Let It Bleed

didn’t want Tresa McAnally this time though.

He wanted her neighbour.

He pressed the buzzer marked FINCH and waited, shuffling his feet. His tooth was acting up. He’d made the mistake of opening his mouth to take a deep breath, and the frozen air had made straight for the nerve. He pressed the buzzer again, hoping he wouldn’t have to visit a dentist.

The intercom came to life.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was neutral.

‘Miss Finch? My name’s Inspector Rebus, we sort of met last night.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Can I come up?’

The door buzzed and Rebus pushed it open. At the top of the stairs, he all but tiptoed past Tresa McAnally’s door. Maisie Finch’s door was ajar. He closed it after him.

‘Miss Finch?’

She emerged suddenly from the bathroom, wearing a short towelling-robe and brushing her hair. He could smell soap and feel the warmth from her body.

‘I was in the bath,’ she said.

‘Sorry to trouble you.’

He followed her into the living room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Half the space was taken up with what looked like a hospital bed, with cast-iron frame, roller wheels, and a side-guard. Next to it was a liver-coloured commode. The mantelpiece was like a chemist’s display, two dozen assorted boxes and bottles standing in a row.

Maisie Finch was moving magazines from the sofa. She motioned for him to sit, and took the commode for herself, tucking one leg under the other.

‘What’s the problem, Inspector?’

Her face was too angular to be good-looking, and she had slightly protruberant eyes, yet she was undeniably … the word that came to his mind was charged. He shifted on the sofa.

‘Well, Miss Finch …’

‘I suppose it’s about Tresa?’

‘In a way, yes.’ He looked at the bed again.

‘It’s my mum’s,’ she explained. ‘She’s house-bound, I have to look after her.’ Rebus made show of looking around for the missing parent, and Maisie Finch laughed. ‘She’s in hospital.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. They take her every few months, just for a few days. It’s to give me a break. This,’ she said, opening her arms wide, ‘is my winter holiday.’

Her movements had loosened her robe. She didn’t seem to notice, and Rebus tried not to look. Men, he thought, are daft bastards.

‘Want something to drink?’ she asked. ‘Or is it too early for you?’

‘One person’s early is someone else’s late.’

She went into the kitchenette. Rebus walked over to the mantelpiece and examined the array of prescription drugs. He found a bottle of paracetamol and shook two into his hand.

‘Heavy night?’ she said, coming back with two bottles.

‘Toothache,’ he explained. He took the narrow bottle. It was chilled.

‘San Miguel,’ she told him. ‘Spanish lager. Know what I do?’ She sat down again, legs apart, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘I stick the heater on as high as it’ll go, shut my eyes and imagine I’m in Spain, poolside at some posh hotel.’ She closed her eyes to prove the point, and angled her head towards an imaginary Mediterranean sun.

Rebus washed the pills down with lager. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum though,’ he said.

She opened her eyes, not pleased to have her reverie broken. ‘Everyone tells me what a saint I am.’ She mimicked a much older woman: ‘“There’s no’ many like you, hen.” Too right, there’s not many as daft as me. You know how some people say life’s passing them by? Well, in this case it’s a fact. I sit on the commode between her bed and the window, and just stare out at the street for hours on end, listening to her breathing, waiting for it to stop.’ She looked over at him. ‘Have I shocked you?’

He shook his head. His own mother had been bed-ridden; he knew the feeling. But he hadn’t come here for any of this.

‘Sitting by the window all day,’ he said, ‘you must have seen Mr McAnally coming and going?’

‘Yes, I saw him.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’ She stood up abruptly.

‘Mrs McAnally’s all right though?’

She was moving towards the kitchenette, but stopped and turned on him. ‘I’m not the saint; that woman’s the saint! She’s suffered, you wouldn’t believe how she’s suffered.’

‘I think I would.’

She wasn’t listening. ‘Married to an animal like that.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what he did to me?’ Rebus nodded, and she took a step back, recovering. ‘You do?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘I’m here because I’m curious, Miss Finch. I mean, you still live next door, you’re friends with his wife.’

‘What? You think mum and me were going to move out … because of him?’

‘Something like that.’

‘She’s been offered sheltered accommodation, but in Granton. We’ve always lived in Tollcross. We always will.’

‘This last week, it must have been awkward.’

‘I kept out of his way. You can bet he kept out of mine.’ She was by the window now, staring down on to the street, her back resting against the wall. It was as if she didn’t want to be seen. ‘He deserved what he got.’

Rebus frowned. ‘You mean, what he did to himself?’

She looked at him, blinked. ‘That’s what I said.’ Then she smiled and put the bottle to her lips.

11

The Ballistics facility at Howdenhall Forensic Science Lab wasn’t Rebus’s idea of a good time. There were too many guns around for his liking. He read the report and looked up at the white-coated scientist who’d prepared it. The other thing Rebus didn’t like about Howdenhall, all the forensic boffins looked about nineteen years old. They’d been in their smart new building a year, and still looked pleased with themselves. The new facility had been financed by selling property, including police homes. Rebus didn’t want to know how many homes the lab had cost.

‘Not much, is there?’ he said.

The white coat, who liked to be called Dave, laughed. ‘You CID,’ he said, plunging his hands into his pockets, ‘you always want more. Who fired it? Where did he get it?’

‘We know who fired it, smart-arse. But your second question’s a good one. Where did he get it?’

‘I’m Ballistics, not Intelligence. It’s a common enough make of shotgun, the identifiers have been filed off. We’ve tried the usual processes, and there’s no chance of recovering them. The cartridges were common stock, too.’

‘What about the barrel?’

‘What about it?’

‘When was it filed off?’

Dave nodded. ‘The edge the file left is still shiny; say in the last couple of months.’

‘Have you checked the register?’