Authors: Ian Rankin
‘They say nobody’d be interested,’ she explained, putting down the telephone.
‘Well,
I’m
interested.’
‘You could ask at the HMSO Bookshop.’
‘On Lothian Road?’
‘Yes.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘I’ve some other literature here you could take away with you.’
Desperate for something to show for his morning, Rebus picked out a few leaflets, one of which was an introduction to HM Inspectorate of Constabulary. Rebus wondered if it would mention anything about bribery.
‘Thanks anyway,’ he told the receptionist. There was a display in the reception area and he went over to look at it. New St Andrew’s House was about to relocate to Leith. The move was costing millions. Rebus didn’t feel any better for knowing where his taxes were headed. Sleet was coming down as he left the building.
Which gave him the excuse he needed to drop into the Café Royal. It was eleven-fifteen and he was the second customer of the day. He liked the place when it was empty. It was one of the few bars he knew which had less
atmosphere the busier it got. His feet were tingling from the walk. He’d left his car at home, only expecting to walk as far as George IV Bridge.
The sleet had stopped by the time he left the bar. He walked along George Street, in order to avoid the shoppers on Princes Street, then headed up Lothian Road. A Lothian Road wind was one of nature’s wonders; people were walking into it at an angle close to forty-five degrees. The headwind could exhaust you in minutes. Rebus kept his eyes to the pavement and concentrated on putting one foot after the other, like he was getting the hang of false legs.
The new Convention Centre was up. There was a lot of recent building work around the city: the Festival Theatre, Convention Centre, court annexe, National Library annexe, not to mention the new Scottish Office HQ. He stopped in a doorway to catch his breath and to consider the scale of the building programme: new roads, new developments … There was talk of building another road bridge across the Forth. But where was the money coming from? He walked on, deep in thought, and entered the HMSO shop. He’d been explaining his needs to the counter assistant for about thirty seconds when the man started to shake his head.
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Rebus snapped.
The man listened in silence, and when Rebus was finished he advised: ‘You could try Scottish Enterprise direct.’ He brought out the phonebook to find its address. The HQ_ was in Glasgow, but there was a branch in Edinburgh: LEEL, Lothian and Edinburgh Enterprise Limited, had offices in Haymarket Terrace, which wasn’t that far to walk, not compared to the distance he’d come.
The smart new building which housed LEEL boasted two very bored-looking receptionists and no guard at all on the door. He explained that he wanted general background information.
‘Agatha will bring down what we’ve got,’ he was told
with a pleasant professional smile. ‘If you’d like to take a seat …?’
He sat down and read the bumf spread across the table in front of him. He noticed that his calves were aching. This, he thought, is called exercise. Some people did it every day.
The lift opened and a young woman walked towards him. She too had a Stepford-wifely smile for the public as she handed over a lavish folder, inside which was a set of glossy documents.
‘This is all we’ve got at the moment,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Agatha, this is fine.’
Since he was so close, he dropped into Torphichen for a coffee. Davidson wasn’t around, but DC Robert Burns was, so Rebus chewed the cud with him, enjoying the feel of being back inside a cop shop. Then he asked Burns for a favour.
‘I need a lift home, Rab,’ he said. ‘Medical reasons.’
Back in his flat, Rebus read through what little he had. He hadn’t found anything on Gyle Park West or anyone or anything called Mensung. The sum total of his recent discoveries had nothing to do with Councillor Gillespie at all. But what he did know was that Kirstie Kennedy had known Willie and Dixie in some capacity: how else to explain a document belonging to the Lord Provost turning up in Willie’s bedroom? What he didn’t yet know was why it was there. He assumed Kirstie had taken it from her parents’ house, but why? Had it meant something to her? And why had Willie hidden it?
His phone was ringing. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘Walking.’
‘
Walking
?’
‘How are things at St Leonard’s?’
‘The chief super is keeping tabs on Brian and me, and he keeps piling the work on.’
‘So you haven’t been able to do anything?’
‘On the contrary, I’ve some interesting news. Councillor Gillespie’s document shredder wasn’t bought, it was rented. There’s a business supply company in Stockbridge, they hire out all sorts of office equipment. Which reminds me, when you get back there’s a little surprise for you.’
