Beggars Banquet (3 page)

‘Ay well,’ he’d say, ‘I suppose I’d better . . .’ And with these words, and a bow of the head, he would move out of the kitchen, timidly opening the living-room door so as to say a few words to the widow before leaving. Rebus heard Grace Gallagher’s voice, a high, wavering howl: ‘Thanks for coming. It was good of you. Cheerio.’

The women came and went, too. Sandwiches appeared from somewhere and were shared out in the kitchen. Tongue, corned beef, salmon paste. White ‘half-pan’ bread sliced in halves. Despite his diet, Rebus ate his fill, saying nothing. Though he only half knew it, he was biding his time, not wishing to create a disturbance. He waited as the kitchen emptied. Once or twice someone had attempted to engage him in conversation, thinking they knew him from a neighbouring street or from the public bar of the local. Rebus just shook his head, the friend of a friend, and the enquiries usually ended there.

Even his guide left, again patting Rebus’s arm and giving him a nod and a wink. It was a day for universal gestures, so Rebus winked back. Then, the kitchen vacant now, muggy with the smell of cheap cigarettes, whisky and body odour, Rebus rinsed out his glass and stood it end-up on the draining board. He walked into the hallway, paused, then knocked and pushed open the living-room door.

As he had suspected, Grace Gallagher, as frail-looking as he’d thought, dabbing behind her fifties-style spectacles, was seated in an armchair. On the arm of the chair sat a woman in her forties, heavy-bodied but not without presence. The other chairs were vacant. Teacups sat on a dining table, alongside an unfinished plate of sandwiches, empty sherry glasses, the bottle itself, and, curiously, a pack of playing cards, laid out as though someone had broken off halfway through a game of patience.

Opposite the television set sat another sunken armchair, looking as if it had not been sat in this whole afternoon. Rebus could guess why: the deceased’s chair, the throne to his tiny kingdom. He smiled towards the two women. Grace Gallagher only half looked towards him.

‘Thanks for dropping by,’ she said, her voice slightly revived from earlier. ‘It was good of you. Cheerio.’

‘Actually, Mrs Gallagher,’ said Rebus, stepping into the room, ‘I’m a police officer, Detective Inspector Rebus. Dr Aitken asked me to look in.’

‘Oh.’ Grace Gallagher looked at him now. Pretty eyes sinking into crinkly white skin. A dab of natural colour on each cheek. Her silvery hair hadn’t seen a perm in quite a while, but someone had combed it, perhaps to enable her to face the rigours of the afternoon. The daughter-in-law - or so Rebus supposed the woman on the arm of the chair to be - was rising.

‘Would you like me to . . . ?’

Rebus nodded towards her. ‘I don’t think this’ll take long. Just routine really, when there’s been an accident.’ He looked at Grace, then at the daughter-in-law. ‘Maybe if you could go into the kitchen for five minutes or so?’

She nodded keenly, perhaps a little too keenly. Rebus hadn’t seen her all evening, and so supposed she’d felt duty bound to stay cooped up in here with her mother-in-law. She seemed to relish the prospect of movement.

‘I’ll pop the kettle on,’ she said, brushing past Rebus. He watched the door close, waited as she padded down the short hallway, listened until he heard water running, the sounds of dishes being tidied. Then he turned back to Grace Gallagher, took a deep breath, and walked over towards her, dragging a stiff-backed dining chair with him. This he sat on, only a foot or two from her. He could feel her growing uneasy. She writhed a little in the armchair, then tried to disguise the reaction by reaching for another paper hankie from a box on the floor beside her.

‘This must be a very difficult time for you, Mrs Gallagher,’ Rebus began. He wanted to keep things short and clear cut. He had no evidence, had nothing to play with but a little bit of psychology and the woman’s own state of mind. It might not be enough; he wasn’t sure whether or not he
wanted
it to be enough. He found himself shifting on the chair. His arm touched the newspaper in his pocket. It felt like a talisman.

