Black And Blue (40 page)

Jack came to help him drag the unresisting figure out. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘The kid hurt me more than he did.’

The boy’s mother was hugging her son, checking he was all right. She gave Rebus a dirty look. The boy was complaining he still had ten minutes left. The attendant came after Rebus.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘could I have our ball back?’

St Leonard’s being so close, they took Shankley there, asked for and were given an empty biscuit-tin, only recently vacated by the smell of it.

‘Sit there,’ Rebus told Shankley. Then he took Jack outside, spoke in an undertone.

‘To fill you in, Tony El killed Allan Mitchison – I still don’t know why exactly. Tony had local help.’ He tilted his head towards the door. ‘I want to know what Hank knows.’

Jack nodded. ‘Do I stay dumb, or is there a part for me?’

‘You’re the good guy, Jack.’ Rebus patted his shoulder. ‘Always have been.’

They went back into the room as a team, like in the old days.

‘Well, Mr Shankley,’ Rebus opened, ‘so far we’ve got resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Plenty of witnesses, too.’

‘I haven’t done nothing.’

‘Double negative.’

‘Eh?’

‘If you haven’t done nothing, you must have done
some
thing.’

Shankley just looked glum. Rebus had him pegged already: Bain’s ‘no scruples attached’ had given him the clue. Shankley lived to no code whatsoever, except perhaps ‘Look after number one’. He didn’t give a toss for anything or anyone.
There was no intelligence other than a root instinct to survive. Rebus knew he could play on that.

‘You don’t owe Tony El anything, Hank. Who do you think grassed you up?’

‘Tony who?’

‘Anthony Ellis Kane. Glasgow hardman relocated to Aberdeen. He was down here to do a job. He needed an associate. Somehow he ended up with you.’

‘Not your fault,’ Jack chipped in, hands in pockets, ‘you’re an accessory. We’re not doing you for murder.’

‘Murder?’

‘That young guy Tony El was after,’ Rebus explained. ‘You scouted out somewhere to take him. That was about the sum of your part, wasn’t it? The rest was down to Tony.’

Shankley bit his top lip, showing a bottom row of narrow uneven teeth. His eyes were pale blue with dark flecks in them, his pupils contracted to pencil dots.

‘Of course,’ Rebus said, ‘there’s another way we can play it. We could say
you
tossed him out that window.’

‘I don’t know nothing.’

‘Don’t know
anything
,’ Rebus reminded him. Shankley folded his arms, spread his long legs.

‘I want a lawyer.’

‘Been watching the
Kojak
repeats, Hank?’ Jack asked. He looked to Rebus, who nodded: no more Mr Nice Guy.

‘I’m bored with this, Hank. Know what? We’re going to take you for fingerprinting now. You left prints all over that squat. You even left behind the carry-out. Prints all over it. You remember touching the bottles? The cans? The bag they were in?’ Shankley was trying hard to remember. Rebus’s voice grew quieter. ‘We’ve got you, Hank. You’re fucked. I’ll give you ten seconds to start talking, and that’s it – promise. Don’t think you can talk to us later, we won’t be listening. The judge will have his hearing-aid switched off. You’ll be on your own. Know why?’ He waited till he had Shankley’s attention. ‘Because Tony El croaked. Someone sliced him
open in a bathtub. Could be you next.’ Rebus nodded. ‘You need friends, Hank.’

‘Listen …’ The Tony El story had woken Shankley up. He sat forward in his chair. ‘Look, I’m … I …’

‘Take your time, Hank.’

Jack asked him if he wanted something to drink. Shankley nodded. ‘Cola or something.’

‘Fetch me one, too, Jack,’ Rebus said. Jack went down the hall to the machine. Rebus bided his time, pacing the room, giving Shankley time to decide how much he was going to tell and with how much gloss. Jack came back, tossed one can at Shankley, handed the other to Rebus, who pulled it open and drank. It wasn’t a real drink. It was cold and way too sweet, and the only kick it would give him was from caffeine rather than alcohol. He saw Jack watching him, screwed up his face in reply. He wanted a cigarette, too. Jack read the look, shrugged.

‘Now then,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you have a story for us, Hank?’

Shankley burped, nodded. ‘It’s like you said. He told me he was here to do a job. Said he had Glasgow connections.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

Shankley shrugged. ‘Never asked.’

‘Did he mention Aberdeen at all?’

Shankley shook his head. ‘Glasgow was what he said.’

‘Continue.’

‘He offered me fifty notes to find him a place where he could take someone. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said ask a few questions, maybe give them a doing. That was all. We waited outside this block of flats, quite posh.’

