10
‘He what?’ Rebus said.
He was on the phone from St Leonard’s to Dr Curt at the university’s Pathology Department. They kept Curt and his colleagues busy, no mistake about that. On top of police work, Curt had a full teaching load in the Faculty of Medicine, and did crossover lectures to law students too.
But then Curt had an advantage over mere mortals: he never slept. You could call him out at any hour, and he was always alert. You could catch him in his office at eight in the morning.
It was actually eight-fifteen, and Rebus was nursing a large black decaf coffee from the early-opening deli on the Pleasance.
‘Morning deafness, John?’ Dr Curt said. ‘I repeat, he was dying anyway.’
‘Dying how?’
‘Great big bloody tumours. Pancreas and large colon to start with. The man must have been in agony. I’m willing to bet the toxicology tests show the presence of powerful painkillers.’
‘You mean he was out of his box?’
‘He’d have to be to stand the pain.’
Rebus frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Haven’t you heard of voluntary euthanasia, self-inflicted in this case?’
‘Yes, but with a sawn-off shotgun?’
‘Well, that’s not my department. I can give you effect, not cause.’
Rebus terminated the call and went to see his chief inspector.
Gill Templer had made more changes to Lauderdale’s office. She’d brought in a few framed photographs of nieces and nephews, and a thriving yucca plant had appeared. There were also a couple of cards wishing her well in her new job.
‘I hear you were at that suicide last night,’ she said, motioning for him to sit.
He nodded distractedly. ‘There’s something not right about it.’
‘Oh?’
So he set out what he knew. Gill Templer listened with her chin resting on both hands, a gesture he knew of old. He recognised the perfume she was wearing, too.
‘Hmm,’ she said when he’d finished, ‘a lot of questions. But are they any of our concern?’
He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. Give me a day or two, I might have an answer.’
‘Those two lads on the bridge,’ she said. ‘Another suicide, another connection with the district council.’
‘I know. It could just be coincidence.’
‘I don’t see how it could be anything else. OK, take a day or two, see what you come up with. But report back to me regularly – at least a couple of times a day.’
Rebus stood up. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You’re already managing to sound like a chief inspector.’
‘John,’ she said warningly, ‘remember what I said.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else?’
Gill Templer shook her head. She was already getting down to some paperwork.
Rebus left her office – it was hers now, no doubt about it – and walked straight into Siobhan Clarke.
‘Any news on Paul Duggan?’
‘He’s coming in for a chat this afternoon.’
‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘Need me along?’
She shook her head. ‘Brian and me have perfected our Jekyll and Hyde routine.’
‘Which one of you plays Hyde?’
She ignored this. ‘So what are you up to today?’
It was a good question. Rebus formed his answer. ‘Chasing ghosts,’ he said, making for his desk.
He phoned Tresa McAnally. She’d identified her husband’s clothes, and had been able to identify his body, albeit with the face discreetly covered. Now all that was left for her were the funeral arrangements.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Rebus said, after introducing himself.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just wondered how you were coping.’
‘Oh aye?’ He should’ve known she wouldn’t fall for that sort of patter.
‘You knew your husband was ill, Mrs McAnally?’
‘He told me he was.’
‘Seriously ill though?’
‘He never really said.’
‘Well, what did he tell you was wrong with him?’
‘Where do you want me to start? High blood pressure, kidney stones, ulcers, a heart murmur, emphysema … see, Wee Shug was a bit of a hypochondriac.’
‘But he was ill; he was on medication.’
‘You know what doctors are like, they’ll hand you a placebo and kiss you goodbye. I’ve read the stories, I know what goes on.’ She paused. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the point asking about his health now?’
‘Well, I’ve reason to believe your husband was seriously ill. Terminally ill, Mrs McAnally.’
‘I should’ve guessed,’ she said finally, her tone chastened. ‘He was different when he came out this time, quieter like. Was it the big C?’
‘Yes.’
‘Used to smoke rollies. I always told him, that’s the way my own mother went.’ Another pause as she dragged on her filter-tip. ‘Is that why he did himself in?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Makes sense, eh? Poor wee bugger.’
Rebus cleared his throat. ‘Mrs McAnally, have you any idea where he could have got the gun?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What’s the difference where he got it? He only hurt himself.’
Thinking back to Councillor Gillespie and Miss Profitt, Rebus wondered about that. It seemed to him that Wee Shug McAnally had managed to hurt a lot of people … which brought him to thoughts of Maisie Finch.
‘The funeral’s next Tuesday, Inspector. You’d be welcome at the house.’
‘Thanks, Mrs McAnally. I’ll do my best.’
The sun was out, bathing the tired buildings in dazzling light. Edinburgh’s architecture was best suited to winter, to sharp, cold light. You got the feeling of being a long way north of anywhere, some place reserved for only the hardiest and most foolhardy.
