Ian Rankin - Let It Bleed

He made it to the toilets. He didn’t want the pool players coming in for a ‘Dairy Discussion’, so wedged the door shut with paper towels while he stuck his head under the cold tap. He dried himself off, then was copiously sick into the bowl. Unjamming the door, he walked back into the bar.

‘Feeling better?’ Sammy asked him.

‘Ninety-five per cent to go,’ Rebus told her, taking her hand in his.

Who could he go to?

The Lord Advocate? Hardly: he was probably on pheasant-shooting terms with Hunter. He was the Estab lishment, and the Establishment would be protected at all costs. The chief constable? But he was retiring, and wouldn’t want anything to tarnish his last few months in office. The media perhaps, Mairie Henderson? It was the story of the year, except there was no proof. It would be the word of an embittered policeman against … well, everybody.

He’d spent time steeping in the bath at home, then showering. Sammy had made him drink a couple of litres of orange juice, and about a packet of ‘Resolve’.

‘I can’t forget what I did,’ she told him quietly.

‘Maybe you got my guilt complex along with my genes,’ he told her.

After Sammy had gone back to Patience’s, Rebus had called Gill Templer. He needed advice, he told her. They arranged to meet at her health club. She had a sauna and massage booked; they could talk in the bar after that.

There was a view from the bar’s first-floor window down on to a quiet New Town street. All around Rebus sat healthy people, tanned and smiling with good teeth and trim confidence. He knew he fitted in like a paedophile in a classroom. He had trashed his bender clothes, just trashed them, and was wearing the gear he’d bought for the trip to Sir Iain’s.

Gill came in and nodded towards him, then went to the bar and bought herself something non-alcoholic. Her skin glowed as she came over to his table. ‘You look rough,’ she said.

‘You should have seen me earlier. You could have sanded doors with me.’

She picked a sliver of orange out of her glass and sucked on it. ‘So what’s the big mystery?’

He told her the whole story. She started to look uncomfortable halfway through, the look changing by degrees to simple bemusement.

‘I’ll take another orange juice, if you’re buying,’ she said when he’d finished.

She needed time to think, so Rebus didn’t hurry the barman. But when he came back to the table, she still didn’t have anything to say.

‘See, Gill, what I need is the nod on a search warrant, so I can go into Gunner’s house and seize the file and the tape. We could get one from a JP — there are enough councillors left to choose from.’

Her face darkened. ‘Why me?’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘How good do you think I’d come out of this? Do you think anyone would forget that I was the one who’d helped you?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Gill.’

Her voice softened. She stared into her drink. ‘Sorry I’m letting you down, John.’

‘They could crucify me if they wanted to.’

She stared at him. ‘They don’t want to. You don’t know, do you? You really don’t know.’

‘Know what?’

‘You’re going to be promoted to chief inspector. There’s an opening in Galashiels. It came down to the chief super from the DCC.’ She smiled. ‘You’re trying to arrange a search warrant for his house, and he’s busy giving you a hike up. How’s that going to look in court?’

‘It’s true,’ Chief Superintendent Watson confirmed.

Rebus was in the Farmer’s office, but not sitting. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t even stand at ease.

‘I don’t want it, I won’t accept it. That’s allowed, isn’t it?’

The Farmer made a pained face. ‘If you refuse, it’s a snub no one will forget. You might never get a second chance.’

‘I don’t mind snubbing Allan Gunner.’

‘John, Gunner didn’t recommend you for promotion, I did.’

‘What?’

‘Several months back.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s a damned coincidence Gunner’s held off making a decision until now. Whose idea was Galashiels?’

‘It happens to be an opening.’

‘It happens to be in the middle of nowhere. I can see they’d need a chief inspector down there, what with the farming vendettas and the Saturday night punch-up.’

‘For once in your life, John, go easy on yourself, do yourself a favour. Stop beating yourself up like you’re the Salvation Army drum. Just …’ The Farmer shrugged.

‘Drums don’t beat themselves,’ Rebus said. He was staring at the Farmer’s computer, not listening any more. And then he started to smile, and looked at the Farmer. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘tell Gunner I’ll take it.’

‘Good.’

But the Farmer wasn’t as pleased as he’d expected he’d be. There was something going on, some motive he couldn’t fathom. It was so bloody typical of Rebus to make him feel like a win was a draw, a draw a defeat.

‘And, John,’ he said, standing up, stretching out his hand, ‘congratulations.’

Rebus stared at the hand but didn’t take it. ‘I didn’t say I was accepting the promotion, sir, I just said to tell Gunner I was.’

And with that he left the Farmer’s office.

Flower was on night-shift again.

Rebus didn’t know why or how Flower got so many night-shifts. Maybe because at night he was more likely to see a spot of trouble. Rebus looked like trouble as he strode towards his adversary’s desk, dragging a chair over and sitting astride it.

‘Done any good fire-raising lately?’

Flower just sneered.

‘Some good it did you,’ Rebus went on.

‘What?’

‘I don’t mean setting the bin on fire. I mean letting the DCC use your man McAnally like that. Whose idea was it to put him in Charters’ cell?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Humour me.’ Rebus offered Flower a cigarette. Flower took it warily, and even then laid it to one side.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘it was the DCC’s.’

‘That’s what I figured. And you went along with it. I mean, who wouldn’t? It meant the DCC owed you a favour — very handy that. But it didn’t work out.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘I mean, the DCC had a hidden agenda. He wanted to use your man to make sure Charters wasn’t talking, because some people on the outside were getting sweaty. Charters was protecting certain people, people like the head of PanoTech, and the Permanent Secretary at the Scottish Office. But a local councillor had started sniffing. Eventually, he would have talked to Charters — maybe he already had. That worried people, they needed to know how safe they were. As it turned out, Charters knew about the councillor and paid McAnally to give him a fright.’

‘Shite.’

‘Is it? Well, no matter.’ Rebus sucked on his cigarette. He’d got Flower thinking, but that process might take weeks. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘your friend the DCC, he didn’t even get you Lauderdale’s job. Didn’t that make you think?’

‘It was too soon. It would have looked suspicious.’

Rebus laughed, further discomfiting Flower. ‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Well, bonny lad, I’ve got news for you — the DCC’s just offered me promotion to chief inspector.’

‘Away to hell.’

Rebus just shrugged. Flower picked up the cigarette he’d been given and lit it. Then he called the Farmer at home. They had a bruising conversation during which Flower brought up everything from his years in the force (three more than Rebus) to his charitable works. When he finally put the phone down, he was shaking.