Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘Dry-cleaning,’ was his unconvincing answer.

Stephen Pears was due to address shareholders at a meeting in Edinburgh on the Tuesday at ten in the morning. The venue was the ballroom of a venerable city-centre hotel. Fox’s contact on the Scotsman’s business desk had proffered the information, and had also asked if Pears was in any trouble.

‘Because whatever this is about, Inspector, it’s not a profile of his sister.’

Fox had asked if there were any rumours flying around. As far as the journalist was concerned, their apparent lack was no great comfort.

‘These days, seems anybody can go bust at an hour’s notice.’

‘If I get anything,’ Fox assured the man, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’

The shareholders piling into the ballroom looked quietly prosperous. They carried their copies of the annual report and muttered about the levels of remuneration the board seemed keen on divvying up. Most appeared to be well into their twilight years. They were the prudent, cautious types who hadn’t lost too much so far in the recession but would welcome good news from Stephen Pears and his team. There was to be a reception afterwards, drinks and canapes served. Names were ticked off and shiny brochures handed out. On the front of the brochure a smiling couple held hands across a restaurant table. Future-Proofing Your Dreams, the headline announced. Fox took a copy, then admitted that his name wasn’t on the acceptance list. He showed the staff behind the makeshift desk his warrant card, then pointed to the three men behind him.

‘They’re with me,’ he announced.

The attendants from Carstairs stood either side of Donald MacIver. Fox had picked them up at quarter past eight. Gretchen Hughes had repeated that MacIver shouldn’t get too much stimulus. Fox had signed his name to the paperwork, knowing that if his bosses at Fettes HQ ever got wind of this, he would be on a charge. He had lied and lied again in order to convince Hughes and her colleagues that he was fully authorised in his actions and that a murder inquiry might be stymied without Donald MacIver’s help. MacIver himself looked presentable, as though making an effort for the occasion. Fox asked him when he’d last set foot outside the compound.

‘A hospital visit,’ he eventually remembered. ‘Suspected appendicitis. That was probably four or five years back.’

They’d all decided that restraints would not be needed in the first instance. The attendants looked like they worked out in what spare time they had, and could probably handle their charge whatever happened. During the drive, they’d kept up a dialogue about various martial arts and dietary supplements, while MacIver stared at the passing scenery, answering Fox’s questions with a series of grunts, punctuated by the occasional yes and no.

‘Not too many changes,’ he’d muttered as they entered the city. ‘A few new roads and buildings.’

‘I could take a detour past the parliament,’ Fox had offered.

‘Why bother?’ had been MacIver’s response.

‘“Bought and sold for English gold”?’ Fox had quoted, receiving a slow, determined nod of the head in return.

So they’d headed for George Street instead, parking on a meter and entering the hotel.

The ballroom was larger than necessary. There were eighty or ninety chairs, laid out in rows of ten. Pears’s team seemed to comprise sharply dressed young men and women who scanned the room for possible dissenters and handed out notepads and pens to anyone who needed them. It didn’t take them long to spot Fox and his guests. They remained standing at the back of the room, and wouldn’t budge when offered seats. MacIver seemed slightly agitated, but the attendants didn’t look worried. His facial colouring was what Fox would call ‘prison grey’, but he didn’t suppose his own was much better. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights – and not just because of his father’s presence in the house.

The stage beyond the front row of seats didn’t look permanent. It supported a long table with a blue velvet cloth draped over it. Four place cards with names on them, but too far away for Fox to make out the actual names themselves. Carafes of water and pre-filled tumblers. Microphones. There were loudspeakers stage-right and left. People in the audience greeted each other with curt nods. A young man stopped in front of Fox, but Fox was ready for him. He held his warrant card an inch from the lackey’s nose and identified himself as a police officer.

‘I can say it louder, if you want everyone else to hear,’ he offered. MacIver gave a little growl and the young man took a step back, then turned and fled. He went into a confab with others in the team. Someone punched a number into their phone and started a whispered conversation, holding their hand over their mouth as if fearing lip-readers.

Good: Fox hoped the news would get backstage.

Maybe the call had come too late, though, for now four men were arriving by way of a side door. They strode purposefully towards the stage, climbed the steps and settled themselves behind the table. Stephen Pears tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and checked the straightness of his tie. When introduced, he nodded and smiled, taking in the whole room. There were others standing at the back now – not just Fox, MacIver and the two attendants, but the team working for Pears, plus some latecomers. One person in the third row started having a coughing fit, and a staffer was quick to take them some water. The four men on the stage tried not to let this distract them. A statement of the company’s achievements during the previous twelve months was being recited. Fox had eyes only for Stephen Pears, though Pears appeared focused on the rows of seats – these were his constituents. He had brought no papers with him. When a phone chirruped in the room and went unanswered, he tried not to look annoyed.

The attendant next to Fox nudged him, letting him know it was his phone that was the culprit. It stopped, but half a minute later started ringing again. The ringtone had been set to maximum volume. When Fox lifted the device from his pocket and checked the screen, he saw that it was Tony Kaye, right on cue. The man reading out the report had come to a stop, reminding the room that all phones should be switched off. People were turning their heads to look at Fox. He did eventually cancel the ringing, but only when he was satisfied that he had at last gained Stephen Pears’s attention.

Fox stared back at him, nodding an acknowledgement. The report was in full flow again, but Pears’s body language had changed. He was stiffer, less sure of himself. When he looked towards the back of the room a second time, Fox leaned past the attendant and touched MacIver’s arm, whispering something to him.

‘You all right there, Mr MacIver?’

An innocent enough question, to which MacIver responded with the nod Fox had wanted from him.

‘Sure?’

Another nod. Fox turned his attention back to the stage and gave Pears a little smile, hoping it looked satisfied enough. Pears ran a hand through his hair, leaned back in his seat, gave the ceiling his full attention, then the tabletop. The report was winding to its conclusion. He was being invited to say a few words about the future. When people clapped, Fox clapped with them. The noise didn’t agree with MacIver. He pressed his hands over his ears and gave a low moan. As Pears stood up and the applause ended, that moan could still be heard. Pears had taken hold of the microphone, but he didn’t say anything. The attendants were trying to calm MacIver.

‘No,’ he said, repeating the word a few times.

‘Better take him out,’ the attendant nearer to Fox said. Fox nodded his agreement.

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he replied.