10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (231 page)

‘That could be construed as discrimination. When do you want me there?’

‘Say an hour.’

He tidied the living room a bit, depositing the bin bags in the hall and setting the file boxes in a row on the floor.
Then he collected up all the dirty mugs, glasses and dishes and took them through to the kitchen. He emptied the coffee-jar and put it back under the radiator, and opened the living-room window an inch to air the place. The sun was out, showing that the windows hadn’t been cleaned since the autumn. Rebus decided enough was enough.

‘She’s coming here to work,’ he told himself, ‘not for a candlelit supper.’

They got two breaks, both late in the afternoon.

The first was a client’s name: Quinlon.

‘I’ve come across that name before,’ Rebus said. It took him a while to place it. ‘The civil servant, Rory McAllister, he mentioned someone called Quinlon; a building contractor. There’d been some shady business between the SDA and him – it was one of the things held against the SDA when they were deciding its fate.’ Rebus flipped back a page in the notes. ‘And Charters’ client happened to be a building contractor.’

‘So?’

‘So, somehow the media got to hear about the SDA and Quinlon, and that story helped sink the SDA. Who was going to gain by the SDA’s demise?’

‘Charters?’

‘Yes, because the financial slate was going to be wiped clean, and there’d be no possibility of a future investigation into where the SDA millions had gone.’

‘You think Charters grassed on his client?’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past him.’

The second break came soon after.

It was clear from the case-notes that the Fraud Unit had been focusing on Charters. When his ‘associates’ were mentioned, they were dismissed as fronts or moneymen. Nobody thought the directors had anything to do with whatever swindles Charters was perpetrating.

Which was why they weren’t mentioned often, and in the case of Mensung, not at all. But then Rebus picked up the photocopy of a letter sent by Charters to the SDA. The Mensung logo was at the top, together with the non-existent Leith Walk address – referred to as ‘Mensung House’. At the foot of the letter was the company’s registration number.

‘You couldn’t find Mensung in Companies House, right?’

‘Right,’ said Clarke. ‘I had their archivist take a good look.’

‘Well, either they were registered, or this is a phony number.’

‘The records could have been mislaid.’

‘Now wouldn’t
that
be a coincidence.’ The final line of the sheet was blurred. Rebus peered at the row of names, the names of Mensung’s directors.

Because he knew what he was looking for, he could pick out the name Charters quite easily; the others were more difficult. It took real effort to decipher J Joseph Simpson’s name.

‘Figures,’ Rebus said. He wanted another word with Simpson anyway, but this explained why he’d lied about Mensung’s address: the company had been dodgy, under investigation, and Simpson had been a director. It wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to publicise when you were still in business.

As for the third and last name . . .

‘Can you make that out?’ Rebus asked, passing the sheet to Siobhan Clarke.

‘Starts with an M,’ she suggested. ‘Murchieson?’

‘Murchieson?’

‘I don’t know, maybe Matthews, something like that.’

Rebus took the sheet back from her. Matthews . . .
Murchieson . . . ‘Mathieson,’ he said, staring at the slewed writing. ‘Could it be Mathieson?’

She shrugged. ‘As in . . .?’

‘I met a man yesterday called Robbie Mathieson. He runs PanoTech.’

‘Silicon Glen’s homegrown success story?’

Rebus nodded. ‘We’ve all just been supplied with PanoTech computers, haven’t we?’

‘Everybody from the chief constable down.’

Which meant that Allan Gunner would have one, too. ‘Who do you suppose would decide something like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like which manufacturer was going to supply us?’

‘It would be the director of Corporate Services, wouldn’t it?’

‘But the DCC would have a say.’

‘Probably. Is it relevant?’

Rebus wondered. PanoTech put the computers together in Gyle Park West, and Gyle Part West was one of Councillor Gillespie’s files. Mensung was another. There was the story that Derry Charters had something to do with the early financing of PanoTech. And PanoTech’s boss just happened to be at Sir Iain Hunter’s, looking worried about something. And Allan Gunner was there too . . .

