They decided on beer, which the waitress would bring from the bar.
‘What can I do for you?’ the pathologist asked, dissecting a last floury potato.
‘Just wondered if you’d anything for us.’
‘On last night’s stabbing? Give me a chance, will you? Have you located the murder weapon?’
‘No,’ Davidson admitted. ‘We didn’t find any footprints either. The ground in the cemetery was frozen.’
‘Well, it was a long-bladed knife, serrated by the look of the skin around the wound. And that’s about as much as I can say for now. The victim had tried to protect himself, there were defence nicks on the hands. Plus he’d been eating something greasy. There was grease on his fingers.’
Rebus looked at Davidson. ‘Did you find any wrappings near the body?’
‘Nothing fresh. What’s your point?’
‘Gillespie ate a big meal at eight – chicken casserole, two helpings. Do you think he ate it with his fingers?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So how come less than three hours later he decides to visit a chip shop?’ Rebus turned to the pathologist. ‘When you look at stomach contents, I’m willing to bet you won’t find anything but chicken casserole.’
‘I did think,’ the pathologist said, ‘that it was odd. I mean, most people would wipe their fingers afterwards. But this grease or lard, it was quite solid.’
Which told Rebus everything he needed to know.
35
It was still lunchtime when Rebus walked into the chip shop on Easter Road, and two men in jackets and ties queued behind a teenager in a thin parka with the stuffing bursting from its seams: Rebus waited at the back of the queue, and smiled and waved towards the server, who didn’t return the greeting.
Finally it was Rebus’s turn. ‘Hello, Gerry.’ Gerry Dip wiped the work surface where some sauce had spilt. ‘Remember me?’
‘What do you want?’
Rebus leaned over the counter. ‘I want to know where you were last night between the hours of nine p.m. and eleven, and it better be the alibi to end them all.’
‘What for?’ Gerry Dip said.
Rebus just smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go for a ride.’
‘I can’t. I’m here on my own.’
‘Then switch everything off and we’ll lock the door after us, maybe put up a sign saying “Other fish to fry”.’
Gerry Dip bent down as if reaching for a switch, and then flicked something across the counter at Rebus. It was a battered fish, straight out of the fat. Rebus ducked and it flew over his head, fat spattering him. Gerry Dip was on the move, shouldering open the door to the kitchen. Rebus ran around the counter and followed. In the kitchen, Dip had hauled a sack of potatoes on to its side and was already halfway out the back door. Rebus stumbled over the potatoes, dived and just missed Dip’s ankles. He clambered to his feet and ran outside, finding himself in an alley. To his left was a dead end. To his right, Gerry Dip, running for it, the white apron flapping around his knees.
‘Stop him!’ Rebus yelled.
Davidson didn’t need telling twice. He was waiting at the mouth of the alley, hands in pockets like a casual onlooker. But as Dip ran past, he flung out an arm and caught him in the throat. Dip flew back like he was attached by elastic to the ground. His hands went to his throat and he started gagging.
‘You could have crushed his windpipe,’ Rebus said, but not in a nasty sort of way.
At four p.m., with Gerry Dip still maintaining his vow of silence in the interview room, Rebus went for a drive.
Gerry was an old hand: he knew how to play the game called Helping Police With Their Inquiries. He’d keep quiet, with or without a solicitor. All he’d said so far was that this was harassment, and that he wanted to talk to someone from SWEEP. It would take more than Rebus’s gut feeling to convict him of murder. There must needs be evidence. Rebus had explained to Davidson the complex series of connections which had brought Gerry Dip to mind. Now it was up to Davidson to convince his superiors that there was due cause for the granting of a search warrant for Gerry Dip’s digs and the chip shop itself. The chip shop’s owner had already explained that Gerry hadn’t had a shift the previous night. Rebus saw it all clearly. A meeting arranged, Gillespie turning up, Gerry Dip surprising him, Gillespie trying to defend himself from the attack, grabbing at Dip’s greasy shirt or jacket …
One thing nagged: Gerry Dip alone couldn’t have lured Gillespie into the trap. There must have been someone else, someone he trusted, someone he wanted to meet …
* * *
The Right Honourable Cameron McLeod Kennedy, JP, had a detached bungalow in what would have tried calling itself Corstorphine had South Gyle not taken off. The houses were descendants of the boxy bungalows on Queensferry Road. There weren’t many cars parked roadside; most of the bungalows boasted a garage, or at the very least a car-port. Rebus parked outside the Lord Provost’s home. The door was open before he had reached the garden gate. The Lord Provost stood in the doorway, his wife a little behind him.
