The arresting officer was a uniform called Rod Harken, and he remembered the incident well.
‘She got a fine,’ he told Clarke by telephone from Torphichen police station. ‘And a few days in clink for refusing to tell us her name.’
‘What about her partner?’
‘I think he got off with a caution.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the poor sod was nearly comatose.’
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Then I’ll spell it out. She was straddling him, knickers off and skirt up, trying to haul his pants down. We had to wake him up to take him to the station.’ Harken chuckled.
‘Were they photographed?’
‘You mean on the steps?’ Harken was still chuckling.
Clarke heaped more ice into her voice. ‘No, I do not mean on the steps. I mean at Torphichen.’
‘Oh aye, we took some snaps.’
‘Would you still have them?’
‘Depends.’
‘Well, could you take a look.’ Clarke paused. ‘Please.’
‘Suppose so,’ the uniform said grudgingly.
‘Thank you.’
She put the phone down. An hour later, the photos arrived by patrol car. The ones of Mackie were better than the hostel pictures. She stared into his unfocused eyes. His hair was thick and dark, brushed back from the forehead. His face was either tanned or weather-beaten. He hadn’t shaved for a day or two, but looked no worse than many a summertime backpacker. His eyes looked heavy, as though no amount of sleep could compensate for what they’d seen. Clarke had to smile at the photos of Dezzi: she was grinning like a Cheshire cat, not a care in her world.
Harken had put a note in the envelope: One other thing. We asked Mackie about the incident and he told us he wasn’t a ‘sexual beast’ any more. Something got lost in the translation and we kept him locked up while we checked if he’d had previous as a sex offender. Turned out he hadn’t.
Her phone rang again. It was the front desk. There was someone downstairs for her.
Her visitor was short and round with a red face. He wore a Prince of Wales check three-piece suit and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but hair grew copiously to either side, combed back over his ears. He introduced himself as Gerald Sithing.
‘I read about Chris Mackie in the newspaper this morning, gave me quite a turn.’ His beady eyes were on her, voice high and quavering.
Clarke folded her arms. ‘You knew him, sir?’
‘Oh, yes. Known him for years.’
‘Could you describe him for me?’
Sithing studied her, then clapped his hands. ‘Oh, of course. You think I’m a crank.’ His laughter was sibilant. ‘Come here to claim his fortune.’
‘Aren’t you?’
He drew himself up, recited a good description of Mackie. Clarke unfolded her arms, scratched her nose. ‘In here, please, Mr Sithing.’
There was an interview room just to the side of the front desk. She unlocked it and looked in. Sometimes it was used for storage, but today it was empty. Desk and two chairs. Nothing on the walls. No ashtray or waste bin.
Sithing sat down, looked around as though intrigued by his surroundings. Clarke had gone from scratching her nose to pinching it. She had a headache coming on, felt dead beat.
‘How did you come to know Mr Mackie?’
‘Complete accident really. Daily constitutional, back then I took it in the Meadows.’
‘Back when?’
‘Oh, seven, eight years ago. Bright summer’s day, so I sat myself down on one of the benches. There was a man already seated there, scruffy . . . you know, gentleman of the road. We got talking. I think I broke the ice, said something about how lovely the day was.’
‘And this was Mr Mackie?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where was he living at the time?’
Sithing laughed again. ‘You’re still testing me, aren’t you?’ He wagged a finger like a fat sausage. ‘He was in a hostel sort of place, Grassmarket. I met him the very next day, and the day after that. It got to be a routine with us, and one I enjoyed very much.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘The world, the mess we’ve made of it. He was interested in Edinburgh, in all the architectural changes. He was very anti.’
‘Anti?’
‘You know, against all the new buildings. Maybe in the end it got too much for him.’
‘He killed himself in protest at ugly architecture?’
‘Despair can come from many quarters.’ His tone was admonishing.
‘I’m sorry if I sounded . . .’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not your fault. You’re just tired.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘And maybe Chris was tired, too. That’s the point I was making.’
