Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

Ormiston said nothing.

‘But why would you...?’ Siobhan’s question trailed off as she saw the answer. Rebus nodded, letting her know she was right. Revenge... jealousy... because of what Linford had done to Siobhan.

That was Linford’s thinking. The way he saw the world, it made perfect sense.

To Linford’s mind, it was perfect.

Siobhan was sitting outside the hospital in her car, debating whether to visit the patient or not, when she heard the call on her radio.

Be on the lookout for a black Ford Sierra Cosworth, driver may be Jerry Lister, wanted for questioning concerning a major incident, code six .

Code six? The codes were always changing — all except code twenty-one, officer requiring assistance. Right now a code six was suspicious death — usually meaning homicide. She called in, was told that the victim’s name was Nicholas Hughes. He’d been stabbed to death with a pair of scissors, his body found by Lister’s wife on her return home. The woman was now being treated for shock. Siobhan was thinking back to that night, the night she’d taken the short cut through Waverley. She’d taken it because of the two men in the black Sierra, one of them saying to the other, Lesbian, Jerry , and now a man called Jerry was on the run in a black Sierra.

She’d tried to get away, and in doing so had ended up involved with a tramp’s suicide.

The more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t help wondering...

The Farmer was apoplectic.

‘Whose idea was it for him to be tailing Barry Hutton in the first place?’

‘DI Linford was using his own initiative, sir.’

‘Then how come I see your grubby little prints all over this?’

Saturday morning, they were seated in the Farmer’s office. Rebus was edgy to start with: he had a pitch to sell, and couldn’t see his boss going for it.

‘You’ve seen his note,’ the Farmer continued. ‘“Rebus knew”. How the hell do you think that looks?’

There was so much tension in Rebus’s jaw, his cheeks were aching. ‘What does the ACC say?’

‘He wants an inquiry. You’ll be suspended, of course.’

‘Should keep me out of your way till retirement.’

The Chief Super slammed both hands against his desk, too angry to speak. Rebus took his chance.

‘We’ve got a description of the guy seen hanging around Holyrood the night Grieve was murdered. Add to this the fact that he drinks in Bellman’s, and there’s a good chance we can nab him. Bellman’s won’t give us anything; it’s the sort of pub where they look after their own. But I’ve got snitches in Leith. We’re looking for a hard man, someone who uses that pub almost as an office. With a few officers, I think I can—’

‘He says you did it.’

‘I know he does, sir. But with respect—’

‘How would it look if I put you in charge of the investigation?’ The Farmer suddenly looked tired, beaten half to death by the job.

‘I’m not asking to be put in charge,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m asking you to let me go to Leith, ask some questions, that’s all. A chance to clear my own name if nothing else.’

Watson leaned back in his chair. ‘Fettes are going ape-shit as it is. Linford was one of theirs. And Barry Hutton under unauthorised surveillance — know what that would do to any case against him? The Procurator Fiscal will have a seizure.’

‘We need evidence. That’s why we need someone in Leith with a few contacts.’

‘What about Bobby Hogan? He’s Leith based.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And I’d want him there.’

‘But you want to be there, too?’ Rebus stayed silent. ‘And we both know you’ll go there anyway, no matter what I say.’

‘Better to have it official, sir.’

The Farmer ran a hand over the dome of his head.

‘Sooner the better, sir,’ Rebus prompted.

The Chief Super started shaking his head, his eyes on Rebus. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you down there, Inspector. It’s just not something I can sanction, bearing in mind the flak from headquarters.’

Rebus stood up. ‘Understood, sir. I don’t have permission to go down to Leith and ask my informants about the attack on DI Linford?’

‘That’s right, Inspector, you don’t. You’re awaiting suspension; I want you close by when word comes through.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He headed for the door.

‘I mean it. You don’t leave St Leonard’s, Inspector.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. The Murder Room was quiet when he reached it. Roy Frazer was reading a paper. ‘Finished with this?’ Rebus asked, picking up another. Frazer nodded. ‘Chicken phal ,’ Rebus explained, rubbing his stomach. ‘Hold all my calls and let everyone know the shunkie’s off-limits.’

Frazer nodded and smiled. Saturday morning on the bog with the paper: everyone had done it at one time.

So Rebus headed out of the station and into the car park, jumped into his Saab and got on the mobile to Bobby Hogan.

‘I’m ahead of you, pal,’ Hogan said.

‘How far?’

‘Sitting outside Bellman’s waiting for it to open.’

‘Waste of time. See if you can track down some of your contacts.’ Rebus flipped open his notebook, read the description of the Holyrood man to Hogan as he drove.

‘A hard man who likes rough pubs,’ Hogan mused when he’d finished. ‘Now where the hell would we find anyone like that in Leith these days?’

Rebus knew a few places. It was 11 a.m., opening time. Grey overcast morning. The cloud hung so low over Arthur’s Seat, you could pick out the rock only in shifting patches. Just like this case, Rebus was thinking. Bits of it visible at any one time, but the whole edifice ultimately hidden.

Leith was quiet, the day keeping people indoors. He drove past carpet shops, tattoo parlours, pawnbrokers. Laundrettes and social security offices: the latter were locked for the weekend. Most days, they’d be doing more business than the local stores. Parked his car in an alley and made sure it was locked before leaving it. At twelve minutes past opening, he was in his first pub. They were serving coffee, so he had a mug, same as the barman was drinking. Two ancient regulars watched morning television and smoked diligently: this was their day job, and they approached it with the seriousness of ritual. Rebus didn’t get much out of the barman, not so much as a free refill. It was time to move on.

His mobile went off while he was walking. It was Bill Nairn.

‘Working weekends, Bill?’ Rebus said. ‘How’s the overtime?’

‘The Bar-L never closes, John. I did what you asked, checked out our friend Rab Hill.’

‘And?’ Rebus had stopped walking. A few shoppers moved around him. They were mostly elderly, feet hardly clearing the pavement. No cars to take them to the retail parks; no energy to take the bus uptown.

‘Not much really. Released on his due date. Said he was moving through to Edinburgh. He’s seen his parole officer there...’

‘Illnesses, Bill?’

‘Well, yes, he did complain of a dicky stomach. Didn’t seem to clear up, so he had some tests. They were all clear.’

‘Same hospital as Cafferty?’

‘Yes, but I really don’t see...’

‘What’s his Edinburgh address?’

Nairn repeated the details: it was a hotel on Princes Street. ‘Nice,’ Rebus said. Then he took down the parole officer’s details, too. ‘Cheers, Bill. I’ll talk to you later.’

The second bar was smoky, its carpet tacky with the previous night’s spillage. Three men stood drinking nips, sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos. They examined him as he entered, seemed not to find his presence objectionable enough to arouse comment. Later in the day, with sobriety a dull memory, things would be different. Rebus knew the barman, sat down at a corner table with a half-pint of Eighty and smoked a cigarette. When the barman came to empty the ashtray of its single dowp, it gave time for a couple of muted questions. The barman replied with little twitches of the head: negative. He either didn’t know or wasn’t saying. Fair enough. Rebus knew when he could push a bit harder, and this was not one of those times.