‘You were so mysterious on the phone,’ Kennedy said, shaking Rebus’s hand. ‘Is there any news?’
‘The Lord will do as He sees fit,’ his wife burst out, the voice booming from her heavy frame. The Lord Provost ushered her back indoors and led Rebus to the front sitting room.
‘I’ve seen her,’ Rebus said.
‘Where is she?’ Mrs Kennedy snapped. Rebus studied her. She had wide unblinking eyes and small pudgy hands which she’d rolled into fists. Her hair had been coaxed into an untidy bun, and her cheeks blazed. Rebus guessed at West Highland stock; it wasn’t a wild stab in the dark to say she’d had a religious upbringing. For zeal, some of the Wee Frees could beat any Muslim Fundamentalists.
‘She’s safe, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘I know that! I’ve prayed for her, of course she’s safe. I’ve been praying for her soul.’
‘Beth, please …’
‘I’ve prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life.’
Rebus looked around the room. The furniture had been positioned with exact precision on the carpet, and the ornaments looked like the distances between them had been calibrated by a professional. Net curtains covered the two small windows. There were photos of young children, but none of anyone aged twelve or over. Hard to imagine a teenager passing her evenings here.
‘Inspector,’ Cameron Kennedy said, ‘I haven’t asked you if you’d like something to drink.’
Rebus guessed that alcohol would not be on the list. ‘No, thanks.’
‘We’ve ginger cordial left from New Year,’ Mrs Kennedy barked.
‘Thanks, but no. The thing is, sir, I’m not here primarily about your daughter. I’d like to talk to you about Tom Gillespie.’
‘Terrible business,’ the Lord Provost said.
‘May the good Lord take his soul unto Him in heaven,’ his wife added.
‘I wonder,’ Rebus said pointedly, ‘if we might have a word in private.’
Kennedy looked to his wife, who didn’t look like moving. Finally, with a sniff, she turned and left. Rebus heard a radio come on through the wall.
‘A terrible business,’ the Lord Provost repeated, sitting down and gesturing for Rebus to do the same.
‘But it didn’t come altogether as a surprise, did it?’
The Lord Provost looked up. ‘Of course it did!’
‘You knew the councillor was playing with fire.’
‘Did I?’
‘There’d already been that one attempt to scare him off,’ Rebus smiled. ‘I know what Gillespie was on to, and I know he approached you with the information, and made frequent progress reports thereafter.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Your little lunchtime meetings, we’ve records of them. He knew you’d be interested. For one thing, you’re the Lord Provost. For another, his findings related directly to Gyle Park West, which is in your ward. I don’t know what Gillespie’s idea was. If I were b
eing charitable, I’d say he was working in the public interest and would eventually have gone public with his findings. But really, I think he was trying to pressure you into helping further his career. It could be that his findings would never have come to light, but somebody couldn’t be sure of that. Somebody tried scaring him, then decided to murder him instead.’
The Lord Provost sprang to his feet. ‘You surely don’t think I killed him?’
‘I’m pretty sure I could convince my colleagues that you’re a prime suspect. You’d have to explain the secret meetings and everything else.’
The Lord Provost’s eyes narrowed, his eyebrows meeting in the middle. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I want you to tell me all about it.’
‘You say you already know.’
‘But I’ve yet to hear anyone say the words.’
The Lord Provost considered, then shook his head.
‘Does that mean,’ Rebus said, ‘that your ward is more important than your own reputation?’
‘I can’t say anything.’
‘Because PanoTech’s involved?’
Kennedy’s face contracted as if he’d been punched. ‘It’s got nothing to do with PanoTech. That company is one of the largest employers in Lothian. We need it, Inspector.’
