Instead of which, they listened to the names...the names of people they’d never known.
“I appreciate this,” Steelforth said, rising to shake Rebus’s hand. He’d been waiting in the lobby of the Balmoral Hotel, sitting with one leg crossed over the other. Rebus had kept him waiting quarter of an hour, using that time to walk past the doors of the Balmoral several times, glancing inside to see what traps might await. The Stop the War march had been and gone, but he’d spotted its rump, moving slowly up Waterloo Place. Siobhan had told him she was headed there, thought she might catch up with her parents.
“You’ve not had much time for them,” Rebus had sympathized.
“And vice versa,” she’d muttered.
There was security at the door of the hotel: not just the liveried doorman and concierge—a different one from Saturday night—but what Rebus assumed were plainclothes officers, probably under Steelforth’s control. The Special Branch man was looking more dapper than ever in a double-breasted pinstripe. Having shaken hands, he was gesturing toward the Palm Court.
“A small whiskey perhaps?”
“Depends who’s paying.”
“Allow me.”
“In which case,” Rebus advised, “I might manage a large one.”
Steelforth’s laugh was loud enough but empty at its core. They found a corner table. A cocktail waitress appeared as if conjured into being by their very arrival.
“Carla,” Steelforth informed her, “we’d like a couple of whiskeys. Doubles.” He turned his attention to Rebus.
“Laphroaig,” Rebus obliged. “The older the better.”
Carla bowed her head and moved off. Steelforth was adjusting the line of his jacket, waiting for her to leave before he spoke. Rebus decided not to give him the chance.
“Managing to hush up our dead MP?” he inquired loudly.
“What’s to hush up?”
“You tell me.”
“As far as I can establish, DI Rebus, your own investigation so far has consisted of one unofficial interview with the deceased’s sister.” Having finished toying with his jacket, Steelforth clasped his hands in front of him. “An interview conducted, moreover, lamentably soon after she had made formal identification.” He paused theatrically. “No offense intended, Inspector.”
“None taken, Commander.”
“Of course, it may be that you’ve been busy in other ways. I’ve had no fewer than two local journalists raking over the coals.”
Rebus tried to look surprised. Mairie Henderson, plus whoever it was he’d spoken to on the Scotsman news desk. Favors now owed to both...
“Well,” Rebus said, “since there’s nothing to hush up, I don’t suppose the press will get very far.” He paused. “You said at the time that the investigation would be taken out of my hands...that doesn’t seem to have happened.”
Steelforth shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to investigate. Verdict: accidental death.” He unclasped his hands as the drinks arrived, and with them a small jug of water and a bowl brimming with ice cubes.
“Do you want to leave the bill open?” Carla asked. Steelforth looked at Rebus, then shook his head.
“We’ll just be having the one.” He signed for the drinks with his room number.
“Is it the taxpayer picking up the tab,” Rebus inquired, “or do we have Mr Pennen to thank?”
“Richard Pennen is a credit to this country,” Steelforth stated, adding too much water to his drink. “The Scottish economy in particular would be the poorer without him.”
“I didn’t realize the Balmoral was so expensive.”
Steelforth’s eyes narrowed. “I mean defense jobs, as you well know.”
“And if I interview him about Ben Webster’s demise, he’ll suddenly send the work elsewhere?”
Steelforth leaned forward. “We need to keep him happy. Surely you can see that?”
Rebus savored the aroma of the malt, then lifted it to his mouth.
“Cheers,” Steelforth said grudgingly.
“Slainte,” Rebus replied.
“I’ve heard you enjoy a drop of the hard stuff,” Steelforth added. “Maybe even more than a drop.”
“You’ve been talking to the right people.”
“I don’t mind a man who drinks...just so long as it doesn’t interfere with his work. But then I also hear it’s been known to affect your judgment.”
“Not my judgment of character,” Rebus said, putting the glass down. “Sober or drunk, I’d know you for a prick of the first order.”