‘The Financial District?’

Another shrug. ‘Between Lothian Road and Haymarket.’ That was it. ‘Saw this young guy come out, and we followed him. For a while, we just watched, then Tony said it was time to strike up his acquaintance.’

‘And?’

‘Well, we got chatting to him, like. I got to enjoying myself, forgot what was happening. Tony looked like he’d forgotten, too. I thought maybe he was going to call it off. Then we went outside for a taxi, and when the young guy couldn’t see us, he gave me a look, and I knew it was still on. But I swear, I only thought the kid was for a kicking.’

‘Not so.’

‘No.’ Shankley’s voice dropped. ‘Tony had a bag with him. When we got to the flat, he brought out tape and stuff. Tied the kid to the chair. He had a plastic sheet, put a bag over the kid’s head.’ Shankley’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, took another swallow of cola. ‘Then he started taking stuff out of the bag, tools, you know, like a joiner would use. Saws and screwdrivers and that.’

Rebus looked to Jack Morton.

‘And that’s when I realised the plastic sheet was to catch the blood, the kid wasn’t just getting a kicking.’

‘Tony planned to torture him?’

‘I suppose so. I don’t know … maybe I’d’ve tried to stop him. I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve doled it out in my time, but never …’

The next question used to be the one that counted; Rebus wasn’t so sure any more. ‘Did Allan Mitchison jump, or what?’

Shankley nodded. ‘We had our backs turned. Tony was taking the tools out, and I was just staring at them. The kid had a bag over his head, but I think he saw them. He got between us and went out the window. Must’ve been scared to death.’

Looking at Shankley, and remembering Anthony Kane, Rebus sensed again how bland monstrosity could be. Faces and voices didn’t give any clue; no one sported horns and fangs, dripping blood and all slouching malevolence. Evil was almost … it was almost child-like: naive, simplistic. A game you played and then woke up from, only to find it wasn’t pretend. The real-life monsters weren’t grotesques: they were
quiet men and women, people you passed on the street and didn’t notice. Rebus was glad he couldn’t read people’s minds. It would be pure hell.

‘What did you do?’ he asked.

‘Packed up and shipped out. We went back to my place first, had a couple of drinks. I was shaking. Tony kept saying it was a mess, but he didn’t seem worried. We realised we’d left the hooch – couldn’t remember if our dabs were on it. I thought they were. That’s when Tony took off. He left me my share, I’ll give him that.’

‘How far do you live from the flat, Hank?’

‘About two minutes’ walk. I’m not there much; the kids call me names.’

Life can be cruel, Rebus thought. Two minutes: when he’d arrived at the scene, Tony El might have been only two minutes away. But they’d ended up meeting in Stonehaven …

‘Didn’t Tony give you any idea
why
he was after Allan Mitchison?’ Shankley shook his head. ‘And when did he first approach you?’

‘Couple of days before.’

Therefore premeditated. Well, of course it was premeditated, but more than that it meant Tony El had been in Edinburgh, preparing the scheme, while Allan Mitchison had still been in Aberdeen. The night of his death had been his first day of leave. So Tony El hadn’t followed him south from Aberdeen … yet he knew what Allan Mitchison looked like, knew where he lived – there was a telephone in the flat, but unlisted.

Allan Mitchison had been set up by someone who’d known him.

It was Jack Morton’s turn. ‘Hank, think carefully now, didn’t Tony say
anything
about the job, about who was paying him?’

Shankley thought, then nodded slowly. He looked pleased with himself: he’d remembered something.

‘Mr H.,’ he said. ‘Tony said something about Mr H. He
clammed up afterwards, like he hadn’t meant to.’ Shankley almost danced in his seat. He wanted Rebus and Morton to like him. Their smiles told him they did. But Rebus was thinking furiously; the only Mr H. he came up with was Jake Harley. It didn’t fit.

‘Good man,’ Jack cajoled. ‘Now think again, tell us something else.’

But Rebus had a question. ‘Did you see Tony El jacking up?’

‘No, but I knew he was doing it. When we were following the kid, first bar we went in, Tony went to the bog. He came out, and I knew he was on something. Living where I do, it gets so you can tell.’

Tony El a shooter. It didn’t mean he wasn’t killed. All it meant was, maybe he’d made Stanley’s job easier. Tony El sky-high easier to murder than Tony El with defences up. Drugs to Aberdeen … Burke’s Club a magnet for them … Tony El using – and selling? He wished he’d asked Erik Stemmons about Tony El.

