‘So how can I help you, Detective Inspector?’ she asked, hands clasped to her knees.
‘My colleagues said you have a modelling career, Miss Morgan - must be going well for you?’ He made show of admiring the living room’s proportions.
‘I’m moving into acting, actually.’
‘Really?’ Rebus tried to sound interested. Most people would have responded to his original question by asking what business it was of his, but not Gill Morgan. In her universe, talking about herself came naturally.
‘I’ve been taking classes.’
‘Would I have seen you in anything?’
‘Probably not yet,’ she preened, ‘but there’s some screen work on the horizon.’
‘Screen work? That’s impressive . . .’ Rebus lowered himself on to the chair opposite her.
‘Just a small part in a television drama ...’ Morgan seemed to feel the need to play down the significance, no doubt in the hope that he’d think she was being modest.
‘Exciting, all the same,’ he told her, playing along. ‘And it probably helps explain something we’ve been wondering about.’
Now she looked puzzled. ‘Oh?’
‘When my colleagues spoke to you, they could see you were trying to feed them a line. Fact that you say you’re an actor explains why you thought you’d get away with it.’ He leaned forward, as if to take her into his confidence. ‘But here’s the thing, Miss Morgan, we’re now investigating two murders, and that means we can’t afford to get sidetracked. So before you get into serious trouble, maybe you should own up.’
Morgan’s lips were the same pale colour as her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a moment he thought she might faint.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t give up those lessons just yet - looks to me like you’ve got a few things to learn about delivering a line. The blood’s left your face, your voice is shaking, and you’re blinking like you’ve been caught in someone’s headlights.’ Rebus sat back again. He’d been here five minutes, but he thought he could read the whole of Gill Morgan’s life in what he’d seen of her so far: cushy upbringing, parents who poured money and love over her, schooled in the art of confidence and never having faced a challenge she couldn’t sweet-talk her way out of.
Until now.
‘Let’s take it slowly,’ he said in a softening voice, ‘ease you into it. How did you meet Nancy?’
‘At a party, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘I’d been to a few bars with some friends ... we ended up at this party and I can’t remember if Nancy was already there or if she’d somehow attached herself to the group along the way.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘How long ago was this?’
‘Three or four months. Around Festival time.’
‘I’m guessing the two of you come from different backgrounds. ’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So what did you find in common?’ She didn’t seem to have a ready answer. ‘I mean, something must have helped you bond?’
‘She’s just good fun.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re lying again? Is it the shaky voice or the fluttering eyelids?’
Morgan leapt to her feet. ‘I don’t have to answer any of your questions! Do you know who my mother is?’
‘Wondered how long it would take,’ Rebus said with a satisfied smile. ‘Go on then, impress me.’ He clasped his hands behind his head.
‘She’s the wife of Sir Michael Addison.’
‘Meaning he’s not your actual father?’
‘My father died when I was twelve.’
‘And you kept his surname?’ Colour had flooded back into the young woman’s cheeks. She’d decided to sit down again, but keeping her feet on the floor this time. Rebus unclasped his hands and rested them on the chair arms. ‘So who’s Sir Michael Addison?’ he asked.
‘Chief executive of First Albannach Bank.’
‘A useful sort to know, I’m guessing.’
‘He rescued my mother from alcoholism,’ Morgan stated, eyes boring into Rebus’s. ‘And he loves both of us very much.’
‘Nice for you, but it doesn’t help the poor sod who ended up dead on King’s Stables Road. Your friend Nancy found the body, then lied to us about where she’d been heading home from. She gave your name, Gill, and your address. Meaning she must think you’re one hell of a friend, the kind who’d go to jail on her behalf rather than tell the truth . . .’
He didn’t realise his voice had risen, but when he stopped, there was a moment’s reverberation from the walls.
‘You think your stepdad would want you doing that, Gill?’ he went on, voice softening again. ‘You think your poor mum would want that?’