Wheels within wheels, he thought. Scotland was a machine, a big machine if you looked at it from the outside. But from the inside, it assumed a new form – small, intimate, not that many moving parts, and all of them interconnected quite intricately. Rebus knew he was still outside the machine, but he knew now that one reason why he’d been invited to the shooting party was that Sir Iain Hunter was inviting him
in
. They could make him part of the machine, a chip on the motherboard. All it took was friends in the right places.

After that, anything could happen.

They worked solidly till five-thirty.

‘I hope I’m being treated to dinner,’ Clarke said, stretching her spine.

‘Who’s taking you?’

‘You are,’ she said.

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve other plans tonight, sorry.’

‘Well, thanks a lot. I give up my precious Sunday to help you, and then you boot me out.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Got a date?’

She was attempting a peculiarly Scottish tactic: being serious while pretending levity.

‘I’m working,’ Rebus said.

‘Working?’

‘I’ve got to talk to someone.’

‘Anyone I know?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But don’t think I don’t appreciate your help.’ He saw her to the door.

When the bell rang two minutes later, he thought she must have forgotten something. But it wasn’t Siobhan Clarke standing on his doorstep. It was Gill Templer.

‘Mind if I come in?’ she said, walking past him.

‘I was just on my way out.’

‘This won’t take long. I tried phoning, but it was engaged all afternoon.’

‘I had it off the hook,’ Rebus said, following her into the living room. She looked at the boxes of documents.

‘I see you’re really taking your furlough seriously.’

‘Come on, Gill, it was foisted on me. You were there, remember.’

‘I remember. The chief super had been getting incredible flak; in his shoes, I’d have done the same thing.’

‘This isn’t sounding like a social call.’

‘That’s because it isn’t one. The Lord Provost is your latest victim. He called the chief super and said you’d been rude to him.’

‘Did he mention specifics?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think he would.’

‘The Farmer will probably call you in the morning himself. I’d imagine it’ll be an official reprimand, maybe even a suspension.’ She turned to him, her eyes blazing. ‘How could you do this to me?’

‘What?’

‘I’m your immediate superior! I’m in the post barely a week, and already you’ve caused the most unholy ructions. How do you think that makes me look?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘Yes it bloody well has! It’s got
everything
to do with me. You’re one of my officers. How am I supposed to work, to get a feel for the job, when all the chief super does is fret about what grenade you’re going to chuck next?’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘That’s what this is about. You’re pissed off because the Farmer’s not paying you enough attention. You want to create a good impression, and you’re not making any impression at all.’

‘Now you’re just twisting my words.’

‘Am I?’ He grabbed her by the arms. ‘Look me in the face and tell me that. Tell me I’m not right.’

She shrugged free of his grip. ‘John,’ she said, more calmly. ‘I came here to warn you. Tomorrow morning could spell the end of your career.’

‘You think I care about that?’ He tried to sound casual.

She took a step towards him. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I think you do.’ Her green eyes seemed to bore into him. ‘I think, beneath it all, you’re scared.’

‘Scared?’ He smiled. ‘Of course I’m scared. I wouldn’t mind if it was some big hard bastard who had me cornered in an alley, or if some kind of contract was out on me. But this is worse, this scares me to death.’

‘Then drop it. Say you’re sorry to a few people, and come back to work.’

He smiled again. ‘It would be that easy, wouldn’t it? You’d do it.’

‘Yes, I would.’

‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

She tried to measure his sincerity, but it was like measuring haar.

Big Jim Flett was nowhere to be seen.

‘Even the Big Man has to take a few hours off here and there,’ his deputy said, leading Rebus down one of the corridors inside Saughton Jail.

‘I’m sure,’ Rebus said, even though he was sure the governor was avoiding him. He had lied to Rebus, and now Rebus knew it.

‘Derry doesn’t get many visitors,’ the deputy said. He was a brisk, nervous man, ruddy-faced and jacketless with his shirt-sleeves rolled up.

‘You know him then?’

‘We’ve had conversations.’

‘I was told he didn’t mix.’

‘That’s true, but I’ve always found him pleasant enough.’

‘He hasn’t tried to sell you anything, has he?’

The deputy laughed. ‘No, not yet. He’d make a damned good salesman though.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Quiet for the most part, never gives us any trouble.’ They were nearing a metal door, beside which stood a warden. The warden unlocked the door and swung it open.

