‘We’re here to talk about McAnally, Councillor.’
‘Well, guns are a popular mode of suicide too, aren’t they?’
‘Maybe among gun owners, but McAnally didn’t own a gun and probably had never used one before.’
Gillespie uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. ‘But given his background, he’d find it easy enough to take possession of a gun.’
‘I agree,’ said Rebus. ‘All the same …’
‘What?’
‘Why go to all the bother? I mean, even if you’re determined to blow your head off, why walk from Tollcross to Warrender in the middle of a blizzard with this big heavy gun clutched beneath your jacket? And why walk into a school which would have been locked tight on every night of the month except one?’ Rebus had risen to his feet. He rested his buttocks against the edge of the table and folded his arms. ‘Why walk into a classroom and make sure Councillor Tom Gillespie is present? Why do that? Why did he specifically want to top himself in front of you? No other witnesses, no one else invited. It doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘Well, the man was obviously unhinged … maybe on drugs.’
‘I’ve just seen the toxicology results. The police lab has all these smart machines — ’
‘At Howdenhall?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I was there for the official opening.’
‘Well, the results show that the deceased had had a couple of drinks, but no drugs, not one single painkiller.’
‘What’s your point, Inspector?’
Rebus turned around so that his hands were resting on the table. He was leaning over Gillespie, and Gillespie wasn’t enjoying it.
‘See, Councillor, Wee Shug McAnally was dying. He didn’t have long to live at all. His insides were rotten, and he should have been doped to the eyeballs to stand the pain. Those drugs, though, they make your brain mushy, and Wee Shug didn’t want that. He wanted to be compos mentis when he pulled the trigger.’ Rebus stood up straight. ‘Makes even less sense now, eh?’ He popped the cigarette back into his mouth.
‘Look, I don’t see what any of this has to do with me.’
‘Frankly neither do I. All I know is, it has something to do with you. Now what could that be?’
‘There was a line of perspiration on Gillespie’s top lip. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Rebus walked to the far wall and lit his cigarette. He didn’t think the councillor would object.
‘Look,’ Gillespie said quietly, ‘I really don’t see any connection between this man McAnally and me, none at all. I’ve never met him, never heard of him, and he didn’t live in my ward.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he held some sort of mad grudge, something linked to his time in prison.’
Rebus walked slowly back to the table and sat down opposite Gillespie. ‘That’s it?’ he said. ‘That’s your explanation?’
‘I don’t have an explanation! I just … give me a cigarette, please.’
Rebus lit the cigarette for him.
Gillespie studied the burning tip, then looked at Rebus. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I’ve already told you, Councillor, I’ve to prepare a report on a sudden, violent death, and there are inconsistencies.’
‘You mean you don’t know why he did it?’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘Well, I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’ Gillespie got to his feet, making ready to leave.
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Gillespie glared at Rebus, then sat down again. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I think you’re hiding something.’
‘Such as?’
‘That’s what I have to find out … before I can finish my report.’
‘Are all policeman like you?’
‘No. Some of them you wouldn’t want to meet.’
‘I meet quite a few actually. A colleague of mine — regional councillor rather than district, but the same party — is chair of Lothian and Borders Joint Police Board.’ Gillespie drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thin stream. ‘He’s quite a good friend.’
‘It’s always nice to have friends.’ Rebus said.
Gillespie got to his feet again. ‘Look,’ he began. He swung his arms, as if he was deciding to say something he’d rather not say. ‘I promised …’ He sighed and sat down yet again. ‘This may mean something or nothing, Inspector.’ Rebus busied himself tidying the end of his cigarette against the ashtray. ‘It’s Helena, Helena Profitt.’
‘Your ward secretary?’
‘She … she told me she knew him.’
‘McAnally?’
Gillespie nodded. ‘When McAnally came into the room and saw her … there was a moment when he just stared. I asked her about it afterwards, and she told me she’d known him a long time ago. She wouldn’t say any more than that.’
12
‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’
‘Huh.’
‘You keep poking it with your finger.’
‘Nothing’s wrong with it.’ But Rebus knew something was wrong; he was just hoping it would go away. There was pressure inside his gum and top lip, a dull, unpleasant sensation that was now spreading either side of his nose. It felt as if his whole face should be swollen, but it was just a little red beneath the nose — and that could have been the drink or the weather.
‘Whose idea was this?’ he said, folding his arms around himself. They were walking on Portobello beach, the only souls mad enough in this seizure-inducing wind.
‘Mine,’ said Mairie Henderson.
Rebus had turned up at her flat expecting a hot drink and a soft couch, but instead she’d dragged him out for what she euphemistically called her ‘constitutional’.
‘You’d have to have the constitution of an ox to survive this,’ Rebus muttered to himself. The blasts of air against his ears meant he could barely hear what Mairie was saying, and every time he opened his mouth to yell something back, the malevolent air flooded in and attacked his tooth again. Mairie ran to a wall and hunkered down with her back against it. Her cheeks looked as if they’d been sandblasted; which in a sense they had.
Rebus crouched beside her, thankful for the shelter. He liked to take an interest in Mairie, especially now she was a freelance journalist. He worried about that lack of salary, but she seemed to be doing all right.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘what exactly did you come up with?’
She smiled. ‘You forget, I used to cover local government, regional and district councils. It was my first job on the paper. I didn’t have to do much digging.’ She leaned forward and drew a circle in the sand. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘Give me some background.’
‘District council, not regional?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, about the only glamorous angle attached to district councildom is the fact of a big budget, which means only the four major cities are worth the candle.’
‘From a journalist’s perspective?’
‘It’s the only perspective I can give.’ She pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘Therefore, being a district councillor is not an attractive proposition. You’ve got long, boring working hours, requiring you to take time off from your daytime job, plus eating into your evening hours, since a lot of the meetings are evening affairs, as are surgeries if they’re not on a Saturday.’
‘OK, so I won’t be standing for councillor, unless the money compensates.’
Mairie shook her head. ‘It’s not great for such a thankless task. Of course, you can claim expenses, plus if you chair a committee there’s a bonus, but even so … For all these reasons and others, you find that councillors tend to fall into one of several groups: retired, unemployed, self-employed, or with an affluent spouse.’
‘The first two because they’ve got lots of time, the last two because they can make time?’
She nodded. ‘Result? A lot of councils are not what you’d call dynamic. Edinburgh’s more interesting than most.’