Gill Morgan had bowed her head and seemed to be analysing the backs of her hands. ‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘No,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Now tell me, if I were to ask you right now where Nancy lives, could you give me an answer?’
A single tear dropped into the young woman’s lap. She squeezed her eyes with thumb and forefinger, then blinked any further tears back. ‘Somewhere off the Cowgate.’
‘Doesn’t sound to me,’ Rebus said, ‘as if you really know her all that well. So if the two of you aren’t what you might call bosom buddies, why are you covering for her?’
Morgan said something he didn’t catch. He asked her to repeat it. She glared at him, and this time the words were unmistakable.
‘She was buying me drugs.’ She let the words sink in. ‘Buying us drugs, I should say - some for her, and some for me. Just a bit of pot, nothing to send civilisation crashing to its knees.’
‘Is that how you became friends?’
‘I dare say it’s part of the reason.’ But Morgan couldn’t really see the point of lying. ‘Maybe quite a lot of the reason.’
‘The party you met her at, she brought dope with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she sharing or selling?’
‘We’re not talking about some Medellín cartel here, Inspector ...’
‘Cocaine, too?’ Rebus deduced. Morgan realised she’d said too much. ‘And you had to protect her because otherwise she was going to - pardon the pun - grass you up?’
‘Is that the punchline you were talking about?’
‘I didn’t think you’d heard that.’
‘I heard.’
‘So Nancy Sievewright wasn’t here that night?’
‘She was supposed to turn up at midnight with my share. It annoyed me at the time, because I’d had to rush home.’
‘Where from?’
‘I’ve been helping out one of my drama teachers. He has a sideline running one of those nighttime walking tours of the city.’
‘Ghost tours, you mean?’
‘I know they’re preposterous, but the tourists like them and it’s a bit of a giggle.’
‘So you’re one of the actors? Jumping out from the shadows and going “Boo!”?’
‘I have to play several roles, actually.’ She sounded hurt by his glibness. ‘And between set-ups, I have to run like blazes to the next location, changing costume as I go.’
Rebus remembered Gary Walsh saying something about the ghost tours. ‘Where does it happen?’ he asked now.
‘St Giles to the Canongate, same route each night.’
‘Do you know of any tours that take in King’s Stables Road?’
‘No.’
Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘So who exactly do you play?’
She gave a puzzled laugh. ‘Why the interest?’
‘Indulge me.’
She puckered her lips. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I’m the plague doctor . . . I have to wear a mask like a hawk’s beak - the doctor would fill it with potpourri to ward off the stench from his patients.’
‘Nice.’
‘And then I’m a ghost . . . and sometimes even the Mad Monk.’
‘Mad Monk? Bit of a challenge for
a woman, isn’t it?’
‘I only have to do a bit of moaning and groaning.’
‘Yes, but they can see you’re not a bloke.’
‘The hood covers most of my face,’ she explained, smiling again.
‘Hood?’ Rebus echoed. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a look at that.’
‘The costumes stay with the company, Inspector. That way, when one actor’s off sick, they can use another as cover.’
Rebus nodded as if satisfied by the explanation. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘did Nancy ever come to see you perform?’
‘A couple of weeks back.’
‘Enjoy herself, did she?’
‘Seemed to.’ She gave another nervy little laugh. ‘Am I walking into some trap here? I can’t see what any of this has to do with your case.’
‘Probably nothing,’ Rebus assured her.
Morgan grew thoughtful. ‘You’re going to talk to Nancy now, aren’t you? She’ll know I’ve told you.’
‘Afraid you may be in the market for another supplier, Miss Morgan. Shouldn’t worry, though - there are plenty of them about.’ Rebus got to his feet. She followed suit, standing on tiptoe and still below the height of his chin.
‘Is there . . .’ She swallowed back the rest of the question but decided she had to know. ‘Is there any reason why my mother might get to hear of this?’
