He helped the woman retrieve the files. ‘Nice colours,’ he said.
‘What?’ She tucked some stray hairs back into place behind her ear. She was a tall, heavy-boned woman with a face full of strong features. Her thick dark hair was shoulder-length and parted to one side, a little lacking in life. Her eyes were full of life though; her eyes were blazing. She looked harassed, but was dressed with thoughtful elegance in a pearl-coloured silk blouse and a long skirt of Black Watch tartan.
‘The files,’ Rebus explained. ‘The ones I always seem to buy are blue or grey or green. These are … well, they’re more colourful.’
She looked at him like he was mad: they were only files.
‘A stationer’s on George Street,’ she said.
Rebus nodded, trying not to look like he was memorising the letters on the front of the file he’d been studying. Not that the letters SDA/SE were difficult to remember.
‘Something jammed?’ Rebus asked.
She had been brought up a polite girl, taught manners at home and in school. She couldn’t not answer a question so casually put, a harmless inquiry.
‘The shredder,’ she said.
Rebus nodded, confirming that he too had problems with his paper-shredder. ‘You must be Mrs Gillespie?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s got you helping him, eh?’
She tried to laugh. ‘Press-ganged.’
‘I thought Councillor Gillespie had a secretary.’
Her smile vanished. She was thinking up some lie to tell him when the door opened and Gillespie emerged. This time, peering into the room, Rebus saw several cardboard boxes full of long thin strips of paper. Shredded documents.
Gillespie propelled his wife gently but firmly back into the office, closing the door after her. ‘I don’t recall inviting you in, Inspector.’
‘Maybe you’ll want to talk to your friend Councillor Mantoni again.’
Gillespie pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Well, now you’re here, come into the kitchen.’ He wiped the handkerchief across his forehead. ‘I’m parched.’
He led Rebus down the long hall, past a sitting room and dining room. They took a left past the blocked-in staircase and passed through a shorter, darker passage into the kitchen. There was pine everywhere: pine units, pine tongue-and-groove covering every surface except the floor, which boasted boards freshly sanded and varnished. A conservatory had been added to the back, giving views on to the wide rear garden, mature rose bushes and laurel hedge; a small brick patio.
Gillespie busied himself with the kettle.
‘I won’t offer you a cup, Inspector. I know you’ll be keen to be on your way.’
‘I’m not that busy today actually, Mr Gillespie, but I won’t stay for coffee.’ Rebus paused. ‘Thanks for the offer.’
Gillespie opened a cupboard and glowered at the mugs and glasses within. Reflected glare, thought Rebus.
‘So what is it you want?’ Gillespie reached for a mug.
‘Dog shit,’ said Rebus.
Gillespie fumbled the mug but retrieved it. ‘What did you say?’
‘Dog shit, Councillor: on the pavements, the grass … everywhere. It’s a disgrace.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not here in your official capacity?’
‘Did I say I was? No, I’m here as a private individual, a constituent voicing a complaint to his elected representative.’
Gillespie opened a cafetiere and poured ground coffee into it from a packet. By the time he finished he’d regained his composure.
‘Well, Mr Rebus,’ he said, ‘people only usually complain in the summer. That’s when the offending article is at its softest and smelliest. I’ve never received a complaint in the winter.’
‘Then I’m speaking for the silent majority.’
Gillespie managed a smile. ‘What do you really want? If I had a mind, I could construe this visit as harassment.’
After what Rebus had seen, he didn’t really want anything else, but he was enjoying himself, and what were holidays for if you didn’t enjoy yourself?
‘Just what I say,’ he replied.
Gillespie poured boiling water over the coffee grounds. ‘Well, I’m surprised at you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d have expected you of all people to know that dogs fouling the byways are a matter for the police. It’s down to the police to trace the owners and bring a prosecution.’
‘And the council doesn’t do anything?’
‘On the contrary, we’ve a Dog Warden Section whose job is to educate owners to act responsibly. The wardens also help the police in cases of prosecution. The Warden Section is part of the EHD.’
‘Environmental Health Department?’
‘Precisely. I can give you their number if you like. It’s the least I can do … for a constituent.’
Rebus smiled and shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets and made as if to leave. But he stopped beside the councillor and lowered his voice.
‘How scared are you?’
‘What?’
‘You look to me like you’re shitting snowballs.’
The councillor started sweating again. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and concentrated on stirring the contents of the cafetiere.
‘All the shit that’s about these days,’ Rebus went on, ‘you’ve got to watch you don’t tread in it. You might end up on your arse, isn’t that right, Councillor?’
‘Just get out, will you?’
Rebus turned to leave. Gillespie put out a hand to stop him. ‘Inspector, you’re making a mistake.’ Not a threat; a simple statement of fact.
‘Talk to me.’
Gillespie thought about it, biting his bottom lip, then shook his head. Rebus stared at him, willing him to change his mind. But Gillespie was scared; it was in his eyes, in the sheen of his face.
The man was terrified.
‘I’ll let you out,’ Gillespie said, leading Rebus back down the hall. He had the cufetiere in one hand, two mugs in the other. Through the office door they could hear Mrs Gillespie cursing the machine again. She sounded like she was kicking it.
‘Bit of a temper, your wife,’ Rebus commented. He saw that Gillespie didn’t have a free hand, so did the kindly thing and opened the office door for him.
‘Has he gone yet?’ Mrs Gillespie snarled.
‘Just on my way, Mrs Gillespie,’ Rebus told her, popping his head round the door, taking a good look round. ‘Nice to have met you.’
Her face was flushed, anger turning quickly to embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No need for that.’
And Rebus left them to it, whatever it was …
18
It took Rebus half the afternoon to decide that he was doing the right thing.
More accurately, it took him ten minutes to make up his mind, and a couple of hours to drink himself into a state where he was confident enough to follow through.
He wasn’t just drinking though, he was hunting; eyes and ears open for news of Rico Briggs.
Rico was just about the best and worst housebreaker on the east coast. It wasn’t that he was cack-handed: he could be in and out of most homes in minutes flat, be the occupants asleep, slumped in front of the TV, or making merry at a party. Rico’s problem was that he was conspicuous, and fences didn’t like that. Rico had been a big Hearts fan, not missing a fixture in seasons 1977-80, except when he’d served a wee stretch in Peterhead. One night in Leith Walk, dizzy after a trouncing of the Hibees, Rico had marched into a tattoo parlour and demanded the works.
Next morning, Rico had looked at his face in his bathroom mirror and seen that both tender cheeks now boasted the Hearts badge, a maroon heart with a cross in the middle. It took him only a day or two to start loathing his once-loved team; which was ironic, considering he was now a public poster-site for the men of Gorgie.
Not surprisingly, the tattoos were unique, and as good as fingerprints as far as the police were concerned. Realising this, Rico had started sporting a balaclava when working, which accentuated his other remarkable facial feature — a nose the dimensions of the Pyramid of Cheops. This, too, people tended to notice.