‘So, Mr Simpson, eight years ago, what companies were there in this building?’
‘Well, there was mine, of course, and then there was Capital Yarns.’
‘Now Combined Knitwear?’
‘The woman who ran Capital Yarns left in 1989. The place was empty the best part of a year, then a computer showroom opened – that lasted all of three months. The place was empty again until Mrs Burnett arrived. She’s Combined Knitwear.’
‘What about upstairs?’
‘Oh, years back those were offices. Now they’re just stockrooms, have been for a decade or more.’
Rebus was at a dead end, as surely as if he’d stayed on the floor above. He tried Simpson with the name Mensung again, spelt it for him, wrote it down, and all the old man did was twitch his head and say definitely and positively ‘no’. So Rebus thanked him and went back out on to the landing, resting against the banister. These small tenement businesses, there were a lot of them in Edinburgh. Small, shifting and anonymous, he didn’t see how they ever made money. It struck him that he didn’t even know what J Joseph Simpson Associates did. But he was willing to bet there were no associates, perhaps never had been.
He was about to leave when the door of Combined Knitwear opened and two women stepped out. They glanced towards him before continuing their conversation. One of the women wore a coat and carried two bulging plastic bags, which didn’t seem heavy. Wool, Rebus surmised. The other woman wore a knitted two-piece, red and black check, and a string of pearls. A pair of glasses hung by a string around her neck. She was petite, trim, probably Rebus’s age.
‘Well, thanks again,’ she said to the departing customer. Then to Rebus: ‘Can I help?’
‘Mrs Burnett?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded uneasy.
‘Inspector Rebus.’ Again he showed his ID.
‘Is it a break-in? Those stockrooms could have steel doors, they’d still find a way in.’
‘No, it’s not a break-in.’
‘Oh.’ She looked at him. ‘Look, I’m about to put the kettle on, do you fancy a cup?’
Rebus accepted her offer with pleasure.
Combined Knitwear’s premises were laid out like Joe Simpson’s: four rooms leading off a narrow hallway. One room served as an office. Mrs Burnett was in there at the sink, filling a kettle. Rebus looked into the other rooms. Wool. Lots and lots of wool. Deep shelves had been installed to display the stuff. There were boxes of knitting patterns, a Perspex case filled with pairs of needles. The walls and doors were decorated with blown-up photos from the fronts of various knitting patterns. Smiling, untroubled men. Women who looked like models from fifteen or twenty years ago. From a series of dowel-rods on one wall hung skeins of thick white wool. Rebus liked the smell of the place. It reminded him of his mother, and all his aunties and their friends. His mother used to tell him off for using her knitting needles as drumsticks.
He turned and saw that Mrs Burnett was standing in the doorway.
‘You looked very peaceful there for a minute,’ she said.
‘I felt it.’
‘Tea’s about ready.’
‘Do you happen to know what Mr Simpson next door does?’
She laughed lightly. ‘I’ve been wondering that for years.’
‘Years?’
‘Did he tell you I was a newcomer? He doesn’t remember me, but I used to work here when it was Capital Yarns. It wasn’t my business, I was staff. But when I decided to set up for myself, and saw that this place was available – well, I couldn’t help myself.’ She sighed. ‘Sentiment, Inspector. Nostalgia – never be swayed by it. Not too many customers are willing to make the trek from Princes Street. I’d be better off somewhere more central.’
Rebus recalled the story of how IBM had come to set up in Greenock: nostalgia again, but on a grand scale.
He followed Mrs Burnett through to the office. ‘So were you working here eight years ago? Around 1986 or ’87?’
She poured water into two mugs. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Was there an outfit here at that time called Mensung?’
‘Mensonge?’
He spelt it for her.
‘No,’ she said, ‘by that time there was just Mr Simpson and Capital Yarns. You’re sure it was this address?’ Rebus nodded, watching her dip the tea-bags. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’ She handed him the cup. ‘Thanks. Why did you use that pronunciation just now?’
‘Mensonge?’
‘Yes. It sounds French.’
‘It is French. It means lie.’