‘Depends, really,’ Rebus said, after a moment’s pretend thought. ‘We catch the killer ... it comes to trial ... the time-line is gone through minute by minute. Defence is going to want some doubt in the jury’s minds, and that means showing any witnesses to be less than trustworthy. They show Nancy’s original statement to be a pile of dung, and it all starts to smell from then on in . . .’ He gazed down at her. ‘That’s the worst-case scenario,’ he offered. ‘Might never happen.’
‘Which is another way of saying it might.’
‘You should have told the truth from the start, Gill. Lying is all very well for an actor, but out here in the real world we tend to call it perjury.’
22
‘I’m not sure I can take all this in,’ Siobhan Clarke admitted. They were gathered in the CID suite. Clarke was pacing up and down in front of the Murder Wall. She passed by photos of Alexander Todorov in life and in death, a photocopied pathology report, names and phone numbers. Rebus was polishing off a ham salad sandwich, washed down with polystyrene tea. Hawes and Tibbet sat at their desks, swaying gently in their chairs, as if in time to a piece of music only they could hear. Todd Goodyear was sipping milk from a half-litre carton.‘Want me to recap for you?’ Rebus offered. ‘Gill Morgan’s stepdad runs First Albannach, she buys drugs from Nancy Sievewright, and she has ready access to a hooded cape.’ He shrugged as if it was no big deal. ‘Oh, and Sievewright knew about the cape, too.’
‘We need to bring her in,’ Clarke decided. ‘Phyl, Col - go fetch.’
They managed a synchronised nod as they rose from their chairs. ‘What if she’s not there?’ Tibbet asked.
‘Find her,’ Clarke demanded.
‘Yes, boss,’ he said, sliding his jacket back on. Clarke was glaring at him, but Rebus knew Tibbet hadn’t been trying for sarcasm. He’d called her ‘boss’ because that was what she was. She seemed to sense this, and glanced towards Rebus. He balled up the wrapper from his sandwich, and missed the waste-bin by about three feet.
‘She doesn’t seem like a dealer to me,’ Clarke said.
‘Maybe she’s not,’ Rebus responded. ‘Maybe she’s just a friend who likes to share.’
‘But if she charges for that share,’ Goodyear argued, ‘doesn’t that make her a dealer?’ He had walked over to the waste-bin and picked up Rebus’s wrapper, making sure it found its target. Rebus wondered if the young man was even aware that he’d done it.
‘So if she wasn’t at Gill Morgan’s flat that night, where was she?’ Clarke asked.
‘While we’re adding ingredients to the broth,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘here’s another for you. Barman at the hotel saw Andropov and Cafferty with another man, the night Todorov was murdered. The man in question is a Labour minister called Jim Bakewell.’
‘He was on Question Time,’ Clarke stated. Rebus nodded slowly. He’d decided not to mention his own run-in with Andropov at the Caledonian.
‘Did he talk to the poet?’ Clarke asked.
‘I don’t think so. Cafferty bought Todorov a drink at the bar, then, when the poet hoofed it, he went and joined Andropov and Bakewell at their table. I sat where they’d been sitting - there’s a blind spot, doubtful Andropov saw Todorov.’
‘Coincidence?’ Goodyear offered.
‘We’ve not much room for that in CID,’ Rebus told him.
‘Doesn’t that mean you often see connections where none exist?’
‘Everything’s connected, Todd. Six degrees of separation, they call it. I’d’ve thought a bible-thumper would concur.’
‘I’ve never thumped a bible in my life.’
‘You should try it - good way of letting off steam.’
‘When you two boys have quite finished,’ Clarke chided them. ‘You want us to talk to this Bakewell character?’ she asked Rebus.
‘At this rate, we’d be as well precognosing the whole Parliament,’ Goodyear stated.
‘How do you mean?’ Rebus asked.
So then it was their turn to tell him about their morning: Roddy Denholm’s project and the Urban Regeneration Committee recordings. As if to prove the point, Goodyear held up a box of DAT tapes.
‘Now if only we had a player,’ he said.
‘One’s on its way from Howdenhall,’ Clarke reminded him.
