and I’d wear a cagoule, it’s not exactly fair, is it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘And take a tip from me, son. Next time you think of blackmailing someone, make sure you get the right person, eh?’ Rebus tucked the photo back into his pocket. ‘Plus, if you’ll take my advice, don’t use words like “reprint” in your blackmail notes. Nobody says reprint except people like you.’ Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘It just makes it too easy for us, you see.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ the man said coolly.

‘All part of the service,’ said Rebus with a smile. The clue had actually escaped him throughout. Not that he’d be admitting as much to Kenneth Leighton. No, he would tell the story as though he’d been Sherlock Holmes and Philip Marlowe rolled into one. Doubtless Leighton would be impressed. And one day, when Rebus was needing a favour from the taxman, he would know he could put Kenneth Leighton in the frame.