‘What would be illegal, Mr Haldayne?’
‘Bribes, money changing hands.’
‘Companies can set up here very cheaply, can’t they?’
‘Some areas, some types of plant, sure. A lot of grant money swilling around, some from the European Community, some from British Government coffers.’
‘There was the DeLorean scandal,’ Rebus said.
‘But the guy did have a sensational car.’
‘And he took the British taxpayer for millions.’
‘You’d still have paid those taxes, Inspector. If DeLorean hadn’t taken them, some other guy would.’ Haldayne shrugged again. His expressions, whether vocal or physical, were always slightly exaggerated, slightly more than you’d get from a Scot.
‘So the Scottish mafia story is true?’
‘I’d guess so. I’m being as open with you as I can.’
‘I appreciate it, sir.’
‘Hey, you’re the one holding those parking tickets at my head.’ Another chuckle. ‘What kind of coffee is this?’
‘Decaf.’
‘It’s not bad actually, but I do miss that caffeine rush. Waiter!’ A teenager trotted over. ‘Can I have a double espresso? Thank you.’ Haldayne turned back to Rebus. ‘So what’s the story here, Inspector? We don’t seem to be talking about Derry Charters any more.’
‘Just part of an ongoing inquiry, sir. I’m not at liberty to — ’
‘Well, that’s hardly fair, is it? Hardly British?’
‘You’re not in Britain now, Mr Haldayne.’
‘But I’ve told you mine, now you should tell me yours.’
Rebus saw that Haldayne was having a good deal of fun at his expense. Suddenly he didn’t know how much of Haldayne’s story to believe. Lies usually came gift-wrapped in a thin tissue of truth. Rebus knew he would have to examine the wrappings later.
‘Come on, Inspector,’ Haldayne persisted. ‘You’re checking up on Derry, this much I know. But he’s still serving time, right? So what has he done — set up some paper company from his cell?’
‘Paper company?’
‘You know, one that exists only on paper.’ Haldayne came to an abrupt stop and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
He’s stalling, thought Rebus. Why is he stalling? The espresso arrived, and Haldayne took a couple of appreciative mouthfuls, regaining his composure.
‘I came here in good faith, Inspector,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t need to speak to a man who’s not here in his official capacity.’ Haldayne saw the look on Rebus’s face, and smiled. ‘I wanted to check that you were who you said you were. We US diplomats can’t be too careful these days. Your chief inspector told me you’re on official leave.’
Rebus took a bite from his scone, saying nothing.
‘For a man on leave, Inspector, you sure as hell look busy to me.’ Haldayne finished his cup of sludge. ‘I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but in fact it has been deeply frustrating.’ He started to push his arms back into the sleeves of his coat. ‘I don’t expect to be troubled by you again, Inspector. I sent a cheque off today to cover those parking fines. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no other reason for you to contact me.’
‘Who do you know who lives in Royal Circus?’
Haldayne was disconcerted by the question. ‘In the New Town?’
‘That’s the only Royal Circus I know.’
Haldayne made show of thinking about it. ‘Not a soul,’ he said brightly. ‘My superior might move in those kinds of circles, but not me.’
‘What kinds of circles?’
But Haldayne wasn’t about to answer that. He got to his feet and made a little formal bow from the waist. ‘I hope you don’t mind picking up the tab, Inspector.’ Then he turned and walked away.
Rebus let him go. He had plenty to think about, and plenty of coffee still to drink.
27
Rebus had two options: he could go home and wait for the Farmer or Gill to catch him; or he could go to St Leonard’s and get it done with. He chose the latter route.
He’d been in the building less than three minutes before the Farmer spotted him.
‘My office — now.’
Rebus noticed that the Farmer’s computer was up and running. It had taken over his desk. The photo of his family had been moved to the top of the filing-cabinet.
‘Getting to grips with it all right, sir?’ Rebus asked. But the Farmer was not to be deflected.
‘What the hell are you playing at? I ordered you to take a holiday!’
‘And I’m enjoying every minute, sir.’
‘Making a nuisance of yourself at a foreign consulate, that’s your idea of fun?’
‘I couldn’t afford to go abroad.’
‘The way you’re going, maybe you can’t afford not to.’
‘It was just a bit of unfinished business, sir.’
‘What sort of unfinished business?’
‘It’s not really a police matter, sir.’
The Farmer glowered at him. ‘I hope to God that’s the truth, Inspector.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die, sir.’
‘You’re one step from an official reprimand, two steps from suspension.’
And three steps from heaven, Rebus thought. He told the Farmer he understood.
In the main office, he checked for messages. There were half a dozen, stuck on to the screen of his new PanoTech computer. Around him he could hear the soft clack-clack of muffled keyboards. He stared at his own console as if it was an unfriendly visitor. His reflection stared back at him.
Three of the messages were from Rory McAllister at the Scottish Office. Rebus picked up the telephone.
‘McAllister speaking.’
‘Mr McAllister, it’s John Rebus.’
‘Inspector, thanks for getting back to me.’ McAllister sounded relieved, but also edgy, not like himself.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Can we meet?’
‘Sure, but give me some idea — ’
‘Calton Cemetery at one o’clock.’ The phone went dead.
During the day, Calton Cemetery was more or less deserted. In summer, you’d get visitors looking for David Hume’s grave. The more knowledgeable or curious might seek out the resting places of the publisher Constable and David Allan the painter. There was a statue of Abraham Lincoln, too, if it hadn’t been sledgehammered by vandals.
At one o’clock on a crisp winter’s day, nobody was interested in headstones. Such, at least, was Rebus’s first impression as he walked through the cemetery gate. But then he saw that a gentleman was perusing the monuments, using a black rolled umbrella as a walking-cane. What hair he had mixed black with silver, and was slicked back from the forehead. His face and ears were red, maybe just from the cold, and he wore a black woollen overcoat, belted at the waist.
He saw Rebus, and gestured for him to join him. Rebus climbed the stone steps towards him.
‘Haven’t been here in years,’ the man said. His voice had been Scots once, before the inflexions and elisions had been milked out of it. ‘I take it you’re Rebus?’
Rebus studied the man. ‘That’s right.’
‘McAllister’s not coming. I’m a colleague of his.’
Close up, the man’s face was pockmarked and he had one slightly lazy eye. With his free hand, he played with the cashmere scarf tucked inside the collar of his coat.
‘What’s your name?’ Rebus asked. The man seemed both surprised and amused by the question’s bluntness.
‘My name’s Hunter.’ Something about the way he said this, and his whole bearing, told Rebus he wasn’t so much McAllister’s colleague as his superior.
‘Well, Mr Hunter, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m interested in your line of inquiry, Inspector.’
‘And what line is that, sir?’
‘You were asking certain questions of McAllister.’ A bus roared past, and Hunter raised his voice. ‘The line of those questions intrigues me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because the Scottish Office likes to take an interest.’
‘In what exactly?’
The bus gone, Hunter lowered his voice again. ‘I’ll be succinct. I’d prefer it, Inspector, if you would discontinue your present line of inquiry. I don’t believe it germane.’