‘Hours and hours of fun,’ he muttered, laying the small cassettes out in a row across the desk in front of him. He stood them on their sides, as if attempting to build a run of dominoes.
‘I think the allure of CID is beginning to wane,’ Rebus suggested to Clarke.
‘You could be right,’ she agreed, giving the desk a nudge so that the tape cases fell over.
‘Think we need to talk to Megan Macfarlane again?’ was Rebus’s next question.
‘On what grounds?’
‘That she probably knew Riordan. Funny she has links to both the victims . . .’
Clarke was nodding, without looking entirely convinced. ‘This case is a bloody minefield,’ she eventually groaned, turning back to the Murder Wall. Rebus noticed for the first time that a photo of Charles Riordan had been added to the collection.
‘A single killer?’ he suggested.
‘Let me just go ask the ouija board,’ she shot back.
‘Not in front of the children,’ Rebus teased her. Goodyear had found a biscuit wrapper on the floor and was tidying it into the bin.
‘We’ve got cleaners to do that, Todd,’ Rebus reminded him. Then, to Siobhan Clarke: ‘One killer or two?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Close enough - the correct answer should be “doesn’t matter”. All that’s important at this stage is that we’re treating the two deaths as connected.’
She nodded her agreement. ‘Macrae’s going to want the team enlarged.’
‘The more the merrier.’
But when her eyes drilled into his, he could see she wasn’t confident. She’d never led a full-scale inquiry before. The death at the G8 last year had been kept low-key, so as not to grab headlines. But once the media got to hear that they were dealing with a double murder, they’d be resetting their front pages and demanding plenty of action and a quick result.
‘Macrae’s going to want a DI heading it up,’ Clarke stated. Rebus wished Goodyear wasn’t there - the pair of them could talk properly. He shook his head.
‘Make your case,’ he said. ‘If you’ve anyone in mind for the team, tell him. That way you get the people you want.’
‘I’ve already got the people I want.’
‘Aww, isn’t that sweet? But what the public needs to hear is that there’s a twenty-strong force of detectives prowlin
g the badlands, hot on the villain’s scent. Five of us in a room in Gayfield Square doesn’t have the same ring to it.’
‘Five was enough for Enid Blyton,’ Clarke said with a thin smile.
‘Worked for Scooby Doo, too,’ Goodyear added.
‘Only if you include the dog,’ Clarke corrected him. Then, to Rebus: ‘So who do I start annoying first - Macrae, Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?’
‘Go for the hat-trick,’ he told her. The phone on his desk started ringing and he picked it up.
‘DI Rebus,’ he announced to the caller. He pursed his lips, gave a couple of grunts in response to whatever was being said, and let the receiver clatter back into its cradle.
‘The chiefs are demanding a sacrifice,’ he explained, hauling himself to his feet.
James Corbyn, Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police, was waiting for Rebus in his office on the second floor of the Fettes Avenue HQ. Corbyn was in his early forties, a parting in his black hair and a face that shone as though freshly shaved and cologned. People usually paid too much attention to the Chief Constable’s grooming, as a way of not staring at the oversized mole on his right cheek. Officers had noticed that, when interviewed on TV, he always stayed right-of-screen, so that the other side of his face would be in profile. There had even been discussion as to whether the blemish most resembled the coastline of Fife or a terrier’s head. His initial nickname of Trouser Press had soon been supplanted by the more telling Mole Man, which Rebus seemed to think was also the name of a cartoon villain. He’d met Corbyn only three or four times, never (so far) for a pat on the back or a congratulatory handshake. Nothing he’d heard over the phone had suggested a change of script this time round.‘In you come then,’ Corbyn himself snapped, having opened his door just wide enough to stick his head around. By the time Rebus rose from the corridor’s only chair and pushed the door all the way open, Corbyn was back behind his large and unfeasibly tidy desk. There was a man seated across from the Chief Constable. He was bulky and balding, with an overfed face tinged pink by hypertension. He rose up just long enough to shake Rebus’s hand, introducing himself as Sir Michael Addison.