‘Ah,’ Dr Keene said at last, ‘there we are.’ Rebus could feel something nasty trickling down his throat. The pressure beneath his nose was easing. Like bleeding a radiator, he thought. ‘Drill into the poison,’ the dentist was saying, almost to himself, ‘and you relieve the pressure.’
Yes, Rebus thought, that was absolutely right.
The dentist gave the rest of his mouth a once-over. The assistant had a card in her hand and was writing on it as Dr Keene recited a litany of decay.
‘I won’t do any of these fillings today,’ he said to Rebus’s relief.
Eventually he was allowed to rinse and spit, and the assistant removed the elasticated bib from around his neck. Rebus ran his tongue around his mouth. There was a gaping hole in the back of one of his front teeth.
‘We’ve got to let that drain, give it a few days. Once it’s drained, I can do the root canal. All right?’ And he smiled at Rebus. ‘Incidentally, when did you last have your teeth checked?’
‘Eleven, twelve years ago.’
The dentist shook his head.
‘I’ll make up your appointments,’ the assistant said, leaving the room. Dr Keene removed his latex gloves and went to wash his hands.
‘Now that we all wear gloves,’ he said, ‘I don’t really need to wash them. But I’ve done it for thirty years, hard to break the habit.’
‘You wear the gloves because of HIV?’
‘Yes. Well, goodbye then, Mr — ’
‘Inspector Rebus, actually.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wonder if I might have a word?’ Rebus knew he was mumbling — the anaesthetic had frozen his mouth. But Dr Keene had no trouble understanding him.
‘You mean officially?’
‘Sort of. I believe you know a man called Derwood Charters?’
Dr Keene snorted and started rearranging his instruments.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Rebus said.
‘Very much to my cost. Like you, he walked into my surgery one day requiring treatment. Then I bumped into him socially. We met a few more times, and he put a proposition to me.’
‘A financial proposition?’
‘He needed investors for a start-up. The man had a proven track record, he’d helped finance the PanoTech start-up for one thing, and you’d hardly call that a failure. Mind, I didn’t just take his word for anything; I had my accountant look at the figures. The projections seemed sound, professionally done.’
‘What was the company?’
‘Derry was very persuasive, he always stipulated the downside of any project. Somehow, the more he talked them down, the more attractive he made them sound. He came across like he wasn’t trying to sell you anything. The scheme I invested in, the company was going to profit from the downturn in the economy. That was the downside: other people’s misery was going to make his investors money. He was offering retraining and counselling for employees who suddenly found themselves “reorganised” out of a job. He explained that once the company was up and running — it was to be called Albavise — he’d be able to draw on European Community grants, Scottish Office funding, all that. What he needed was start-up capital.’ Dr Keene paused. ‘Know what? I believed him then and I believe him now: if he’d used the money to start the company, it would have succeeded.’
‘But he didn’t set up a company, did he?’
Dr Keene sighed. ‘He used it to pay off debts, and to finance his lifestyle. He’d picked out ten investors, each handing over five thou. Fifty thousand pounds, Inspector, and he blew the lot inside three months.’
Yes, and then tried to do a runner. Only, one of his investors had an accountant who was sharper than most. Charters was arrested as he made to board the shuttle to London.
‘Once they started investigating his affairs — the Inland Revenue, Fraud Squad, what have you — they found a lot of discrepancies, none of which Derry was willing to discuss. He kept his peace all through the trial.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Has something happened?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Early days yet, sir.’ The stock response, but Dr Keene accepted it.
‘It wasn’t the cash that hurt, you know,’ he told Rebus. ‘It was that sense of betrayal.’
‘I can imagine.’
The Charters case-notes had made for fascinating reading. For example, Rebus now knew that Frank Lauderdale had been attached to the Fraud Squad at the time they’d been investigating Albavise and Derwood Charters’ other business interests. Thinking back on it, Rebus did recall a period when Lauderdale had been away from Great London Road. But Lauderdale was the least interesting part of it. For the man who had been head of the Fraud Squad back then, Chief Superintendent Allan Gunner, was now deputy chief constable of Lothian and Borders Police.
And that wasn’t all …
‘Dr Keene, do you know a man called Haldayne? Spelt with a y.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s American, works at the consulate.’
Dr Keene was shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t know him. Is it important?’
‘He’s another of the investors ripped off over Albavise. I thought you might have met, that’s all.’
‘We might have met in court, had any witnesses been called. But Charters changed his mind at the last minute and pled guilty.’
‘Really? Any idea why?’
‘None. My solicitor was amazed. The case against him was by no means watertight and, as I say, he had a very good track record. It was possible he might have gone free, or at least got off with a heavy fine. But instead, he went to jail. I’ve often wondered why he did that.’
Rebus was wondering the same thing. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘to protect someone or something that could have come to light at the trial.’
‘But who or what?’
Rebus just smiled and winked. He collected his coat and put it on in the hallway. The assistant had already gone home. There was an appointment card on her desk. Dr Keene picked it up and handed it to Rebus.
‘See you in a few days.’
Rebus looked at the card. There was a long column of appointments listed on its back. Six of them. Dates and times.
‘Dr Keene,’ he said, ‘exactly how many fillings do I need?’
‘Fifteen,’ the dentist said matter-of-factly. Then he saw Rebus to the door.
26
That night, Rebus went to see Tresa McAnally.
The tenement door wasn’t locked, so he climbed the stairs to her flat. He could hear music inside, good-time music, and the sounds of hands clapping in time. Rebus pressed the bell and waited, then pressed it again. The music was turned down. A voice came from behind the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Inspector Rebus.’
‘Wait a minute, will you?’ She was a long time opening the door; even then she kept the chain on. ‘What do you want?’
Behind her, the door to the living room was closed. There was a case of mixed spirits on the hall carpet. Tresa McAnally was dressed casually — baggy T-shirt, tight black slacks, looped gold earrings — and she was sweating from recent exertion.
‘Can I come in?’ Rebus asked.
‘No, you can’t. What is it?’
‘It’s about Wee Shug.’
‘He’s dead, end of story.’ She made to close the door. Rebus pushed his hand against it.
‘Where did the money come from, Tresa?’
‘What money?’
‘The money you spent on the flat.’
‘You’ve no right to — ’
‘Maybe not, but I’ll keep coming back till you tell me.’
‘Then you’ll be coming back till doomsday.’
Rebus smiled. ‘That may be closer than you think.’ He lifted his hand from the door, but she didn’t shut it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who’s in there with you?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody?’
Not even Tresa McAnally was brass-necked enough to repeat the lie. She pushed the door closed.