‘Dr Aitken told me,’ he continued, ‘that you’d looked after your husband for quite a few years. It can’t have been easy.’

‘I’d be lying if I said that it was.’

Rebus tried to find the requisite amount of iron in her words. Tried but failed.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I believe your husband was, well, a bit
difficult
at times.’

‘I won’t deny that either. He could be a real bugger when he wanted to.’ She smiled, as if in memory of the fact. ‘But I’ll miss him. Aye, I’ll miss him.’

‘I’m sure you will, Mrs Gallagher.’

He looked at her, and her eyes fixed on to his, challenging him. He cleared his throat again. ‘There’s something I’m not absolutely sure about, concerning the accident. I wonder if maybe you can help me?’

‘I can try.’

Rebus smiled his appreciation. ‘It’s just this,’ he said. ‘Eleven o’clock was a bit early for your husband to be coming downstairs. What’s more, he seemed to be trying to come down without his walking-frame, which is still beside the bed.’ Rebus’s voice was becoming firmer, his conviction growing. ‘What’s more, he seems to have fallen with a fair amount of force.’

She interrupted him with a snap. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean he fell straight down the stairs. He didn’t just slip and fall, or stumble and roll down them. He went flying off the top step and didn’t hit anything till he hit the ground.’ Her eyes were filling again. Hating himself, Rebus pressed on. ‘He didn’t fall, Mrs Gallagher. He was helped to the top of the stairs, and then he was helped down them with a push in the back, a pretty vigorous push at that.’ His voice grew less severe, less judgmental. ‘I’m not saying you meant to kill him. Maybe you just wanted him hospitalised, so you could have a rest from looking after him. Was that it?’

She was blowing her nose, her small shoulders squeezed inwards towards a brittle neck. The shoulders twitched with sobs. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You think I . . . How could you? Why would you say anything like that? No, I don’t believe you. Get out of my house.’ But there was no power to any of her words, no real enthusiasm for the fight. Rebus reached into his pocket and brought out the newspaper.

‘I notice you do crosswords, Mrs Gallagher.’

She glanced up at him, startled by this twist in the conversation. ‘What?’

He motioned with the paper. ‘I like crosswords myself. That’s why I was interested when I saw you’d completed today’s puzzle. Very impressive. When did you do that?’

‘This morning,’ she said through another handkerchief. ‘In the park. I always do the crossword after I’ve bought the paper. Then I bring it home so George can look at his horses.’

Rebus nodded, and studied the crossword again. ‘You must have been preoccupied with something this morning then,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s quite an easy one, really. I mean, easy for someone who does crosswords like this and finishes them. Where is it now?’ Rebus seemed to be searching the grid. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Nineteen across. You’ve got the down solutions, so that means the answer to nineteen across must be something R something P. Now, what’s the clue?’ He looked for it, found it. ‘Here it is, Mrs Gallagher. “Perhaps deadly in part.” Four letters. Something R something P. Something deadly. Or deadly in part. And you’ve put TRIP. ‘What were you thinking about, I wonder? I mean, when you wrote that? I wonder what your mind was on?’

‘But it’s the right answer,’ said Grace Gallagher, her face creasing in puzzlement. Rebus was shaking his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. I think the “in part” means the letters of “part” make up the word you want. The answer’s TRAP, Mrs Gallagher. “Perhaps deadly in part”: TRAP. Do you see? But you were thinking of something else when you filled in the answer. You were thinking about how if your husband tripped down the stairs you might be rid of him. Isn’t that right, Grace?’

She was silent for a moment, the silence broken only by the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the clank of dishes being washed in the kitchen. Then she spoke, quite calmly.

‘Myra’s a good lass. It was terrible when Billy died. She’s been like a daughter to me ever since.’ Another pause, then her eyes met Rebus’s again. He was thinking of his own mother, of how old she’d be today had she lived. Much the same age as this woman in front of him. He took another deep breath, but stayed silent, waiting.