‘What?’
‘As in falsehood, fib, untruth. Is there something wrong with the tea, Inspector?’
‘No, nothing at all, Mrs Burnett. The tea’s fine. Just fine.’
To make absolutely sure, Rebus asked in the newsagent’s. The owner, who had run the place eighteen years, shook his head. Then Rebus had a word with the letting agency, who confirmed that there was no record of any company called Mensung ever renting office-space at the address.
‘Can you tell me who owns the property?’ Rebus asked. ‘Just out of interest.’
The woman wasn’t sure she could. Rebus stressed again that his inquiries were part of a police investigation, and she gave in.
‘The owner’s name,’ she said, ‘is a Mr J Simpson. As an individual, Mr Simpson rents space to Simpson Associates, Combined Knitwear, and a Mr Albert Costello.’
‘Costello?’
‘The newsagent next door,’ the letting agent said.
‘Nothing so far,’ Brian Holmes said over a lunchtime drink. ‘No record the company ever existed.’
Rebus chewed on his last piece of bridie. ‘I’m beginning to think it didn’t. Where’s Siobhan, by the way?’
‘At the gym.’
‘What’s a gym?’
Brian Holmes smiled at that. He’d put on weight this past year or so, and now sported a dough-ring stomach and the beginnings of beer jowls. Perks of the job, some people said.
‘I thought you worked out some lunchtimes?’ he said.
‘Haven’t done it for ages.’
But Rebus went swimming that afternoon, managing twenty thoughtful lengths, after which he had to sit in his cubicle for a while. That was the problem with exercise: it wasn’t any fun. None of the fit and active people he saw around him seemed any happier than anyone else. No point exercising to elongate your life, when you weren’t getting any more out of life than any other poor sod. He made up for the swimming by arriving early at the Ox, waiting to have a word with Salty Dougary, but Dougary didn’t come, and Rebus decided to break the rules.
He’d visit Dougary at his home.
Dougary was divorced and rented the top floor of a sizeable house not a conversion-kick away from Murray-field Stadium. He couldn’t have looked more surprised to see Rebus if he’d found him servicing his ex-wife on the doorstep.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I need a word, Salty.’
‘I didn’t feel like a drink tonight. Our boss is driving us like slaves, a big order with the deadline approaching, and Mathieson screaming down the telephone.’
‘Mathieson?’
‘Head honcho at PanoTech. You should see the way our boss –’
‘Salty? Sorry to bring it up, but it’s freezing out here.’
Dougary stepped aside to let Rebus in. ‘I’ll warn you,’ he said, ‘the place is a midden.’
Certainly, Rebus thought, it was no advert for the bachelor life.
‘Have you run out of binbags or something?’
‘I never seem to get time to clean up. Want a beer?’
‘Thanks.’ Rebus lifted pizza boxes, crisp bags and a couple of empty cans off the sofa and sat down. Salty came back with a couple of cans and handed one over.
‘So what’s the emergency?’
Rebus sipped froth from the top of the can. ‘You said Mensung was at the top of Leith Walk.’ Dougary nodded. ‘Next to a newsagent’s?’ An
other nod. ‘Well, I took a look this morning, and nobody’s heard of them.’
‘So?’
‘So, are you sure that’s where they were?’
‘That was the address on their letter-heading.’
‘You’re sure you wouldn’t have any of their letters lying around?’ Rebus scanned the room. His meaning was clear: you seem to hang on to everything else.
‘Everything got chucked when Fiona and me split up. I mean everything. Letters, photos, I even lost my birth certificate. See, John, I never actually went to see Mensung at that address. The courses I did, they were held at a place on Corstorphine Road.’
‘Do you remember the number?’
Dougary nodded. ‘One-six-five Corstorphine Road. See, it’s the date Fiona and me got married, sixteen-five, that’s how I remember.’ His face turned wistful. ‘Two chips soldered together on the motherboard of life.’
Rebus tried to remember when he and Rhona had married. He thought it was probably June or July, but that was as much as he could recall.
