‘What a shit-hole.’
Inside, the station was a frenzy of packing and moving. Vans were already taking crates and boxes to the new station. The desk sergeant had become a shirt-sleeved foreman, making sure the cases were labelled and the moving crew knew where they were to go once they reached their destination.
‘It’ll be a miracle if it goes to plan,’ he said. ‘And I notice CID aren’t giving a hand.’
Jack and Rebus gave him a round of applause: an old joke, but well intentioned. Then they went to the Shed.
Maclay and Bain were in situ.
‘The prodigal son!’ Bain exclaimed. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Helping CI Ancram with his inquiries.’
‘You should have called in. MacAskill wants a word, toot-sweet.’
‘I thought I told you never to call me that.’
Bain smirked. Rebus introduced Jack Morton. There were nods, handshakes, grunts: the usual procedure.
‘You better go see the Boss,’ Maclay said. ‘He’s been fretting.’
‘I’ve been missing him, too.’
‘Did you bring us back anything from Aberdeen?’
Rebus searched his pockets. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’
‘Well,’ Bain said, ‘you were probably busy.’
‘Busier than you two, but that wouldn’t be hard.’
‘Go see the Boss,’ Maclay told him.
Bain was wagging a finger. ‘And you should be nice to us, otherwise we might not tell you what our snitches came up with.’
‘What?’ Local snitches: word out for Tony El’s accomplice.
‘After you’ve talked to MacAskill.’
So Rebus went to see his boss, leaving Jack Morton outside the door.
‘John,’ Jim MacAskill said, ‘what have you been playing at?’
‘Different games, sir.’
‘So I hear, and you’ve not proved proficient at any of them, eh?’
MacAskill’s office was emptying, but there was some way to go. His filing cabinet stood with its drawers gutted, the files themselves spread across the floor.
‘Nightmare,’ he said, noticing Rebus’s look. ‘How’s your own packing coming?’
‘I travel light, sir.’
‘I forget, you’ve not been with us long. Sometimes it seems like for ever.’
‘I have that effect on people.’
MacAskill smiled. ‘Question one in my mind, this reopening of the Spaven case: is it going to go anywhere?’
‘Not if I have my way.’
‘Well, Chick Ancram’s pretty persistent... and thorough. Don’t depend on him overlooking something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve had a word with your boss at St Leonard’s. He tells me this is par for the course.’
‘I don’t know, sir, seems like I’m playing under a handicap.’
‘Well, anything I can do, John...’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I know the way Chick will play it: attrition. He’ll sweat the arse off you, run you in circles. He makes it easier for you to lie and say you’re guilty than to keep telling the truth. Watch out for that.’
‘Will do.’
‘Meantime, question one: how are you feeling?’
‘I’m all right, sir.’
‘Well, there’s not much happening around here that we can’t handle. So any time off you need, take it.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Chick’s west coast, John. He shouldn’t be over here.’ MacAskill shook his head, went to his drawer for a can of Irn-Bru. ‘Bugger,’ he said.
‘Problem, sir?’
‘I’ve gone and bought the diet stuff.’ He opened it anyway. Rebus left him to his packing.
Jack was right outside the door.
‘Did you catch any of that?’
‘I wasn’t listening.’
‘My boss just told me I can bunk off whenever I like.’
‘Which means we can finish doing up the living room.’
Rebus nodded, but he was thinking of finishing something else instead. He went into the Shed and stood in front of Bain’s desk.
‘Well?’
‘Well,’ Bain said, sitting back, ‘we did what you asked, put word out with our snitches. And they came up with a name.’
‘Hank Shankley,’ Maclay added.
‘He’s not got much of a record, but he’s game to make a few quid where he can, no scruples attached. And he gets around. Word is, he’s had a windfall and after a couple of drinks he was boasting about his “Glasgow connection”.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
Bain shook his head. ‘Bided our time.’
‘Waiting for you to turn up,’ Maclay added.
‘Have you been rehearsing this routine? Where can I find him?’
‘He’s a keen swimmer.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘The Commie Pool.’
‘Description?’
‘Big building at the top of Dalkeith Road.’
‘I meant Shankley.’
‘You can’t miss him,’ Maclay said. ‘Late thirties, six feet tall and skinny as a pole, short fair hair. Nordic looking.’
‘The description we got,’ Bain corrected, ‘was albino.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I owe you for this, gents.’
‘You haven’t heard who it was spilled the beans.’
‘Who?’
Bain grinned. ‘Remember Craw Shand?’
‘Claimed to be Johnny Bible?’ Bain and Maclay nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a snitch of yours?’
Bain shrugged. ‘Didn’t want it broadcast. But Craw’s a big fan of yours. See, he likes it rough now and then...’
Outside, Jack made for the car, but Rebus had other plans. He went into a shop and came out with six cans of Irn-Bru, not diet, then marched back into the station. The desk sergeant was sweating. Rebus handed him the carrier bag.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ the sergeant said.
‘They’re for Jim MacAskill,’ Rebus said. ‘I want at least five to reach him.’
Now he was ready to go.
The Commonwealth Pool, which had been built for the Commonwealth Games in 1970, was sited at the top of Dalkeith Road, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, and just over quarter of a mile from St Leonard’s police station. In the days when he swam, Rebus used the Commie Pool at lunchtimes. You found yourself a lane — never an empty lane, it was like easing out of a slip-road on to a motorway — and you swam, pacing yourself so you didn’t catch up with the person in front, or let the person behind gain on you. It was OK, but a bit too regimented. The other option was to swim breadths in the open pool, but then you were in with the kids and their parents. There was a separate pool for infants, plus three flumes Rebus had never been down, and elsewhere in the building were saunas, gym, and a café.
They found a space in the overflow car park and went in by the main entrance. Rebus showed ID at the kiosk and gave a description of Shankley.
‘He’s a regular,’ the woman told him.
‘Is he here just now?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only just come on.’ She turned to ask the other woman in the booth, who was counting coins into polythene bank-bags. Jack Morton tapped Rebus’s arm and nodded.
Beyond the kiosk there was a wide open space, with windows looking down on to the main pool. And standing there, glugging Coke from the can, stood a very tall, very thin man with damp, bleached hair. He had a rolled-up towel under one arm. When he turned, Rebus saw that his eyebrows and lashes were fair. Shankley saw two men examining him, placed them immediately. When Rebus and Morton started towards him, he ran.
He turned a corner into the open-plan café, but couldn’t see an exit from there, so kept running, ended up beside the children’s play area. This was a large netted enclosure totalling three storeys, with slides and walkways and other challenges — a toddler assault course. Rebus liked sometimes to sit with a post-swim coffee watching the kids playing, wondering which would make the best soldier.