Rebus washed the pills down with lager. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum though,’ he said.
She opened her eyes, not pleased to have her reverie broken. ‘Everyone tells me what a saint I am.’ She mimicked a much older woman: ‘“There’s no’ many like you, hen.” Too right, there’s not many as daft as me. You know how some people say life’s passing them by? Well, in this case it’s a fact. I sit on the commode between her bed and the window, and just stare out at the street for hours on end, listening to her breathing, waiting for it to stop.’ She looked over at him. ‘Have I shocked you?’
He shook his head. His own mother had been bed-ridden; he knew the feeling. But he hadn’t come here for any of this.
‘Sitting by the window all day,’ he said, ‘you must have seen Mr McAnally coming and going?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’ She stood up abruptly.
‘Mrs McAnally’s all right though?’
She was moving towards the kitchenette, but stopped and turned on him. ‘I’m not the saint; that woman’s the saint! She’s suffered, you wouldn’t believe how she’s suffered.’
‘I think I would.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘Married to an animal like that.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what he did to me?’ Rebus nodded, and she took a step back, recovering. ‘You do?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘I’m here because I’m curious, Miss Finch. I mean, you still live next door, you’re friends with his wife.’
‘What? You think mum and me were going to move out … because of him?’
‘Something like that.’
‘She’s been offered sheltered accommodation, but in Granton. We’ve always lived in Tollcross. We always will.’
‘This last week, it must have been awkward.’
‘I kept out of his way. You can bet he kept out of mine.’ She was by the window now, staring down on to the street, her back resting against the wall. It was as if she didn’t want to be seen. ‘He deserved what he got.’
Rebus frowned. ‘You mean, what he did to himself?’
She looked at him, blinked. ‘That’s what I said.’ Then she smiled and put the bottle to her lips.
11
The Ballistics facility at Howdenhall Forensic Science Lab wasn’t Rebus’s idea of a good time. There were too many guns around for his liking. He read the report and looked up at the white-coated scientist who’d prepared it. The other thing Rebus didn’t like about Howdenhall, all the forensic boffins looked about nineteen years old. They’d been in their smart new building a year, and still looked pleased with themselves. The new facility had been financed by selling property, including police homes. Rebus didn’t want to know how many homes the lab had cost.
‘Not much, is there?’ he said.
The white coat, who liked to be called Dave, laughed. ‘You CID,’ he said, plunging his hands into his pockets, ‘you always want more. Who fired it? Where did he get it?’
‘We know who fired it, smart-arse. But your second question’s a good one. Where did he get it?’
‘I’m Ballistics, not Intelligence. It’s a common enough make of shotgun, the identifiers have been filed off. We’ve tried the usual processes, and there’s no chance of recovering them. The cartridges were common stock, too.’
‘What about the barrel?’
‘What about it?’
‘When was it filed off?’
Dave nodded. ‘The edge the file left is still shiny; say in the last couple of months.’
‘Have you checked the register?’
‘Of course.’ Dave led Rebus to a computer terminal and punched a couple of keys. ‘There are over seventy thousand shotgun certificates on issue.’
Rebus blinked. ‘Seventy thousand?’
‘Compared to thirty-odd thousand for all other firearms combined. Nobody’s really concerned about the amount of shotguns around.’ He tapped another key. ‘See? Ownership’s highest in rural areas — Northern, Grampian, Dumfries and Galloway. It’s not some brewhead from Gorgie that’s buying these things, it’s the establishment: farmers, landowners.’
‘What about thefts?’
‘They’re on the computer, but I’ve checked. Nobody around Edinburgh has lost a shotgun recently.’
‘Can I take a look anyway?’
‘Sure.’ Rebus sat down and Dave punched the keyboard again. The list of recently reported thefts was not large; nearly all of them were south of the border. ‘Want a print-out?’
‘Yes.’ Not that a print-out would help him.
‘What’s the big deal anyway?’ Dave asked. ‘It’s a simple suicide, isn’t it?’
‘Suicide’s still an offence.’
‘The only one we don’t prosecute after the fact. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘But there may be things some people aren’t telling me.’ He took the print-out and folded it into his pocket. ‘One other thing.’
‘What?’
‘The prints on the gun, were they the deceased’s?’
Dave seemed amused by the question. ‘His and his alone. What are you up to, Inspector?’
But John Rebus wasn’t about to answer that.
‘Thank you for coming in, Councillor.’
Rebus had just come into the interview room. He’d been biding his time outside the door, letting Tom Gillespie get a bit nervous. An interview room could do that; it could destroy all your pre-planning. You walked in knowing what you were going to say, the line you were going to take with the police, but then the room started to work on you.
The thing was, it was just a room — crime prevention posters on the walls, a table, three chairs, four electrical sockets. There was a tin ashtray, commandeered from a local pub. The walls were creamy matt custard, institution yellow, and there was strip lighting on the ceiling. The lights burred continuously, an almost subliminal electric hum. Rebus wondered if it was that noise that got to people. He guessed there was a simpler truth: the interview room was in a police station, and if you were there, you were going to be interviewed by the police.
And when it came down to it, everyone had something to hide.
‘Not at all,’ Gillespie said, crossing one leg over the other to let Rebus know how relaxed he was. ‘I hear the poor devil was an ex-prisoner.’
‘He’d served just under four years for the rape of a minor.’
‘Four years doesn’t seem very long.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ They sat in silence for a moment, until Gillespie broke it.
‘I had a friend once who committed suicide. He was still at university — this is going back a while. He was worried about exams, and his girlfriend had left him.’ He paused. ‘Left him for me. I should add.’
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Rebus asked.
‘I thought smoking was forbidden in police stations.’
‘If it bothers you, I won’t light it.’ He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and offered one to Gillespie. The councillor shook his head.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t light up.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus, putting away cigarettes and lighter both. Well, he thought, this is interesting. The guy’s been studying for this exam. Tells a personal story, one that doesn’t paint him in the rosiest glow, and then asserts his authority. And all it was supposed to be was a few follow-up questions.
‘How did he do it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Who?’
‘Your friend.’
‘Flung himself out of the halls of residence. Fifth floor. He was still alive, so they took him to hospital, checking for broken bones and internal bleeding. They were so busy, they didn’t notice he’d taken an overdose before the jump.’
‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘both are fairly common roads out, aren’t they? You leap or you sleep. Mr McAnally, on the other hand …’
‘You were at the Forth Road Bridge, weren’t you? When those two kids jumped? I saw your name in the paper.’