Ian Rankin: The Beat Goes On

‘What do you reckon?’ Gilmour asked.

‘Is there something I’m not seeing here, Stefan?’ Rebus asked in return.

‘You’re the detective, John.’ Gilmour placed the watch on the table between them. ‘You tell me.’

The watch sat on Gilmour’s desk at Summerhall police station for the rest of the week. The old building felt like it might not survive till spring. Two of the windows in the CID office wouldn’t shut properly, and strips of newspaper had been stuffed into the gaps. An unlagged water pipe in the roof space had burst a fortnight back, bringing down part of the ceiling in a storeroom. Rebus had only been stationed there for a month and a half, but the mood of the place had managed to seep into his bones. He felt he was still being tested by his new colleagues, and that somehow the pocket watch was part of it. DS Dod Blantyre had offered to have it looked at by a watchmaker of his acquaintance, but Gilmour had shaken his head. There was a photo one day in the Scotsman , showing the construction work at HMP Saughton. New workshops were being built — the reason for Joseph Blay’s exhumation. It still wasn’t clear to Rebus why Gilmour had taken him there — or even why Gilmour himself had felt the need to be present. He hadn’t joined the force until ’65, two years after Blay’s execution. When Rebus found himself alone in the office with Dod Blantyre, he asked if Blantyre had known Charlie Cruikshank.

‘Oh aye,’ Blantyre said with a chuckle. ‘Some boy, Charlie.’

‘He seems to have taken Stefan under his wing.’

Blantyre nodded. ‘They were close,’ he agreed. ‘But then Charlie wasn’t someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of.’

‘Did he work at Summerhall?’

Blantyre shook his head. ‘Leith — that was Stefan’s first posting. Pair of them used to go to watch Hearts play. And here’s the thing: Stefan grew up supporting Hibs . Could never admit as much to Charlie though. Had to keep gritting his teeth and joining in whenever a goal was scored.’

‘Would it have meant a falling out between them if Cruikshank had found out?’

‘You planning on writing Stefan’s biography, John? What’s with all the questions anyway?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I tend to find that’s a dangerous trait in CID. You might want to get shot of it.’ There was an edge to Blantyre’s voice. For the rest of the afternoon, Rebus could feel the man’s eyes on him, the mood lightening only when, at quarter past five, Stefan Gilmour announced that he could hear the siren call of the local bar. As the group left Summerhall, however, Rebus realised he had left his pools coupon in the office.

‘I’ll catch you up,’ he said.

The coupon was in his desk drawer, filled out and ready to be handed in at the pub. He’d often asked himself what he would do if he ever did get a big win. Retire to warmer climes? He doubted his wife would want to give up her job. Nor, for that matter, would he. Pausing by Gilmour’s desk, he scooped up the watch and turned it in his hand, the chain dangling. It was easier to open now, the mechanism sliding onto his palm. But it still wasn’t about to tell him anything.

‘Sixty-three?’ the clerk said. ‘That counts as recent history.’

The man was bald and cadaverous, his glasses horn-rimmed and greasy. The warehouse in Granton was his fiefdom, and he obviously knew every inch of it.

‘How far back do records go?’ Rebus inquired.

‘I’ve got some dating from the 1940s — they’re not complete sets though.’

‘You sound disappointed.’

The man peered at him, then gestured towards a desk. ‘You can wait here while I fetch what you need.’

‘Thanks.’ Rebus sat down and, seeing an ashtray, decided to get a cigarette lit. It was nine in the morning and he’d warned the office he had a dentist’s appointment. Running his tongue around his mouth, he realised he really should make an appointment, having cancelled the last one. It was five minutes before the clerk returned. He placed a manila folder in front of Rebus, then produced a notebook from his pocket.

‘Just need to sign you in,’ he said. ‘Warrant card, please.’

Rebus handed it over and watched as the man began to enter his details onto a page.

‘You always do that?’ Rebus asked.

‘It’s important to keep a record.’

‘Anyone else requested this file recently?’

The clerk offered a thin smile. ‘I wondered if you’d twig.’

‘I’m guessing it was a DI called Gilmour.’

The clerk nodded. ‘Just three weeks back. Our hanged man is suddenly a popular figure...’

Frazer Spence was the only one in the office when Rebus returned to Summerhall.

‘Must have been quite a procedure,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

Spence patted his cheek with a finger. ‘The dentist. I’m usually in and out in half an hour.’

‘That’s because you brush your teeth.’

‘Twice a day,’ Spence confirmed.

‘How’s your bike, by the way?’ Spence had come off his motorcycle the previous weekend.

‘Garage says it’ll take a week or so.’

‘You need to be more careful on that thing.’

Spence just shrugged. ‘Hit a patch of oil. Could have happened to anyone.’

‘Still, sliding along a road on your backside at fifty miles an hour — maybe a lesson there, eh?’

‘My leathers bore the brunt.’

‘All the same.’ Rebus paused and looked around the office. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Meeting one of Stefan’s snitches. He might have something on the hold-up at that jeweller’s on George Street.’

‘Bit of progress would be welcome.’

‘Definitely.’

Rebus was standing next to Gilmour’s desk. The watch was no longer sitting there, so he opened the drawer. It lay on top of a stack of betting slips. Rebus lifted it out and slipped it into his pocket. ‘I’m off out again,’ he told Spence.

‘So what do I tell Stefan when he gets back?’

‘Tell him he’s not the only cop in town with informants to keep sweet.’

‘So which pub can he find you in if he needs you?’

Rebus pressed a finger to his lips and gave a wink.

‘What’s on your mind, John?’

It was mid-evening. A park bench next to Bruntsfield Links. Rebus had been waiting twenty minutes for Stefan Gilmour to arrive. Gilmour sat down, hands in coat pockets, legs splayed. Rebus had just stubbed a cigarette out under his heel and was resisting the urge to light another.

‘I’ve not been at Summerhall as long as the rest of you,’ Rebus began.

‘You’re still one of the Saints though.’

‘All the same, I keep wondering if I’m still on probation.’ Rebus held the watch out towards Gilmour.

‘I knew you’d taken it,’ his boss said with a smile. ‘So what did you do with it?’

‘The forensics lab. They’ve got some kind of camera there hooked up to a computer.’

Gilmour shook his head slowly. ‘Isn’t technology amazing?’

‘Getting better all the time,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But sometimes the old ways work, too. Your name’s on the list at the storage unit in Granton — three weeks ago, you pulled the file on Joseph Blay. This was after news broke that his remains would have to be moved.’

‘True enough.’

‘Your old mentor’s doing?’

Gilmour was staring out across the links. The street-lamps were lit and a haar was encroaching from the coast. ‘Charlie Cruikshank told me to keep an eye on Blay. At the time, I’d no idea what he meant — Blay was long dead.’

‘But you kept to your word.’

‘I usually do.’

‘Did you expect something to turn up in the coffin?’

Gilmour offered a shrug. ‘I’d really no idea. Poring over the case-notes didn’t offer any clues.’