‘Did he ever talk about himself?’
‘A little. He told me about the hostel, about people he’d met . . .’
‘I meant his past. Did he talk about his life before he went on the street?’
Sithing was shaking his head. ‘He was more of a good listener, fascinated by Rosslyn.’
Clarke thought she’d misheard. ‘Rosalind?’
‘Rosslyn. The chapel.’
‘What about it?’
Sithing leaned forward. ‘My whole life’s devoted to the place. You may have heard of the Knights of Rosslyn?’
Clarke was getting a bad feeling. She shook her head. The stems of her eyes ached.
‘But you know that in the year 2000, the secret of Rosslyn will reveal itself?’
‘Is this some New Age thing?’
Sithing snorted. ‘It’s very much an ancient thing.’
‘You believe Rosslyn’s some sort of . . . special place?’
‘It’s the reason Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland. Hitler was obsessed with the Ark of the Covenant.’
‘I know. I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark three times. You’re saying Harrison Ford was looking in the wrong place?’
‘Laugh all you like,’ Sithing sneered.
‘And that’s what you talked about with Chris Mackie?’
‘He was an acolyte!’ Sithing slapped the desk. ‘He was a believer.’
Clarke was getting to her feet. ‘Did you know he had money?’
‘He’d have wanted it to go to the Knights!’
‘Did you know anything about him?’
‘He gave us a hundred pounds to carry on our researches. Beneath the floor of the chapel, that’s where it’s buried.’
‘What?’
‘The portal! The gateway!’
Clarke had the door open. She grabbed Sithing’s arm. It felt soft, as if there were no bones beneath the flesh.
‘Out,’ she commanded.
‘The money belongs to the Knights! We were his family!’
‘Out.’
He wasn’t resisting, not really. She swung him into the revolving door and gave it a push, propelling him out on to St Leonard’s Street, where he turned to glare at her. His face was redder than ever. Strands of hair had fallen forwards over his eyes. He began talking again, but she turned away. The desk sergeant was grinning.
‘Don’t,’ she warned.
‘I hear my Uncle Chris passed away,’ he said, ignoring her raised finger. As she made for the stairs, she could hear his voice. ‘He said he’d leave me a little something when he went. Any chance, Siobhan? Come on, just a few quid from my old Uncle Chris!’
Her phone was ringing when she reached it. She picked up the receiver, rubbing at her temples with her free hand.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.
‘You’ll be the mystery tramp’s sister then?’ Clarke slipped into her chair.
‘It’s Sandra here. Sandra Carnegie.’
The name meant nothing to her for a moment.
‘We went to the Marina that night,’ the voice
explained.
Clarke screwed her eyes shut. ‘Oh, hell, yes. Sorry, Sandra.’
‘I was just phoning to see if . . .’
‘It’s been a hellish day, that’s all,’ Clarke was saying. ‘. . . there’d been any progress. Only no one’s telling me anything.’
Clarke sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Sandra. It’s not my case any more. Who’s your contact at Sex Crimes?’
Sandra Carnegie mumbled something inaudible.
‘I didn’t catch that.’
A burst of fury: ‘I said you’re all the same! You look like you’re concerned, but you’re not doing anything to catch him! I can’t go out now without wondering, is he watching me? Is that him on the bus, or crossing the road?’ The anger melting to tears. ‘And I thought you . . . that night we . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Sandra.’
‘Stop saying that! Jesus, just stop, will you?’
‘Maybe if I talked to the officers at Sex Crimes . . .’ But the phone had gone dead. Siobhan put down the receiver, then lifted it off the hook, sat it on the desktop. She had Sandra’s number somewhere, but looking at the chaos of papers on her desk, she knew it might take hours to find.
And her headache was getting worse.
And the frauds and lunatics would keep hammering at her.
And what kind of job was it that could make you feel so bad about yourself . . . ?
