Let It Bleed

The councillor started sweating again. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and concentrated on stirring the contents of the cafetiere.

‘All the shit that’s about these days,’ Rebus went on, ‘you’ve got to watch you don’t tread in it. You might end up on your arse, isn’t that right, Councillor?’

‘Just get out, will you?’

Rebus turned to leave. Gillespie put out a hand to stop him. ‘Inspector, you’re making a mistake.’ Not a threat; a simple statement of fact.

‘Talk to me.’

Gillespie thought about it, biting his bottom lip, then shook his head. Rebus stared at him, willing him to change his mind. But Gillespie was scared; it was in his eyes, in the sheen of his face.

The man was terrified.

‘I’ll let you out,’ Gillespie said, leading Rebus back down the hall. He had the cufetiere in one hand, two mugs in the other. Through the office door they could hear Mrs Gillespie cursing the machine again. She sounded like she was kicking it.

‘Bit of a temper, your wife,’ Rebus commented. He saw that Gillespie didn’t have a free hand, so did the kindly thing and opened the office door for him.

‘Has he gone yet?’ Mrs Gillespie snarled.

‘Just on my way, Mrs Gillespie,’ Rebus told her, popping his head round the door, taking a good look round. ‘Nice to have met you.’

Her face was flushed, anger turning quickly to embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘No need for that.’

And Rebus left them to it, whatever it was …

18

It took Rebus half the afternoon to decide that he was doing the right thing.

More accurately, it took him ten minutes to make up his mind, and a couple of hours to drink himself into a state where he was confident enough to follow through.

He wasn’t just drinking though, he was hunting; eyes and ears open for news of Rico Briggs.

Rico was just about the best and worst housebreaker on the east coast. It wasn’t that he was cack-handed: he could be in and out of most homes in minutes flat, be the occupants asleep, slumped in front of the TV, or making merry at a party. Rico’s problem was that he was conspicuous, and fences didn’t like that. Rico had been a big Hearts fan, not missing a fixture in seasons 1977-80, except when he’d served a wee stretch in Peterhead. One night in Leith Walk, dizzy after a trouncing of the Hibees, Rico had marched into a tattoo parlour and demanded the works.

Next morning, Rico had looked at his face in his bathroom mirror and seen that both tender cheeks now boasted the Hearts badge, a maroon heart with a cross in the middle. It took him only a day or two to start loathing his once-loved team; which was ironic, considering he was now a public poster-site for the men of Gorgie.

Not surprisingly, the tattoos were unique, and as good as fingerprints as far as the police were concerned. Realising this, Rico had started sporting a balaclava when working, which accentuated his other remarkable facial feature — a nose the dimensions of the Pyramid of Cheops. This, too, people tended to notice.

Rebus had tried talking Rico Briggs into retiring, and had been semi-successful. These days, Rico concentrated on passing his skills on to a series of apprentices; he’d even given Rebus a few clandestine lessons in lock-picking. They helped when the policeman mislaid his house-keys; and at other times too.

Rebus finally found Rico in a bar off Nicolson Street, a place whose sad-faced clients were usually in hiding after a haircut at the half-blind barber’s next door. Surrounded by bad haircuts, it was surprising how Rico blended in.

‘Hiya, Rico,’ Rebus said, sliding on to the wooden stool next to him. ‘How are you doing?’

Rico had the daily tabloid folded at the quick crossword, and was tapping it with a half-size betting-shop pen, the kind with a ten-minute lifetime guarantee.

‘Eight letters,’ Rico said in a voice like road-salt, ‘M-SOMETHING-R-SOMETHING- 0. “On a desert island”.’ He looked to Rebus.

‘Marooned.’

‘Thanks, in that case I’ll have a double,’ Rico chuckled. ‘Not heard that one before, Mr Rebus?’

‘Not since Double Barrel was at the top of the charts.’ Rebus ordered the drinks while Rico rubbed both cheeks, the idea being that if he rubbed them often enough he’d sand the tattoos away.

‘So, Mr Rebus, is it a job?’

Rebus nodded, wary of saying too much: he might be surrounded by bad haircuts, but nobody’s ears had been severed.

‘Tell you later.’

They drank their drinks in silence. The whole bar was quiet. Further down the bar, a customer nodded to the barman for a refill and the barman nodded back. A silent order, Rebus thought. Like monks. Which, given the tonsures, wasn’t such a bad image.

They got out of the pub and walked towards the Pleasance. If they took a right, they’d come to St Leonard’s, but they went left instead and headed to the Cowgate and Canongate. They talked as they walked, then entered a howff on the High Street to toast the mission.

At six o’clock, dark overhead except for an arc of moon looking like someone had pressed their thumbnail into the sky, Rebus and Rico sat in Rebus’s parked car, engine running to keep the heater on. They were across the road from the Gillespie house, and Rebus was describing the layout. Rebus was more nervous than he would admit: if Rico were caught, if he talked, then Rebus could end up one of Big Jim Flett’s clients. Rico asked a few questions, and Rebus supplied answers where he could.

‘I’ll go in through the conservatory,’ Rico decided. ‘You’re sure about the alarm?’

‘No alarm,’ Rebus said.

People were hurrying along the pavement, faces down to avoid the icy wind which, Edinburgh fashion, was blowing horizontally just at head height. Rebus was having doubts about the whole enterprise, but could see no way round it. He thought of something else he’d wanted to ask Rico.

‘Know anyone who’s just come out of Saughton?’

‘I don’t mix with felons, Inspector.’

‘Of course you don’t, you’ve gone straight, we both know that.’ Rebus’s voice was quiet but insistent. ‘Only, if you did know anyone, I’d like to talk to them. Nothing heavy or official, just a chat, a bit of info on Saughton itself.’

‘There’d be a cash incentive?’

‘There’d be a drink in it for both of you.’

‘Well, wouldn’t do any harm to ask around.’

‘No harm at all,’ Rebus agreed. He looked over to the Gillespie house. ‘What time will you go in?’

‘Two in the morning should do it. Best not stay here much longer though — we don’t want to attract attention.’

Rico had a point: in Marchmont, you were always in somebody else’s parking space. There were barely enough gaps for the residents, never mind visitors. Rebus put the gearstick into first.

‘We’ll get a bite to eat,’ he said.

‘Hiy, hold on.’ Rico was pointing towards the house. The front door was standing open, and Mrs Gillespie suddenly appeared carrying two black binbags. Behind her, her husband carried two more. They opened their gate and deposited the bags on the pavement outside. Something wonderful dawned on Rebus. He looked up and down the street. Sure enough, a few bags were already out.

‘Rubbish day the morn?’ Rico suggested.