‘You know, son,’ she said, ‘if you look after an invalid, people think you’re a martyr. I was a martyr all right, but only because I put up with him for forty years.’ Her eyes strayed to the empty armchair, and focused on it as though her husband were sitting there and hearing the truth for the very first time. ‘He was a sweet talker back then, and he had all the right moves. None of that once Billy came along. None of that ever again.’ Her voice, which had been growing softer, now began hardening again. ‘They shut the pit, so he got work at the bottle factory. Then they shut that, and all he could get was part-time chalking up the winners at the bookie’s. A man gets gey bitter, Inspector. But he didn’t have to take it out on me, did he?’ She moved her eyes from the chair to Rebus. ‘Will they lock me up?’ She didn’t sound particularly interested in his answer.

‘That’s not for me to say, Grace. Juries decide that sort of thing.’

She smiled. ‘I thought I’d done the crossword in record time. Trust me to get one wrong.’ And she shook her head slowly, the smile falling from her face as the tears came again, and her mouth opened in a near-silent bawl.

The door swung open, the daughter-in-law entering with a tray full of crockery.

‘There now,’ she called. ‘We can all have a nice cup of—’ She saw the look on Grace Gallagher’s face, and she froze.

‘What have you done?’ she cried accusingly. Rebus stood up.

‘Mrs Gallagher,’ he said to her, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of bad news . . .’

Maybe she was right at that. Rebus couldn’t judge. All he could be was fair. So why was it that he felt so guilty? So ashamed? He could have shrugged it off, could have reported back to Patience that there was no substance to her fears. Grace Gallagher had suffered; would continue to suffer. Wasn’t that enough? OK, so the law demanded more, but without Rebus there was no case, was there?

He felt right, felt vindicated, and at the same time felt a complete and utter bastard. More than that, he felt as though he’d just sentenced his own mother. He stopped at a late-night store and stocked up on beer and cigarettes. As an afterthought, he bought six assorted packets of crisps and a couple of bars of chocolate. This was no time to diet. Back home, he could conduct his own post-mortem, could hold his own private wake. On his way out of the shop, he bought the final edition of the evening paper, and was reminded that this was 30 April. Tomorrow morning, before dawn, crowds of people would climb up Arthur’s Seat and, at the hill’s summit, would celebrate the rising of the sun and the coming of May. Some would dab their faces with dew, the old story being that it would make them more beautiful, more handsome. What exactly was it they were celebrating, all the hungover students and the druids and the curious? Rebus wasn’t sure any more. Perhaps he had never known in the first place.

Later that night, much later, as he lay along his sofa, the hi-fi blaring some jazz music from the sixties, his eye caught the day’s racing results on the paper’s back page. Gypsy Pearl had come home first at three-to-one. In the very next race, Gazumpin had won at seven-to-two on. Two races further on, Lot’s Wife had triumphed at a starting price of eight-to-one. At another meeting, Castle Mallet had won the two thirty. Two-to-one joint favourite. That left only Blondie. Rebus tried to focus his eyes, and finally found the horse, its name misprinted to read ‘Bloodie’. Though three-to-one favourite, it had come home third in a field of thirteen.

Rebus stared at the misspelling, wondering what had been going through the typist’s mind when he or she had made that one small but no doubt meaningful slip . . .

He was lying on the living-room floor. He’d fallen on his back, head coming to rest against the front of a leather armchair. It looked like it might be one of those reclining armchairs, you know, with a footrest and everything, an expensive item. The TV was expensive too, but then I don’t suppose he ever went out much. They don’t go out much, people like him. They stay indoors where it’s safe. The irony of this being, of course, that they become prisoners in their own homes, prisoners all their lives.

He was still alive, breathing badly through his wet nose, his hand sort of stroking the front of his T-shirt. There was a big damp stain there, and it was all his. His hair had gone grey in the past year or so, and he’d put on a lot of weight. His eyes were dark-ringed from too many late nights.

‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’

But I was busy. I didn’t like interruptions. So I stabbed him again, just the twice, probably in his abdomen. Not deep wounds, just enough to give him the hint. His head slouched floorwards, tiny moaning sounds dribbling from his lips. They didn’t want a quick painless death. It was in the contract. They wanted something that was both revenge on him and a message to others. Oh yes, I was the man for the job all right.

I was wearing overalls and gardening gloves and a pair of old training shoes with the heel coming away from one of them. Disposable, the lot of it, fit for little more than a bonfire. So I didn’t mind stepping in the small pools of blood. In fact, that was part of the plan. I’d put the overalls and gloves and trainers on in his bathroom. This was just prior to stabbing him, of course. He’d been surprised to see me coming out of the bathroom looking like that. But of course it hadn’t dawned on him till too late. Always watch your back, they say. But the advice I’d give is: always watch your
front
. It’s the guy you’re shaking hands with, the guy you’re talking to who will turn out to be your enemy. There aren’t monsters hiding in the bushes. All they hide behind are smiles.

(Don’t worry about me, I always ramble on when I’m nervous.)

I got to work. First, I dropped the knife into a plastic bag and placed the package in my holdall. I might need it again, but at this stage I doubted it. He wasn’t talking any more. Instead, his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish in an unaerated aquarium. You hardly knew he was in pain. Pain and shock. His body was going to wave a white flag soon, but the brain was taking a little time to understand. It thought it was still in the foxhole, head down and safe.

Aquariums and foxholes. Funny the things that go through your mind at a time like this. I suppose it’s to shut out the reality of the situation. Never mind virtual reality, this was visceral reality.

I was keeping the gloves on for the moment. I walked around the living-room, deciding how the place should look. There was a table in the corner with some bottles and glasses on it. They could go for a start. Hold on though, some music first. There had been no indications that any neighbours were at home - I’d watched outside for an hour, and since coming in had been listening for sounds - but all the same. Besides, music soothed the soul, didn’t it?

‘What do you fancy?’ I asked him. He had a cheap little midi-system and a couple of dozen CDs and tapes. I switched the system on and opened the drawer of the CD player, slipped in a disc, closed the drawer and pressed ‘play’. ‘A bit of Mantovani,’ I said needlessly as strings swelled from the small speakers. It was a version of the Beatles’ ‘Yesterday’. Good song that. I turned the volume up a bit, played with the treble and bass, then went back to the corner table and swept all the stuff on to the floor. Not with a flourish or anything, just a casual brush of the forearm. A couple of wine glasses broke, nothing else. And it didn’t make much noise either. It looked good, though.

The sofa was next. I thought for a moment, then pulled a couple of the cushions off, letting them drop to the floor. It wasn’t much, was it? But the room was looking cluttered now, what with the bottles and cushions and the body.

He wasn’t watching any of this, though he could probably hear it. His eyes were staring at the carpet below him. It had been light blue in colour, but was now looking like someone had dropped a mug of tea (no milk) on it. An interesting effect. In the films blood always looks like paint. Yes, but it depends what you mix it with, doesn’t it? Red and blue would seem to make tea (no milk). Suddenly I felt thirsty. And I needed the toilet too. There was milk in the fridge. I poured half a carton down my throat and was putting it back in the fridge when I thought, What the hell. I tossed it towards the sink. Milk splattered the work surfaces and poured on to the linoleum floor. I left the fridge door open.

After visiting the toilet, I wandered back into the living-room, took the crowbar from my holdall, and left the house, closing the door after me. Checking that no one was around, I attacked the door jamb, splintering wood and forcing my way back inside. It didn’t make any noise and looked pretty good. I closed the door as best I could, tipped the telephone table in the hall on to its side, and returned to the living-room. His face was on the floor now, deathly pale as you might imagine. In fact, he looked worse than a few of the corpses I’ve seen.

