Let It Bleed

Rebus saw now: Gillespie had been complaining to his friend.

‘He was asking about you, John.’

‘Nice of him.’

‘Apparently you’ve rubbed Councillor Gillespie up the wrong way. I should remind you that the councillor is a victim here, and one who’s been through a terrible experience.’ The Farmer sounded as if he was quoting Derek Mantoni.

‘Inspector Rebus,’ Gill Templer said, ‘is there any reason to believe it wasn’t a suicide?’

‘No,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’m sure it was suicide.’

‘Then I don’t see the problem.’

Rebus turned to her. ‘Well, I do!’ He jabbed his thumb into his chest to reinforce the point. ‘And now everyone suddenly wants it covered up!’ She turned her head away from him.

‘John,’ the Farmer warned, ‘that’s out of order. I’ve been looking at the hours you’ve been putting in. You’re due some time off … a lot of time actually. It’s a quiet time of year.’

Rebus held the Farmer’s stare. ‘You’ve got to back me up on this, sir.’

‘I’m telling you to take some time off, that’s all.’

‘Who is it you’re scared of: the DCC? Mantoni? HMIC?’

The Farmer ignored him. ‘Take a week, ten days … clear your head, Inspector.’

Rebus slammed both hands down on the desktop. A framed photo of the Farmer’s family fell off and landed on a cardboard box. Gill Templer stooped to pick it up.

‘You’ve got to back me up,’ Rebus repeated. He knew Gill was a lost cause; he had eyes only for the Farmer, but the Farmer wasn’t looking.

‘I’ve given you an order, Inspector.’

Rebus gave one of the boxes a kick on his way out of the room.

When he thought it over later, Rebus didn’t blame the Farmer. He was covering his arse; so was Gill, if it came down to it. Now Rebus was a free agent, or at least a loose one. He couldn’t get anyone into trouble but himself, and that was fine with him. He’d cleared his desk, pushing everything into drawers and, when he ran out of space, the wastepaper-bin. He’d left St Leonard’s without a word to anyone.

There were just the two problems — neither of them insignificant — and he pondered them as he sat in the back room of the Oxford Bar with a half of Caledonian Eighty and a double malt.

The first problem was, police routine gave his daily life its only shape and substance; it gave him a schedule to work to, a reason to get up in the morning. He loathed his free time, dreaded Sundays off. He lived to work, and in a very real sense he worked to live, too: the much-maligned Protestant work-ethic. Subtract work from the equation, and the day became flabby, like releasing jelly from its mould. Besides, without work, what reason had he not to drink?

It worried him, because now there was nothing to stop him raising two fingers to the shade of Wee Shug McAnally, a man not exactly universally mourned, and get on with some serious bewying instead. He could spend a seven-to-ten stretch in the Ox no problem, augmented by betting-shop gossip and nourished by pies and bridies. It would be wonderfully easy.

Then there was the second problem, not unconnected to the first.

For, now that he had so much time on his hands, what was to stop him booking a dentist’s appointment?

The only thing to do was to keep working. Besides, there were some things he needed to do in a hurry, before word got around that he was on leave. The first of these involved another visit to C Division in Torphichen Place.

DI Davidson was again on duty, to Rebus’s relief.

‘I can smell it off you,’ Davidson said, leading him to the CID room.

‘What?’

‘The drink. How can you torture me like that? There’s another two hours before I finish my shift.’

Rebus saw that they were alone in the CID room. ‘I need the casenotes on McAnally, the ones from the rape charge.’

‘What for?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I just need to see them.’

Davidson went to a desk drawer and brought out a bunch of keys. ‘You know, John, there’s enough to be getting on with in the here-and-now.’ He went to a walk-in cupboard and opened it. ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be a copy still here. Everything’ll have been archived by now.’

There were reports packed tight along each shelf. On every spine, in fat felt-marker, was an officer’s name, depending on whose copy the report was. The spines faced upwards, the base of each report facing out. On the base was the name of the accused. There was no McAnally.

So then they’d to traipse to another part of the building, locate another set of keys, and unlock a storeroom, inside which stood a dozen tall double-doored filing cupboards. Davidson stood in thought for a moment, then pointed at one.

‘That’s probably got the year we’re after.’ He unlocked the cabinet. There was a smell of musty paper, much stronger than in the cupboard they’d tried earlier. Davidson ran his finger along each row of spines. ‘McAnally,’ he said at last, pulling out two thick files of A4 paper and handing them to Rebus. Each was loose-bound, held together by two removable metal clips. The blue covers were faded at their edges. Davidson’s surname was on the spine. Rebus read from one of the covers.

“‘The Case Against Hugh McAnally, Born 12.1.44.”’ He flipped through both files, not surprised to see their bulk consisted of witness statements.

‘Enjoy,’ said Davidson, relocking the cabinet.

Rebus stopped off on his way home and bought a jar of coffee, rolls, bacon, and two four-packs of Export. He was preparing for a long haul.

The flat was fairly warm. He emptied the jar beneath the leaking radiator and replaced it, then turned the hi-fi on. He washed three aspirin down with a swig of beer, then checked his face in the bathroom mirror. The skin around and below his nose was definitely inflamed. When he waggled one particular tooth it felt deadened, anaesthetised, while its neighbours jangled like they’d been wired to the mains. The blister on his palm had receded, and now sported only a thin strip of sticking-plaster. Beneath the plaster, the engine’s serial number was still there.

I’m in great shape, he thought. I’m the perfect fucking specimen.

He took the beer through to the living room, sat down with the reports in his chair, and started to read.

He started with the Summary of Evidence, barely glanced down the List of Productions and List of Witnesses, skipped the Annual Leave of Officers, and got to work on the Statements and Tape Transcriptions. The witnesses comprised neighbours, the victim, the accused’s wife, a couple of barmen, and the police doctor (Dr Curt, as it turned out), who had examined and taken samples from both victim and accused. Maisie Finch had been examined in hospital, where she spent the rest of the night under observation. It was noted that her mother — unaware of her daughter’s presence — was in the same hospital at the time, just one floor up.

Hugh McAnally had been examined in the medical examination room at Torphichen. During the examination he kept protesting, ‘I used a johnny, for fuck’s sake, what’s the problem?’

These words had endeared him to no one.

The story from the victim’s point of view: Maisie had been alone in the flat, her mum being in hospital for a minor operation. At this time, her mother was already all but housebound, looking after her a full-time occupation for Maisie. (Nobody had asked her how it felt to be cooped up all day with an invalid; or how it felt when her mum had been taken into hospital … Rebus remembered his own meeting with her — the bottles of strong lager, the ‘holiday mood’.) Maisie knew Mr McAnally very well, had known him for years. She regarded him not just as a neighbour but as a family friend.

McAnally told her he had come to ask after her mother. Though he smelled of alcohol, she’d let him into the