‘I’m thinking what a defence lawyer could do with them.’
‘I can think up a story between now and then.’
‘So what am I supposed to do with them?’
‘You’re heading a murder investigation, Davidson. The identities of whoever planned Gillespie’s murder are in there. So take them back to Torphichen Place and get a team working on reassembling the pages.’
‘I can’t see my boss going for it; we’re short-handed as it is. Can’t you take them to St Leonard’s?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Know why? I don’t know who I can trust, and the last thing I want is for these bags to be conveniently mislaid. So: you tell no one what all this paper is, and you tell no one where you got it. When you’ve put together the jigsaw, I’ll bet you’ll have names
‘Generous to a fault,’ said Davidson, picking up one of the bags.
They drove to the mortuary to talk with Professor Gates, but he was eating lunch in the university Staff Club, so they climbed up from the Cowgate to Chambers Street.
Rebus had been in the Staff Club before, and knew that if you looked like you belonged, you could breeze in. But the porter came out to stop them, so maybe they didn’t look the academic type. Rebus showed his ID, and that made everything all right again.
Gates was dining alone, a newspaper folded on the table beside his plate. A half-bottle of wine and a bottle of water stood in front of him.
‘What brings you here?’ he said as they sat down. ‘You’re not eating?’
‘No, thanks,’ Davidson said.
‘A drink maybe,’ Rebus prompted.
‘I can recommend the water,’ Gates said, protecting his wine.
They decided on beer, which the waitress would bring from the bar.
‘What can I do for you?’ the pathologist asked, dissecting a last floury potato.
‘Just wondered if you’d anything for us.’
‘On last night’s stabbing? Give me a chance, will you? Have you located the murder weapon?’
‘No,’ Davidson admitted. ‘We didn’t find any footprints either. The ground in the cemetery was frozen.’
‘Well, it was a long-bladed knife, serrated by the look of the skin around the wound. And that’s about as much as I can say for now. The victim had tried to protect himself, there were defence nicks on the hands. Plus he’d been eating something greasy. There was grease on his fingers.’
Rebus looked at Davidson. ‘Did you find any wrappings near the body?’
‘Nothing fresh. What’s your point?’
‘Gillespie ate a big meal at eight — chicken casserole, two helpings. Do you think he ate it with his fingers?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So how come less than three hours later he decides to visit a chip shop?’ Rebus turned to the pathologist. ‘When you look at stomach contents, I’m willing to bet you won’t find anything but chicken casserole.’
‘I did think,’ the pathologist said, ‘that it was odd. I mean, most people would wipe their fingers afterwards. But this grease or lard, it was quite solid.’
Which told Rebus everything he needed to know.
35
It was still lunchtime when Rebus walked into the chip shop on Easter Road, and two men in jackets and ties queued behind a teenager in a thin parka with the stuffing bursting from its seams: Rebus waited at the back of the queue, and smiled and waved towards the server, who didn’t return the greeting.
Finally it was Rebus’s turn. ‘Hello, Gerry.’ Gerry Dip wiped the work surface where some sauce had spilt. ‘Remember me?’
‘What do you want?’
Rebus leaned over the counter. ‘I want to know where you were last night between the hours of nine p.m. and eleven, and it better be the alibi to end them all.’
‘What for?’ Gerry Dip said.
Rebus just smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go for a ride.’
‘I can’t. I’m here on my own.’
‘Then switch everything off and we’ll lock the door after us, maybe put up a sign saying “Other fish to fry”.’
Gerry Dip bent down as if reaching for a switch, and then flicked something across the counter at Rebus. It was a battered fish, straight out of the fat. Rebus ducked and it flew over his head, fat spattering him. Gerry Dip was on the move, shouldering open the door to the kitchen. Rebus ran around the counter and followed. In the kitchen, Dip had hauled a sack of potatoes on to its side and was already halfway out the back door. Rebus stumbled over the potatoes, dived and just missed Dip’s ankles. He clambered to his feet and ran outside, finding himself in an alley. To his left was a dead end. To his right, Gerry Dip, running for it, the white apron flapping around his knees.
‘Stop him!’ Rebus yelled.
Davidson didn’t need telling twice. He was waiting at the mouth of the alley, hands in pockets like a casual onlooker. But as Dip ran past, he flung out an arm and caught him in the throat. Dip flew back like he was attached by elastic to the ground. His hands went to his throat and he started gagging.
‘You could have crushed his windpipe,’ Rebus said, but not in a nasty sort of way.
At four p.m., with Gerry Dip still maintaining his vow of silence in the interview room, Rebus went for a drive.
Gerry was an old hand: he knew how to play the game called Helping Police With Their Inquiries. He’d keep quiet, with or without a solicitor. All he’d said so far was that this was harassment, and that he wanted to talk to someone from SWEEP. It would take more than Rebus’s gut feeling to convict him of murder. There must needs be evidence. Rebus had explained to Davidson the complex series of connections which had brought Gerry Dip to mind. Now it was up to Davidson to convince his superiors that there was due cause for the granting of a search warrant for Gerry Dip’s digs and the chip shop itself. The chip shop’s owner had already explained that Gerry hadn’t had a shift the previous night. Rebus saw it all clearly. A meeting arranged, Gillespie turning up, Gerry Dip surprising him, Gillespie trying to defend himself from the attack, grabbing at Dip’s greasy shirt or jacket …
One thing nagged: Gerry Dip alone couldn’t have lured Gillespie into the trap. There must have been someone else, someone he trusted, someone he wanted to meet …
The Right Honourable Cameron McLeod Kennedy, JP, had a detached bungalow in what would have tried calling itself Corstorphine had South Gyle not taken off. The houses were descendants of the boxy bungalows on Queensferry Road. There weren’t many cars parked roadside; most of the bungalows boasted a garage, or at the very least a car-port. Rebus parked outside the Lord Provost’s home. The door was open before he had reached the garden gate. The Lord Provost stood in the doorway, his wife a little behind him.
‘You were so mysterious on the phone,’ Kennedy said, shaking Rebus’s hand. ‘Is there any news?’
‘The Lord will do as He sees fit,’ his wife burst out, the voice booming from her heavy frame. The Lord Provost ushered her back indoors and led Rebus to the front sitting room.
‘I’ve seen her,’ Rebus said.
‘Where is she?’ Mrs Kennedy snapped. Rebus studied her. She had wide unblinking eyes and small pudgy hands which she’d rolled into fists. Her hair had been coaxed into an untidy bun, and her cheeks blazed. Rebus guessed at West Highland stock; it wasn’t a wild stab in the dark to say she’d had a religious upbringing. For zeal, some of the Wee Frees could beat any Muslim Fundamentalists.
‘She’s safe, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘I know that! I’ve prayed for her, of course she’s safe. I’ve been praying for her soul.’