Steelforth made a mock toast with his glass. “I was going to offer you something,” he said, “to make up for your disappointment.”
“Do I look disappointed?”
“You’re not going to get anywhere with Ben Webster, suicide or not.”
“Suddenly you’re ruling in suicide again? Does that mean there’s a note?”
Steelforth lost patience. “There’s no bloody note!” he spat. “There’s nothing at all.”
“Makes it an odd suicide, wouldn’t you say?”
“Accidental death.”
“The official line.” Rebus lifted his glass again. “What were you going to offer me?”
Steelforth studied him for a moment before answering. “My own men,” he said. “This murder case you’ve got...I hear tell the count is now three victims. I’d imagine you’re stretched. Right now it’s just you and DS Clarke, isn’t it?”
“More or less.”
“I’ve plenty of men up here, Rebus—very good men. All sorts of skills and specialties among them.”
“And you’d let us borrow them?”
“That was the intention.”
“So we’d be able to focus on the murders and give up on the MP?” Rebus made a show of thinking the proposal over; went so far as to press his hands together and rest his chin on his fingertips. “Sentries at the castle said there was an intruder,” he said quietly, as if thinking aloud.
“No evidence of that,” Steelforth was quick to reply.
“Why was Webster on the ramparts...that’s never really been answered.”
“A breath of air.”
“He excused himself from the dinner?”
“It was winding down...port and cigars.”
“He said he was going outside?” Rebus’s eyes were on Steelforth now.
“Not as such. People were getting up to stretch their legs...”
“You’ve interviewed all of them?” Rebus guessed.
“Most of them,” the Special Branch man qualified.
“The foreign secretary?” Rebus waited for a response, which didn’t come. “No, I didn’t think so. The foreign delegations then?”
“Some of them, yes. I’ve done pretty much everything you’d have done, Inspector.”
“You don’t know what I’d have done.”
Steelforth accepted this with a slight bow of the head. He had yet to touch his drink.
“You’ve no qualms?” Rebus added. “No questions?”
“None.”
“And yet you don’t know why it happened.” Rebus shook his head slowly. “You’re not much of a cop, are you, Steelforth? You might be a whiz at the handshakes and the briefings, but when it comes to policing, I’d say you haven’t a fucking clue. You’re window dressing, that’s all.” Rebus rose to his feet.
“And what are you exactly, DI Rebus?”
“Me?” Rebus considered for a moment. “I’m the janitor, I suppose...the one who sweeps up after you.” He paused, found his punch line. “After you and around you, if it comes to that.”
Exit stage right.
Before leaving the Balmoral, he’d wandered downstairs to the restaurant, breezing through the anteroom despite the best efforts of the staff. The place was busy, but there was no sign of Richard Pennen. Rebus climbed the steps to Princes Street and decided he might as well drop into the Café Royal. The pub was surprisingly quiet.
“Trade’s been lousy,” the manager confided. “Lot
of locals keeping their heads down the next few days.”
After two drinks, Rebus headed along George Street. The workmen had stopped digging the roads—council orders. A new one-way system was being introduced, and with it confusion for motorists. Even the traffic cops thought it ham-fisted, and weren’t going out of their way to enforce the new NO ENTRY signs. Again, the street was quiet. No sign of Geldof’s army. The bouncers outside the Dome told him the place was three quarters empty. On Young Street, the narrow lane’s one-way routing had been switched from one direction to the other. Rebus pushed open the door to the Oxford Bar, smiling at something he’d been told about the new system.
They’re doing it in easy stages: you can go in either direction for a while...
“Pint of IPA, Harry,” Rebus said, reaching for his cigarettes.
“Eight months and counting,” Harry muttered, pulling the pump.
“Don’t remind me.”
Harry was counting the days till Scotland’s smoking ban took effect.
“Anything happening out there?” one of the regulars asked. Rebus shook his head, knowing that in the drinker’s sealed-off world, news of a serial killer wouldn’t quite qualify for the category of anything happening.
