Let It Bleed

The Lord Provost looked at him. ‘Evidence?’

‘Something we found in a bedroom.’ Rebus brought out the business plan and handed it to the Lord Provost. ‘This is yours, isn’t it, sir?’

The Lord Provost studied it. ‘Where did you say you found it?’

‘It was hidden in the bedroom belonging to one of the boys. Do you know when and where you lost it?’

‘No, I … It was a while back. I thought I’d taken it home with me …’

‘Kirstie probably took it with her when she left.’

The Lord Provost nodded slowly.

‘The question is, why? I mean, did it have any significance for her?’

‘I don’t see how it could.’

‘Me neither, I was hoping you might help. Take a look at the last page, please.’

The Lord Provost turned to the last page and looked startled.

‘Did you write that, sir?’

‘No.’ He was staring wide-eyed at the name.

‘Is it Kirstie’s writing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, do you know what it means?’

The Lord Provost shook his head slowly and closed the report. ‘Inspector, I … it seems to me maybe I’m making too much fuss over Kirstie. I’m sure she’s managing fine.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I’m grateful to the police for trying to trace her, but maybe it’s time to call a halt.’

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why now?’ He made to take the report back, but the Lord Provost was folding it into his pocket.

‘Does there have to be a reason?’

‘Is it something to do with that report?’

‘You’ve read it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’s just an initial report of a possible business venture.’

‘In Gyle Park West?’ The Lord Provost nodded. ‘A new subsidiary of PanoTech?’

‘You’re well informed, Inspector.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious why Kirstie would take it, and why it was kept hidden, like it had some importance.’

Kennedy smiled. ‘It’s of no importance, Inspector. It’s a projection, it’s just something that might happen. God knows we could do with it.’

‘Why’s that, sir?’

‘The jobs, of course.’

‘Tell me, is the LABarum plan before any committee at present?’

The Lord Provost sat in a pew. Rebus sat one pew in front of him. ‘I don’t see what that could have to do with my daughter.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘It will be discussed soon, yes.’

‘By Councillor Gillespie’s industry committee?’

‘Initially, yes. Look, I really don’t see what this has to do with Kirstie. I accept that she could have taken the document from my office at home. I’d say if it was anything, it was an act of pure rebellion — she took it because she could.’

‘Is she a rebel then, sir?’

‘Aren’t all teenagers?’

‘Not all teenagers are drug-users, sir.’

Rebus watched the colour come back to the Lord Provost’s cheeks. ‘What did you say?’

‘That’s why you didn’t have a more recent photo to give us. Junkies aren’t exactly photogenic.’

The Lord Provost shot to his feet. ‘How dare you!’ The tourists stopped consulting their guidebook.

‘Then tell me I’m a liar,’ Rebus said quietly. The Lord Provost opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll take back what I said.’

Cameron Kennedy’s eyes were glistening in the half-light. He looked all around him, at the frayed standards hanging limply from the walls, at the altar and the windows and the roof. Then he looked back to Rebus, shook his head, and walked away.

Rebus sat a few minutes by himself, hands clasped in his lap. He didn’t exactly feel good about himself, but then that was nothing new.

21

The name of SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office was Rory McAllister, and he agreed to meet Rebus for lunch the next day, suggesting an Italian restaurant at the top of Leith Walk.

When Rebus arrived at twelve-thirty, McAllister was already there. He’d just about completed the Scotsman crossword with an elegant chrome ballpoint pen. He stood up long enough to shake hands. Rebus noticed he was drinking mineral water.

‘Stick to the businessman’s lunch,’ McAllister prompted, as a waiter handed Rebus an oversized menu. So Rebus stuck to the businessman’s lunch.

Rory McAllister was in his late thirties with thinning, neatly cut hair and a face which still seemed to bear traces of both puppy-fat and acne. He peered at Rebus with eyes slightly narrowed, as if he might need spectacles but was too vain to wear them. His dark wool suit went well with a cream-coloured shirt and grey tie, knotted tightly at the throat.

Every inch the civil servant, Rebus thought. McAllister’s voice was educated Edinburgh: nasal and lilting, not wanting to let go of the ends of syllables.

‘So, Inspector,’ he said, putting his newspaper out of sight under the table, ‘your call was intriguing. What is it you want exactly?’

‘I want you to tell me about the Scottish Office, Mr McAllister. I also need to know about the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

‘Well,’ McAllister started to unwrap a bread-stick, ‘let’s order while I collect my thoughts, shall we?’ He spoke to the waiter in a quiet, firm voice. Rebus knew the type: loud only in agreement, never in denial; when roused to anger, he’d bet McAllister’s voice would drop to a whisper.

‘The tomato soup’s not bad,’ Rebus was informed. ‘Ditto the veal, but the pollo is very good, too. And as for the wine …’ Rebus shrugged assent with any suggestion McAllister might make. ‘A half each of house white and red.’ The civil servant snapped shut the wine list, another piece of business brought successfully to a close. He waved to two diners across the room. Their suits were like a uniform. The restaurant was filling quickly; half the diners looked like refugees from New St Andrew’s House.

‘So.’ McAllister clapped his hands together and rubbed them. ‘You want to know about the Scottish Office. Well, shall I start at the bottom or the top? You’ve met me, so that’s the bottom taken care of.’ He smiled to let Rebus know this was a joke. Sammy had said McAllister was a high-flier, clever and dedicated.

And helpful.

‘So,’ he went on, ‘maybe I’ll start at the top — the top, of course, being one of two men, depending on your situation. You can say that the Secretary of State for Scotland is the head of the Scottish Office, and as far as the public is concerned you’d be right. But politicians come and go, the Scottish Office remains.’

‘You’re saying the real head is the most senior civil servant?’

‘Exactly, and that’s the Permanent Under-Secretary, more usually known as the Permanent Secretary.’

‘Why bother with two titles?’

McAllister laughed, a sound like a pig at the trough. ‘Don’t question; just accept.’ A basket of bread rolls