‘Hello, Anthony.’ Rebus knew the man. He was one of Edinburgh’s homeless, one of the army who sold copies of The Big Issue every twenty yards or so along Princes Street. Rebus usually bought a copy from Anthony, whose sacred pitch was outside the St James Centre. ‘Here to help us with our enquiries?’
Anthony gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Just keeping warm. I told the desk officer I was waiting for DC Reynolds, only I saw Mr Reynolds go into the Hopscotch Bar on Dalry Road.’
‘Which means he’s on for a sesh.’
‘And I can sit here till somebody tumbles.’
A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.
‘You know the way, sir?’
‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’
‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’
Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.
‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.
Davidson looked up, then groaned.
‘I want a favour,’ Rebus said, walking into the room.
‘Now there’s a surprise.’
‘Have you heard about Warrender?’
‘Shotgun suicide?’ News got around. Davidson closed his paper.
‘The man with the plan was called Hugh McAnally, lived in Tollcross.’
‘I know Wee Shug. Wee Bastard’s more like it. He’d only just come out of Saughton.’
‘Maybe he was pining.’
‘Want a drink?’
‘Coffee maybe.’
But Davidson was reaching for his coat. ‘I said a drink.’
‘So long as you’re not suggesting the Hopscotch. Rat-Arse Reynolds is in there.’
Davidson knotted his tartan scarf. ‘All right, let’s scotch the Hopscotch. And since you’re buying, you get to choose.’
Rebus chose a big public house near Haymarket Station. The public bar was seething, but the saloon was quiet. They ordered doubles.
‘Too cold outside to be drinking lager,’ Davidson said. ‘Your health.’
‘And yours.’ Rebus sipped and swallowed, feeling the liquid doing its immediate, no-nonsense business. It was almost too good sometimes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about Wee Shug.’
‘Ach, he was a small-timer, used to specialise in hopeless house-breakings.’
‘Used to?’
‘He moved on to reset, counterfeiting, this and that.’
‘So how long had he been inside?’
‘This stretch, you mean? Funny that, when I heard he was out I did a quick calculation. He’s out early, served a bit under four years.’
‘Well, if all we had him on was reset …’
Davidson was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, you misunderstand. My fault. He wasn’t sent down for any of his usual tricks.’
‘What then?’
‘Rape of a minor.’
‘What?’
Davidson nodded. ‘Thing is, we nailed him for it, but with hand on heart I don’t know if it was a clean result.’
‘Explain.’ Rebus signalled for two more whiskies.
‘Well, the lassie was fifteen, but everyone said the same thing — fifteen going on thirty-five. Not a shy lass at all, you should read the interview transcripts. But she was adamant he’d raped her. She was a minor, and the Procurator-fiscal went ahead with the prosecution. I wasn’t too bothered; getting Wee Shug off the street was fine by me.’
‘Was he living in Tollcross at that time?’
‘That’s always been his patch.’
Rebus paid for the second round of drinks. ‘Was he the violent type?’
‘Not that I ever saw. I mean, he had a temper when roused, but who doesn’t? That was the thing about the rape, there were no physical injuries.’
‘What about corroboration?’
‘We had a bundle of circumstantial evidence. Neighbours heard raised voices, a scream, the girl herself was in a terrible state, crying and all. Plus Wee Shug admitted having sex with her, said he knew it was illegal and all but, as he put it, “only by a few months”. The girl said it wasn’t consensual, and we just about put together a case.’
‘Say, for the sake of argument, that it was consensual.’
‘Yes?’
‘Then he’s just come out of a four-year stretch for something he didn’t do.’
Davidson shrugged. ‘You’re looking for a motive behind the suicide?’
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Suicides interest me right now.’
‘And we’re always looking for motives, eh, John?’
Rebus drank his drink. ‘What about guns? Did he ever have anything to do with firearms?’
‘Nothing. But he’s probably still got cronies out there who know where to get them.’
‘It was a sawn-off.’
‘I can believe it. You couldn’t get a full-length shotgun in your mouth and be able to pull the trigger. Far easier with something shorter.’
‘Messy though.’
‘No doubt, but it would do the job. You don’t want to go off half-cocked, do you? With a sawn-off, there’s less margin for error.’
‘No margin at all,’ said Rebus.
It was only when they were leaving that he thought to ask a question.
‘McAnally’s victim, what was her name again?’
Davidson had to think about it. ‘Mary something. Mary Finlay. ‘No …’ He screwed shut his eyes. ‘Mary Finch.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘Maisie Finch?’
Davidson thought again. ‘That’s it, Maisie.’
‘She lives next door to the McAnallys.’
‘Did then, too. She’d known them for years.’
‘Christ,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I’ve just sent her down to the mortuary to help Tresa McAnally identify her husband.’
‘What?’
‘Do me a favour, will you? Lend me a car and a driver.’
‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you myself.’
But by the time they reached the mortuary, it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back towards the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.
10
‘He what?’ Rebus said.
He was on the phone from St Leonard’s to Dr Curt at the university’s Pathology Department. They kept Curt and his colleagues busy, no mistake about that. On top of police work, Curt had a full teaching load in the Faculty of Medicine, and did crossover lectures to law students too.
But then Curt had an advantage over mere mortals: he never slept. You could call him out at any hour, and he was always alert. You could catch him in his office at eight in the morning.
It was actually eight-fifteen, and Rebus was nursing a large black decaf coffee from the early-opening deli on the Pleasance.
‘Morning deafness, John?’ Dr Curt said. ‘I repeat, he was dying anyway.’
‘Dying how?’
‘Great big bloody tumours. Pancreas and large colon to start with. The man must have been in agony. I’m willing to bet the toxicology tests show the presence of powerful painkillers.’
‘You mean he was out of his box?’
‘He’d have to be to stand the pain.’
Rebus frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Haven’t you heard of voluntary euthanasia, self-inflicted in this case?’
‘Yes, but with a sawn-off shotgun?’
‘Well, that’s not my department. I can give you effect, not cause.’
Rebus terminated the call and went to see his chief inspector.
Gill Templer had made more changes to Lauderdale’s office. She’d brought in a few framed photographs of nieces and nephews, and a thriving yucca plant had appeared. There were also a couple of cards wishing her well in her new job.
‘I hear you were at that suicide last night,’ she said, motioning for him to sit.