Clarke nodded. The room they sat in was pretty much as Rachel Drew had said: a store. There was a desk and a couple of chairs, but the rest of the space was taken up with boxes of tinned foods. Drew had explained that there was a tiny kitchen annexe, and that she and a couple of helpers rustled up three meals a day.
‘It’s not haute cuisine, but I don’t get many complaints.’
Drew was a large, homely woman, maybe mid-forties, with shoulder-length brown hair which looked naturally frizzy. She had dark eyes and a sallow face, but there was warmth and humour in her voice, fighting what Clarke reckoned was near-permanent tiredness.
‘What can you tell me about Mr Mackie?’
‘He was a lovely, gentle man. Didn’t make friends easily, but that was his choice. It took me a long time to get to know him. He was already a feature here when I arrived. I don’t mean he was always hanging about the place, but you’d see him regularly.’
‘You kept his mail for him?’
Drew nodded. ‘There was never much. His DSS cheque was about it... Maybe two or three letters a year.’
His building society statements, Clarke guessed. ‘How well did you know him?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Clarke stared her out. Drew managed a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I’m pretty protective about my boys and girls. You’re wondering if Chris was suicidal.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I wouldn’t have said so.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A week or so back.’
‘Do you know where he went when he wasn’t here?’
‘I make it a rule never to ask.’
‘Why’s that?’ Clarke was genuinely interested.
‘You never know which question will hit a nerve.’
‘He didn’t tell you anything about his past?’
‘A few stories. He said he’d been in the forces. Another time, he told me he’d been a chef. Said his wife ran off with one of the waiters.’
Clarke caught Drew’s tone. ‘You didn’t believe him?’
Drew sat back in her chair, her face and shoulders framed by tinned goods. Every day she opened some tins and did some cooking, feeding people so the rest of the world could forget about them. ‘I get told a lot of stories. I’m a good listener.’
‘Did Chris have any close friends?’
‘Not here, not that I noticed. But maybe outside...’ Drew narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t get me wrong or anything, but just why the hell are you so interested in a down and out.’
‘Because he wasn’t. Chris had a building society account. He was in credit to the tune of four hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Lucky him,’ Drew snorted. Then she saw the look on Clarke’s face. ‘Oh, Christ, you’re serious.’ Now she sat forward in her chair, toes on the ground, elbows on her knees. ‘Where did he get...?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Goes some way to explaining your interest. Who gets the money?’
Clarke shrugged. ‘Next of kin... relatives.’
‘Always supposing he has any.’
‘Yes.’
‘And supposing you can find them.’ Drew chewed at her bottom lip. ‘You know, there were times when this place was struggling. Christ, we’re struggling now. And he never so much as...’ She laughed suddenly and harshly, clapping her hands together. ‘The sneaky little sod. What was he playing at?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering.’
‘If you can’t trace his family, where does the money go?’
‘I think the Treasury.’
‘The government? Christ, there’s no justice, is there?’
‘Careful who you say that to,’ Clarke said with a smile.
Drew was shaking her head and chuckling. ‘Four hundred grand. And he jumped and left it all behind.’
‘Yes.’
‘Knowing you’d find out about it.’ Drew stared at Clarke. ‘It’s like he was setting you a puzzle, isn’t it?’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You should take it to the papers. Once the story’s out, the family will come to you.’
‘Along with every shyster and fraud in the game. That’s why I need to find out about him: so I can weed out the con artists.’
‘True enough. You’ve got a head on your shoulders, haven’t you?’ She exhaled loudly. ‘Things I could do with that money.’
‘Like hire a cook?’
‘I was thinking more of a year in Barbados.’
Clarke smiled again. ‘One last thing: I don’t suppose you’ve a picture of Chris?’
Drew raised an eyebrow. ‘You know, I think you might be in luck.’ She opened a drawer of the desk and began pulling out sheets of paper and raffle tickets, pens and cassette tapes. Finally she found what she was looking for: a packet of photographs. She flicked through them, picked one out and handed it over.
‘Taken last Christmas, but Chris hasn’t really changed much since. That’s him next to the Bearded Wonder.’
Clarke recognised the sleeping man from the other room. In the photo, he was in his armchair but very much awake, mouth agape in almost a parody of joy. On the arm of the chair sat the man called Christopher Mackie. Medium height, the beginnings of a paunch. Black hair swept back from a prominent forehead. His smile was mischievous, as though he was in on some secret. Yes, and wasn’t he just? It was the first time she’d been face to face with him. It felt strange. So far, she’d only known him in death...
‘Here he is on his own,’ Drew said.
The second photo showed Mackie washing a sinkful of dishes. He’d been caught unawares by the photographer, and his face was determined, focused on the job at hand. The flash made his face ghostly white, red dots for eyes.
‘Mind if I take these?’
‘Go ahead.’
Clarke tucked the pictures into her jacket pocket. ‘I’d also appreciate it if you’d keep what I’ve told you to yourself for the moment.’
‘Don’t want to be snowed under with cranks?’
‘Wouldn’t make my job any easier.’
Drew seemed to make her mind up about something. She opened a red plastic card index, flicked through the contents and lifted out one of the cards.
‘Chris’s personal details,’ she said, handing the card over. ‘Date of birth and his doctor’s name and phone number. Maybe they’ll help.’
‘Thanks,’ Clarke said. She drew a banknote from her pocket. ‘This isn’t a bribe or anything, I’d just like to put something towards the hostel.’
Drew stared at the money. ‘Fair enough,’ she said at last, accepting it. ‘If it helps your conscience, how can I refuse?’
‘I’m a police officer, Ms Drew. The conscience is removed during training.’
‘Well,’ Rachel Drew said, getting to her feet, ‘looks to me like you’ve maybe grown a new one.’
12
Rebus gave Derek Linford the choice: Roddy Grieve’s workplace, or Hugh Cordover’s studio. Knowing full well which one Linford would go for.
‘I might pick up a few tips for my portfolio while I’m at it,’ Linford said, leaving Rebus to head out towards Roslin and the baronial home of Hugh Cordover and Lorna Grieve. Roslin was the home of the ancient and extraordinary Rosslyn Chapel, which in recent years had become the target of a range of millennialist nutters. They said the Ark of the Covenant was buried beneath its floor. Or it was an alien mothership. The village itself was quiet, nondescript. High Manor sat a quarter-mile further on, behind a low stone wall. There were stone gateposts but no gates, just a sign saying ‘Private’. It was called High Manor because in his days as a member of Obscura, Hugh had been ‘High Chord’. Rebus had one of their albums with him: Continuous Repercussions. Lorna was on the sleeve, seated high-priestess style on a throne, diaphanous white dress, a snake coiled around her head. Laser lights shone from her eyes. Around the edges of the album sleeve were rows of hieroglyphs.