‘Not long now,’ I told him. I was all but done, but decided maybe I should take a recce upstairs. I opened his bedside cupboard. Inside a wooden box there was a wad of folded banknotes, tens and twenties. I slipped off the rubber band from around them, chucked it and the box on to the bed, and stuffed the money in my pocket. Let’s call it a tip. It’s not that I wasn’t being paid enough, but I knew damned fine that if I didn’t pocket it, some dozy young copper first on the scene would do just the same.

It was a pretty sad little room, this bedroom. There were porn mags on the floor, very few decent clothes in the wardrobe, a couple of empty whisky bottles under the bed along with an unused pack of vending-machine condoms. A transistor radio lying on a chair with some dirty laundry. No framed photos of family, no holiday souvenirs, no paintings on the walls.

He’d been on medication. There were four little bottles of pills on the bedside cabinet. Nerves, probably. Informers often suffer from nerves. It comes of waiting for that monster to jump out of the bushes at them. OK, so after they’ve given their evidence and ‘Mr Big’ (or more usually ‘Mr Middling’) has been locked away, they’re given ‘protection’. They get new identities, some cash up front, a roof over their heads, even a job. All this comes to pass. But they’ve got to leave the only life they’ve known. No contact with friends or family. This guy downstairs, whose name was Eddie, by the way, his wife left him. A lot of the wives do. Sad, eh? And these informers, they do all this just to save themselves from a few years in the clink.

The police are good at spotting the weak ones, the ones who might just turn. They work on them, exaggerating the sentences they’re going to get, exaggerating the prizes awaiting under the witness protection scheme. (‘The Witless Protection Scheme’, I’ve heard it called.) It’s all psychology and bullshit, but it sometimes works. Often though a jury will throw the evidence out anyway. The defence counsel’s line is always the same: can you rely on the evidence of a man who himself is so heavily implicated in these serious crimes, and who is giving evidence solely to save his own skin?

Like I say, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I went downstairs and crouched over the body. It
was
a body now, no question of that. Well, I’d let it cool for a little while. Ten or fifteen minutes. Now that I thought of it, I’d broken open the door too soon. Someone might come along and notice. A slight error, but an error all the same. Too late for regrets though. The course was set now, so I went back to the fridge and lifted out what was left of a roast chicken. There was a leg with some meat on it, so I chewed that for a while, standing in the living-room watching through the net curtains as the sun broke from behind some cloud. Want to know what blood smells like? It smells like cold chicken grease. I stuffed the bones into the kitchen bin. I’d stripped them clean. I didn’t want to leave behind any teeth-marks, anything the forensic scientists could begin to work with. Not that anyone would be working too hard on this case. People like me, we’re seldom caught. After a hit, we just melt into the background. We’re as ordinary as you are. I don’t mean that we
seem
to be ordinary, that we make a show of looking ordinary, I mean we
are
ordinary. These hit men and assassins you read about in novels, they go around all day and all night like Arnold Schwarzenegger. But in real life that would get them noticed. The last thing you want to be if you’re like me is noticed. You want to blend into the scenery.

I’m running on again, aren’t I? It was just about time. A final lingering inspection. Another visit to the toilet. I checked myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked fine. I took my clothes back out of the holdall and stripped off the overalls, gloves, trainers. My shoes were black brogues with new soles and heels. I checked myself again in the mirror as I knotted my tie and put on my jacket. No tell-tale flecks of blood on my cheeks or forehead. I washed my hands without using soap (the fragrance might be identifiable) and dried them on toilet paper, which I flushed away. I zipped the holdall shut, picked it up, and walked back through the living-room (‘Ciao, Eddie’), into the small hallway, and out of the house.

Potentially, this was the most dangerous part of the whole job. As I walked down the path, I was pretty well hidden from view by the hedge, the hedge Eddie must have considered a comfort, a barrier between him and prying eyes. At the pavement, I didn’t pause. There was no one around anyway, no one at all, as I walked briskly around the corner to where I’d parked my car, locked the holdall in the boot, and started the engine.