17
The kind of morning just made for a long drive: sky a pale wash of blue, thin strings of clouds, almost no traffic and Page/Plant on the radio-cassette. A long drive might help clear his head. The bonus ball: he was missing the morning briefing. Linford could have the stage all to himself.
Rebus headed out of town against the tide of the rush hour. Crawling queues on Queensferry Road, the usual tailback at the Barnton roundabout. Snow on the roofs of some cars: the gritting lorries had been out at dawn. He stopped for petrol and downed two more paracetamol with a can of Irn-Bru. Crossing the Forth Bridge, he saw that they’d put up the Millennium Clock on the Rail Bridge, providing a reminder he didn’t need. He remembered a trip to Paris with his ex-wife . . . was it twenty years ago? A similar clock was set up outside the Beaubourg, only it had stopped.
And here he was time travelling, back to the haunt of childhood holidays. When he came off the M90, he was surprised to see he still had over twenty miles to go. Was St Andrews really so isolated? A neighbour had usually given the family a lift: Mum and Dad, and Rebus and his brother. Three of them crushed against each other on the back seat, bags squashed by their knees and legs, beach balls and towels resting on their laps. The trip would take all morning. Neighbours would have waved them off, as though an expedition were being undertaken. Into the dark continent of north-east Fife, final destination a caravan site, where their four-berth rental awaited, smelling of mothballs and gas mantles. At night there’d be the toilet block with its skittering insect life, moths and jenny-long-legs casting huge shadows on the whitewashed walls. Then back to the caravan for games of cards and dominoes, their father usually winning except when their mother persuaded him not to cheat.
Two weeks of summer. It was called the Glasgow Fair Fortnight. He was never sure if ‘fair’ was as in festival or not raining. He never saw a festival in St Andrews and it seemed to rain often, sometimes for a whole week. Plastic macs and long bleak walks. When the sun broke through, it could still be cold; the brothers turning blue as they splashed in the North Sea, waving at ships on the horizon, the ships their father told them were Russian spies. There was an RAF base near by; the Russians were after their secrets.
As he approached the town, the first thing he saw was the golf course, and heading into the centre he noticed that St Andrews seemed not to have changed. Had time really stood still here? Where were the High Street shoe shops and bargain outlets, the fast-food chains? St Andrews could afford to be without them. He recognised the spot where a toy shop had once stood. It now sold ice cream. A tearoom, an antique emporium . . . and students. Students everywhere, looking bright and cheerful in keeping with the day. He checked his directions. It was a small town, six or seven main streets. Even so, he made a couple of mistakes before driving through an ancient stone archway. He stopped by the side of a cemetery. Across the road were gates which led to a Gothic-style building, looking more like a church than a school. But the sign on the wall was clear enough: Haugh Academy.
He wondered if he needed to lock the car, but did so anyway: too old to change his ways.
Teenage girls were heading into the building. They all wore grey blazers and skirts, crisp white blouses with school ties knotted tight at the throat. A woman was standing in the doorway, donning a long black woollen coat.
‘Inspector Rebus?’ she asked as he approached. He nodded. ‘Billie Collins,’ she said, a hand shooting out towards him. Her grip was brisk and firm. As a girl, head bowed, made to pass them, she tutted and gripped her by the shoulder.
‘Millie Jenkins, have you finished that homework yet?’
‘Yes, Miss Collins.’
‘And has Miss McCallister seen it?’
‘Yes, Miss Collins.’
‘Then along you go.’
The shoulder was released, the girl fairly flew through the door.
‘Walk, Millie! No running!’ She kept her head turned, checking the girl’s progress, then brought her attention back to Rebus.
‘The day being a fine one, I thought we might walk.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. He wondered, the day apart, whether there might be some other reason she didn’t want him in the school . . .
‘I remember this place,’ he said.
They’d descended the hill and were crossing a bridge over a burn, harbour and pier to the left of them, sea views ahead. Rebus pointed far to the right, then brought his arm down, lest the teacher scold him: John Rebus, no pointing!
‘We came here on holiday . . . that caravan site up there.’
