He nodded distractedly. ‘There’s something not right about it.’
‘Oh?’
So he set out what he knew. Gill Templer listened with her chin resting on both hands, a gesture he knew of old. He recognised the perfume she was wearing, too.
‘Hmm,’ she said when he’d finished, ‘a lot of questions. But are they any of our concern?’
He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. Give me a day or two, I might have an answer.’
‘Those two lads on the bridge,’ she said. ‘Another suicide, another connection with the district council.’
‘I know. It could just be coincidence.’
‘I don’t see how it could be anything else. OK, take a day or two, see what you come up with. But report back to me regularly — at least a couple of times a day.’
Rebus stood up. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You’re already managing to sound like a chief inspector.’
‘John,’ she said warningly, ‘remember what I said.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else?’
Gill Templer shook her head. She was already getting down to some paperwork.
Rebus left her office — it was hers now, no doubt about it — and walked straight into Siobhan Clarke.
‘Any news on Paul Duggan?’
‘He’s coming in for a chat this afternoon.’
‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘Need me along?’
She shook her head. ‘Brian and me have perfected our Jekyll and Hyde routine.’
‘Which one of you plays Hyde?’
She ignored this. ‘So what are you up to today?’
It was a good question. Rebus formed his answer. ‘Chasing ghosts,’ he said, making for his desk.
He phoned Tresa McAnally. She’d identified her husband’s clothes, and had been able to identify his body, albeit with the face discreetly covered. Now all that was left for her were the funeral arrangements.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Rebus said, after introducing himself.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just wondered how you were coping.’
‘Oh aye?’ He should’ve known she wouldn’t fall for that sort of patter.
‘You knew your husband was ill, Mrs McAnally?’
‘He told me he was.’
‘Seriously ill though?’
‘He never really said.’
‘Well, what did he tell you was wrong with him?’
‘Where do you want me to start? High blood pressure, kidney stones, ulcers, a heart murmur, emphysema … see, Wee Shug was a bit of a hypochondriac.’
‘But he was ill; he was on medication.’
‘You know what doctors are like, they’ll hand you a placebo and kiss you goodbye. I’ve read the stories, I know what goes on.’ She paused. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the point asking about his health now?’
‘Well, I’ve reason to believe your husband was seriously ill. Terminally ill, Mrs McAnally.’
‘I should’ve guessed,’ she said finally, her tone chastened. ‘He was different when he came out this time, quieter like. Was it the big C?’
‘Yes.’
‘Used to smoke rollies. I always told him, that’s the way my own mother went.’ Another pause as she dragged on her filter-tip. ‘Is that why he did himself in?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Makes sense, eh? Poor wee bugger.’
Rebus cleared his throat. ‘Mrs McAnally, have you any idea where he could have got the gun?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What’s the difference where he got it? He only hurt himself.’
Thinking back to Councillor Gillespie and Miss Profitt, Rebus wondered about that. It seemed to him that Wee Shug McAnally had managed to hurt a lot of people … which brought him to thoughts of Maisie Finch.
‘The funeral’s next Tuesday, Inspector. You’d be welcome at the house.’
‘Thanks, Mrs McAnally. I’ll do my best.’
The sun was out, bathing the tired buildings in dazzling light. Edinburgh’s architecture was best suited to winter, to sharp, cold light. You got the feeling of being a long way north of anywhere, some place reserved for only the hardiest and most foolhardy.
Rebus was glad to be out of the office. He knew he worked best on the street. Besides, the office was a battleground. He knew Flower would already be plotting against Gill Templer, marshalling his forces, waiting for her defences to slip. But she was tough — the way she was handling Rebus was proof of that. He knew she would keep him at arm’s length and beyond. She was right, he did have a bad reputation. She wouldn’t want any of his failures to rub off on her. So what if they’d known one another, had been an item? She was right — it was a long time ago. Now they were colleagues; more than that, she was his acting superior. He hadn’t known many women make chief inspector. Good luck to her.
He drove past the Infirmary, chiding himself for not stopping to visit Lauderdale, and headed for Tollcross. He didn’t want Tresa McAnally this time though.
He wanted her neighbour.
He pressed the buzzer marked FINCH and waited, shuffling his feet. His tooth was acting up. He’d made the mistake of opening his mouth to take a deep breath, and the frozen air had made straight for the nerve. He pressed the buzzer again, hoping he wouldn’t have to visit a dentist.
The intercom came to life.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was neutral.
‘Miss Finch? My name’s Inspector Rebus, we sort of met last night.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come up?’
The door buzzed and Rebus pushed it open. At the top of the stairs, he all but tiptoed past Tresa McAnally’s door. Maisie Finch’s door was ajar. He closed it after him.
‘Miss Finch?’
She emerged suddenly from the bathroom, wearing a short towelling-robe and brushing her hair. He could smell soap and feel the warmth from her body.
‘I was in the bath,’ she said.
‘Sorry to trouble you.’
He followed her into the living room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Half the space was taken up with what looked like a hospital bed, with cast-iron frame, roller wheels, and a side-guard. Next to it was a liver-coloured commode. The mantelpiece was like a chemist’s display, two dozen assorted boxes and bottles standing in a row.
Maisie Finch was moving magazines from the sofa. She motioned for him to sit, and took the commode for herself, tucking one leg under the other.
‘What’s the problem, Inspector?’
Her face was too angular to be good-looking, and she had slightly protruberant eyes, yet she was undeniably … the word that came to his mind was charged. He shifted on the sofa.
‘Well, Miss Finch …’
‘I suppose it’s about Tresa?’
‘In a way, yes.’ He looked at the bed again.
‘It’s my mum’s,’ she explained. ‘She’s house-bound, I have to look after her.’ Rebus made show of looking around for the missing parent, and Maisie Finch laughed. ‘She’s in hospital.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. They take her every few months, just for a few days. It’s to give me a break. This,’ she said, opening her arms wide, ‘is my winter holiday.’
Her movements had loosened her robe. She didn’t seem to notice, and Rebus tried not to look. Men, he thought, are daft bastards.
‘Want something to drink?’ she asked. ‘Or is it too early for you?’
‘One person’s early is someone else’s late.’
She went into the kitchenette. Rebus walked over to the mantelpiece and examined the array of prescription drugs. He found a bottle of paracetamol and shook two into his hand.
‘Heavy night?’ she said, coming back with two bottles.
‘Toothache,’ he explained. He took the narrow bottle. It was chilled.
‘San Miguel,’ she told him. ‘Spanish lager. Know what I do?’ She sat down again, legs apart, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘I stick the heater on as high as it’ll go, shut my eyes and imagine I’m in Spain, poolside at some posh hotel.’ She closed her eyes to prove the point, and angled her head towards an imaginary Mediterranean sun.