‘You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?’ the deputy asked Rebus. Rebus shook his head, but with a gracious smile. ‘Well, Munro here will take Derry back to his cell when you’re finished.’

‘Thanks again,’ Rebus said.

The door closed after him, the key rattling in its lock. Rebus was alone with Derwood Charters.

Charters was pacing the floor, arms folded, head bowed as if he was pondering some problem.

‘Do you play chess?’ Charters asked, without looking up.

‘No.’

‘Pity.’

Rebus looked around the room. There was a table, its legs bolted to the floor, and two chairs beside it. On one wall, a blackboard provided the room’s only hint of decoration.

‘Mind if I sit?’ Rebus said.

‘Make yourself comfortable.’ Charters smiled at his little joke. He continued to pace the floor, and Rebus studied him. Charters was in his mid-forties, tall and broad-shouldered. He was immaculately groomed, his hair parted just so, his face shiny and clean-shaven. His fingernails looked manicured.

‘Do you know what
zugzwang
means?’

‘Sounds German,’ Rebus said.

For the first time, Charters looked at him. ‘Of course it’s German. It’s a chess position. It’s when you’ve to play, only any move you make will spell disaster. Yet you’ve got to make a move. There was a chess puzzle in today’s paper, and I’m damned if I can solve it.’

‘The solution’s easy,’ Rebus said.

Charters stopped pacing. ‘What?’

‘Take up golf instead.’

Charters considered this, then smiled. He came and sat down opposite Rebus, folding his hands on the table. ‘May I see some identification?’

Rebus took out his warrant card. Charters examined it against the light, as though it might represent a particularly brilliant forgery.

‘On a Sunday night,’ he said, handing it back.

‘Pardon?’

‘I don’t get many visitors, let alone on a Sunday night. And a police officer at that.’

‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about Wee Shug McAnally.’

‘Ah yes, Hugh.’ McAnally probably hadn’t been called ‘Hugh’ by anyone apart from the minister at his christening and the judge who pronounced sentence on him. Charters seemed to read Rebus’s mind. ‘I respect a person’s name, Inspector. It’s all we bring into this world, and it’s all we take out of it. My own name is sometimes abbreviated to Derry. In here, that has earned me the nickname “the apprentice boy”.’

Charters’ voice – quiet, atonal – had a mesmeric quality, and once his eyes had fixed on Rebus’s, they never left them.

‘You know he committed suicide, Mr Charters?’

‘Very unfortunate.’

‘Suicides have to be investigated.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Whether you know it or not, it happens to be the case. Tell me, did McAnally talk to you much?’

‘All the time. To be frank, it annoyed me. Even when I was trying to read, he’d be blethering on about nothing of consequence, just filling the cell with noise. As though there wasn’t enough noise in here already. At the start, I thought he’d been allotted my cell as some subtle form of punishment. You know, psychological torture.’

‘So what did he talk about? I’m assuming these were fairly one-sided affairs?’

‘They were soliloquys. As to the substance . . . he talked about his background, his wife – interminably about his wife; I feel I know her as well as her gynaecologist must. He spoke of his affairs with other women, which I didn’t believe for one second. And every time he finished a story,
he’d ask me,
plead
with me, to tell him something about myself.’ Charters paused. ‘What do you make of that, Inspector? I mean, Hugh was obsessed with himself, and yet every now and then he’d suddenly stop and ask me something. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

Rebus ignored the question. ‘What was he in for?’

‘You see? You’ve avoided answering! That’s what I had to do twenty times a day.’

‘Are you going to answer?’

‘He told me it was for housebreaking.’

‘And I believe you’re inside for fraud, is that correct?’

‘Interesting,’ Charters mused, patting his fingers against his mouth. ‘Why would you ask me what Hugh was inside for?’

‘I just wondered,’ Rebus improvised, ‘if the two of you ever talked about it. I’m trying to build up a picture of him.’

‘To hazard a guess as to why he killed himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, obviously he killed himself because he was dying of cancer.’

‘Did he tell you that?’

Charters smiled again. ‘I’m only guessing.’