Ian Rankin - The Impossible Dead

The whole room watched as MacIver was led away. Then they turned back to Pears, expecting the usual poised performance, the noteless tour de force. Pears had finished all the water in his glass. More was being poured. After fifteen or twenty seconds, he started his speech.

And it was fine. Fox doubted anyone who had heard him before would notice anything different about the delivery.

Quite the actor, he thought to himself.

But then he knew that already. Five minutes in, he caught Pears’s eye again, and offered a mimed handclap, along with a slow nod. Then he headed for the doors, taking out his phone as if to make a call.

MacIver was seated in the hotel’s reception area, running a finger along the stories on the front of a morning paper.

‘Back to normal,’ one of the attendants assured Fox. Fox settled himself next to MacIver and asked if he’d recognised anyone on the stage. MacIver shook his head.

‘You sure?’ Fox persisted.

‘Sure,’ MacIver echoed.

Fox held out his copy of Future-Proofing Your Dreams. Its back cover consisted of smiling portrait photographs of the main players. ‘Him?’ Fox asked, dabbing a finger against Stephen Pears.

‘He was in the room.’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘He’s been on TV and in the newspapers. His name’s Stephen Pears. I’m pretty sure you’d have known him as Hawkeye.’

MacIver stared at him. ‘You’re wrong,’ he stated.

‘The war’s over,’ Fox persisted. ‘No need to lie for a cause that’s won.’

But MacIver was shaking his head slowly and defiantly. ‘Can I go back?’

‘Back?’ Fox thought he meant to the ballroom.

‘Home,’ MacIver corrected him.

‘He means Carstairs,’ one of the attendants clarified. ‘Isn’t that right, Donald?’

‘That’s right,’ MacIver confirmed. ‘I don’t like it here.’ He glared at the attendant. ‘And it’s Mr MacIver to you until you know me better.’

‘I’ve known you almost two years.’

‘You’re still on probation.’

‘What if we went back to the hall for a minute,’ Fox suggested, ‘just so you could hear him speak?’

MacIver was shaking his head again.

‘We don’t want to make things worse,’ the other attendant cautioned.

Fox considered his options. Hadn’t he got what he wanted? MacIver was back to his reading, asking the attendants if they had a crayon.

‘I’ve got a pen,’ Fox offered.

‘Has to be a crayon,’ the same attendant told him. ‘And not too sharp.’

Fox nodded his understanding. His phone bleeped a message. It was Tony Kaye, asking if it had worked.

More or less, Fox texted back. MacIver was studying the portraits on the back of the annual report. But then he seemed to dismiss it and went back to his newspaper.

‘Ready when you are, Mr MacIver,’ Fox announced. ‘And I want to thank you for everything.’

MacIver got to his feet and took a last look at his plush surroundings. ‘Russians or Arabs?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Who owns this place? It’ll be one or the other, mark my words. And next year or the year after, it’ll be sold on to China. A nation bought and sold…’

The attendants shared a look. One rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again,’ he said.

MacIver’s grievances were growing louder as they accompanied him to the door.

Having dropped the three men back at Carstairs, Fox was halfway to Edinburgh when his phone started ringing. He had a good idea who it might be and was content not to answer – not straight away. Eventually there was a sign pointing to a lay-by, so he signalled and pulled to a stop. The number wasn’t one he recognised, and no message had been left. He took a hand-held digital recorder from his pocket. Joe Naysmith had assured him the batteries were brand new and it would be good for eight hours of continuous use. Fox switched it on, then called the number and engaged the speakerphone mode.

‘Hello?’

It wasn’t the voice he’d expected. Female. Sounds of chattering all around.

‘Stephen Pears, please. He just phoned me from this number.’

‘Hold on…’

The phone changed hands. It was a man’s voice this time.

‘Yes?’ Stephen Pears asked.

‘Enjoying the canapes?’ Fox commented. ‘Managed to get all those juicy directors’ bonuses past the shareholders?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m driving. Had to drop Donald MacIver off.’

‘The man who was with you?’ Pears pretended to guess.

‘Your old pal.’ Fox paused, watching a lorry hurtle past. ‘Not much wrong with his memory…’

‘What exactly is it that you think you’re doing?’

‘A bit of future-proofing,’ Fox stated.

There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Are we talking about money?’

‘We could be – or else your own future might not be too bright.’

Pears gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t think I believe you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Nothing about you strikes me as the type.’

‘The type?’

‘To be bought off.’

‘How much do you know about me, though? You’ve got my phone number – but then I gave that to your wife. Did your little break-in provide any clues? I wouldn’t mind my laptop back, by the way – if you’re done with it. And the watch. You can hang on to Professor Martin’s book. What did you think of his thesis? All that political energy wasted…’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you don’t. And you were never known as Hawkeye when you were part of the Dark Harvest Commando. You never held up banks and post offices, never sent poison and letter bombs to London. Never stole all that money from Francis Vernal’s car after putting a bullet in his head.’

‘These sound like ravings, Inspector.’

‘You tell your version, I’ll tell mine.’

‘You’ll end up in a room next to your friend in Carstairs.’

Fox tutted. ‘I didn’t say anything about Carstairs, Mr Pears. But you’ve got me wondering now – would John Elliot recognise you, given a nudge? Maybe there’ll be others who’ll come out of the woodwork. The police can do wonders these days. We’ll take a recent photo and change the hair colour and length, give you a beard… reverse the ageing process. Then we’ll start to see.’

‘See what?’

‘See Hawkeye staring back at us. The man who wanted to bring down the government, the man with anarchy in his veins.’ Fox paused. ‘Until greed got the better of him…’

‘You’re making a mistake.’

‘I really don’t think so.’

‘I do.’ It was Pears’s turn to pause. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more important things to attend to.’

‘You do that, Mr Pears. I’ll just give Mrs Pears a call. Alice Watts, as was. Have you seen that picture of the two of you, arm in arm at the cop-shop demo?’

‘Do what you have to do, Inspector.’

‘Fine by me. Just need to toss a coin to decide which murder we charge you with first. Or were there more than two? My arithmetic’s not what it was.’

Fox ended the call, checked the quality of the recording, then sat for a few minutes, his hands resting against the steering wheel. He hadn’t got much; nothing that would begin to stand up in court. Hawkeye had learned caution somewhere along the way. Fox was about to head back on to the road when his phone rang again. Same number as before. He switched the recorder back on.

‘I seem to have hit a nerve,’ he commented.

‘I’m a man who likes a deal, Inspector. If there’s any sort of deal to be done here, I’m willing to consider it.’

‘It’s only when you don’t get your way that the killer instinct takes over?’ Fox speculated.