Rebus was glad to be out of the office. He knew he worked best on the street. Besides, the office was a battleground. He knew Flower would already be plotting against Gill Templer, marshalling his forces, waiting for her defences to slip. But she was tough – the way she was handling Rebus was proof of that. He knew she would keep him at arm’s length and beyond. She was right, he did have a bad reputation. She wouldn’t want any of his failures to rub off on her. So what if they’d known one another, had been an item? She was right – it was a long time ago. Now they were colleagues; more than that, she was his acting superior. He hadn’t known many women make chief inspector. Good luck to her.
He drove past the Infirmary, chiding himself for not stopping to visit Lauderdale, and headed for Tollcross. He didn’t want Tresa McAnally this time though.
He wanted her neighbour.
He pressed the buzzer marked FINCH and waited, shuffling his feet. His tooth was acting up. He’d made the mistake of opening his mouth to take a deep breath, and the frozen air had made straight for the nerve. He pressed the buzzer again, hoping he wouldn’t have to visit a dentist.
The intercom came to life.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was neutral.
‘Miss Finch? My name’s Inspector Rebus, we sort of met last night.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come up?’
The door buzzed and Rebus pushed it open. At the top of the stairs, he all but tiptoed past Tresa McAnally’s door. Maisie Finch’s door was ajar. He closed it after him.
‘Miss Finch?’
She emerged suddenly from the bathroom, wearing a short towelling-robe and brushing her hair. He could smell soap and feel the warmth from her body.
‘I was in the bath,’ she said.
‘Sorry to trouble you.’
He followed her into the living room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Half the space was taken up with what looked like a hospital bed, with cast-iron frame, roller wheels, and a side-guard. Next to
it was a liver-coloured commode. The mantelpiece was like a chemist’s display, two dozen assorted boxes and bottles standing in a row.
Maisie Finch was moving magazines from the sofa. She motioned for him to sit, and took the commode for herself, tucking one leg under the other.
‘What’s the problem, Inspector?’
Her face was too angular to be good-looking, and she had slightly protruberant eyes, yet she was undeniably … the word that came to his mind was charged. He shifted on the sofa.
‘Well, Miss Finch …’
‘I suppose it’s about Tresa?’
‘In a way, yes.’ He looked at the bed again.
‘It’s my mum’s,’ she explained. ‘She’s house-bound, I have to look after her.’ Rebus made show of looking around for the missing parent, and Maisie Finch laughed. ‘She’s in hospital.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. They take her every few months, just for a few days. It’s to give me a break. This,’ she said, opening her arms wide, ‘is my winter holiday.’
Her movements had loosened her robe. She didn’t seem to notice, and Rebus tried not to look. Men, he thought, are daft bastards.
‘Want something to drink?’ she asked. ‘Or is it too early for you?’
‘One person’s early is someone else’s late.’
She went into the kitchenette. Rebus walked over to the mantelpiece and examined the array of prescription drugs. He found a bottle of paracetamol and shook two into his hand.
‘Heavy night?’ she said, coming back with two bottles.
‘Toothache,’ he explained. He took the narrow bottle. It was chilled.
‘San Miguel,’ she told him. ‘Spanish lager. Know what I do?’ She sat down again, legs apart, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘I stick the heater on as high as it’ll go, shut my eyes and imagine I’m in Spain, poolside at some posh hotel.’ She closed her eyes to prove the point, and angled her head towards an imaginary Mediterranean sun.
Rebus washed the pills down with lager. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum though,’ he said.
She opened her eyes, not pleased to have her reverie broken. ‘Everyone tells me what a saint I am.’ She mimicked a much older woman: ‘“There’s no’ many like you, hen.” Too right, there’s not many as daft as me. You know how some people say life’s passing them by? Well, in this case it’s a fact. I sit on the commode between her bed and the window, and just stare out at the street for hours on end, listening to her breathing, waiting for it to stop.’ She looked over at him. ‘Have I shocked you?’
He shook his head. His own mother had been bedridden; he knew the feeling. But he hadn’t come here for any of this.
‘Sitting by the window all day,’ he said, ‘you must have seen Mr McAnally coming and going?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’ She stood up abruptly.
‘Mrs McAnally’s all right though?’
She was moving towards the kitchenette, but stopped and turned on him. ‘I’m not the saint; that woman’s the saint! She’s suffered, you wouldn’t believe how she’s suffered.’
‘I think I would.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘Married to an animal like that.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what he did to me?’ Rebus nodded, and she took a step back, recovering. ‘You do?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘I’m here because I’m curious, Miss Finch. I mean, you still live next door, you’re friends with his wife.’
‘What? You think mum and me were going to move out … because of him?’
‘Something like that.’
‘She’s been offered sheltered accommodation, but in Granton. We’ve always lived in Tollcross. We always will.’
‘This last week, it must have been awkward.’
‘I kept out of his way. You can bet he kept out of mine.’ She was by the window now, staring down on to the street, her back resting against the wall. It was as if she didn’t want to be seen. ‘He deserved what he got.’
Rebus frowned. ‘You mean, what he did to himself?’