“Isn’t there some march on?” Harry added.
“Calton Hill,” one of the other drinkers confirmed. “Money this is costing, we could’ve sent every kid in Africa a picnic basket.”
“Putting Scotland on the world stage,” Harry reminded him, nodding in the direction of Charlotte Square, home to the first minister. “A price Jack says is worth every penny.”
“It’s not his money though,” the drinker grumbled. “My wife works at that new shoe shop on Frederick Street, says they might as well have shut down for the week.”
“Royal Bank’s going to be closed all tomorrow,” Harry stated.
“Aye, tomorrow’s going to be the bad one,” the drinker muttered.
“And to think,” Rebus complained, “I came in here to cheer myself up.”
Harry stared at him in mock disbelief. “Should know better than that by now, John. Ready for another?”
Rebus wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway.
A couple of pints later, and having demolished the last sandwich on display, he decided he might as well head home. He’d read the Evening News, watched the Tour de France highlights on TV, and listened to further opposition to the new road layout.
“If they don’t change it back, my wife says they might as well pull down the shutters where she works. Did I tell you? She’s in that new shoe shop on Frederick Street...”
Harry was rolling his eyes as Rebus made for the door. He considered walking home, or calling Gayfield to see if anyone was out in a patrol car and could maybe pick him up. A lot of the taxis were steering clear of the center, but he knew he could take a chance outside the Roxburghe Hotel, try to look like a wealthy tourist.
He heard the doors opening but was slow to turn around. Hands grabbed at his arms, pulling them behind his back.
“Had a bit too much to drink?” a voice barked. “Night in the cells will do you good, pal.”
“Get off me!” Rebus twisted his body, to no effect. He felt the plastic restraints going around his wrists, pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. No way to loosen them once they were on: you had to slice them off.
“Hell’s going on?” Rebus was hissing. “I’m bloody CID.”
“Don’t look like CID,” the voice was telling him. “Stink of beer and cigarettes, clothes like rags...” It was an English accent; London maybe. Rebus saw a uniform, then two more. The faces shadowy—maybe tanned—but chiseled and stern. The van was small and unmarked. Its back doors were open, and they pushed him in.
“I’ve got ID in my pocket,” he said. There was a bench for him to sit on. The windows were blacked out and covered on the outside by a metal grille. There was a faint smell of sick. Another grille separated the back of the van from the front, with a sheet of plywood blocking any access.
“This is a big mistake!” Rebus yelled.
“Tell it to the marines,” a voice called back. The van started moving. Rebus saw headlights through the back window. Stood to reason: three of them couldn’t fit in the front; had to be another vehicle. Didn’t matter where they took him—Gayfield Square, West End, or St. Leonard’s—he’d be a known face. Nothing to worry about, except the swelling of his fingers as the blood failed to circulate. His shoulders were in agony, too, drawn back by the tightness of the cuffs. He had to slide his legs apart to stop himself careering around the enclosure. They were doing maybe fifty, not stopping for lights. He heard two pedestrians squeal at a near miss. No siren, but the roof light was flashing. Car behind seemed to have neither siren nor flasher. Not a patrol car then...and this wasn’t exactly a regulation vehicle either. Rebus thought they were heading east, meaning Gayfield, but then they took a sharp left toward the New Town, barreling downhill so that Rebus’s head thumped the roof as they went.
“Where the hell...?” If he’d been drunk before, he was sober now. Only destination he could think of was Fettes, but that was HQ. You didn’t take drunks there to sleep off their binge. It was where the brass hung out, James Corbyn and his cronies. Sure enough, they took a left into Ferry Road, but didn’t make the turn to Fettes.
