‘You’d prefer it?’
‘There may be a conflict of interests.’ Hunter lifted the walnut handle of his umbrella until it rested under his chin. ‘Of course, I’m a civil servant and you are a policeman: it’s not for me to interfere with your business.’
‘Good of you, I’m sure.’
‘But we are both, are we not, servants of the State?’ Hunter swung the umbrella at some leaves on the ground. ‘All I can say to you at this point, Inspector, is that your inquiries may well interfere with longstanding investigations we are pursuing.’
‘I didn’t know investigation was part of the Scottish Office’s remit, Mr Hunter. Unless you’re talking about an internal inquiry?’
‘You are a clever man, Inspector, and I appeal to your intellect.’
‘To be honest, sir, you don’t appeal to me at all.’
Hunter’s face darkened slightly. ‘Let’s not cross swords on this.’ He swung at more leaves.
‘Cooperation?’
Hunter considered this. ‘Not yet. I’m afraid. The affair is confidential. But later, definitely. Full cooperation. What do you say?’ He held out his hand. ‘A gentleman’s agreement.’
Rebus, knowing himself no gentleman, took the hand, just to put Hunter’s mind at rest. The older man didn’t look relieved, just quietly pleased that negotiations had been bloodless and — in his eyes — successful. He turned to leave.
‘I’ll call you when I’ve something I can say,’ he told Rebus.
‘Mr Hunter? Why did you get McAllister to phone me? Why not just call yourself?’
Hunter smiled with half his mouth. ‘What’s life without a little intrigue, Inspector?’ He negotiated the steps carefully, with a slight limp. Too proud to carry a cane, he used a brolly instead. Rebus waited half a minute, then walked quickly to the gate and peered along the street to the right. Hunter was walking along Waterloo Place as if he owned it. Rebus kept well behind him as he followed.
It was a short walk, only as far as the Reichstag: St Andrew’s House. Which, Rebus recalled, was where the most senior Scottish Office bureaucrats did their business. He recalled, too, that it was built on the site of the old Calton Gaol. Rebus walked past the sooty building and crossed the road. He stood outside the old Royal High School, putative HQ for any Scottish Assembly that might come along. It was mothballed, and a lone protestor had taken up residence outside, his banners arguing for devolution and a Scottish Parliament.
Rebus stared at St Andrew’s House for a couple of minutes, then walked back along Waterloo Place to where he’d illegally parked his car. It had received a ticket, but he could square that later. Over the years, he’d collected more tickets than Haldayne, a wheen more. Do as I say, he thought, not as I do. There had been other ‘fringe benefits’ along the way, too: cafes and restaurants where he ate for free, bars where his money was no good, a baker who’d slip him a dozen rolls. He wouldn’t call himself corrupt, but there were some out there who’d say he’d been bribed, or greased for a future bribe. There were those who’d say he’d been bought.
Do as I say, not as I do. And with that he tore up the parking ticket.
Back at his flat, Rebus got out all the information he had on the Scottish Office. He didn’t find the name Hunter anywhere. The documents were shy about naming names where civil servants were involved, though happy to trumpet the names of the incumbent Secretary of State, Minister of State, and Parliamentary Under-Secretaries, all of whom were either MPs or held seats in the House of Lords. As McAllister had explained, these were the temporary boys, the figureheads. When it came to the permanent force — the senior civil servants — Rebus found only silence and anonymity: modesty, he wondered, or discretion? Or maybe something else entirely.
He called Mairie Henderson at her home.
‘Got a story for me?’ she asked. ‘I could do with one.’
‘What do you know about the Scottish Office?’
‘I know a bit.’
‘Senior management?’
‘There may have been changes since I last looked. Phone the paper, talk to — who’d be best? Home Affairs or Parliament? — yes, Roddy McGurk, talk to him, say I gave you his name.’
‘Thanks, Mairie.’
‘And I’m serious about the story. Inspector …’
Rebus called the newspaper office and asked for Roddy McGurk. He was put through immediately.
‘Mr McGurk, I’m a friend of Mairie Henderson’s. She said maybe you could help me clarify something.’
‘Fire away.’ The voice was West Highland.
‘It’s an identity, actually. A man called Hunter, Scottish Office, late-fifties, uses an umbrella when really he should have a stick …’
McGurk was laughing. ‘Let me stop you there. You’re describing Sir lain Hunter.’
‘And who’s he when he’s at home?’
McGurk laughed again. ‘He is the Scottish Office. He’s the Permanent Under-Secretary, usually known as — ’
‘The Permanent Secretary,’ Rebus said, feeling queasy in his gut.
‘Policy initiator for the whole country. You might call him “Mr Scotland”.’
‘Not a very public figure though?’
‘He doesn’t need to be. In the words of the old song, he’s got the power.’
Rebus thanked McGurk and put the receiver down. He was trembling slightly. Mr Scotland … he’s got the power. He wondered what he’d got himself into.
Then the telephone rang.
‘I forgot to say …’ Mairie Henderson began.
‘Yes?’
‘Remember you asked if there was any dirt on Councillor Gillespie?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, there wasn’t in my day, but I got talking yesterday to someone at BBC Scotland. You know I’m doing some radio stuff down at Queen Street? Anyway, it’s not really Gillespie, it’s about his wife.’
‘What about her?’
‘Word is, she’s involved with someone else.’
‘Having an affair, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Rebus remembered his visit to the councillor’s home. There had seemed little love lost, but at the time he’d blamed other things.
‘Who’s her partner in crime?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘So how does your source at the Beeb know?’
‘He didn’t say, it’s just some rumour he picked up when last in the City Chambers. The way it was told to him, he thinks maybe it’s another councillor.’
‘Well, let me know if you hear anything more. Bye, Mairie.’
Rebus put the phone down and tried to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. He stared at the bags of shredded paper, but they didn’t help. He ended up repeating a question to himself.
What have I got myself into?
28
Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale was in an open ward of the Royal Infirmary, but his bed was in a corner by a window, with a view over the Meadows. He’d drawn the curtain between his own bed and his neighbour’s, affording some privacy. There was a vase of flowers on his bedside cabinet. They looked ready to expire in the hospital’s infernal heat.
‘You can almost see my flat from here,’ Rebus said, looking out of the window.
‘That’s been a constant source of comfort to me,’ Lauderdale said. ‘It’s taken you long enough to visit.’
‘I don’t like hospitals, Frank.’
‘Neither do I. You think I’m in here for the good of my health?’
They shared a smile, and Rebus examined the patient. ‘You look like shite, Frank.’
Lauderdale’s face looked like an infant had tried shaving it with a safety razor. There were dozens of nicks and scars where the windscreen had cut him. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and there were black ugly stitches on his nose. With all the plaster and bandages he sported, he looked like the joke patient from a comedy sketch.