Rebus sat across from him in the headteacher’s office. The office had been locked, but Rebus had commandeered it when the head arrived at the school. The cleaning ladies were being given mugs of tea in the staffroom. Siobhan Clarke was there with them, doing her best to calm down Miss Profitt.
‘Did you know the man at all, Mr Gillespie?’
‘Never seen him in my life.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Positive.’
Rebus reached into his pocket, then stopped. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ From the odour of stale tobacco in the room, he already knew the head wouldn’t mind.
Gillespie shook his head. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘give me one while you’re at it.’ Gillespie lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Gave up three years ago.’
Rebus didn’t say anything. He was studying the man. He’d seen his photo before, in election rubbish pushed through the letterbox. Gillespie was in his mid-forties. He wore red-rimmed glasses normally, but had left them on the desk. His hair was very thin and wispy on top, but curled thickly either side of his pate. His eyes had thick dark lashes, not just from the crying, and his chin was weak. Rebus couldn’t have called him handsome. There was a simple gold band on his wedding finger.
‘How long have you been a councillor, Mr Gillespie?’
‘Six years, coming up for seven.’
‘I live in your ward.’
Gillespie studied him. ‘Have we met before?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘So this man walks into the classroom …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Looking for you in particular?’
‘He asked if I was the councillor. Then he asked who Helena was.’
‘Helena being Miss Profitt?’
Gillespie nodded. ‘He told her to get out … Then he turned the shotgun around and stuck the end of it in his mouth.’ He shivered, ash falling from his cigarette. ‘I’ll never forget that, never.’
‘Did he say anything else?’ Gillespie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say
‘Not a word.’
‘Do you have any idea why he did it?’
Gillespie looked at Rebus. ‘That’s your department, not mine.’
Rebus held the stare until Gillespie broke it by looking for somewhere to stub out the cigarette.
There’s something in you, Rebus thought, something below the surface that’s a lot cooler, a lot more deliberate.
‘Just a few more questions, Mr Gillespie. How are your surgeries publicised?’
‘There’s a district council leaflet, most homes had one delivered. Plus I put up notices in doctors’ surgeries, that sort of place.’
‘They’re no secret then?’
‘What good would a councillor be if he kept his surgeries secret?’
‘Mr McAnally lived at an address in Tollcross.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who killed himself.’
‘Tollcross? That’s not in my ward.’
‘No,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘I didn’t think it was.’
DC Siobhan Clarke sat in on the interview with Helena Profitt. Miss Profitt was still bawling, her few utterances barely decipherable. She was older than the councillor, maybe by as much as ten years. She clutched a large shopping-bag on her lap as if it was a lifebuoy keeping her afloat. Maybe it was. She was short, with fair hair which had been permed a while back, most of it lost now. A pair of knitting needles protruded from her bag.
‘And then,’ she wailed, ‘he told me to get out.’
‘His exact words?’ Rebus asked.
She sniffed, calming a little. ‘He swore. He told me to get the f-u-c-k out.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘And you left the room?’
‘I wasn’t about to stay!’
‘Of course not. What did you think he was going to do?’
She had not yet asked herself this. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe he was going to hold Tom hostage, or shoot him, something like that.’
‘But why?’
Her voice rose. ‘I don’t know. Who knows why these days?’ She collapsed into hysterical sobs again.
‘Just a couple more questions, Miss Profitt.’ She wasn’t listening. Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged. She was suggesting they leave it till morning. But Rebus knew better than that; he knew the tricks the memory could play if you left things too long.
‘Just a couple more questions,’ he persisted quietly.
She sniffed, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and nodded.
‘Thank you, Miss Profitt. How long was there between you running out of the classroom and hearing the shots?’
‘The classroom’s at the end of the corridor,’ she said. ‘I pushed open the doors and bumped into the cleaning ladies. I fell to my knees and that’s when I heard … that’s when …’
‘So we’re talking about a matter of seconds?’
‘Just a few seconds, yes.’
‘And you didn’t hear any conversation as you left the room?’
‘Just the bang, that’s all.’
Rebus rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Thank you, Miss Profit, we’ll get a car to take you home.’
Dr Curt was finished in the classroom. The Scene of Crime Unit had taken over, and the photographer, who had finally arrived, was changing film.
‘We need to secure the locus,’ Rebus told the head-teacher. ‘Can this room be locked?’
‘Yes, there are keys in my desk. What about opening the school?’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ll be in and out tomorrow … the door might be left open …’
‘Say no more.’
‘And you’ll want to get the decorators in.’
‘Right.’
Rebus turned to Dr Curt. ‘Can we move him to the mortuary?’
Dr Curt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look at him in the morning. Has someone gone to that address?’
‘I’ll go myself. Like you say, it’s only five minutes away.’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke. ‘See that the Procurator-fiscal gets that Preliminary Notification.’
Curt looked back into the room. ‘He’d only just been released from prison, maybe he was depressed.’
‘That might explain a suicide, but not one like this: the amount of forethought, the setting …’
‘Our American cousins have a phrase for it,’ Curt said.
‘What’s that?’ Rebus asked, feeling he was walking into another of the doctor’s punchlines.
‘In your face,’ Dr Curt obliged.
8
Rebus walked to Tollcross.
