He had a taste in his lungs and a scent in his nostrils, and he hoped the cold might deaden them. He could walk into a pub and deaden them that way, but he didn’t. He remembered a winter years back, much colder than this. Minus twenty, Siberian weather. The pipes on the outside of the tenement had frozen solid, so that nobody’s waste water could run away. The smell had been bad, but you could always open a window. Death wasn’t like that; it didn’t go away just because you opened a window, or took a walk.
There was ice underfoot, and he skited a couple of times. Another good reason for not having a drink: he needed his wits about him. He’d copied McAnally’s address into his notebook. He knew the block anyway; it was a couple of streets up from the burnt-out shell of the Crazy Hose Saloon. There was an intercom at the main door. He flipped on his lighter and saw that MCANALLY was the third name up. His toes were going numb as he pressed the button. He’d been rehearsing what to say. No policeman liked to give bad news, certainly not news as bad as this. ‘Your husband’s lost the heid’ just didn’t fit the bill.
The intercom clattered to life. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the keys, Shug? If you’ve been drinking and lost them, you can freeze your arse off, see if I care!’
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Detective Inspector Rebus. Can I come up?’
‘Name of God, what’s he done?’
‘Can I come up, Mrs McAnally?’
‘You better had.’ The intercom buzzed, and Rebus pushed open the door.
The McAnallys lived one floor up: for once Rebus had been hoping for the top storey. He climbed slowly, trying to prepare his speech. She was waiting at the door for him. It was a nice new-looking door, dark-stained wood with a fan-shaped glass motif. New brass knocker and letterbox too.
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Come in.’ She led him down a short hall into the living room. It was a tiny flat, but nicely furnished and carpeted. There was a kitchenette off the living room, both rooms adding up to about twenty feet by twelve. Estate agents would call it ‘cosy’ and ‘compact’. All three bars of the electric fire were on, and the room was stifling. Mrs McAnally had been watching television, a can of Sweet-heart stout balanced on one wide arm of her chair, ashtray and cigarettes on the other.
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.
