Let It Bleed ir-7 Read online

  She looked feisty; no other words would do. Cons’ wives often got that look. The prison visits hardened their jawlines and turned their eyes into distrustful slits. Her hair was dyed blonde, and though she was spending the night in, she’d still polished her nails and stuck on some eyeliner and mascara.

  ‘What’s he done?’ she said again. ‘Sit down if you like.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks. The thing is, Mrs McAnally …’ Rebus paused. That’s what you did: you lowered your voice respectfully, said a few introductory words, and then you paused, hoping the widow or widower or mother or father or son or daughter would twig.

  ‘The thing is what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you …’

  Her eyes were on the television. It was a film, some noisy Hollywood adventure.

  ‘Could we maybe have the sound down?’ he suggested.

  She shrugged and pressed the remote. The ‘mute’ sign came up on the screen. Rebus suddenly noticed how big the TV was; it filled a whole corner of the room. Don’t make me say the words, he thought. Then he saw that her eyes were glinting. Tears, he thought. She’s holding them back.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Know what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Mrs McAnally, we think your husband may be dead.’ She threw the remote across the room and got to her feet. ‘A man committed suicide,’ Rebus continued. ‘He had a letter in his pocket addressed to your husband.’

  She glared at him. ‘What does that mean? It means nothing. Might have dropped it, somebody might’ve picked it up.’

  ‘The deceased … the man, he was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and some light-coloured trousers, a green jersey …’

  She turned away from him. ‘Where? Where was this?’

  ‘Warrender Park.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said defiantly, ‘Wee Shug went down Lothian Road, his usual haunts.’

  ‘What time were you expecting him home?’

  ‘Pubs are still open, if that answers your question.’

  ‘Look, Mrs McAnally, I know this isn’t easy, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary and look at some clothing. Would that be all right?’

  She had her arms folded and was rocking on the balls of her feet. ‘No, it wouldn’t be all right. What’s the point? It’s not Wee Shug. He’s only been out a week, one miserable week. He can’t be dead.’ She paused. ‘Was it a car run him over?’

  ‘We think he took his own life.’

  ‘Are you mad? Took his own …? Get out of my house! Go on, out with you!’

  ‘Mrs McAnally, we need to — ’

  But now she was swiping at him, catching him with her solid fists, propelling him before her, out of the room and down the hall.

  ‘Keep away from him, do you hear? Keep away from both of us. This is nothing but harassment.’

  ‘I know you’re upset, Mrs McAnally, but an identification would clear things up, put your mind at rest.’

  Her blows lost some of their power, then stopped altogether. Rebus’s burnt palm stung where she’d caught it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathing hard.

  ‘It’s only natural, you’re upset. Do you have a neighbour, a friend, someone who could be with you?’

  ‘There’s Maisie next door.’

  ‘Fine. What if I get a car to pick you up? Maybe Maisie can go with you?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’ She opened the door and stepped out on to the landing, shuffling along to a door marked FINCH.

  ‘I’ll use your phone if that’s all right,’ Rebus called, retreating back into the flat.

  He took a quick look around. Just the one bedroom and bathroom, plus a box room. He’d seen the rest of the place already. Again, the bedroom was very nicely furnished, pink ruched curtains and matching bedspread, a small dressing-table covered in bottles of perfume. He went into the hall and made a couple of calls: one to order a car, the other to make sure someone from CID would be at the mortuary to help with the ID.

  The door opened and two women came in. He’d been expecting Mrs Finch to be around Mrs McAnally’s age, but she was in her early twenties, leggy with a short, tight skirt. She looked at him as if he might be some warped practical joker. He offered a smile in return which mixed compassion with interest. She didn’t smile back, so he had to content himself with the sight of her long legs as she helped Mrs McAnally down the hall and into the living room.

  ‘A wee Bacardi, Tresa,’ Maisie Finch was saying, ‘it’ll calm your nerves. Before we do anything else, we’ll have a wee Bacardi and Coke. Have you any valium about the place? If you haven’t, I think I’ve some in my bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘He can’t be dead, Maisie,’ Tresa McAnally wailed.

  ‘Let’s not talk about him,’ Maisie Finch replied.

  Strange advice, Rebus thought, making ready to leave.

  9

  It wasn’t much of a walk from Tollcross down to C Division HQ on Torphichen Place, but Rebus knew he was getting further and further away from his own flat. He didn’t intend walking back, and hoped Torphichen would have a spare car he could use as a taxi.

  There was a tall bald man in a thick shabby coat in reception. The man had his arms folded and was staring at his feet. There was no one behind the desk, so Rebus pressed the buzzer. He knew it would keep buzzing till someone arrived.

  ‘Been here long?’ he asked.

