Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

Mackie had carried his cash to the building society in a briefcase. ‘So now it’ll have been sold on to someone else?’ Clarke guessed.

But Dezzi was shaking her head. ‘The shopkeeper’s still got it. I’ve seen him walking about with it. Leather it was, and the bastard only gave me five quid.’

It wasn’t far from Hunter Square to Nicolson Street. The shop was an Aladdin’s cave of tat, narrow aisles leading them past teetering pillars of used goods: books, cassettes, music centres, crockery. Vacuum cleaners had been draped with feather boas; picture cards and old comics lay underfoot. Electrical goods and board games and jigsaw puzzles; pots and pans, guitars, music-stands. The shopkeeper, an Asian, didn’t seem to recognise Dezzi. Clarke showed her warrant card and asked to see the briefcase.

‘Five measly quid he gave me,’ Dezzi grumbled. ‘Genuine leather.’

The man was reluctant, until Clarke mentioned that St Leonard’s was just around the corner. He reached down and placed a scuffed black briefcase on the counter. Clarke asked him to open it. Inside: a newspaper, packed lunch and a thick roll of banknotes. Dezzi seemed to want a closer look, but he snapped shut the case.

‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

Clarke pointed to a corner of the case where the scuffing was worst.

‘What happened?’

‘The initials were not my initials. I attempted to erase them.’

Clarke looked more closely. She was wondering if Valerie Briggs could identify the case. ‘Do you remember the initials?’ she asked Dezzi.

Dezzi shook her head; she was looking, too.

The shop was badly lit. The faintest indents remained.

‘ADC?’ she guessed.

‘I believe so,’ the shopkeeper said. Then he wagged a finger at Dezzi. ‘And I paid you a fair price.’

‘You as good as robbed me, you sod.’ She nudged Clarke. ‘Stick the handcuffs on him, girl.’

ADC , Clarke was thinking, was Mackie really ADC?

Or would it prove another dead end?

Back at St Leonard’s, she kicked herself for not checking Mackie’s criminal record sooner. August 1997, Christopher Mackie and ‘a Ms Desiderata’ (she refused to give the police her full name) were apprehended while involved in a ‘lewd exhibition’ on the steps of a parish church in Bruntsfield.

August: Festival time. Clarke was surprised they hadn’t been mistaken for an experimental theatre group.

The arresting officer was a uniform called Rod Harken, and he remembered the incident well.

‘She got a fine,’ he told Clarke by telephone from Torphichen police station. ‘And a few days in clink for refusing to tell us her name.’

‘What about her partner?’

‘I think he got off with a caution.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the poor sod was nearly comatose.’

‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Then I’ll spell it out. She was straddling him, knickers off and skirt up, trying to haul his pants down. We had to wake him up to take him to the station.’ Harken chuckled.

‘Were they photographed?’

‘You mean on the steps?’ Harken was still chuckling.

Clarke heaped more ice into her voice. ‘No, I do not mean on the steps. I mean at Torphichen.’

‘Oh aye, we took some snaps.’

‘Would you still have them?’

‘Depends.’

‘Well, could you take a look.’ Clarke paused. ‘Please.’

‘Suppose so,’ the uniform said grudgingly.

‘Thank you.’

She put the phone down. An hour later, the photos arrived by patrol car. The ones of Mackie were better than the hostel pictures. She stared into his unfocused eyes. His hair was thick and dark, brushed back from the forehead. His face was either tanned or weather-beaten. He hadn’t shaved for a day or two, but looked no worse than many a summertime backpacker. His eyes looked heavy, as though no amount of sleep could compensate for what they’d seen. Clarke had to smile at the photos of Dezzi: she was grinning like a Cheshire cat, not a care in her world.

Harken had put a note in the envelope: One other thing. We asked Mackie about the incident and he told us he wasn’t a ‘sexual beast’ any more. Something got lost in the translation and we kept him locked up while we checked if he’d had previous as a sex offender. Turned out he hadn’t .

Her phone rang again. It was the front desk. There was someone downstairs for her.

Her visitor was short and round with a red face. He wore a Prince of Wales check three-piece suit and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but hair grew copiously to either side, combed back over his ears. He introduced himself as Gerald Sithing.

‘I read about Chris Mackie in the newspaper this morning, gave me quite a turn.’ His beady eyes were on her, voice high and quavering.

Clarke folded her arms. ‘You knew him, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. Known him for years.’

‘Could you describe him for me?’

Sithing studied her, then clapped his hands. ‘Oh, of course. You think I’m a crank.’ His laughter was sibilant. ‘Come here to claim his fortune.’

‘Aren’t you?’

He drew himself up, recited a good description of Mackie. Clarke unfolded her arms, scratched her nose. ‘In here, please, Mr Sithing.’

There was an interview room just to the side of the front desk. She unlocked it and looked in. Sometimes it was used for storage, but today it was empty. Desk and two chairs. Nothing on the walls. No ashtray or waste bin.

Sithing sat down, looked around as though intrigued by his surroundings. Clarke had gone from scratching her nose to pinching it. She had a headache coming on, felt dead beat.

‘How did you come to know Mr Mackie?’

‘Complete accident really. Daily constitutional, back then I took it in the Meadows.’

‘Back when?’

‘Oh, seven, eight years ago. Bright summer’s day, so I sat myself down on one of the benches. There was a man already seated there, scruffy... you know, gentleman of the road. We got talking. I think I broke the ice, said something about how lovely the day was.’

‘And this was Mr Mackie?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where was he living at the time?’

Sithing laughed again. ‘You’re still testing me, aren’t you?’ He wagged a finger like a fat sausage. ‘He was in a hostel sort of place, Grassmarket. I met him the very next day, and the day after that. It got to be a routine with us, and one I enjoyed very much.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘The world, the mess we’ve made of it. He was interested in Edinburgh, in all the architectural changes. He was very anti.’

‘Anti?’

‘You know, against all the new buildings. Maybe in the end it got too much for him.’

‘He killed himself in protest at ugly architecture?’

‘Despair can come from many quarters.’ His tone was admonishing.

‘I’m sorry if I sounded...’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not your fault. You’re just tired.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘And maybe Chris was tired, too. That’s the point I was making.’

‘Did he ever talk about himself?’

‘A little. He told me about the hostel, about people he’d met...’

‘I meant his past. Did he talk about his life before he went on the street?’

Sithing was shaking his head. ‘He was more of a good listener, fascinated by Rosslyn.’

Clarke thought she’d misheard. ‘Rosalind?’

‘ Rosslyn . The chapel.’

‘What about it?’

Sithing leaned forward. ‘My whole life’s devoted to the place. You may have heard of the Knights of Rosslyn?’

Clarke was getting a bad feeling. She shook her head. The stems of her eyes ached.