Let It Bleed

servants — Rebus found only silence and anonymity: modesty, he wondered, or discretion? Or maybe something else entirely.

He called Mairie Henderson at her home.

‘Got a story for me?’ she asked. ‘I could do with one.’

‘What do you know about the Scottish Office?’

‘I know a bit.’

‘Senior management?’

‘There may have been changes since I last looked. Phone the paper, talk to — who’d be best? Home Affairs or Parliament? — yes, Roddy McGurk, talk to him, say I gave you his name.’

‘Thanks, Mairie.’

‘And I’m serious about the story. Inspector …’

Rebus called the newspaper office and asked for Roddy McGurk. He was put through immediately.

‘Mr McGurk, I’m a friend of Mairie Henderson’s. She said maybe you could help me clarify something.’

‘Fire away.’ The voice was West Highland.

‘It’s an identity, actually. A man called Hunter, Scottish Office, late-fifties, uses an umbrella when really he should have a stick …’

McGurk was laughing. ‘Let me stop you there. You’re describing Sir lain Hunter.’

‘And who’s he when he’s at home?’

McGurk laughed again. ‘He is the Scottish Office. He’s the Permanent Under- Secretary, usually known as — ’

‘The Permanent Secretary,’ Rebus said, feeling queasy in his gut.

‘Policy initiator for the whole country. You might call him “Mr Scotland”.’

‘Not a very public figure though?’

‘He doesn’t need to be. In the words of the old song, he’s got the power.’

Rebus thanked McGurk and put the receiver down. He was trembling slightly. Mr Scotland … he’s got the power. He wondered what he’d got himself into.

Then the telephone rang.

‘I forgot to say …’ Mairie Henderson began.

‘Yes?’

‘Remember you asked if there was any dirt on Councillor Gillespie?’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, there wasn’t in my day, but I got talking yesterday to someone at BBC Scotland. You know I’m doing some radio stuff down at Queen Street? Anyway, it’s not really Gillespie, it’s about his wife.’

‘What about her?’

‘Word is, she’s involved with someone else.’

‘Having an affair, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

Rebus remembered his visit to the councillor’s home. There had seemed little love lost, but at the time he’d blamed other things.

‘Who’s her partner in crime?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘So how does your source at the Beeb know?’

‘He didn’t say, it’s just some rumour he picked up when last in the City Chambers. The way it was told to him, he thinks maybe it’s another councillor.’

‘Well, let me know if you hear anything more. Bye, Mairie.’

Rebus put the phone down and tried to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. He stared at the bags of shredded paper, but they didn’t help. He ended up repeating a question to himself.

What have I got myself into?

28

Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale was in an open ward of the Royal Infirmary, but his bed was in a corner by a window, with a view over the Meadows. He’d drawn the curtain between his own bed and his neighbour’s, affording some privacy. There was a vase of flowers on his bedside cabinet. They looked ready to expire in the hospital’s infernal heat.

‘You can almost see my flat from here,’ Rebus said, looking out of the window.

‘That’s been a constant source of comfort to me,’ Lauderdale said. ‘It’s taken you long enough to visit.’

‘I don’t like hospitals, Frank.’

‘Neither do I. You think I’m in here for the good of my health?’

They shared a smile, and Rebus examined the patient. ‘You look like shite, Frank.’

Lauderdale’s face looked like an infant had tried shaving it with a safety razor. There were dozens of nicks and scars where the windscreen had cut him. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and there were black ugly stitches on his nose. With all the plaster and bandages he sported, he looked like the joke patient from a comedy sketch.

‘How are the legs?’ Rebus asked.

‘Itchy.’

‘That’s supposed to be a good sign.’

‘Oh, I’ll walk again … so they say.’ Lauderdale smiled nervously. ‘Maybe I’ll have a limp or two.’

‘Two would be better,’ said Rebus. ‘They’d balance you up.’

‘Want to sign my stookie?’

Rebus looked at the plastercasts on Launderdale’s legs. They’d been signed by several visitors. ‘Which one?’

‘Take your pick.’

Rebus took a ballpoint pen from his pocket. It wasn’t easy to write on the coarse surface, but he did his best.

‘What does it say?’ Lauderdale asked, craning his neck.

‘“Clunk-click every trip.”’

Lauderdale lay back again. ‘What’s happened about those two?’

He meant Willie and Dixie. ‘Search me,’ said Rebus. ‘I’m on holiday.’

‘So I’d heard.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your new boss told me. Frankly, I have my doubts: if I know you, while you’re still in this city, you’ll always be working. How is she shaping up?’

He meant Gill Templer. Rebus nodded. ‘She’s doing fine.’ He wasn’t sure this was what Frank Lauderdale wanted to hear. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. ‘I’ve got a problem actually, Frank.’

‘Of course you have, that’s why you’re here.’

‘It’s not the Lord Provost’s daughter …’

‘You haven’t found her yet?’

‘I’m getting closer. She did know those two in the car.’

‘I’d not heard that.’

Rebus shifted in the chair. ‘I haven’t exactly gone public with it.’

Lauderdale shook his head. ‘Christ, John …’

‘Like I say, she’s not my immediate problem. My problem is a small-time loser called Wee Shug McAnally.’

‘The one who gave himself a sawn-off haircut?’

‘Yes.’ Rebus ran his tongue over the hole in his tooth. ‘See, he shared a cell in Saughton with a fraudster called Derwood Charters. Wee Shug was moved from another jail, and just happened to end up in that cell.’ Rebus