Killed for his insolence.
Killed because of the threat he posed. No skeletons were going to put him off.
‘You saw it happen?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘You saw Stef die?’
‘I could do nothing.’
‘You phoned... did what you could.’
‘It was not enough... not enough...’ She had started crying, Kate comforting her. Two elderly women watched from a corner table. Their faces powdered, coats still buttoned almost to the chin. Edinburgh ladies, who probably had never known any life but this: the taking of tea, and a serving of gossip on the side. Rebus glared at them till they averted their eyes, going back to the spreading of butter on scones.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘she’ll have to tell the story again, make it official.’
‘In a police station?’ Kate guessed. Rebus nodded.
‘It would help,’ he said, ‘if you were there with her.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The man you’ll talk to will be another inspector. His name’s Shug Davidson. He’s a good guy, does the sympathy thing even better than me.’
‘You will not be there?’
‘I don’t think so. Shug’s the man in charge.’ Rebus took a mouthful of coffee and savoured it, then swallowed. ‘I was never supposed to be here,’ he said, almost to himself, staring out of the window again.
He called Davidson from his mobile, explained the set-up, said he’d bring both women to Torphichen.
In the car, Chantal was silent, staring at the passing world. But Rebus had a few more questions for her companion in the back seat.
‘How did your talk with Barney Grant go?’
‘It was all right.’
‘You reckon he’ll keep the Nook going?’
‘Until Stuart comes back, yes. Why do you smile?’
‘Because I don’t know if that’s what Barney wants... or expects.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Doesn’t matter. That description I gave Chantal... the man’s called Peter Hill. He’s Irish, probably with paramilitary connections. We reckon he was helping Bullen out, on the understanding that Bullen would then back him up when it came to dealing drugs on the estate.’
‘What has this got to do with me?’
‘Maybe nothing. The younger man, the one with the missing tooth... his name’s Howie Slowther.’
‘You said his name this morning.’
‘That’s right, I did. Because after your little chinwag with Barney Grant in the pub, Barney climbed into a car. Howie Slowther was in that car.’ In the rearview mirror, his eyes connected with hers. ‘Barney’s in this up to his neck, Kate... maybe even a little further. So if you were planning on relying on him...’
‘You do not have to worry about me.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
Chantal said something in French. Kate spoke back to her in the same language, Rebus picking up only a couple of words.
‘She’s asking about being deported,’ he guessed, then watched in the rearview as Kate nodded. ‘Tell her I’ll pull every string I can. Tell her it’s carved in stone.’
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw that it was Chantal’s.
‘I believe you,’ was all she said.
31
Siobhan and Les Young watched as Ray Mangold got out of his Jag. They were sitting in Young’s car, parked across the road from the Market Street lock-up. Mangold unlocked the garage doors and started pulling them open. Ishbel Jardine sat in the passenger seat, applying make-up as she checked her face in the rearview mirror. Having lifted the lipstick to her mouth, she hesitated a fraction too long.
‘She’s clocked us,’ Siobhan said.
‘You sure?’
‘Not a thousand per cent.’
‘Let’s wait and see.’
Young wanted the car garaged. That way, he could drive up in front of it, blocking any exit. They’d been sitting there the best part of forty minutes, Young going into too much detail about the rudiments of contract bridge. The ignition was off, but Young’s hand was on the key, ready for action.
With the garage doors wide open, Mangold had returned to the idling Jag. Siobhan watched as he got in, but couldn’t tell whether Ishbel had said anything. When she saw Mangold’s eyes meet hers in one of the side mirrors, she had her answer.
‘We need to move,’ she told Young. Then she opened her passenger door — no time to waste. But the Jag’s reversing lights were on. It moved past her at speed, heading for New Street, engine whining with the effort. Siobhan got back into the passenger seat, the door closing of its own accord as Young’s car surged forward. The Jag meantime had reached the New Street junction and was braking into a slide, facing uphill towards the Canongate.
‘Get on the radio!’ Young shouted. ‘Call in a description!’
Siobhan called it in. There was a queue of traffic heading up the Canongate, so the Jag turned left, downhill towards Holyrood.
‘What do you reckon?’ she asked Young.
‘You know the city better than I do,’ he admitted.
‘I think he’ll head for the park. If he stays on the streets, he’ll hit a snarl-up sooner or later. In the park, there’s a chance he can put his foot down, maybe lose us.’
‘Are you besmirching my car?’
‘Last time I looked, Daewoos didn’t sport four-litre engines.’
The Jag had pulled out to overtake an open-topped tourist bus. The street was at its narrowest, and Mangold clipped the wing mirror of a stationary delivery van, the driver emerging from a shop and shouting after him. Oncoming traffic stopped Young passing the bus as it continued its slow descent.
‘Try using your horn,’ Siobhan suggested. He did, but the bus paid no heed until it came to a temporary stop outside the Tolbooth. Drivers coming the opposite way protested as Young swept into their lane and past the obstruction. Mangold’s car was way ahead. As it reached the roundabout outside Holyrood Palace, it took a right, making for Horse Wynd.
‘You were right,’ Young admitted, while Siobhan called in this new information. Holyrood Park was crown property, and as such had its own police force, but Siobhan knew protocol could wait for later. For now, the Jag was racing away, rounding Salisbury Crags.
‘Where next?’ Young asked.
‘Well, he either circles the park all day, or else he comes off. That means Dalkeith Road or Duddingston. My money’s on Duddingston. Once he’s past there, he’s within a gear-change of the A1 — and he’ll definitely outrun us there, all the way to Newcastle if need be.’
There were a couple of roundabouts to be negotiated first, however, Mangold nearly losing control on the second, the Jaguar mounting the kerb. He was passing the back of Pollock Halls, engine roaring.
‘Duddingston,’ Siobhan commented, calling it in again. This part of the road was all twists and turns and they finally lost sight of Mangold completely. Then, from just past a stone outcrop, Siobhan could see dust billowing upwards.
‘Oh, hell,’ she said. As they rounded the bend, they saw tyre tracks veering crazily across the carriageway. There were iron railings on the right-hand side of the road, and the Jaguar had crashed through these, rolling down the steep slope towards Duddingston Loch. Ducks and geese were flapping out of harm’s way, while swans glided across the water’s surface, seemingly unworried. The Jaguar kicked up stones and old feathers as it bounced downhill. The brake lights glowed red, but the car seemed to have other ideas. Finally it slewed sideways and then another ninety degrees, its back half plunging into the water, resting there, the front wheels hanging in the air, spinning slowly.