First thing next morning, he drove along Corstorphine Road looking for number 165. Rebus didn’t exactly know what a paper-chase was, but this was beginning to feel like one. The American, Haldayne, had mentioned paper companies, and Rebus felt he was chasing one now, something no more substantial than the sum of its letter-heading. His visit to Corstorphine Road seemed to confirm it.
The present occupants of the office suite told him that back in ’86 and ’87 the premises had been under a short let, sometimes for only days at a time. But there were no records of the actual occupants at that time. The suites had changed ownership several times since.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Rebus said.
Dead end, he thought. Dead company. He’d have to get Councillor Gillespie to talk to him, there was no other course left open. It was either that, or drop it altogether. That, after all, was what everyone wanted, but then he’d never been a crowd pleaser. He’d never played to the gallery.
He’d talk to Councillor Tom Gillespie. But after the weekend. And meantime, he had some fast shopping to do. New clothes. For some reason, he wanted new clothes to wear to Sir Iain’s.
Three
ZUGZWANG
30
Two low-built stone pillars marked the start of the long, snaking driveway. Rebus turned off the main road on to the gravel track and stopped the car. There were no signs, nothing at all to tell him this was the right turning. He looked at the map on the back of his invitation and decided it was. The very anonymity of the track seemed to fit with Sir Iain Hunter. Either side of Rebus were open fields, but these soon gave way to dense woodland. Dry-stane dykes overgrown with moss separated the driveway from the trees.
Finally, after half a mile, he emerged from the shade into a bright expanse of tended lawn with greenhouses and a walled vegetable garden off. And directly in front of him stood a grey stone house in the Scots baronial style, boasting two turrets – probably ornamental – which started at the level of the first floor and tapered to slate-covered points above the roof-line. There were three cars – a Rover 800, Jaguar, and Maserati – parked on the clean pink gravel. Rebus stopped beside them and got out, trying not to be impressed. In the distance, a stream bisected the trim lawn, with a narrow humpbacked bridge across it. It reminded him of nothing so much as one of the fairways at St Andrews.
‘It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?’ The voice was Sir Iain’s. He was walking towards Rebus, leaning lightly on a carved walking-stick. At home, it would appear the brolly wasn’t necessary.
‘Just thinking I should have brought my three iron.’
‘Ah, you play golf?’
‘Only with a three iron.’
Hunter laughed and placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Find the place all right?’
‘No trouble.’
‘Good.’ Hunter was steering Rebus towards the house. ‘I thought we’d have a drink first, then do a spot of shooting and just have a light lunch.’
‘Shooting?’
‘I take it you’ve handled a gun, Inspector?’
‘I’ve handled a lot of things.’
‘I did wonder if we might try for pheasant or winter hare, but decided on clay pigeon.’
‘Well, it tastes nicer, doesn’t it?’
Sir Iain Hunter shook his head, amused. ‘There’s no telling what you’ll say next, Inspector.’
They entered a capacious hall with white marble floor and paintings on the walls: modern art, which surprised Rebus. A lot of the stuff looked ill at ease in a setting of wood panelling and fluted columns. A staircase with a wrought-iron balustrade climbed up the middle of the hall and peeled off to left and right.
‘In here,’ Hunter said. ‘Let me take your coat.’
Rebus slipped off his new raincoat and shrugged himself back into his sports jacket. He patted his tie flat and walked into the morning room.
A servant was dispensing drinks from a series of decanters on a trolley. So, Rebus thought, I was important enough to be met by the boss rather than the flunky. He stood there, not really looking at anyone, biding his time until Sir Iain came back into the room.
‘Hello, John,’ someone said, walking towards him, hand held out. The man held a heavy crystal tumbler in his other hand, and looked slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t until Rebus had taken the man’s hand that he recognised him.
It was Allan Gunner, the deputy chief constable.
‘Do you know everyone?’ Gunner said, leading Rebus to the drinks trolley. Rebus’s first thought, after he’d recovered from the surprise, was: at least Gunner had the grace to look embarrassed. His second thought was: I’ve walked into this, fair and square.
