Ian Rankin: A Cool Head

‘Do you work with him?’

‘No.’ I paused while I had a think. ‘I don’t know where he works. But he must have a job because he always has money.’ Then I corrected myself. ‘Always had money, I mean.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying he’s dead?’

I sniffed and rubbed my nose. ‘I suppose so,’ I said. Celine Watts lifted the piece of paper from my fingers.

‘And you found this in his car?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s not the car he usually drives?’ She was looking over my shoulder again. ‘How did he die?’

‘I don’t know.’ I think she could see that I was lying. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

‘A look at what?’

‘A look at the car.’ She squeezed past me, leaving her door wide open. I wanted to tell her that all the heat would escape, it was the sort of thing my mum would say. But instead, I followed her. She opened the passenger door. ‘Area like this, you should have locked it,’ she said. She was opening the glove box.

‘My gloves wouldn’t fit,’ I explained, but she wasn’t listening. She took out a book and started turning its pages. It had drawings of all the parts of the car. But at the back there was another piece of paper, folded in four. She opened it up.

‘It’s a bill,’ she said, ‘for fixing the car.’ Then she stopped speaking. There was a gurgling sound in her throat. Her mouth stayed open.

‘Gravy,’ she said, ‘do you know a man called Donald Empson?’

I shook my head. ‘Is this his car?’

‘I think so,’ she said. ‘It’s his name on the bill.’

‘And you know him?’

She placed a hand to her chest, as if to check her heartbeat. Warm heart, cool head. ‘I know who he is,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how your friend Benjy died?’

‘I think someone killed him.’ Tears were coming into my eyes. I wiped them away.

‘He was a friend of yours?’

‘Yes.’ I repeated it four more times for luck. She seemed to be thinking about things, staring into the distance. Then she turned her attention to the open door of her house.

‘Police told me I’d be safe,’ she said. She shook her head slowly. We stood together in silence for a minute, and then she asked me what was in the bag. It was on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

‘It’s not mine,’ I said.

She was already unzipping it. When she looked inside, she saw my gloves first, but then she saw what was beneath them and she placed the hand to her chest again.

‘It’s Benjy’s money,’ I explained. ‘I don’t know what to do with it. I was hoping you’d be a friend of his…’

She looked at me and then smiled. It was a big, beaming smile, and it was followed by a laugh.

‘I am a friend of Benjy’s,’ she said, taking my arm and squeezing it. ‘This was supposed to be my surprise.’ She nodded towards the bag. ‘And now you’ve delivered it. Thank you, Gravy!’

I was a bit confused. ‘The bag’s for you?’

‘It’s money for my holiday.’

I thought about it, but it still wasn’t clear. It seemed all fuzzy in the middle.

‘I need to be going,’ she was saying. ‘Quite soon, Gravy.’ She was looking at the open door again. ‘I just need to pack a few… no, maybe not. I can buy whatever I need. No passport, though.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Passport’s at my flat.’

‘Is this not your house?’

‘My cousin’s. Police called it a “safe house”, fat lot they know. I’ve only been here two days, and Don Empson’s got the address.’ She looked around us, suddenly fearful. ‘Need to get out of here, Gravy,’ she decided. ‘Somewhere safe. Can you drive?’ She realised what she’d said and laughed a short laugh. ‘What am I saying? You drove here, didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ I said.

‘So maybe you can give me a lift?’

‘The bus stop?’ I guessed, but she shook her head.

‘Edinburgh.’

‘That’s miles. We could run out of petrol.’

‘We’ve got money,’ she said, grabbing my arm again. ‘Plenty of money, remember? My holiday money.’

And with that, she lifted out the bag, then got into the car, resting it on her lap.

‘Are you going to leave the door open?’ I asked, pointing towards the house. ‘The heat will get out.’

‘Let it,’ she snapped. But she could see I wasn’t happy. ‘The rooms need airing,’ she explained. ‘Place gets stuffy otherwise. Now come on.’ She patted the driving seat. ‘I want your best Jeremy Clarkson impression.’

‘Who?’

She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Just get in and drive, Gravy.’

‘I don’t know Edinburgh. I’ve never been there.’

‘We’ll take the motorway. Don’t worry, you won’t get lost.’ Her face went sad again. ‘Unless you don’t want to help a friend of Benjy’s. If you don’t want to help me, just say so.’

But I did want to help her. I wanted to see her smile again. It was a good smile. A smile like my mum’s.

‘Okay,’ I said.

Jim Gardner was Benjy’s best friend. When Don Empson left him, he was bleeding and weeping. Don didn’t think Jim knew anything about anything. But he’d asked him questions all the same. Who else did Benjy know? Who might he go to for help? And Jim had done a lot of talking. Don felt bad about it, felt he’d worked out a lot of his own anger on Gardner. That was hardly professional.

Don had been busy since leaving the scrapyard. He’d borrowed one of the cars. It made noises that warned him it was dying.

‘You and me both,’ he’d told it. In his case this was certainly true. Six months, the hospital had told him. Maybe a year with treatment, but his quality of life would suffer. He’d spend half his time on a trolley in the hospital corridor.

‘No thanks,’ he’d said. ‘Just give me painkillers, lots of painkillers.’

There were some in his pocket right now, but the only things that hurt were his knuckles. Jim Gardner had told him there was this graveyard, out by the old blocks of flats. Some bloke there, Benjy said he was useful. He would hide things for him.

All sorts of things.

Gardner didn’t know the man’s name, but that didn’t matter. On his way to the graveyard, Don called his friend in the police. For the price of a few drinks, his friend would put out a call to all patrol cars. They would keep their eyes open for Don’s car, the one Benjy had taken. For another few drinks, this same friend would ask all the hospitals in the area if anyone had been brought in wounded.

‘Wounded?’ the cop had asked.

‘Don’t worry,’ Don had told him. ‘It’s not anyone who didn’t deserve it.’ He didn’t want to spook the cop.

But when Don called from the car, there was no news. He reached the graveyard in twenty minutes. It was even closer to Raymond’s garage, maybe twelve or fifteen minutes. No distance at all. The gates were closed. He got out and checked them. They were held shut by a chain. Don peered through the bars but couldn’t see any signs of life.

‘Just signs of death,’ he said to himself. He had already planned his own funeral, a cremation with music by Johnny Cash.

If he lived that long. He thought of the compactor and had to shake the image away. He looked around him. There were some kids further up the hill, gathered around a couple of bikes by a lamp post. Don drove towards them and stopped the car. He got out again. Twenty pounds, a fiver for each kid, and he had some more information. The guy who worked in the graveyard was called Gravy. He was ‘not all there’. Don listened, and then described his own car. There were nods. Then he described Benjy. More nods.