Let It Bleed

They relocked the door behind them, and walked up the slope just before the gates were closed for the night.

41

Rebus couldn’t sleep.

He sat in his chair smoking a cigarette, reading the file the DCC had prepared — maybe ‘crafted’ was a better word. He’d done a good job of making it look so thorough while leaving so much out. He played part of the tape, using headphones so he could turn the volume up. Sir Iain was right about one thing — any lawyer listening to the tape would think that the police officer present hadn’t done very much. Rebus found that his hand was shaking. He hadn’t had a drink all day, and didn’t especially want one now. He was just a bit scared, that was all. He wasn’t sure he had enough, even now … especially now.

Then he thought of something, something he’d almost persuaded himself to forget, and reached for the phonebook, finding the page, running his finger down the names, then along to a particular address. A flat on Dublin Street.

It was past three o’clock when Rebus got there, the streets dead, not even any taxis rippling over the setts. Rebus pressed the buzzer and waited, then pressed it again. Then a third time, keeping his finger on it this time.

The intercom crackled into life. ‘What? What?’

‘Mr McAllister?’ Rebus inquired, as if it was the middle of the day.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Inspector Rebus. If you’re alone, I’d like to come up for a word.’

Rory McAllister was half dressed and less than half awake. He was on his own.

Rebus walked around the spacious living room, admiring the ornaments and books, while McAllister made them both a cup of coffee.

Then they sat down opposite one another. McAllister rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

‘So what is it, Inspector?’

Rebus put his mug down on the polished wooden floor. ‘Well, it’s just this, sir. That day we met for lunch, you were … well, how can I put it? It struck me afterwards that you were too enthusiastic, too willing to talk. Then I saw you going to see Audrey Gillespie and … well, I started thinking.’

McAllister tried to hide behind his steaming mug. ‘About what?’

‘You don’t deny you went to see Mrs Gillespie?’

‘Not at all. I know her, of course. I met her husband several times, professionally and socially. Mrs Gillespie accompanied her husband on those social occasions.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And the other occasions — there’s interaction between the district council and the Scottish Office?’

‘Of course, and both Councillor Gillespie and myself worked on an industry remit.’

‘Mmm,’ Rebus said. ‘And did the councillor know you were seeing his wife behind his back?’

‘Now hang on — ’

‘Let me finish. You see, Mr McAllister, all this stuff Tom Gillespie found out, is it possible he could have gleaned so much unaided? Someone had to be passing him the information, perhaps anonymously.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Never mind, you’ll catch up. I think you found out about Mensung and PanoTech and Charters’ other scams. Sir Iain trusted you, had you pegged as a possible successor. Maybe he had you go into Mensung to make sure there was nothing that could come to light.’ Rebus stood up. ‘Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Because you either passed the information on so you could scupper Sir Iain — in other words, for the public good. Or you did it to keep Gillespie busy and out of the way while you enjoyed a fling with his wife — which might be called the private good. Either way, I think you did it.’

‘And you were generous enough to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night to let me know your suspicions?’ McAllister sat back in his chair, hands pressed to his chin as if in prayer.

‘I came here,’ Rebus said, ‘because if you did it only to smooth your affair with Audrey Gillespie, then I’m sunk. Whereas, if you really did want to get at Sir Iain, then we could be of use to one another.’

McAllister looked up and frowned. ‘How?’

So Rebus sat down again and told him.

It was Sir Iain he wanted. He’d cancelled out all the other numbers in the equation, except Charters and Sir Iain. And Sir Iain was one possible route to Derry Charters. Rebus wanted him. He wanted him because people like Sir Iain Hunter were always in the right, even when they were wrong. Sir lain lived and worked by the same ground rules a lot of villains swore by. He was selfish without appearing to be, full of arguments and self-justifications. He espoused the public good, but lined his pockets with the public’s money. He wasn’t so very different from the likes of Paul Duggan. If Rebus tried hard enough, he found he could blame Sir lain for the fates of Willie Coyle and Dixie Taylor. Kirstie had run away from home because her father had been shown the city’s corrupt heart, and wasn’t going to do anything about it. But the heart was artificial, and Sir lain Hunter was working the bellows.

When Rebus climbed the stairs to his flat, he found someone huddled in his doorway. It was Sammy. His hand on her shoulder woke her up, and she sprang to her feet.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been phoning you all day. I was worried about you.’ There were dried tearstains down both her cheeks. ‘I thought I’d wait for you here.’

He let her in. She looked around the living room and saw the duvet on the chair. ‘Is this where you sleep?’

‘Some nights,’ Rebus said, lighting the fire.

‘You can’t get much rest there.’

‘It’s all right. Do you want anything to drink?’ She shook her head.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

He puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled. ‘I think so, just about.’ He sank into his chair. ‘I’m a bit scared, that’s all. I’m going to do something tomorrow; it may not turn out the way I want.’

‘One reason I wanted to see you,’ she began. ‘I can’t get it out of my mind, that note … and what happened. I thought maybe if you could tell me the story, it would help.’

Rebus smiled. ‘It’s not exactly a bedtime story.’

His daughter had curled up in front of the fire, and held a cushion against her chest. ‘Tell me anyway,’ she said.

So Rebus told her, leaving nothing out — it was no less than she deserved. And afterwards, she fell asleep still clutching the cushion. Rebus placed the duvet over her, turned the fire down low, and sat down in his chair again, tears falling so softly that he knew he wouldn’t wake her.

He was wearing his best suit.

Flower had phoned first thing to say he wasn’t going. He didn’t explain, didn’t need to. Rebus didn’t need any more from him. Flower was thinking tactically: if it all went wrong — as it well might — Flower would be in the foxhole. He still had Rebus’s promise: chief inspector. If it all worked out.

Sammy had helped him with his grooming. He hadn’t had much sleep, but he didn’t look too bad considering, and the suit definitely helped.

‘Patience chose it for me,’ he told his daughter.

‘She has good taste,’ Sammy agreed.

He phoned first, stressing secrecy and urgency. There were problems, but finally he was given fifteen minutes in the mid-morning. Fifteen precious minutes. He had a bit of time to kill, so paced the flat, emptied the jar and put it back under the radiator, found his dental appointment card and tore it up.

Sammy gave him a good luck kiss as he left the flat.