‘You mean,’ she said softly, ‘what was their marriage like?’
‘Yes.’
Her face turned stony. ‘That’s despicable.’
‘This is a murder inquiry, Miss Profitt. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your sensibilities, but questions must be asked. The sooner I ask them, the sooner we may catch the killer.’
She thought that over. ‘You’re right. I suppose. But it’s still despicable.’
‘Was Mrs Gillespie having an affair?’
Helena Profitt didn’t say anything. She rose from the table and buttoned her coat.
‘All right,’ Rebus said, ‘what about the Lord Provost? Did Councillor Gillespie tell you why they kept meeting?’
‘Tom told me he had to brief him.’
‘What about?’
‘He didn’t say. Something to do with the Industry Committee, I expect. Is that all, Inspector?’
Rebus nodded, and Helena Profitt walked out of the kitchen. He heard the front door open and close. I handled that beautifully, he thought.
He got back to the living room just as Davidson was closing his notebook and thanking Audrey Gillespie for her time.
‘Not at all,’ the widow replied, polite to the last.
Rebus and Davidson sat in the car outside, talking things over. They were pulling away when Rebus saw another car cruising the street, seeking a parking space. It was a sporty Toyota the colour of ashes.
‘Stop for a second,’ Rebus said. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch the Toyota manoeuvre into a space. Its door opened and Rory McAllister got out, looking anxious. He locked the car, tidied his hair, and side-stepped puddles on his way to Audrey Gillespie’s front door.
Rebus took Davidson to Arden Street and up the two flights to his flat.
‘Got something for you,’ he said, pointing to the binbags in the hall.
Davidson stared in amazement. ‘The shredded documents?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I won’t ask how you came by them.’
‘Mrs Gillespie isn’t going to kick up a fuss, especially if they help us find the killer.’
‘I’m thinking what a defence lawyer could do with them.’
‘I can think up a story between now and then.’
‘So what am I supposed to do with them?’
‘You’re heading a murder investigation, Davidson. The identities of whoever planned Gillespie’s murder are in there. So take them back to Torphichen Place and get a team working on reassembling the pages.’
‘I can’t see my boss going for it; we’re short-handed as it is. Can’t you take them to St Leonard’s?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Know why? I don’t know who I can trust, and the last thing I want is for these bags to be conveniently mislaid. So: you tell no one what all this paper is, and you tell no one where you got it. When you’ve put together the jigsaw, I’ll bet you’ll have names and motives. Come on, I’ll help you load your car.’
‘Generous to a fault,’ said Davidson, picking up one of the bags.
They drove to the mortuary to talk with Professor Gates, but he was eating lunch in the university Staff Club, so they climbed up from the Cowgate to Chambers Street.
Rebus had been in the Staff Club before, and knew that if you looked like you belonged, you could breeze in. But the porter came out to stop them, so maybe they didn’t look the academic type. Rebus showed his ID, and that made everything all right again.
Gates was dining alone, a newspaper folded on the table beside his plate. A half-bottle of wine and a bottle of water stood in front of him.
‘What brings you here?’ he said as they sat down. ‘You’re not eating?’
‘No, thanks,’ Davidson said.
‘A drink maybe,’ Rebus prompted.
‘I can recommend the water,’ Gates said, protecting his wine.
They decided on beer, which the waitress would bring from the bar.
‘What can I do for you?’ the pathologist asked, dissecting a last floury potato.
‘Just wondered if you’d anything for us.’
‘On last night’s stabbing? Give me a chance, will you? Have you located the murder weapon?’
‘No,’ Davidson admitted. ‘We didn’t find any footprints either. The ground in the cemetery was frozen.’
‘Well, it was a long-bladed knife, serrated by the look of the skin around the wound. And that’s about as much as I can say for now. The victim had tried to protect himself, there were defence nicks on the hands. Plus he’d been eating something greasy. There was grease on his fingers.’
Rebus looked at Davidson. ‘Did you find any wrappings near the body?’
‘Nothing fresh. What’s your point?’
‘Gillespie ate a big meal at eight — chicken casserole, two helpings. Do you think he ate it with his fingers?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So how come less than three hours later he decides to visit a chip shop?’ Rebus turned to the pathologist. ‘When you look at stomach contents, I’m willing to bet you won’t find anything but chicken casserole.’
‘I did think,’ the pathologist said, ‘that it was odd. I mean, most people would wipe their fingers afterwards. But this grease or lard, it was quite solid.’
Which told Rebus everything he needed to know.
35
It was still lunchtime when Rebus walked into the chip shop on Easter Road, and two men in jackets and ties queued behind a teenager in a thin parka with the stuffing bursting from its seams: Rebus waited at the back of the queue, and smiled and waved towards the server, who didn’t return the greeting.
Finally it was Rebus’s turn. ‘Hello, Gerry.’ Gerry Dip wiped the work surface where some sauce had spilt. ‘Remember me?’
‘What do you want?’
Rebus leaned over the counter. ‘I want to know where you were last night between the hours of nine p.m. and eleven, and it better be the alibi to end them all.’
‘What for?’ Gerry Dip said.
Rebus just smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go for a ride.’
‘I can’t. I’m here on my own.’
‘Then switch everything off and we’ll lock the door after us, maybe put up a sign saying “Other fish to fry”.’
Gerry Dip bent down as if reaching for a switch, and then flicked something across the counter at Rebus. It was a battered fish, straight out of the fat. Rebus ducked and it flew over his head, fat spattering him. Gerry Dip was on the move, shouldering open the door to the kitchen. Rebus ran around the counter and followed. In the kitchen, Dip had hauled a sack of potatoes on to its side and was already halfway out the back door. Rebus stumbled over the potatoes, dived and just missed Dip’s ankles. He clambered to his feet and ran outside, finding himself in an alley. To his left was a dead end. To his right, Gerry Dip, running for it, the white apron flapping around his knees.
‘Stop him!’ Rebus yelled.
Davidson didn’t need telling twice. He was waiting at the mouth of the alley, hands in pockets like a casual onlooker. But as Dip ran past, he flung out an arm and caught him in the throat. Dip flew back like he was attached by elastic to the ground. His hands went to his throat and he started gagging.
‘You could have crushed his windpipe,’ Rebus said, but not in a nasty sort of way.
At four p.m., with Gerry Dip still maintaining his vow of silence in the interview room, Rebus went for a drive.
Gerry was an old hand: he knew how to play the game called Helping Police With Their Inquiries. He’d keep quiet, with or without a solicitor. All he’d said so far was that this was harassment, and that he wanted to talk to someone from SWEEP. It would take more than Rebus’s gut feeling to convict him of murder. There must needs be evidence. Rebus had explained to Davidson the complex series of connections which had brought Gerry Dip to mind. Now it was up to Davidson to convince his superiors that there was due cause for the granting of a search warrant for Gerry Dip’s digs and the chip shop itself. The chip shop’s owner had already explained that Gerry hadn’t had a shift the previous night. Rebus saw it all clearly. A meeting arranged, Gillespie turning up, Gerry Dip surprising him, Gillespie trying to defend himself from the attack, grabbing at Dip’s greasy shirt or jacket …