‘If it has nothing to do with PanoTech, does it still have to do with Robbie Mathieson?’
‘I can’t say anything.’
‘Who’s Dalgety? Why does he scare you so much? Kirstie told me she heard you talking about him with someone. And when you saw she’d written his name on the LABarum plan, you suddenly didn’t want her found.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m saying nothing!’
‘In that case,’ Rebus said, ‘I won’t trouble you any further.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sure you’ve got plenty to keep you busy, such as writing your speech of resignation.’ He walked to the door.
‘Inspector …’ Rebus turned. ‘About Kirstie … is she all right?’
Rebus walked back into the room. ‘Would you like to see her?’ The Lord Provost seemed in two minds. Weakness was there to be exploited. ‘I could bring her here, but it would have to be a trade.’
‘You don’t “trade” with an innocent life!’
‘Not so innocent, sir. I could think up half a dozen charges against your daughter, and between you and me I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t apprehend her and put her in a cell.’
The Lord Provost turned away and walked to the window. ‘You know, Inspector, I’m no virgin, believe me. You want dirty tricks, underhand tactics, there’s a lot you can learn from politics, even at district level … especially at district level.’ Kennedy paused. ‘You say you can bring her here?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then do it.’
‘And we’ll have a little chat, you and me? You’ll tell me what I want to know?’
The Lord Provost turned to face him. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, his face ashen.
They shook hands on it, and the Lord Provost saw him to the door. Somewhere behind them in the bungalow, Mrs Kennedy was singing a hymn.
So all Rebus had to do now was persuade Kirstie Kennedy that east or west, home was still the best.
Rebus went to her flat first, but there was no one home. He tried a couple of the drop-in centres, including the one behind Waverley – no joy – then started on the burger bars on Princes Street before driving back to Leith and visiting three pubs where pushers and users were known to meet. Nothing. He took a breather in a bar where he was less likely to get himself stabbed, then went to have a word with the few chilled prostitutes plying their trade near the Inner Harbour. One of them thought she recognised the description, but she could have been lying: it was warmer in his car than outside.
Then Rebus remembered something Kirstie had said, about how Paul’s mum liked her. So he drove to Paul’s parents’ address. Duggan was embarrassed to see him, but his mother, a tiny, kindly woman, invited Rebus in.
‘No night to be yacking on the doorstep.’
It was a tidy little flat just off Abbeyhill. Duggan gave Rebus a warning look as he led him, at his mother’s insistence, into the living room. Duggan’s dad was there, smoking a pipe and reading the paper. He stood up to shake Rebus’s hand. He was small, like his wife. So here was the arch criminal, Paul Duggan, in his lair.
‘Paul’s not in any trouble, I hope,’ the father asked, teeth grinning around the stem of his pipe.
‘Not at all, Mr Duggan, I’m just looking for a friend of Paul’s.’
‘Well, Paul will help if he can, won’t you, Paul?’
‘Aye, sure,’ Paul Duggan mumbled.
‘It’s Kirstie,’ Rebus said.
‘Kirstie?’ Mr Duggan said. ‘That name’s familiar.’
‘Maybe Paul’s brought her back here once or twice, Mr Duggan.’
‘Well, Inspector, he does sometimes bring a girlfriend back – but not for hanky-panky, mind you.’ He winked. ‘We keep an eye on him.’
The two men shared a laugh. Paul Duggan was shrinking almost visibly, bowed over on the sofa, hands between his legs. The years were peeling off him like paper from a damp wall.
‘I haven’t seen her,’ he told Rebus.
‘Since when?’
‘Since the time we took her home.’
‘Any idea where she could be?’
Mr Duggan removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘I’m sure Paul would tell you if he could, Inspector.’
‘Have you tried the flat?’ Paul asked. Rebus nodded.
‘She’s not in your bedroom, is she, Paul?’
Duggan twitched, and his father sat forward in the chair. ‘Now, Inspector,’ he said, trying for another grin. Trying too hard.
‘Where’s your wife, Mr Duggan?’
