On the first floor, he was met by two solid doors, one with a card pinned to it saying Combined Knitwear, the other with a much older-looking nameplate: J Joseph Simpson Associates. Rebus climbed to the second floor, but the doors here were anonymous and heavily padlocked. He went back down to the first floor and knocked on the door of Simpson Associates, then pushed the door open.
He was in a hallway, much like his own flat’s. Rooms led off, and there was a Reception sign pointing into one of them. The door was already open, so Rebus walked in. Seated behind desk and typewriter, an elderly man was on the telephone. Rebus was not totally surprised to see a male secretary, but he’d never come across such a superannuated one. Paperwork slewed across desk, chairs, and the carpet.
The man looked startled by Rebus’s entry, and slammed the phone down.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Rebus said.
‘Quite all right, quite all right.’ The man made show of gathering up some of the sheets of paper. ‘Now, what can I do for you, sir?’
The man reminded Rebus of Charles Laughton. He was rotund, with several chins, and had puffy, worried eyes with blotched shiny skin. He wore a suit which had been in fashion forty years before, including waistcoat and watch-chain. It struck Rebus for a moment that he would pass for Sir Iain Hunter’s bloated and seedy elder brother.
Rebus showed his ID. ‘Inspector Rebus, sir. I’m interested in a company that used to have its offices here.’
‘Here?’
‘In this building. About eight years ago, were you here then?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘The company was called Mensung.’
‘Curious name.’ The man repeated it silently a few times. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I’ve heard of it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Completely sure.’
‘Maybe if I could have a word with your employer?’
The man smiled. ‘I am my employer. Joe Simpson at your service.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Simpson.’
‘You thought I was the secretary?’ Simpson looked amused. ‘Well, I suppose I am at that. My last secretary left after only two days. Hopeless, these girls the agency sends. It’s all hours with them, don’t ever try to get them to stay a minute later than five o’clock.’ He shook his head.
‘You don’t know who your secretary was eight years ago, Mr Simpson?’
Joe Simpson wagged a finger. ‘You think her memory might be better than my own, but you’d be wrong. Besides, I’ve no idea. There have been so many women at this desk.’ He shook his head again.
‘So, Mr Simpson, eight years ago, what companies were there in this building?’
‘Well, there was mine, of course, and then there was Capital Yarns.’
‘Now Combined Knitwear?’
‘The woman who ran Capital Yarns left in 1989. The place was empty the best part of a year, then a computer showroom opened — that lasted all of three months. The place was empty again until Mrs Burnett arrived. She’s Combined Knitwear.’
‘What about upstairs?’
‘Oh, years back those were offices. Now they’re just stockrooms, have been for a decade or more.’
Rebus was at a dead end, as surely as if he’d stayed on the floor above. He tried Simpson with the name Mensung again, spelt it for him, wrote it down, and all the old man did was twitch his head and say definitely and positively ‘no’. So Rebus thanked him and went back out on to the landing, resting against the banister. These small tenement businesses, there were a lot of them in Edinburgh. Small, shifting and anonymous, he didn’t see how they ever made money. It struck him that he didn’t even know what J Joseph Simpson Associates did. But he was willing to bet there were no associates, perhaps never had been.
He was about to leave when the door of Combined Knitwear opened and two women stepped out. They glanced towards him before continuing their conversation. One of the women wore a coat and carried two bulging plastic bags, which didn’t seem heavy. Wool, Rebus surmised. The other woman wore a knitted two-piece, red and black check, and a string of pearls. A pair of glasses hung by a string around her neck. She was petite, trim, probably Rebus’s age.
‘Well, thanks again,’ she said to the departing customer. Then to Rebus: ‘Can I help?’
‘Mrs Burnett?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded uneasy.
‘Inspector Rebus.’ Again he showed his ID.
‘Is it a break-in? Those stockrooms could have steel doors, they’d still find a way in.’
‘No, it’s not a break-in.’
‘Oh.’ She looked at him. ‘Look, I’m about to put the kettle on, do you fancy a cup?’
Rebus accepted her offer with pleasure.
Combined Knitwear’s premises were laid out like Joe Simpson’s: four rooms leading off a narrow hallway. One room served as an office. Mrs Burnett was in there at the sink, filling a kettle. Rebus looked into the other rooms. Wool. Lots and lots of wool. Deep shelves had been installed to display the stuff. There were boxes of knitting patterns, a Perspex case filled with pairs of needles. The walls and doors were decorated with blown-up photos from the fronts of various knitting patterns. Smiling, untroubled men. Women who looked like models from fifteen or twenty years ago. From a series of dowel-rods on one wall hung skeins of thick white wool. Rebus liked the smell of the place. It reminded him of his mother, and all his aunties and their friends. His mother used to tell him off for using her knitting needles as drumsticks.
He turned and saw that Mrs Burnett was standing in the doorway.
‘You looked very peaceful there for a minute,’ she said.
‘I felt it.’
‘Tea’s about ready.’
‘Do you happen to know what Mr Simpson next door does?’
She laughed lightly. ‘I’ve been wondering that for years.’
‘Years?’
‘Did he tell you I was a newcomer? He doesn’t remember me, but I used to work here when it was Capital Yarns. It wasn’t my business, I was staff. But when I decided to set up for myself, and saw that this place was available — well, I couldn’t help myself.’ She sighed. ‘Sentiment, Inspector. Nostalgia — never be swayed by it. Not too many customers are willing to make the trek from Princes Street. I’d be better off somewhere more central.’
Rebus recalled the story of how IBM had come to set up in Greenock: nostalgia again, but on a grand scale.
He followed Mrs Burnett through to the office. ‘So were you working here eight years ago? Around 1986 or ’87?’
She poured water into two mugs. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Was there an outfit here at that time called Mensung?’
‘Mensonge?’
He spelt it for her.
‘No,’ she said, ‘by that time there was just Mr Simpson and Capital Yarns. You’re sure it was this address?’ Rebus nodded, watching her dip the tea-bags. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’ She handed him the cup. ‘Thanks. Why did you use that pronunciation just now?’
‘Mensonge?’
‘Yes. It sounds French.’
‘It is French. It means lie.’
‘What?’
‘As in falsehood, fib, untruth. Is there something wrong with the tea, Inspector?’
‘No, nothing at all, Mrs Burnett. The tea’s fine. Just fine.’
To make absolutely sure, Rebus asked in the newsagent’s. The owner, who had run the place eighteen years, shook his head. Then Rebus had a word with the letting agency, who confirmed that there was no record of any company called Mensung ever renting office-space at the address.
‘Can you tell me who owns the property?’ Rebus asked. ‘Just out of interest.’
The woman wasn’t sure she could. Rebus stressed again that his inquiries were part of a police investigation, and she gave in.
‘The owner’s name,’ she said, ‘is a Mr J Simpson. As an individual, Mr Simpson rents space to Simpson Associates, Combined Knitwear, and a Mr Albert Costello.’