Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘But you always knew someone would be coming to speak with you about Mr Mackie?’

Another shrug. ‘I’m beyond the point of giving excuses, Miss Clarke. But I’m guessing you know where the money came from.’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Haven’t a clue, sir.’

Samuels sat back in his chair. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Mr Mackie committed suicide, sir. Lived like a tramp, then threw himself off North Bridge. I’m trying to find out why.’

Samuels couldn’t help. He’d spoken with Mackie only on that one occasion. As Clarke drove back into the city, heading for the Grassmarket, she considered her options. The process took all of three seconds. She had this one slender trail, that was all. To find out the what and why, she had to find out who Christopher Mackie had been. She’d already phoned a search request to the records people. He wasn’t in any phone book, and, just as she’d suspected, when she arrived at the Grassmarket address she found herself at a hostel for the homeless.

Grassmarket was an odd little world all of its own. Centuries back, they’d held executions here, a fact commemorated by the name of one of the pubs: The Last Drop. Until the 1970s, the area had borne the reputation of being a haven for the destitute and the wandering. But then gentrification became the model. Small specialist shops opened, the bars were spruced up, and tourists began their hesitant, steep descent down Victoria Street and Candlemaker Row.

The hostel wasn’t exactly publicising its existence. Two grimy windows and a solid-looking door. Outside, a couple of men were crouched beside the wall. One of them asked if she had a light. She shook her head.

‘Probably means you’ve no fags on you either,’ he said, resuming his conversation with his friend.

Clarke turned the door handle, but the door was locked. There was a buzzer on the wall. She pressed it twice and waited. A scrawny young man yanked open the door, took one look at her and retreated back inside, saying to no one in particular, ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s the polis.’ He fell into a chair and got back to the serious business of daytime TV. There were a couple of beaten-up armchairs in the room, plus a long wooden bench and two that looked like bar stools. The TV and a coffee table more or less completed the furnishings. There was a tin ashtray on the table, but the linoleum floor looked to be the more popular destination for stubbed cigarettes. One elderly man was asleep in an armchair, his face speckled with bits of white paper. Clarke was about to investigate, when her meeter and greeter tore a scrap from an old newspaper, moistened it in his mouth, then spat it towards the sleeping figure.

‘Two points for the face,’ he explained. ‘One for the hair or beard.’

‘What’s your record?’

He grinned, showing a mouth missing half its teeth. ‘Eighty-five.’

A door opened at the far end of the room. ‘Can I help you?’

Clarke walked over, shook the woman’s hand. Behind her, the record-holder made siren noises. ‘I’m DC Clarke, St Leonard’s police station.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know a man called Christopher Mackie?’

A protective look. ‘I might do. What has he done?’

‘I’m afraid Mr Mackie’s dead. Suicide, it looks like.’

The woman closed her eyes for a second. ‘Was he the one who jumped from North Bridge? All it said in the papers was that he was homeless.’

‘You knew him then?’

‘Let’s talk about it in the store.’

Her name was Rachel Drew and she’d been in charge of the hostel for a dozen years.

‘Not that it’s really a hostel,’ she said. ‘It’s a day centre. But to be honest, when there’s no place else for them to go, they do use the front room for bedding down in. I mean, it’s winter, what else are you going to do?’

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 .’