Rebus got up and walked into the hall. Mrs Duggan was about to sneak Kirstie Kennedy out the front door.
‘Bring her through here instead, Mrs Duggan,’ Rebus said.
So they all sat in the living room, and the Duggans explained everything.
‘See, we know who Kirstie is’, Mrs Duggan said, ‘and she’s told us why she ran away, and I can’t say I blame her.’ The Lord Provost’s daughter sat next to her on the sofa, staring into the fire, and Mrs Duggan ran her hand through Kirstie’s hair. ‘Kirstie’s got a problem with drugs, she accepts that and so do we. We thought if she was going to fight it, she better move in here for a wee while, get right away from all the … from the people who live that sort of life.’
‘Is that right, Kirstie? Are you kicking it?’
She nodded, suppressing a shiver. Mrs Duggan put an arm around her. ‘Sweats and shivers,’ she said. ‘Mr Leitch told us to expect them.’ She turned to Rebus. ‘He works at the Waverley drop-in.’ Rebus nodded. ‘He told us all about cold turkey.’ She turned her attention back to the girl. ‘Cold turkey, Kirstie, like on Boxing Day, eh?’
Kirstie snuggled deeper into Mrs Duggan’s side, like she was a child again and Mrs Duggan her mother … Yes, thought Rebus, the mother she’s been denied. And here was a willing substitute.
‘See,’ Mr Duggan said, ‘we’re afraid you’ve come to take her away. She doesn’t want to go home.’
‘She doesn’t have to go home, Mr Duggan. The drugs apart, she’s done nothing wrong.’ Paul and Kirstie looked at him, and saw he wasn’t going to mention the hoax kidnap. ‘But the thing is,’ Rebus said, his eyes holding Kirstie’s, ‘I need a favour. I’ve seen your stepmother, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to see her … But what about your father? Would it hurt you to talk to him for five minutes, just to let him see you’re all right?’
There was a long silence. Mrs Duggan whispered something in Kirstie’s ear.
‘I don’t suppose so,’ Kirstie said at last. ‘Just now? Tonight?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’
‘I might be worse tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take that chance. Just one other thing: last time we met, you we
re telling me why you took that document from your dad’s office.’
She nodded. ‘I heard him talking on the telephone. He was talking about covering something up, some scandal. I heard him mention LABarum. He’d always told me I had to follow his example, but he turned out to be just like all the others – a liar, a cheat, a coward.’ She was bursting into tears. ‘He let me down again. So I grabbed that … whatever it was. I saw it was about LABarum.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Maybe I just wanted him to know I knew. It’s all rotten, all of it.’
Mrs Duggan was still trying to quiet her as Rebus left the flat.
Back home, Rebus got the feeling the phone had just stopped ringing. Two minutes later, with the Stones softly on the hi-fi, it rang again. He’d been sitting with the whisky bottle in his lap, wondering if he could resist, wondering why he bothered.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Davidson.’
‘Still at the station?’
‘That I am. Gerry’s still not talking.’
‘Have you offered him a deal?’
‘Not yet. We’re holding him on a charge of assault, naming you as the injured party.’
‘I’ll never get the grease off that jacket. What about the search warrant?’
‘We got it. I’m just waiting for Burns to get back. Hold on, here he comes.’ Davidson put his hand over the mouthpiece. Rebus unscrewed the bottle with his free hand, but couldn’t find a glass. Davidson came back on the line. ‘It’s a result. Two credit cards, Access and Visa, in the name of Thomas Gillespie, hidden under the mattress.’
‘So now will you go for a deal?’
‘I’ll talk to his solicitor.’
‘We don’t just want Dip, remember. We want whoever ordered the hit.’
‘Sure, John.’ There wasn’t what Rebus would call fervour in Davidson’s voice. ‘Now the bad news.’
‘Listen, I’m serious – we want the paymaster!’
‘And I’m serious about it being bad news.’
Rebus quietened. ‘OK, what is it?’
‘You told me to check if Charters had had any visitors since you saw him Sunday night. Well, he had one the next morning, and then again today. She’s a regular apparently.’