‘I need the toilet,’ Shankley said.

‘We’ll get a uniform to take you. Stay here.’ Rebus and Morton left the room.

‘Jack, I want you to trust me.’

‘How far?’

‘I want you to stay here and take Shankley’s statement.’

‘While you do what?’

‘Take someone to lunch.’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘I’ll be back here by three.’

‘Look, John …’

‘Call it parole. I go to lunch, I come back. Two hours.’ Rebus held up two fingers. ‘Two hours, Jack.’

‘Which restaurant?’

‘What?’

‘Tell me where you’re going. I’ll phone every quarter of an hour, you better be there.’ Rebus looked disgusted. ‘And I want to know who your guest is.’

‘It’s a woman.’

‘Name?’

Rebus sighed. ‘I’ve heard of driving a hard bargain, but you’ve got your HGV.’

‘Name?’ Jack was smiling.

‘Gill Templer. Chief Inspector Gill Templer. OK?’

‘OK. Now the restaurant.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get there.’

‘Phone me. If you don’t, Chick gets to know, OK?’

‘It’s back to “Chick”, is it?’

‘He gets to know.’

‘All right, I’ll phone.’

‘With the restaurant’s number?’

‘With the number. Know what, Jack? You’ve put me right off eating.’

‘Order plenty and bring me a doggie bag.’

Rebus went in search of Gill, found her in her office. She told him she’d already eaten.

‘So come and watch me.’

‘An offer I can’t refuse.’

There was an Italian restaurant on Clerk Street. Rebus ordered a pizza: he could take anything he couldn’t eat back to Jack. Then he phoned St Leonard’s and left the pizzeria’s number, told them to pass it on.

‘So,’ Gill said when he was seated again, ‘been busy?’

‘Plenty busy. I went to Aberdeen.’

‘What for?’

‘That phone number on Feardie Fergie’s pad. Plus a few other things.’

‘What other things?’

‘Not necessarily connected.’

‘Tell me, did the trip pass without incident?’ She picked up a piece of the garlic bread which had just arrived.

‘Not exactly.’

‘You surprise me.’

‘They say it keeps a relationship on its toes.’

Gill took a bite of bread. ‘So what did you find out?’

‘Burke’s Club is dirty. It’s also where Johnny Bible’s first victim was last seen alive. The place is run by two Yanks; I only spoke with one of them. I think probably his partner’s the grubbier of the two.’

‘And?’

‘And, also in Burke’s I saw a couple of members of a Glaswegian crime family. You know Uncle Joe Toal?’

‘I’ve heard of him.’

‘I think he’s delivering dope to Aberdeen. From there, I’d guess some of it goes to the rigs – a captive market; a lot of boredom on a rig.’

‘You’d know, of course?’ she joked. Then she saw the look on his face, and her eyes narrowed. ‘You went on a rig?’

‘Most terrifying experience of my life, but cathartic with it.’

‘Cathartic?’

‘An old girlfriend used to use words like that; they rub off on you after a while. The club’s owner, Erik Stemmons, denied knowing Fergie McLure. I almost believe him.’

‘Which puts his partner in the frame?’

‘To my mind.’

‘And that’s as far as it’s got – your mind? I mean, there’s no evidence?’

‘Not a shred.’

His pizza arrived. Chorizo, mushroom and anchovy. Gill had to look away. The pizza was pre-cut into six fat slices. Rebus lifted one on to his plate.

‘I don’t know how you can face that.’

‘Me neither,’ said Rebus, sniffing the surface. ‘But it’ll make a hell of a doggie bag.’

There was a cigarette machine. If he looked over Gill’s right shoulder he could see it there on the wall. Five brands, any of which would suffice. There was a book of matches waiting in the ashtray. He’d ordered a glass of house white, Gill spring water. The wine – ‘delicately bouqueted’ as the
menu put it – arrived, and he gave it the nose test before sipping. It was chilled and sour.

‘How’s the bouquet?’ Gill asked.

‘Any more delicate and it’d need Prozac.’ The drinks card was in front of him, standing erect in its little holder, listing aperitifs and cocktails and digestifs, plus wines, beers, lagers, spirits. It was the most reading Rebus had done in a couple of days. As soon as he’d finished, he read it again. He wanted to shake the author’s hand.

One segment of pizza was enough.

‘Not hungry?’ Gill asked.

‘I’m dieting.’

‘You?’

‘I want to be fit for my walks along the beach.’

She wasn’t following him, shook her head clear of seeming non-sequiturs.