She looked at him, blinked. ‘That’s what I said.’ Then she smiled and put the bottle to her lips.
11
The Ballistics facility at Howdenhall Forensic Science Lab wasn’t Rebus’s idea of a good time. There were too many guns around for his liking. He read the report and looked up at the white-coated scientist who’d prepared it. The other thing Rebus didn’t like about Howdenhall, all the forensic boffins looked about nineteen years old. They’d been in their smart new building a year, and still looked pleased with themselves. The new facility had been financed by selling property, including police homes. Rebus didn’t want to know how many homes the lab had cost.
‘Not much, is there?’ he said.
The white coat, who liked to be called Dave, laughed. ‘You CID,’ he said, plunging his hands into his pockets, ‘you always want more. Who fired it? Where did he get it?’
‘We know who fired it, smart-arse. But your second question’s a good one. Where did he get it?’
‘I’m Ballistics, not Intelligence. It’s a common enough make of shotgun, the identifiers have been filed off. We’ve tried the usual processes, and there’s no chance of recovering them. The cartridges were common stock, too.’
‘What about the barrel?’
‘What about it?’
‘When was it filed off?’
Dave nodded. ‘The edge the file left is still shiny; say in the last couple of months.’
‘Have you checked the register?’
‘Of course.’ Dave led Rebus to a computer terminal and punched a couple of keys. ‘There are over seventy thousand shotgun certificates on issue.’
Rebus blinked. ‘Seventy thousand?’
‘Compared to thirty-odd thousand for all other firearms combined. Nobody’s really concerned about the amount of shotguns around.’ He tapped another key. ‘See? Owner-ship’s highest in rural areas – Northern, Grampian, Dumfries and Galloway. It’s not some brewhead from Gorgie that’s buying these things, it’s the establishment: farmers, landowners.’
‘What about thefts?’
‘They’re on the computer, but I’ve checked. Nobody around Edinburgh has lost a shotgun recently.’
‘Can I take a look anyway?’
‘Sure.’ Rebus sat down and Dave punched the keyboard again. The list of recently reported thefts was not large; nearly all of them were south of the border. ‘Want a print-out?’
‘Yes.’ Not that a print-out would help him.
‘What’s the big deal anyway?’ Dave asked. ‘It’s a simple suicide, isn’t it?’
‘Suicide’s still an offence.’
‘The only one we don’t prosecute after the fact. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘But there may be things some people aren’t telling me.’ He took the print-out and folded it into his pocket. ‘One other thing.’
‘What?’
‘The prints on the gun, were they the deceased’s?’
Dave seemed amused by the question. ‘His and his alone. What are you up to, Inspector?’
But John Rebus wasn’t about to answer that.
‘Thank you for coming in, Councillor.’
Rebus had just come into the interview room. He’d been biding his time outside the door, letting Tom Gillespie get a bit nervous. An interview room could do that; it could destroy all your pre-planning. You walked in knowing what you were going to say, the line you were going to take with the police, but then the room started to work on you.
The thing was, it was just a room – crime prevention posters on the walls, a table, three chairs, four electrical sockets. There was a tin ashtray, commandeered from a local pub. The walls were creamy matt custard, institution yellow, and there was strip lighting on the ceiling. The lights burred continuously, an almost subliminal electric hu
m. Rebus wondered if it was that noise that got to people. He guessed there was a simpler truth: the interview room was in a police station, and if you were there, you were going to be interviewed by the police.
And when it came down to it, everyone had something to hide.
‘Not at all,’ Gillespie said, crossing one leg over the other to let Rebus know how relaxed he was. ‘I hear the poor devil was an ex-prisoner.’
‘He’d served just under four years for the rape of a minor.’
‘Four years doesn’t seem very long.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ They sat in silence for a moment, until Gillespie broke it.
‘I had a friend once who committed suicide. He was still at university – this is going back a while. He was worried about exams, and his girlfriend had left him.’ He paused. ‘Left him for me. I should add.’
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Rebus asked.
‘I thought smoking was forbidden in police stations.’
‘If it bothers you, I won’t light it.’ He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and offered one to Gillespie. The councillor shook his head.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t light up.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus, putting away cigarettes and lighter both. Well, he thought, this is interesting. The guy’s been studying for this exam. Tells a personal story, one that doesn’t paint him in the rosiest glow, and then asserts his authority. And all it was supposed to be was a few follow-up questions.
‘How did he do it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Who?’
‘Your friend.’
‘Flung himself out of the halls of residence. Fifth floor. He was still alive, so they took him to hospital, checking for broken bones and internal bleeding. They were so busy, they didn’t notice he’d taken an overdose before the jump.’
‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘both are fairly common roads out, aren’t they? You leap or you sleep. Mr McAnally, on the other hand …’
‘You were at the Forth Road Bridge, weren’t you? When those two kids jumped? I saw your name in the paper.’
‘We’re here to talk about McAnally, Councillor.’
‘Well, guns are a popular mode of suicide too, aren’t they?’