  The man looked up and smiled. ‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’

  ‘Hello, Anthony.’ Rebus knew the man. He was one of Edinburgh’s homeless, one of the army who sold copies of The Big Issue every twenty yards or so along Princes Street. Rebus usually bought a copy from Anthony, whose sacred pitch was outside the St James Centre. ‘Here to help us with our enquiries?’

  Anthony gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Just keeping warm. I told the desk officer I was waiting for DC Reynolds, only I saw Mr Reynolds go into the Hopscotch Bar on Dalry Road.’

  ‘Which means he’s on for a sesh.’

  ‘And I can sit here till somebody tumbles.’

  A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.

  ‘You know the way, sir?’

  ‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’

  Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.

  ‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.

  Davidson looked up, then groaned.

  ‘I want a favour,’ Rebus said, walking into the room.

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Have you heard about Warrender?’

  ‘Shotgun suicide?’ News got around. Davidson closed his paper.

  ‘The man with the plan was called Hugh McAnally, lived in Tollcross.’

  ‘I know Wee Shug. Wee Bastard’s more like it. He’d only just come out of Saughton.’

  ‘Maybe he was pining.’

  ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Coffee maybe.’

  But Davidson was reaching for his coat. ‘I said a drink.’

  ‘So long as you’re not suggesting the Hopscotch. Rat-Arse Reynolds is in there.’

  Davidson knotted his tartan scarf. ‘All right, let’s scotch the Hopscotch. And since you’re buying, you get to choose.’

  Rebus chose a big public house near Haymarket Station. The public bar was seething, but the saloon was quiet. They ordered doubles.

  ‘Too cold outside to be drinking lager,’ Davidson said. ‘Your health.’

  ‘And yours.’ Rebus sipped and swallowed, feeling the liquid doing its immediate, no-nonsense business. It was almost too good sometimes. ‘So,’ he said,
‘tell me about Wee Shug.’

  ‘Ach, he was a small-timer, used to specialise in hopeless house-breakings.’

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘He moved on to reset, counterfeiting, this and that.’

  ‘So how long had he been inside?’

  ‘This stretch, you mean? Funny that, when I heard he was out I did a quick calculation. He’s out early, served a bit under four years.’

  ‘Well, if all we had him on was reset …’

  Davidson was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, you misunderstand. My fault. He wasn’t sent down for any of his usual tricks.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Rape of a minor.’

  ‘What?’

  Davidson nodded. ‘Thing is, we nailed him for it, but with hand on heart I don’t know if it was a clean result.’

  ‘Explain.’ Rebus signalled for two more whiskies.

  ‘Well, the lassie was fifteen, but everyone said the same thing — fifteen going on thirty-five. Not a shy lass at all, you should read the interview transcripts. But she was adamant he’d raped her. She was a minor, and the Procurator-fiscal went ahead with the prosecution. I wasn’t too bothered; getting Wee Shug off the street was fine by me.’

  ‘Was he living in Tollcross at that time?’

  ‘That’s always been his patch.’

  Rebus paid for the second round of drinks. ‘Was he the violent type?’

  ‘Not that I ever saw. I mean, he had a temper when roused, but who doesn’t? That was the thing about the rape, there were no physical injuries.’

  ‘What about corroboration?’

  ‘We had a bundle of circumstantial evidence. Neighbours heard raised voices, a scream, the girl herself was in a terrible state, crying and all. Plus Wee Shug admitted having sex with her, said he knew it was illegal and all but, as he put it, “only by a few months”. The girl said it wasn’t consensual, and we just about put together a case.’

  ‘Say, for the sake of argument, that it was consensual.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then he’s just come out of a four-year stretch for something he didn’t do.’

  Davidson shrugged. ‘You’re looking for a motive behind the suicide?’

  Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Suicides interest me right now.’

  ‘And we’re always looking for motives, eh, John?’

  Rebus drank his drink. ‘What about guns? Did he ever have anything to do with firearms?’

  ‘Nothing. But he’s probably still got cronies out there who know where to get them.’

  ‘It was a sawn-off.’

  ‘I can believe it. You couldn’t get a full-length shotgun in your mouth and be able to pull the trigger. Far easier with something shorter.’

  ‘Messy though.’

  ‘No doubt, but it would do the job. You don’t want to go off half-cocked, do you? With a sawn-off, there’s less margin for error.’

  ‘No margin at all,’ said Rebus.

  It was only when they were leaving that he thought to ask a question.

  ‘McAnally’s victim, what was her name again?’

  Davidson had to think about it. ‘Mary something. Mary Finlay. ‘No …’ He screwed shut his eyes. ‘Mary Finch.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘Maisie Finch?’

  Davidson thought again. ‘That’s it, Maisie.’

  ‘She lives next door to the McAnallys.’

  ‘Did then, too. She’d known them for years.’

  ‘Christ,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I’ve just sent her down to the mortuary to help Tresa McAnally identify her husband.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do me a favour, will you? Lend me a car and a driver.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you myself.’

  But by the time they reached the mortuary, it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back towards the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.

  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.