murder, Mrs Gillespie.’

‘Now, John,’ Davidson complained, ‘we don’t know …’

But Audrey Gillespie looked into Rebus’s eyes, and saw something there she could trust. She blinked away the tears. ‘He was very secretive,’ she said quietly, forcing herself to be calm. ‘I mean, about whatever it was he’d been working on. He’d been at it for months — for the best part of a year, actually. I used to curse the hours he put in. He told me it would be worth it, he said we should always focus on the long view. By that he meant he would one day be an MP, it was what he lived for.’

‘You’ve no inkling what this project of his was?’

She shook her head. ‘It was something he’d discovered while serving on the committee, and I know it was to do with accounting. I could work that much out from the kinds of things he was reading — balance sheets, profit- and-loss accounts … I trained as an accountant, something Tom sometimes forgot. I run a string of shops now, but I still handle the books. I could have helped him, but he always had to do everything for himself.’ She paused. ‘You know, the only reason he really needed me was my money. I’m sorry if that sounds heartless.’

‘Not at all,’ Davidson said.

‘Were these company accounts, Mrs Gillespie?’ Rebus persisted.

‘I think they must have been, the numbers involved: hundreds of millions of pounds.’

‘Hundreds of millions?’

So it wasn’t just Mensung, or even Charters’ empire. It was much bigger. Rebus thought of PanoTech, and then recalled that someone else had used the phrase ‘hundreds of millions’ … Rory McAllister, or someone like him.

‘Mrs Gillespie, could these figures have been to do with the SDA?’

‘I don’t know!’ She slumped back on to the sofa.

‘OK, John,’ Davidson said, ‘you’ve had your say.’

But Davidson might as well not have been there.

‘You see, Mrs Gillespie,’ Rebus said, sitting down beside her, ‘the thing is, someone tried to scare your husband, and it worked. They paid a man called McAnally to put the fear of God into him. I don’t know if they knew how far McAnally would go. McAnally confronted your husband, and I think gave him a message, a warning of some kind. Then McAnally killed himself, just to force the warning home. He was dying anyway, and he’d been paid handsomely. Your husband got scared, rightly so, and rented that shredder so he could destroy everything he’d been working on, all the evidence.’

‘Evidence of what?’ she asked.

‘Of something very big. Now, McAnally slipped up, he died too spectacularly, and that got me curious. I don’t think I’ve discovered even half what your husband knew, but that’s not the point. The point is, these people suspect either that your husband was helping me — maybe he’d given me his notes — or that he would talk to me eventually. Either way, they decided he was beyond scaring. They had to go a bit further.’

‘What you’re saying is that, if you’d left well alone, Tom might still be alive.’

Rebus bowed his head. ‘I accept what you’re saying, but I didn’t kill your husband.’ He paused. ‘I’d like to find out who did.’

‘What can I do to help?’

Rebus glanced towards Davidson. ‘You can start by telling us anything you think might help. And you could go through your husband’s papers; there might be some clue there.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Will I be in danger, too?’

Rebus laid a hand on hers. ‘Not at all, Mrs Gillespie. Look, is there no one Tom might have confided in?’

She started to shake her head. ‘No, wait … there is someone.’ Then she got up and left the room. Davidson was staring grimly at Rebus.

‘See,’ Rebus told him, ‘you’re great with the hearts and flowers, but weakness is there to be exploited.’

Davidson didn’t say a word.

Audrey Gillespie carried a desk diary into the room. ‘This is last year’s,’ she said, sitting down next to Rebus. ‘Tom began all this cloak-and-dagger stuff back in May, but it only really took off in October and November.’ She flipped to the pages for those months. Each day had its fill of meetings and engagements.

‘See?’ Mrs Gillespie said, pointing to a page. ‘These meetings here. Two this week ’ she flipped a couple of pages — ‘two the next ’ two more pages — ‘then three more.’

The meetings were just a series of times, plus the same two letters — CK. ‘Cameron Kennedy,’ Rebus said.

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’ Davidson asked. He’d come over to the sofa to look at the diary.

‘The Lord Provost,’ Mrs Gillespie explained. ‘They kept meeting for lunch. I remember because Tom had to have his suits dry cleaned; he had to look his smartest for the Lord Provost.’

‘He didn’t tell you why they were meeting so often?’ Rebus had taken the diary from her and was flipping through it. There were no meetings with ‘CK’ until October, after which they took place once a week at least.

‘Tom hinted there might be a good job in it come reorganisation. He’s in the same political party as the Lord Provost.’

‘This is interesting,’ Rebus said, sitting back, the better to peruse the diary.

Davidson had some questions to ask — the usual ones — so Rebus excused himself. He found Helena Profitt seated at the kitchen table, tugging at a lace handkerchief.

‘Terrible thing,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus, sitting down opposite her. He thought of Charters’ ‘subtlety’, and the way Davidson had confronted the widow, and still he couldn’t find an easy way to ask what he wanted to ask. ‘Miss Profitt, this may not be the time …’ She looked at him. ‘But I was wondering if you knew … that is, if you had any suspicion that Mrs Gillespie and her husband …?’

‘You mean,’ she said softly, ‘what was their marriage like?’

‘Yes.’

Her face turned stony. ‘That’s despicable.’

‘This is a murder inquiry, Miss Profitt. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your sensibilities, but questions must be asked. The sooner I ask them, the sooner we may catch the killer.’

She thought that over. ‘You’re right. I suppose. But it’s still despicable.’

‘Was Mrs Gillespie having an affair?’

Helena Profitt didn’t say anything. She rose from the table and buttoned her coat.

‘All right,’ Rebus said, ‘what about the Lord Provost? Did Councillor Gillespie tell you why they kept meeting?’

‘Tom told me he had to brief him.’

‘What about?’

‘He didn’t say. Something to do with the Industry Committee, I expect. Is that all, Inspector?’

Rebus nodded, and Helena Profitt walked out of the kitchen. He heard the front door open and close. I handled that beautifully, he thought.

He got back to the living room just as Davidson was closing his notebook and thanking Audrey Gillespie for her time.

‘Not at all,’ the widow replied, polite to the last.

Rebus and Davidson sat in the car outside, talking things over. They were pulling away when Rebus saw another car cruising the street, seeking a parking space. It was a sporty Toyota the colour of ashes.

‘Stop for a second,’ Rebus said. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch the Toyota manoeuvre into a space. Its door opened and Rory McAllister got out, looking anxious. He locked the car, tidied his hair, and side-stepped puddles on his way to Audrey Gillespie’s front door.

Rebus took Davidson to Arden Street and up the two flights to his flat.

‘Got something for you,’ he said, pointing to the binbags in the hall.

Davidson stared in amazement. ‘The shredded documents?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I won’t ask how you came by them.’

‘Mrs Gillespie isn’t going to kick up a fuss, especially if they help us find the killer.’

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