‘Kinkell Braes,’ Billie Collins said.
‘That’s right. There used to be a putting green just there.’ Nodding with his head, a safer option. ‘You can still see the outline.’
And the beach falling away just yards below them. The promenade was empty, save for a Labrador being walked by its owner. As the man passed them, he smiled, bowed his head. A typically Scots greeting: more evasion than anything else. The dog’s hair hung wetly from its belly, where it had enjoyed a trip into the water. A wind was whipping off the sea, icy-smelling and abrasive. He got the feeling his companion would call it bracing.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think you’re only the second policeman I’ve had dealings with since I came here.’
‘Not much crime, eh?’
‘The usual student boisterousness.’
‘What was the other time?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The other policeman.’
‘Oh, it was last month. The severed hand.’
Rebus nodded, remembered reading about it. Some student joke, bits going missing from the medical lab, turning up around the town.
‘Raisin Day, it’s called,’ Billie Collins informed him. She was tall, bony. Prominent cheekbones and black brittle-looking hair. Seona Grieve was a teacher, too. Roddy Grieve had married two teachers. Her profile showed a jutting forehead, hooded eyes. Her nose fell to a point. Masculine features married to a strong, deep voice. Low-heeled black shoes, the navy-blue skirt falling way past her knees. Blue woollen jumper with decoration provided by a large Celtic brooch.
‘Some sort of initiation?’ Rebus asked.
‘The third-year students throw out challenges to the first years. There’s a lot of dressing up, and far too much drinking.’
‘Plus body parts.’
She glanced at him. ‘That was a first, so far as I’m aware. An anatomy prank. The hand was found on the school wall. Several of my girls had to be treated for shock.’
‘Dear me.’
Their walk had slowed. Rebus gestured toward
s a bench and they sat a decent distance apart. Billie Collins tugged at the hem of her skirt.
‘You came here on holidays, did you say?’
‘Most years. Played on the beach down there, went to the castle . . . There was a kind of dungeon there.’
‘The bottle dungeon.’
‘That’s it. And a haunted tower . . .’
‘St Rule’s. It’s just over the cathedral wall.’
‘Where my car’s parked?’ She nodded and he laughed. ‘Everything seemed a lot further apart when I was a boy.’
‘You’d have sworn St Rule’s was a distance from your putting green?’ She seemed to consider this. ‘Who’s to say it wasn’t?’
He nodded slowly, almost understanding her. She was saying that the past was a different place, that it could not be revisited. The town had tricked him by seeming unchanged. But he had changed: that was what mattered.
She took a deep breath, spread her hands out across her lap. ‘You want to talk to me about my past, Inspector, and that’s a painful subject. Given the choice, it’s something I’d avoid. Few happy memories, and those aren’t what interest you anyway.’
‘I can appreciate—’
‘I wonder if you can, I really do. Roddy and I met when we were too young. Second-year undergraduates, right here. We were happy here, maybe that’s why I’ve been able to stay. But when Roddy got his job in the Scottish Office . . .’ She reached into a sleeve for her handkerchief. Not that she was about to cry, but it helped her to work at the cotton with her fingers, her eyes fixed on the embroidered edges. Rebus looked out to sea, imagining spy ships – probably fishing boats, transformed by imagination.
‘When Peter was born,’ she went on, ‘it was at the worst time. Roddy was snowed under at work. We were living at his parents’ place. It didn’t help that his father was ailing. With my post-natal depression . . . well, it was a kind of living hell.’ Now she looked up. In front of her lay the beach, and the Labrador bounding across it to fetch a stick. But she was seeing a different picture altogether. ‘Roddy seemed to immerse himself in his work; his way of escaping it all, I suppose.’
And now Rebus had his own pictures: working ever longer hours, keeping clear of the flat. No arguments about politics; no cushion fights. Nothing any more but the knowledge of failure. Sammy had to be protected: the unspoken agreement; the last pact of husband and wife. Until Rhona told him he was a stranger to her, and walked away, taking their daughter . . .