The servant was waiting for Rebus’s order. He was a little stooped from a lifetime’s obsequiousness, and had a trying-to-please smile on his thin lips. He wore a tight little jacket of blue nylon, all its buttons done up. It probably helped with the stoop.
‘I’ll take a malt,’ Rebus said.
‘West Highland or Strathspey, sir?’
‘Strathspey, and no water.’
Another guest laughed. ‘Sir Iain won’t allow water of any form near his whiskies.’ He held his cigar and glass in one hand so he could extend the other towards Rebus.
‘Colin Macrae,’ he said.
‘Sir Colin,’ Gunner added, ‘is Scottish Office Minister for Agriculture and the Environment.’
‘John Rebus,’ Rebus told the man.
Which left only two guests, both male, both involved in a muted discussion by the french windows. But Gunner was applying discreet pressure to Rebus’s arm, manoeuvring him away from the drinks trolley, where Sir Colin was ordering a top-up. They ended up beside a massive stone fireplace.
Gunner spoke in a fierce whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here –’
‘Me neither.’
‘But while we’re in company, we’d better show a united front, especially in front of these characters.’
‘Agreed.’
‘So first-name terms, no formalities.’
‘Fair enough, sir.’
‘The name’s Allan.’
‘Allan.’
‘Ah,’ Hunter said, entering the room and pointing at them with his stick, ‘the same old story, everyone’s got a drink but the host.’
The servant poured without being asked. A telephone sounded in the hall, and he went to answer it, head bowed as he left the room.
‘Cheers,’ said Sir Iain. He motioned for Rebus to join him. ‘Met everyone?’
The couple from the window were coming back to replenish their glasses. Rebus nodded towards them.
‘Robbie,’ Sir Iain said, ‘come and meet Detective Inspector John Rebus. John, this is Robbie Mathieson.’
Mathieson shook Rebus’s hand. He was tall, well built, and had thick black hair and a black beard. The glasses he wore sported blue tints.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ His accent was slightly American.
‘Pan
oTech?’ Rebus guessed.
Mathieson nodded, a bit put out by the recognition, and Sir Iain looked interested that Rebus should know Mathieson. Sir Iain turned to Allan Gunner.
‘Chief Constable, is it a wonder the crime rate is falling and the detection rate rising when you can boast men of this calibre?’ He looked back to Rebus. ‘It’s almost uncanny.’
A game was being played, and Rebus didn’t know what it was. But he knew that his knowing who Mathieson was was part of it.
Gunner was correcting Sir Iain. ‘It’s Deputy Chief Constable.’
‘A slip of the tongue,’ Hunter said, with a wink to the general assembly. ‘Perhaps I was merely looking into the future. That’s what we civil servants are good at, you know. Dugald, your glass needs a top-up.’
Dugald held out his hand for a refill. Nobody had introduced him because nobody needed to. He was quiet, thoughtful, or maybe he just didn’t waste words. Hardly surprising, when everything he said might be taken down and passed to the media, who might use it in evidence against him. He couldn’t afford to trust those he did not know.
Certainly, he didn’t know Rebus, but Rebus knew him. He was Dugald Niven, the Right Honourable Dugald Niven.
He was Secretary of State for Scotland.
‘Let’s take our drinks through to the gun room,’ Sir Iain said, ‘and get everyone kitted out.’
Rebus poured and drank another half glass before following everyone out of the room.
It was barely above zero outside – ‘bracing’ and ‘fresh’ according to Sir Iain – and they were going to have a picnic. The provisions would be waiting for them at the clay-pigeon site. To get to the site itself necessitated a walk through the woods. In the gun room, they’d been fitted with green sportsmen’s jackets, sleeveless and thickly padded with cartridge-belt attached. They were handed a shotgun each, broken open for safety’s sake.
Rebus stayed to the rear of the party, and Gunner slowed down to join him.
‘So what are you doing here?’ Gunner asked.
‘I thought you’d know.’
‘Me?’
‘You’ve had me taken off an investigation.’
‘I’ve done no such thing.’