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
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
‘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.’
