Let It Bleed

‘Is that what you’re investigating, Inspector — impropriety at the SDA?’

Rebus smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t curious. Tell me, does the word Mensung mean anything to you?’

McAllister tried it out. He’d torn open a plastic toothpick, and was working on his mouth. The sight made Rebus’s teeth jangle. ‘I do seem to know it … can’t think why or what it is. Want me to check?’

‘I’d be grateful, sir. One other thing, any connection between the SDA or Scottish Enterprise and the US Consulate?’

Again, McAllister seemed surprised by the question. ‘Well, yes,’ he said at last, as his coffee arrived. ‘I mean, we do try to persuade American companies to locate here, so contacts at a consular level are helpful — vital, even. They were especially so in the eighties.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Microelectronics was booming. Silicon Glen. Locate in Scotland was working superbly. Did I mention LiS? It was part-SDA, part-Scottish office, with a remit to get foreign companies to locate here. Most of its successes were American, mostly in the early to mid-eighties. Rumour had it that its successes had less to do with canny persuasion and economic argument than with a kind of informal freemasonry.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, a lot of top executives in American companies were and are Scottish, either born here or with Scottish roots. LiS would target those individuals and work on them, trying to get them not only to open a factory here, but to persuade other Scots in positions of influence. Look at IBM. Actually, this isn’t an example of LiS at work; IBM has had a presence in Scotland for forty years. They started in Greenock, and they’re still there — the plant’s massive, about a mile and a half long. But what took them to Greenock in the first place? I’ll tell you. It wasn’t economics or a skilled workforce — it was sentimentality. The head of IBM at that time was in love with the west coast of Scotland; and that’s all it was.’ McAllister shrugged and blew on his coffee.

Rebus wanted to go back a stage or two. ‘Is that how a lot of it works? Who you know?’

‘Oh, definitely.’

‘And bribes?’

‘Not for me to say.’

Why not? thought Rebus. You’ve said every bloody thing but. It was two-thirty, the restaurant empty save for their table.

‘I mean,’ McAllister said, ‘one man’s bribe is another’s “financial incentive”. Look at Pergau Dam. There’s always room to bend the rules without necessarily breaking them. Regional Selective Assistance, for example, was and is discretionary. Who’s to say it doesn’t make a difference if the person applying for it went to school with the person who’ll make the final decision? It’s the way the world turns, Inspector.’ He tried to find some dregs of coffee in his cup, then unwrapped the amaretto biscuit.

Rebus paid their bill, and the waiter locked the door after them. McAllister’s face was flushed, his cheeks a network of broken blood vessels. Now that he’d asked his questions, Rebus was keen to be elsewhere. There was something about McAllister he didn’t like. He knew how easy it was to cover something up by talking about it at length. One confession could be made to disguise another. He’d had cleverer men than McAllister in the interview room, but not very many …

The two men shook hands.

‘I appreciate you taking the time and trouble, sir,’ Rebus said.

‘Not at all, Inspector. I appreciate you paying for lunch. Besides, who knows? Maybe one day I might need a favour from you.’ McAllister winked.

‘You might at that,’ Rebus said.

After all, it was the way the world turned, the civil servant was right about that. Rebus turned and headed off in any direction that wasn’t McAllister’s.

22

‘All I’ve got,’ Rebus admitted, ‘are questions and loose ends, and none of it is getting me any closer to why McAnally killed himself or why the councillor’s so scared. Added to that, the Lord Provost sees the word Dalgety scrawled on a sheet of paper and suddenly doesn’t want us looking for his daughter any more.’

He was on the phone to St Leonard’s, speaking with Brian Holmes. The drip from the radiator was getting worse. His mouth was getting worse. Behind him in the living room were the binbags full of paper. All the answers, he felt, were there, just beyond his abilities.

‘So?’ said Holmes.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

Rebus pushed at the skin around his nose, feeling the pressure increase on his poor tooth. ‘The reason I phoned,’ he said, ‘is to ask what the state of play is with friend Duggan.’

Holmes rustled some papers. ‘Now there I can help you. Paul Duggan is Edinburgh’s answer to Rachman. He’s been cheating the council for years. Lives with his parents, doesn’t pay them a penny rent, but he’s applied for and been allotted four council properties … that’s how many we’ve traced so far, there could be others. He doesn’t mind hard-to-let flats, that’s his secret.’

‘How does he do it?’

‘A series of pseudonyms, plus girls he drags along to Housing Office interviews with a few bambinos in tow. The girls are friends of his, the kids aren’t his.’

‘But he becomes their father for the duration of the interview?’

‘And gets himself priority listed. Once he’s been allocated a place, all he does is let it out. I’m amazed he can find anyone for some of them. That place in Saughton was a palace compared to the others in his portfolio.’

Rebus dug into his back pocket and brought out the card he’d taken from the Waverley drop-in. Paul. Cheap rooms.

‘Why do you think,’ Rebus asked, ‘Willie and Dixie had the pick of Duggan’s properties? House that size, he could have squeezed a few more bodies in.’

‘Right enough, the flat I checked in Granton had sleeping-bags in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom.’

Rebus studied the telephone number on the card. ‘Maybe I’ll have a wee word with our friendly slum landlord. Is the Farmer keeping you busy?’

‘He keeps asking if I know what you’re up to.’

‘And what do you tell him?’

‘I can keep my mouth shut. I just hope you know what you’re doing, sir.’

‘Well, Brian, there’s a first time for everything.’

Rebus broke the connection and called the number on the card.

‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice, polite, not young.

‘Eh, is Paul there?’

‘I’ll just get him for you.’

‘Thanks.’

She put the receiver next to the phone, and he could hear her calling for her son, who was probably in his bedroom counting shillings into a sock. Finally, the receiver was picked up.

‘Aye?’

‘Paul?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘My name’s John, I saw your notice at the drop-in centre.’

‘Which one? I’ve got half a dozen notices up.’

‘The one behind Waverley.’

‘Oh aye, right.’