Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘Tony who?’

‘Anthony Ellis Kane. Glasgow hardman relocated to Aberdeen. He was down here to do a job. He needed an associate. Somehow he ended up with you.’

‘Not your fault,’ Jack chipped in, hands in pockets, ‘you’re an accessory. We’re not doing you for murder.’

‘Murder?’

‘That young guy Tony El was after,’ Rebus explained. ‘You scouted out somewhere to take him. That was about the sum of your part, wasn’t it? The rest was down to Tony.’

Shankley bit his top lip, showing a bottom row of narrow uneven teeth. His eyes were pale blue with dark flecks in them, his pupils contracted to pencil dots.

‘Of course,’ Rebus said, ‘there’s another way we can play it. We could say you tossed him out that window.’

‘I don’t know nothing.’

‘Don’t know anything ,’ Rebus reminded him. Shankley folded his arms, spread his long legs.

‘I want a lawyer.’

‘Been watching the Kojak repeats, Hank?’ Jack asked. He looked to Rebus, who nodded: no more Mr Nice Guy.

‘I’m bored with this, Hank. Know what? We’re going to take you for fingerprinting now. You left prints all over that squat. You even left behind the carry-out. Prints all over it. You remember touching the bottles? The cans? The bag they were in?’ Shankley was trying hard to remember. Rebus’s voice grew quieter. ‘We’ve got you, Hank. You’re fucked. I’ll give you ten seconds to start talking, and that’s it — promise. Don’t think you can talk to us later, we won’t be listening. The judge will have his hearing-aid switched off. You’ll be on your own. Know why?’ He waited till he had Shankley’s attention. ‘Because Tony El croaked. Someone sliced him open in a bathtub. Could be you next.’ Rebus nodded. ‘You need friends, Hank.’

‘Listen...’ The Tony El story had woken Shankley up. He sat forward in his chair. ‘Look, I’m... I...’

‘Take your time, Hank.’

Jack asked him if he wanted something to drink. Shankley nodded. ‘Cola or something.’

‘Fetch me one, too, Jack,’ Rebus said. Jack went down the hall to the machine. Rebus bided his time, pacing the room, giving Shankley time to decide how much he was going to tell and with how much gloss. Jack came back, tossed one can at Shankley, handed the other to Rebus, who pulled it open and drank. It wasn’t a real drink. It was cold and way too sweet, and the only kick it would give him was from caffeine rather than alcohol. He saw Jack watching him, screwed up his face in reply. He wanted a cigarette, too. Jack read the look, shrugged.

‘Now then,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you have a story for us, Hank?’

Shankley burped, nodded. ‘It’s like you said. He told me he was here to do a job. Said he had Glasgow connections.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

Shankley shrugged. ‘Never asked.’

‘Did he mention Aberdeen at all?’

Shankley shook his head. ‘Glasgow was what he said.’

‘Continue.’

‘He offered me fifty notes to find him a place where he could take someone. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said ask a few questions, maybe give them a doing. That was all. We waited outside this block of flats, quite posh.’

‘The Financial District?’

Another shrug. ‘Between Lothian Road and Haymarket.’ That was it. ‘Saw this young guy come out, and we followed him. For a while, we just watched, then Tony said it was time to strike up his acquaintance.’

‘And?’

‘Well, we got chatting to him, like. I got to enjoying myself, forgot what was happening. Tony looked like he’d forgotten, too. I thought maybe he was going to call it off. Then we went outside for a taxi, and when the young guy couldn’t see us, he gave me a look, and I knew it was still on. But I swear, I only thought the kid was for a kicking.’

‘Not so.’

‘No.’ Shankley’s voice dropped. ‘Tony had a bag with him. When we got to the flat, he brought out tape and stuff. Tied the kid to the chair. He had a plastic sheet, put a bag over the kid’s head.’ Shankley’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, took another swallow of cola. ‘Then he started taking stuff out of the bag, tools, you know, like a joiner would use. Saws and screwdrivers and that.’

Rebus looked to Jack Morton.

‘And that’s when I realised the plastic sheet was to catch the blood, the kid wasn’t just getting a kicking.’

‘Tony planned to torture him?’

‘I suppose so. I don’t know... maybe I’d’ve tried to stop him. I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve doled it out in my time, but never...’

The next question used to be the one that counted; Rebus wasn’t so sure any more. ‘Did Allan Mitchison jump, or what?’

Shankley nodded. ‘We had our backs turned. Tony was taking the tools out, and I was just staring at them. The kid had a bag over his head, but I think he saw them. He got between us and went out the window. Must’ve been scared to death.’

Looking at Shankley, and remembering Anthony Kane, Rebus sensed again how bland monstrosity could be. Faces and voices didn’t give any clue; no one sported horns and fangs, dripping blood and all slouching malevolence. Evil was almost... it was almost child-like: naive, simplistic. A game you played and then woke up from, only to find it wasn’t pretend. The real-life monsters weren’t grotesques: they were quiet men and women, people you passed on the street and didn’t notice. Rebus was glad he couldn’t read people’s minds. It would be pure hell.

‘What did you do?’ he asked.

‘Packed up and shipped out. We went back to my place first, had a couple of drinks. I was shaking. Tony kept saying it was a mess, but he didn’t seem worried. We realised we’d left the hooch — couldn’t remember if our dabs were on it. I thought they were. That’s when Tony took off. He left me my share, I’ll give him that.’

‘How far do you live from the flat, Hank?’

‘About two minutes’ walk. I’m not there much; the kids call me names.’

Life can be cruel, Rebus thought. Two minutes: when he’d arrived at the scene, Tony El might have been only two minutes away. But they’d ended up meeting in Stonehaven...

‘Didn’t Tony give you any idea why he was after Allan Mitchison?’ Shankley shook his head. ‘And when did he first approach you?’

‘Couple of days before.’

Therefore premeditated. Well, of course it was premeditated, but more than that it meant Tony El had been in Edinburgh, preparing the scheme, while Allan Mitchison had still been in Aberdeen. The night of his death had been his first day of leave. So Tony El hadn’t followed him south from Aberdeen... yet he knew what Allan Mitchison looked like, knew where he lived — there was a telephone in the flat, but unlisted.

Allan Mitchison had been set up by someone who’d known him.

It was Jack Morton’s turn. ‘Hank, think carefully now, didn’t Tony say anything about the job, about who was paying him?’

Shankley thought, then nodded slowly. He looked pleased with himself: he’d remembered something.

‘Mr H.,’ he said. ‘Tony said something about Mr H. He clammed up afterwards, like he hadn’t meant to.’ Shankley almost danced in his seat. He wanted Rebus and Morton to like him. Their smiles told him they did. But Rebus was thinking furiously; the only Mr H. he came up with was Jake Harley. It didn’t fit.

‘Good man,’ Jack cajoled. ‘Now think again, tell us something else.’

But Rebus had a question. ‘Did you see Tony El jacking up?’

‘No, but I knew he was doing it. When we were following the kid, first bar we went in, Tony went to the bog. He came out, and I knew he was on something. Living where I do, it gets so you can tell.’