‘What?’
‘The new PCs have arrived.’
‘Good, we could do with a few more men on the beat.’
‘Gosh,’ her voice dripped irony, ‘I’ve not heard that one today. Anyway, there’s one on your desk, plugged in and ready to run.’
‘When did Gillespie rent the shredder?’
‘Wednesday. He told the shop assistant he’d been trying to find one for a few days, but they were too expensive to buy.’
‘Thank God he’s mean with money, or we might never know he’d shredded anything.’
‘Want to hear the rest? I finally got through to the consulate and asked to speak to Haldayne.’ She paused. ‘They told me Mr Haldayne was out of the office. His first name’s Richard. I got them to spell his surname for me: it has a “y” in the middle.’
‘You’re a genius.’
‘Want to hear the rest?’
Rebus forgot all about his sore calves, his weary feet. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I ran a check on Mr Richard Haldayne. Have you ever had dealings with the diplomats in town?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I have. I handed out a few parking tickets when I was in uniform. My boss said I was wasting my time
ticketing a diplomatic plate. They never pay their fines, because we’re not allowed to prosecute them.’
‘So you looked in the computer?’
‘Eighteen unpaid parking tickets dating back to 1985. That’s under two a year, which counts as law-abiding for a diplomat.’
‘It’s still a lot of tickets. An officer might want a quiet word with Mr Haldayne about them.’
‘Just don’t get caught, sir.’
‘Same goes for you, Clarke, and thanks.’
He put the phone down and tapped his fingers on the receiver. It was a start, definitely a start. He lifted the receiver again and dialled Sammy’s work number. She wasn’t there. The woman who told him this sounded upset.
‘I’m her father,’ Rebus said, ‘is anything wrong?’
‘She was in a terrible state. Someone had to take her home.’
‘Why was she in a state?’
‘Her landlady.’ The woman sniffed.
‘What about her landlady?’
‘Well,
she’s
upset, and she got Sammy all upset.’
Rebus stopped pretending to be calm. ‘Upset about what?’
‘I love cats,’ the woman said.
‘What?’
‘Cats. It’s her landlady’s cat. It was torn to bits last night by somebody’s dog.’
Rebus finally plucked up the courage to phone Patience’s flat, and was relieved that Sammy herself answered.
‘I heard,’ he said. ‘How’s Patience?’
‘She’s gone out. She was … it was horrible.’
Rebus swallowed. ‘What happened?’
‘Lucky was in the garden, and some dog must have come
over the wall. Lucky ran to the catflap to get in, but the catflap was locked …’ Her voice fell. ‘And that was that.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Rebus.
‘The thing is, Dad, Patience blames
me
.’
‘I’m sure that’s not –’
‘She says I must have locked the flap. She’s hardly spoken a word to me since I got back.’
‘The lock must have fallen by itself.’
‘I don’t know. But I know
I
didn’t do it.’
‘Look, Sammy, the reason I’m phoning –’
‘Yes?’
Rebus stared at the notes in front of him. ‘SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office: can you give me his name …?’
He had an appointment that afternoon with the Lord Provost.
Rebus hadn’t been specific on the telephone; he’d just told the secretary that it was part of an ‘investigation’ – he’d been careful not to preface the word with ‘official police’. The secretary had taken his home number and called him back. The Lord Provost could see him for five minutes at four o’clock.
‘Five minutes should do it,’ Rebus had said.
As he walked through the main door of the City Chambers, he looked down at the floor, aware that directly beneath it was Mary King’s Close, Edinburgh’s buried plague street. They’d covered the street up and built on it anew: that was the Edinburgh way, to bury and forget.
The Lord Provost came out of his office to meet him. He looked tired, his pale face deeply lined, his square jaw slack. He had dark hair streaked with silver, and thick black eyebrows. It was a strongly defined face, the kind that might have been found, a generation back, at the coal-face.
‘Inspector.’ They shook hands. The Lord Provost turned
to his secretary. ‘My constitutional,’ he said. ‘I’ll be five or ten minutes.’ He turned back to Rebus. ‘I like to get out of here for a few minutes in the afternoon, it clears my head. Do you mind?’