Which left only Drylaw police station, a lonely outpost in the north of the city—Precinct Thirteen, some called it. A gloomy shed of a place, and they were pulling to a halt at its door. Rebus was hauled out and taken inside, his eyes adjusting to the sudden glare of the strip lighting. There was no one on the desk; place seemed deserted. They marched him into the back where two holding cells waited, both with their doors wide open. He felt the pressure on one hand ease, the blood tingling its way back down the fingers. A push in the back sent him stumbling into one of the cells. The door slammed shut.
“Hey!” Rebus called out. “Is this some sick kind of joke?”
“Do we look like clowns, pal? Think you’ve wandered into an episode of Jackass?” There was laughter from behind the door.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” another voice added, “and don’t go giving us any trouble, else we might have to come in there and administer one of our special sedatives, mightn’t we, Jacko?”
Rebus thought he could hear a hiss. Everything went quiet, and he knew why. They’d made a mistake, given him a name.
Jacko.
He tried to remember their faces, the better to exact his eventual revenge. All that came to him was that they’d been either tanned or weather-beaten. But there was no way he was going to forget those voices. Nothing unusual about the uniforms they’d been wearing...except the badges on the epaulets had been removed. No badges meant no easy means to ID them.
Rebus kicked the door a few times, then reached into his pocket for his phone.
And realized it wasn’t there. They’d taken it from him, or he’d dropped it. Still had his wallet and ID, cigarettes and lighter. He sat on the cold concrete shelf which served as a bed and looked at his wrists. The plastic cuff was still encircling his left hand. They’d sliced open the one around his right. He tried to run his free hand up and down the arm, massaging the wrist, the palm and fingers, trying to get some blood going. Maybe the lighter could burn its way through, but not without searing his flesh in the process. He lit a cigarette instead, and tried to slow his heartbeat. Walked over to the door again and banged on it with his fist, turned his back to it and hammered his heel into it.
All the times he’d visited the cells in Gayfield and St. Leonard’s,hearing these selfsame tattoos. Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum. Making jokes with the jailer about it.
Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum.
The sound of hope over experience. Rebus sat down again. There was neither toilet nor basin, just a metal pail in one corner. Ancient feces smeared on the wall next to it. Messages gouged into the plaster: Big Malky Rules; Wardie Young Team; Hearts Ya Bass. Hard to believe, but someone with a bit of La
tin had even been holed up here: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. In the Scots: Whau Daur Meddle Wi’ Me? Modern equivalent: Screw Me and I’ll Screw You Right Back.
Rebus got to his feet again, knew now what was going on, should have realized from the word go.
Steelforth.
Easy for him to get his hands on some spare uniforms and dispatch three of his men on a mission, the same men he’d offered to Rebus earlier. They’d probably been watching as he’d left the hotel. Followed him from pub to pub until they picked their spot. The lane outside the Oxford Bar was perfect.
“Steelforth!” Rebus yelled at the door. “Come in here and talk to me! Are you a coward as well as a bully?” He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing. The spy hole was closed. The hatch which would be opened at mealtimes was locked shut. He paced the cell, opened his cigarette packet but decided he needed to conserve supplies. Changed his mind and lit one anyway. The lighter spluttered—not much lighter fluid left...a toss-up which would run out first. Ten o’clock, his watch said. A long time till morning.
Monday, July 4, 2005
8
The turning of the lock woke him. The door creaked open. First off, he saw a young uniform, mouth agape in amazement. And to his left, Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae, looking irate and with his hair uncombed. Rebus checked his watch: just shy of four, which meant Monday was dawning.
“Got a blade?” he asked, mouth dry. He showed them his wrist. It was swollen, the palm and knuckles discolored. The constable produced a penknife from his pocket. “How did you get in here?” he asked, voice shaking.
“Ten o’clock last night, who was holding the fort?”
“We had a call-out,” the constable said, “locked the place before we left.”
Rebus had no reason to disbelieve the story. “How did the call-out go?”
“False alarm. I’m really sorry...why didn’t you shout or something?”
“I assume there’s nothing in the log?” The cuffs fell to the floor. Rebus started rubbing life back into his fingers.