‘I’ve got friends, Nelly. They’ll take care of it.’
Nelly’s face brightened. ‘You’re the best, Johnny.’ On his feet now. ‘Don’t let any of the bastards tell you different.’
Hunter got up. They hugged, wished one another Happy New Year as the siren in the club sounded, releasing balloons. The DJ put on ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and it was like they were kids again, getting to stay up late this one night of the year, ginger cordial and madeira cake. Sneaking into the kitchen for swigs of whisky and brandy, giggling at each new pleasure revealed to them.
And when Hunter let his brother go, and watched him put an arm around Panda, and saw them vanish into the haze in front of his eyes, he felt a stab of terror for what he would have to become in this new millennium, and for all the things he would do, and the pleasures he would of necessity forgo.
In the Frame – AN INSPECTOR REBUS STORY
Inspector John Rebus placed the letters on his desk.
There were three of them. Small, plain white envelopes, locally franked, the same name and address printed on each in a careful hand. The name was K. Leighton. Rebus looked up from the envelopes to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. He was in his forties, frail-looking and restless. He had started talking the moment he’d entered Rebus’s office, and didn’t seem inclined to stop.
‘The first one arrived on Tuesday, last Tuesday. A crank, I thought, some sort of malicious joke. Not that I could think of anyone who might do that sort of thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘My neighbours over the back from me… well, we don’t always see eye to eye, but they wouldn’t resort to this.’ His eyes glanced up towards Rebus for a second. ‘Would they?’
‘You tell me, Mr Leighton.’
As soon as he’d said this, Rebus regretted the choice of words. Undoubtedly, Kenneth Leighton would tell him. Rebus opened the first envelope’s flap, extracted the sheet of writing-paper and unfolded it. He did the same with the second and third letters and laid all three before him.
‘If it had been only the one,’ Kenneth Leighton was saying, ‘I wouldn’t have minded, but it doesn’t look as though they’re going to stop. Tuesday, then Thursday, then Saturday. I spent all weekend worrying about what to do…’
‘You did the right thing, Mr Leighton.’
Leighton wriggled pleasurably. ‘Well, they always say you should go to the police. Not that I think there’s anything serious. I mean, I’ve not got anything to hide. My life’s an open book…’
An open book and an unexciting one, Rebus would imagine. He tried to shut out Leighton’s voice and concentrated instead on the first letter.
Mr Leighton,
We’ve got photos you wouldn’t want your wife to see, believe us. Think about it. We’ll be in touch.
Then the second:
Mr Leighton, £2,000 for the photos. That seems fair, doesn’t it? You really wouldn’t want your wife to see them. Get the money. We’ll be in touch.
And the third:
Mr Leighton,
We’ll be sending one reprint to show we mean business. You’d better get to it before your wife does. There are plenty more copies.
Rebus looked up, and caught Leighton staring at him. Leighton immediately looked away. Rebus had the feeling that if he stood behind the man and said ‘boo’ quite softly in his ear, Leighton would melt all down the chair. He looked like the sort of person who might make an enemy of his neighbours, complaining too strenuously about a noisy party or a family row. He looked like a crank.
‘You haven’t received the photo yet?’
Leighton shook his head. ‘I’d have brought it along, wouldn’t I?’
‘And you’ve no idea what sort of photo it might be?’
‘None at all. The last time somebody took my picture was at my niece’s wedding.’
‘And when was that?’
‘Three years ago. You see what I’m saying, Inspector? This doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It must make sense to at least one person, Mr Leighton.’ Rebus nodded towards the letters.
They had been written in blue ball-point, the same pen which had been used to address the envelopes. A cheap blue ball-point, leaving smears and blots of ink. It was anything but professional-looking. The whole thing looked like a joke. Since when did blackmailers use their own handwriting? Anyone with a rudimentary education in films, TV cop shows and thriller novels knew that you used a typewriter or letters cut out of newspapers, or whatever; anything that would produce a dramatic effect. These letters were too personal to look dramatic. Polite, too: that use of ‘Mr Leighton’ at the start of each one. A particular word caught Rebus’s attention and held it. But then Leighton said something interesting.
‘I don’t even have a wife, not now.’
‘You’re not married?’
‘I was. Divorced six years ago. Six years and one month.’
‘And where’s your wife now, Mr Leighton?’
‘Remarried, lives in Glenrothes. I got an invite to the wedding, but I didn’t go. Can’t remember what I sent them for a present…’ Leighton was lost in thought for a moment, then collected himself. ‘So you see, if these letters are written by someone I know, how come they don’t know I’m divorced?’
It was a good question. Rebus considered it for a full five seconds. Then he came to his conclusion.
‘Let’s leave it for now, Mr Leighton,’ he said. ‘There’s not much we can do till this photo arrives… if it arrives.’
Leighton looked numb, watching Rebus fold the letters and replace them in their envelopes. Rebus wasn’t sure what the man had expected. Fingerprints lifted from the envelopes by forensic experts? A tell-tale fibre leading to an arrest? Handwriting identified… saliva from the stamps and the envelope-flaps checked… psychologists analysing the wording of the messages themselves, coming up with a profile of the blackmailer? It was all good stuff, but not on a wet Monday morning in Edinburgh. Not with CID’s case-load and budget restrictions.
‘Is that it?’
Rebus shrugged. That was it. We’re only human, Mr Leighton. For a moment, Rebus thought he’d actually voiced his thoughts. He had not. Leighton still sat there, pale and disappointed, his mouth set like the bottom line of a balance sheet.
‘Sorry,’ said Rebus, rising.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Leighton.
‘What?’
‘Six wine glasses, that’s what I gave them. Caithness glass they were too.’
‘Very nice I’m sure,’ said Rebus, stifling a post-weekend yawn as he opened the office door.
But Rebus was certainly intrigued.
No wife these past six years, and the last photograph of Leighton dated back three years to a family wedding. Where was the material for blackmail? Where the motive? Means, motive and opportunity. Means: a photograph, apparently. Motive: unknown. Opportunity… Leighton was a nobody, a middle-aged civil servant. He earned enough, but not enough to make him blackmail material. He had confided to Rebus that he barely had £2,000 in his building society account.
‘Hardly enough to cover their demand,’ he had said, as though he were considering actually paying off the blackmailers, even though he had nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Just to get them off his back? Or because he did have something to hide? Most people did, if it came to it. The guilty secret or two (or more, many more) stored away just below the level of consciousness, the way suitcases were stored under beds. Rebus wondered if he himself were blackmail material. He smiled: was the Pope a Catholic? Was the Chief Constable a Mason? Leighton’s words came back to him: Hardly enough to cover their demand. What sort of civil servant was Leighton anyway? Rebus sought out the day-time telephone number Leighton had left along with his home address and phone number. Seven digits, followed by a three-figure extension number. He punched the seven digits on his receiver, waited, and heard a switchboard operator say, ‘Good afternoon, Inland Revenue.’ Rebus replaced the receiver with a guilty silence.