anyone or anything called Mensung. The sum total of his recent discoveries had nothing to do with Councillor Gillespie at all. But what he did know was that Kirstie Kennedy had known Willie and Dixie in some capacity: how else to explain a document belonging to the Lord Provost turning up in Willie’s bedroom? What he didn’t yet know was why it was there. He assumed Kirstie had taken it from her parents’ house, but why? Had it meant something to her? And why had Willie hidden it?
His phone was ringing. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘Walking.’
‘How are things at St Leonard’s?’
‘The chief super is keeping tabs on Brian and me, and he keeps piling the work on.’
‘So you haven’t been able to do anything?’
‘On the contrary, I’ve some interesting news. Councillor Gillespie’s document shredder wasn’t bought, it was rented. There’s a business supply company in Stockbridge, they hire out all sorts of office equipment. Which reminds me, when you get back there’s a little surprise for you.’
‘What?’
‘The new PCs have arrived.’
‘Good, we could do with a few more men on the beat.’
‘Gosh,’ her voice dripped irony, ‘I’ve not heard that one today. Anyway, there’s one on your desk, plugged in and ready to run.’
‘When did Gillespie rent the shredder?’
‘Wednesday. He told the shop assistant he’d been trying to find one for a few days, but they were too expensive to buy.’
‘Thank God he’s mean with money, or we might never know he’d shredded anything.’
‘Want to hear the rest? I finally got through to the consulate and asked to speak to Haldayne.’ She paused. ‘They told me Mr Haldayne was out of the office. His first name’s Richard. I got them to spell his surname for me: it has a “y” in the middle.’
‘You’re a genius.’
‘Want to hear the rest?’
Rebus forgot all about his sore calves, his weary feet. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I ran a check on Mr Richard Haldayne. Have you ever had dealings with the diplomats in town?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I have. I handed out a few parking tickets when I was in uniform. My boss said I was wasting my time ticketing a diplomatic plate. They never pay their fines, because we’re not allowed to prosecute them.’
‘So you looked in the computer?’
‘Eighteen unpaid parking tickets dating back to 1985. That’s under two a year, which counts as law-abiding for a diplomat.’
‘It’s still a lot of tickets. An officer might want a quiet word with Mr Haldayne about them.’
‘Just don’t get caught, sir.’
‘Same goes for you, Clarke, and thanks.’
He put the phone down and tapped his fingers on the receiver. It was a start, definitely a start. He lifted the receiver again and dialled Sammy’s work number. She wasn’t there. The woman who told him this sounded upset.
‘I’m her father,’ Rebus said, ‘is anything wrong?’
‘She was in a terrible state. Someone had to take her home.’
‘Why was she in a state?’
‘Her landlady.’ The woman sniffed.
‘What about her landlady?’
‘Well, she’s upset, and she got Sammy all upset.’
Rebus stopped pretending to be calm. ‘Upset about what?’
‘I love cats,’ the woman said.
‘What?’
‘Cats. It’s her landlady’s cat. It was torn to bits last night by somebody’s dog.’
Rebus finally plucked up the courage to phone Patience’s flat, and was relieved that Sammy herself answered.
‘I heard,’ he said. ‘How’s Patience?’
‘She’s gone out. She was … it was horrible.’
Rebus swallowed. ‘What happened?’
‘Lucky was in the garden, and some dog must have come over the wall. Lucky ran to the catflap to get in, but the catflap was locked …’ Her voice fell. ‘And that was that.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Rebus.
‘The thing is, Dad, Patience blames
‘I’m sure that’s not — ’
‘She says I must have locked the flap. She’s hardly spoken a word to me since I got back.’
‘The lock must have fallen by itself.’
‘I don’t know. But I know I didn’t do it.’
‘Look, Sammy, the reason I’m phoning — ’
‘Yes?’
Rebus stared at the notes in front of him. ‘SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office: can you give me his name …?’
He had an appointment that afternoon with the Lord Provost.
Rebus hadn’t been specific on the telephone; he’d just told the secretary that it was part of an ‘investigation’ — he’d been careful not to preface the word with ‘official policed. The secretary had taken his home number and called him back. The Lord Provost could see him for five minutes at four o’clock.
‘Five minutes should do it,’ Rebus had said.
As he walked through the main door of the City Chambers, he looked down at the floor, aware that directly beneath it was Mary King’s Close, Edinburgh’s buried plague street. They’d covered the street up and built on it anew: that was the Edinburgh way, to bury and forget.
The Lord Provost came out of his office to meet him. He looked tired, his pale face deeply lined, his square jaw slack. He had dark hair streaked with silver, and thick black eyebrows. It was a strongly defined face, the kind that might have been found, a generation back, at the coal-face.
‘Inspector.’ They shook hands. The Lord Provost turned to his secretary. ‘My constitutional,’ he said. ‘I’ll be five or ten minutes.’ He turned back to Rebus. ‘I like to get out of here for a few minutes in the afternoon, it clears my head. Do you mind?’
Rebus said he didn’t.
No one on the street seemed to recognise Cameron Kennedy. He crossed the High Street and nodded towards St Giles’ Cathedral. Rebus followed him into the huge old church. It was empty, save for a party of three tourists who huddled around their guidebook. Rebus and the Lord Provost walked the central aisle.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘Well, sir, it’s about your daughter.’
The Lord Provost’s face became more animated. ‘Have you found her?’
‘No, sir. But I know where she’s been quite recently. You remember those two hoaxers?’
‘Don’t I just. You were in that terrible crash, weren’t you?’
Rebus nodded. ‘The thing is, it may not have been a hoax after all.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, the girl you spoke to on the telephone …’
‘Ach, I don’t think it was Kirstie.’
‘It could have been. There’s evidence she knew the two boys who died.’