Rebus said he didn’t.
No one on the street seemed to recognise Cameron Kennedy. He crossed the High Street and nodded towards St Giles’ Cathedral. Rebus followed him into the huge old church. It was empty, save for a party of three tourists who huddled around their guidebook. Rebus and the Lord Provost walked the central aisle.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘Well, sir, it’s about your daughter.’
The Lord Provost’s face became more animated. ‘Have you found her?’
‘No, sir. But I know where she’s been quite recently. You remember those two hoaxers?’
‘Don’t I just. You were in that terrible crash, weren’t you?’
Rebus nodded. ‘The thing is, it may not have been a hoax after all.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, the girl you spoke to on the telephone …’
‘Ach, I don’t think it was Kirstie.’
‘It could have been. There’s evidence she knew the two boys who died.’
The Lord Provost looked at him. ‘Evidence?’
‘Something we found in a bedroom.’ Rebus brought out the business plan and handed it to the Lord Provost. ‘This
is
yours, isn’t it, sir?’
The Lord Provost studied it. ‘Where did you say you found it?’
‘It was hidden in the bedroom belonging to one of the boys. Do you know when and where you lost it?’
‘No, I … It was a while back. I thought I’d taken it home with me …’
‘Kirstie probably took it with her when she left.’
The Lord Provost nodded slowly.
‘The question is, why? I mean, did it have any significance for her?’
‘I don’t see how it could.’
‘Me neither, I was hoping you might help. Take a look at the last page, please.’
The Lord Provost turned to the last page and looked startled.
‘Did you write that, sir?’
‘No.’ He was staring wide-eyed at the name.
‘Is it Kirstie’s writing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, do you know what it means?’
The Lord Provost shook his head slowly and closed the report. ‘Inspector, I … it seems to me maybe I’m making too much fuss over Kirstie. I’m sure she’s managing fine.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I’m grateful to the police for trying to trace her, but maybe it’s time to call a halt.’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why now?’ He made to take the report back, but the Lord Provost was folding it into his pocket.
‘Does there have to be a reason?’
‘Is it something to do with that report?’
‘You’ve read it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s just an initial report of a possible business venture.’
‘In Gyle Park West?’ The Lord Provost nodded. ‘A new subsidiary of PanoTech?’
‘You’re well informed, Inspector.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious why Kirstie would
take it, and why it was kept hidden, like it had some importance.’
Kennedy smiled. ‘It’s of no importance, Inspector. It’s a projection, it’s just something that might happen. God knows we could do with it.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘The jobs, of course.’
‘Tell me, is the LABarum plan before any committee at present?’
The Lord Provost sat in a pew. Rebus sat one pew in front of him. ‘I don’t see what that could have to do with my daughter.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious.’
‘It will be discussed soon, yes.’
‘By Councillor Gillespie’s industry committee?’
‘Initially, yes. Look, I really don’t see what this has to do with Kirstie. I accept that she could have taken the document from my office at home. I’d say if it was anything, it was an act of pure rebellion – she took it because she
could
.’
‘Is she a rebel then, sir?’
‘Aren’t all teenagers?’
‘Not all teenagers are drug-users, sir.’
Rebus watched the colour come back to the Lord Provost’s cheeks. ‘What did you say?’
‘That’s why you didn’t have a more recent photo to give us. Junkies aren’t exactly photogenic’
The Lord Provost shot to his feet. ‘How dare you!’ The tourists stopped consulting their guidebook.
‘Then tell me I’m a liar,’ Rebus said quietly. The Lord Provost opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll take back what I said.’
Cameron Kennedy’s eyes were glistening in the half-light. He looked all around him, at the frayed standards hanging limply from the walls, at the altar and the windows
and the roof. Then he looked back to Rebus, shook his head, and walked away.
Rebus sat a few minutes by himself, hands clasped in his lap. He didn’t exactly feel good about himself, but then that was nothing new.
The name of SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office was Rory McAllister, and he agreed to meet Rebus for lunch the next day, suggesting an Italian restaurant at the top of Leith Walk.