Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

‘Blackmail?’ said Rab Mitchell.

He was sitting in the interview room, and he was nervous. Rebus stood against one wall, arms folded, examining the scuffed toes of his black Dr Martens shoes. He’d only bought them three weeks ago. They were hardly broken in – the tough leather heel-pieces had rubbed his ankles into raw blisters – and already he’d managed to scuff the toes. He knew how he’d done it too: kicking stones as he’d come out of June Redwood’s block of flats. Kicking stones for joy. That would teach him not to be exuberant in future. It wasn’t good for your shoes.

‘Blackmail?’ Mitchell repeated.

‘Good echo in here,’ Rebus said to Siobhan Clarke, who was standing by the door. Rebus liked having Siobhan in on these interviews. She made people nervous. Hard men, brutal men, they would swear and fume for a moment before remembering that a young woman was present. A lot of the time, she discomfited them, and that gave Rebus an extra edge. But Mitchell, known to his associates as ‘Roscoe’ (for no known reason), would have been nervous anyway. A man with a proud sixty-a-day habit, he had been stopped from lighting up by a tutting John Rebus.

‘No smoking, Roscoe, not in here.’

‘What?’

‘This is a non-smoker.’

‘What the f-what are you blethering about?’

‘Just what I say, Roscoe. No smoking.’

Five minutes later, Rebus had taken Roscoe’s cigarettes from where they lay on the table, and had used Roscoe’s Scottish Bluebell matches to light one, which he inhaled with great delight.

‘Non-smoker!’ Roscoe Mitchell fairly yelped. ‘You said so yourself!’ He was bouncing like a kid on the padded seat. Rebus exhaled again.

‘Did I? Yes, so I did. Oh well…’ Rebus took a third and final puff from the cigarette, then stubbed it out underfoot, leaving the longest, most extravagant stub Roscoe had obviously ever seen in his life. He stared at it with open mouth, then closed his mouth tight and turned his eyes to Rebus.

‘What is it you want?’ he said.

‘Blackmail,’ said John Rebus.

‘Blackmail?’

‘Good echo in here.’

‘Blackmail? What the hell do you mean?’

‘Photos,’ said Rebus calmly. ‘You took them at a party four months ago.’

‘Whose party?’

‘Matt Bennett’s.’

Roscoe nodded. Rebus had placed the cigarettes back on the table. Roscoe couldn’t take his eyes off them. He picked up the box of matches and toyed with it. ‘I remember it,’ he said. A faint smile. ‘Brilliant party.’ He managed to stretch the word ‘brilliant’ out to four distinct syllables. So it really had been a good party.

‘You took some snaps?’

‘You’re right. I’d just got a new camera.’

‘I won’t ask where from.’

‘I’ve got a receipt.’ Roscoe nodded to himself. ‘I remember now. The film was no good.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I put it in for developing, but none of the pictures came out. Not a one. They reckoned I’d not put the film in the right way, or opened the case or something. The negatives were all blank. They showed me them.’

‘They?’

‘At the shop. I got a consolation free film.’

Some consolation, thought Rebus. Some swap, to be more accurate. He placed the photo on the table. Roscoe stared at it, then picked it up the better to examine it.

‘How the-?’ Remembering there was a woman present, Roscoe swallowed the rest of the question.

‘Here,’ said Rebus, pushing the pack of cigarettes in his direction. ‘You look like you need one of these.’

Rebus sent Siobhan Clarke and DS Brian Holmes to pick up Keith Leyton. He also advised them to take along a back-up. You never could tell with a nutter like Leyton. Plenty of back-up, just to be on the safe side. It wasn’t just Leyton after all; there might be Joyce to deal with too.

Meantime, Rebus drove to Tollcross, parked just across the traffic lights, tight in at a bus stop, and, watched by a frowning queue, made a dash for the photographic shop’s doorway. It was chucking it down, no question. The queue had squeezed itself so tightly under the metal awning of the bus shelter that vice might have been able to bring them up on a charge of public indecency. Rebus shook water from his hair and pushed open the shop’s door.

Inside it was light and warm. He shook himself again and approached the counter. A young man beamed at him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I wonder if you can help,’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve got a film needs developing, only I want it done in an hour. Is that possible?’

‘No problem, sir. Is it colour?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fine then. We do our own processing.’

Rebus nodded and reached into his pocket. The man had already begun filling in details on a form. He printed the letters very neatly, Rebus noticed with pleasure.

‘That’s good,’ said Rebus, bringing out the photo. ‘In that case, you must have developed this.’

The man went very still and very pale.

‘Don’t worry, son, I’m not from Keith Leyton. In fact, Keith Leyton doesn’t know anything about you, which is just as well for you.’

The young man rested the pen on the form. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph.

‘Better shut up shop now,’ said Rebus. ‘You’re coming down to the station. You can bring the rest of the photos with you. Oh, and I’d wear a cagoule, it’s not exactly fair, is it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘And take a tip from me, son. Next time you think of blackmailing someone, make sure you get the right person, eh?’ Rebus tucked the photo back into his pocket. ‘Plus, if you’ll take my advice, don’t use words like “reprint” in your blackmail notes. Nobody says reprint except people like you.’ Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘It just makes it too easy for us, you see.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ the man said coolly.

‘All part of the service,’ said Rebus with a smile. The clue had actually escaped him throughout. Not that he’d be admitting as much to Kenneth Leighton. No, he would tell the story as though he’d been Sherlock Holmes and Philip Marlowe rolled into one. Doubtless Leighton would be impressed. And one day, when Rebus was needing a favour from the taxman, he would know he could put Kenneth Leighton in the frame.

‘It was Tony’s idea,’ he says, shifting in his seat. ‘Tony’s my brother, a couple of years younger than me, but he was always the brainy one. It was all his idea. I just went along with it.’

He’s still trying to get comfortable. It’s not easy to get comfortable in the interview room. The CID man could tell him that. He could tell him that the chair he’s wriggling in has been modified ever so slightly, a quarter-inch taken off its front legs. The chair isn’t designed with rest and relaxation in mind.

‘So Tony says to me one day, he says: “Ian, this is one plan that cannot fail.” And he tells me about it. We spend a bit of time bouncing it around, you know, me trying to pick holes in it. I have to admit, it looked pretty good. Well, that’s the problem really. That’s why I’m here. It was just too bloody good all round…’

He looks around again, studying the walls, as if expecting two-way mirrors, secret listening devices. The one thing he’s not been expecting is the quietness. It’s eleven-thirty on a weekday night. The police station is like a ghost town. He wants to see lots of activity, lots of uniforms. Yet again in his life, he’s being let down.

Tony had noticed the slip-road. He drove from Fife to Edinburgh most Saturday nights, taking a carful of friends. They went to pubs and clubs, danced, chatted up women. A late-night pizza and maybe a couple of espressos before home. Tony didn’t drink. He didn’t mind staying sober while everyone around him had a skinful. He always liked to be in control. On the A90 south of the Forth Road Bridge, he’d seen the signpost for the slip-road. He’d seen it before – must’ve passed it a hundred times – but this one night something about it bothered him. The next morning, he headed back. The sign said: Department of Transport Vehicle Check Area Only. He took the slip-road, found himself at a sort of roundabout in the middle of nowhere. He stopped his car and got out. There was grass growing in the middle of the road. He didn’t think the place got used much. A hut nearby, and a metal ramp that might have been a weigh-bridge. Another slip-road led back down on to the A90. He stood there for a while, listening to the rush of traffic below him, an idea slowly forming in his head.