Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

Whatever, MacAskill was handsome, with plenty of thick black hair — no grey, no sign of dyeing — and a chiselled face, all angles, the geometry of eyes, nose and chin making it look like he was smiling even when he wasn’t.

‘So,’ the boss said, ‘how does it read to you?’

‘I’m not sure yet. A party gone wrong, a falling out — literally in this case? They hadn’t started on the booze.’

‘Question one in my mind: did they come together? The victim could have come alone, surprised some people doing something they shouldn’t —’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Taxi driver confirms dropping off a party of three. Gave descriptions, one of which matches the deceased pretty well. The driver paid him most attention, he was behaving the worst. The other two were quiet, sober even. Physical descriptions aren’t going to get us far. He picked up the fare outside Mal’s Bar. We’ve had a word with the staff. They sold them the carry-out.’

The boss ran a hand down his tie. ‘Do we know anything more about the deceased?’

‘Only that he had Aberdeen connections, maybe worked in the oil business. He didn’t use his Edinburgh flat much, makes me think he used to work heavy shifts, two weeks on, two off. Maybe he didn’t always come home between times. He was earning enough to pay off a mortgage in the Financial District, and there’s a two-week gap between his latest credit-card transactions.’

‘You think he could have been offshore during that time?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I don’t know if that’s the way it still works, but in the early days I had friends who went to seek their fortune on the rigs. The stints lasted two weeks, seven days a week.’

‘Well, it’s worth following up. We need to check family, too, next of kin. Priority for the paperwork and formal ID. Question one in my mind: motive. Are we sticking with an argument?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘There was too much premeditation, way too much. Did they just happen to find sealing-tape and a polythene bag in that tip? I think they brought them. Do you remember how the Krays got to Jack “the Hat” McVitie? No, you’re too young. They invited him to a party. He’d been paid to do a contract, but bottled it and couldn’t pay them back. It was in a basement, so down he comes crying out for birds and booze. No birds, no booze, just Ronnie grabbing him and Reggie stabbing him to death.’

‘So these two men lured Mitchison to the derelict flat?’

‘Maybe.’

‘To what end?’

‘Well, first thing they did was tie him up and wrap a bag around his head, so they didn’t have any questions to ask. They just wanted him crapping himself and then dead. I’d say it was straight assassination, with a bit of malicious cruelty thrown in.’

‘So was he thrown or did he jump?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Very much, John.’ MacAskill stood up, leaned against the filing cabinet with his arms folded. ‘If he jumped, that’s tantamount to suicide, even if they had been planning to kill him. With the bag over his head and the way he was trussed up, we’ve got maybe culpable homicide. Their defence would be that they were trying to scare him, he got too scared and did something they hadn’t been expecting — jumped through a window.’

‘To do which he must have been scared out of his wits.’

MacAskill shrugged. ‘Still not murder. The crux is, were they trying to scare him, or kill him?’

‘I’ll be sure to ask them.’

‘It’s got a gang feel to it: drugs maybe, or a loan he’d stopped repaying, somebody he’d ripped off.’ MacAskill returned to his chair. He opened a drawer and took out a can of Irn-Bru, opened it and started to drink. He never went to the pub after work, didn’t share the whisky when the team got a result. Soft drinks only: more ammo for the like-your-loafers brigade. He asked Rebus if he wanted a can.

‘Not while I’m on duty, sir.’

MacAskill stifled a burp. ‘Get a bit more background on the victim, John, let’s see if it leads anywhere. Remember to chase forensics for fingerprint ID on the carry-out, and pathology for the PM results. Did he do drugs, that’s question one in my mind. Make things easier for us if he did. Unsolved, and we don’t even know how to frame it — not the sort of case I want to drag to the new station. Understood, John?’

‘Unquestionably, sir.’

He turned to go, but the boss hadn’t quite finished. ‘That trouble over... what was the name again?’

‘Spaven?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Spaven, yes. Quietened down yet, has it?’

‘Quiet as the grave,’ Rebus lied, making his exit.

That evening — a long-standing engagement — Rebus was at a rock concert at Ingliston Showground, an American headliner with a couple of biggish-name British acts supporting. Rebus was part of a team of eight, four different city stations represented, providing back-up (meaning protection) for Trading Standards sniffers. They were looking for bootleg gear — T-shirts and programmes, tapes and CDs — and had the full support of the bands’ management. This meant backstage passes, liberal use of the hospitality marquee, a lucky-bag of official merchandising. The lackey passing out the bags smiled at Rebus.

‘Maybe your kids or grandkids...’ Thrusting the bag at him. He’d bitten back a remark, passed straight to the booze tent, where he couldn’t decide between the dozens of hooch bottles, so settled for a beer, then wished he’d taken a nip of Black Bush, so eased the unopened bottle into his lucky-bag.

They had two vans parked outside the arena, way back behind the stage, filling with counterfeiters and their merchandise. Maclay weaved back to the vans nursing a set of knuckles.

‘Who did you pop, Heavy?’

Maclay shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow, a Michelangelo cherub turned bad.

‘Some choob was resisting,’ he said. ‘Had a suitcase with him. I punched a hole right through it. He didn’t resist after that.’

Rebus looked into the back of a van, the one holding bodies. A couple of kids, hardening already to the system, and two regulars, old enough to know the score. They’d be fined a day’s wages, the loss of their stock just another debit. The summer was young, plenty festivals to come.

‘Fucking awful racket.’

Maclay meant the music. Rebus shrugged; he’d been getting into it, thought maybe he’d take home a couple of the bootleg CDs. He offered Maclay the bottle of Black Bush. Maclay drank from it like it was lemonade. Rebus offered him a mint afterwards, and he threw it into his mouth with a nod of thanks.

‘Post mortem results came in this afternoon,’ the big man said.

Rebus had meant to phone, hadn’t got round to it. ‘And?’

Maclay crushed the mint to powder. ‘The fall killed him. Apart from that, not much.’

The fall killed him: little chance of a straight murder conviction. ‘Toxicology?’

‘Still testing. Professor Gates said when they cut into the stomach, there was a strong whiff of dark rum.’

‘There was a bottle in the bag.’

Maclay nodded. ‘The decedent’s tipple. Gates said no initial signs of drug use, but we’ll have to wait for the tests. I went through the phone book for Mitchisons.’

Rebus smiled. ‘So did I.’

‘I know, one of the numbers I called, you’d already been on to them. No joy?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I got a number for T-Bird Oil in Aberdeen. Their personnel manager’s going to call me back.’

A Trading Standards officer was coming towards them, arms laden with T-shirts and programmes. His face was red from exertion, his thin tie hanging loose at the neck. Behind him, an officer from ‘F Troop’ — Livingston Division — was escorting another prisoner.