The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) (34 page)

True enough, Leighton wasn’t any of the three men in the photo, not by any stretch of the will or imagination. Rebus concentrated on the woman. She was small, heavy, somehow managing to fit into a dress two sizes too small for her. It was black and short, rumpled most of the way to her bum, with plenty of cleavage at the other end. She also wore black tights and black patent-leather shoes. But somehow Rebus didn’t think he was looking at a funeral.

‘I don’t suppose’, he said, ‘this is your wife?’

Leighton actually laughed, the sound of paper shredding.

‘Thought not,’ Rebus said quietly. He turned his attention to the man on the sofa, the man whose arms were trapped beneath the weight of the smirking woman. There was something about that face, that hairstyle. Then it hit Rebus, and things started to make a little more sense.

‘I didn’t recognise him at first,’ he said, thinking out loud.

‘You mean you know him?’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Only I’ve never seen him smile before, that’s what threw me.’ He studied the photo again, then stabbed it with a finger. The tip of his finger was resting on the face of one of the other men, the two behind the sofa. ‘And I know him,’ he said. ‘I can place him now.’ Leighton looked impressed. Rebus moved his finger on to the recumbent woman. ‘What’s more, I know her too. I know her quite well.’

Leighton didn’t look impressed now, he looked startled, perhaps even disbelieving.

‘Three out of four,’ Rebus said. ‘Not a bad score, eh?’ Leighton didn’t answer, so Rebus smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll take care of this. You won’t be bothered any more.’

‘Well … thank you, Inspector.’

Rebus got to his feet. ‘All part of the service, Mr Leighton. Who knows, maybe
you’ll
be able to help
me
one of these days …’

Rebus sat at his desk, reading the file. Then, when he was satisfied, he tapped into the computer and checked some details regarding a man who was doing a decent stretch in Peterhead jail. When he’d finished, there was a broad grin on his face, an event unusual enough in itself to send DC Siobhan Clarke sauntering over in Rebus’s direction, trying not to get too close (fear of being hooked), but close enough to register interest. Before she knew it, Rebus was reeling her in anyway.

‘Get your coat,’ he said.

She angled her head back towards her desk. ‘But I’m in the middle of—’

‘You’re in the middle of
my
catchment, Siobhan. Now fetch your coat.’

Never be nosy, and always keep your head down: somehow Siobhan Clarke hadn’t yet learned those two golden rules of the easy life. Not that anything was easy when John Rebus was in the office. Which was precisely why she liked working near him.

‘Where are we going?’ she said.

Rebus told her on the way. He also handed the file to her so she could read it through.

‘Not guilty,’ she said at last.

‘And I’m Robbie Coltrane,’ said Rebus. They were both talking about a case from a few months before. A veteran hard man had been charged with the attempted armed hold-up of a security van. There had been evidence as to his guilt – just about enough evidence – and his alibi had been shaky. He’d told police of having spent the day in question in a bar near his mother’s home in Muirhouse, probably the city’s most notorious housing scheme. Plenty of witnesses came forward to agree that he had been there all day. These witnesses boasted names like Tam the Bam, Big Shug, the Screwdriver, and Wild Eck. The look of them in the witness-box, police reasoned, would be enough to convince the jury of the defendant’s guilt. But there had been one other witness …

‘Miss June Redwood,’ quoted DC Clarke, rereading the case-notes.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘Miss June Redwood.’

An innocent, dressed in a solemn two-piece as she gave her evidence at the trial. She was a social worker, caring for the most desperate in Edinburgh’s most desperate area. Needing to make a phone call, and sensing she’d have no luck with Muirhouse’s few public kiosks, she had walked into the Castle Arms, probably the first female the regulars had seen in the saloon bar since the landlord’s wife had walked out on him fifteen years before. She’d asked to use the phone, and a man had wandered over to her from a table and, with a wink, had asked if she’d like a drink. She’d refused. She could see he’d had a few – more than a few. His table had the look of a lengthy session about it – empty pint glasses placed one inside another to form a leaning tower, ashtray brimming with butts and empty packets, the newspaper’s racing page heavily marked in biro.

Miss Redwood had given a quietly detailed account, at odds with the loud, confident lies of the other defence witnesses. And she was sure that she’d walked into the bar at 3 p.m., five minutes before the attack on the security van took place. The prosecution counsel had tried his best, gaining from the social worker the acknowledgement that she knew the accused’s mother through her work, though the old woman was not actually her client. The prosecutor had stared out at the fifteen jury members, attempting without success to plant doubt in their minds. June Redwood was a rock-solid witness. Solid enough to turn a golden prosecution case into a verdict of ‘not guilty’. The accused had walked free. Close, as the fairground saying went, but definitely no goldfish.

Rebus had been in court for the verdict, and had left with a shrug and a low growl. A security guard lay in hospital suffering from shotgun wounds. Now the case would have to be looked at again, if not by Rebus then by some other poor bugger who would go through the same old steps, knowing damned fine who the main suspect was,
and knowing that he was walking the streets and drinking in pubs, and chuckling at his luck.

Except that it wasn’t luck: it was planning, as Rebus now knew.

DC Clarke finished her second reading of the file. ‘I suppose you checked on Redwood at the time?’

‘Of course we did. Not married, no boyfriends. No proof – not even the faintest rumour – that she knew Keith.’

Clarke looked at the photo. ‘And this is her?’

‘It’s her, and it’s him – Keith Leyton.’

‘And it was sent to …?’

‘It was addressed to a Mr K. Leighton. They didn’t get the spelling right. I checked in the phone book. Keith Leyton’s ex-directory. Either that or he doesn’t have a phone. But our little tax collector is in there under K. Leighton.’

‘And they sent the letters to him by mistake?’

‘They must know Keith Leyton hangs out in Muirhouse. His mum lives in Muirhouse Crescent.’

‘Where does Kenneth Leighton live?’

Rebus grinned at the windscreen. ‘Muir
wood
Crescent – only it’s not in Muirhouse, it’s in Currie.’

Siobhan Clarke smiled too. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

Rebus shrugged. ‘It happens. They looked in the phone book, thought the address looked right, and started sending the letters.’

‘So they’ve been trying to blackmail a criminal …’

‘And instead they’ve found a taxman.’ Now Rebus laughed outright. ‘They must be mad, naïve, or built like a hydro-electric station. If they’d
really
tried this bampot caper on with Leyton, he’d have dug a fresh grave or two in Greyfriars for them. I’ll give them one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They know about Keith’s wife.’

‘His wife?’

Rebus nodded. ‘She lives near the mum. Big woman. Jealous. That’s why Keith would keep any girlfriend secret – that’s why he’d
want
to keep her a secret. The blackmailers must have thought that gave them a chance that he’d cough up.’

Rebus stopped the car. He had parked outside a block of flats in Oxgangs. The block was one of three, each one shaped like a capital H lying on its face. Caerketton Court: Rebus had once had a fling with a school-dinner lady who lived on the second floor …

‘I checked with June Redwood’s office,’ he said. ‘She’s off sick.’ He craned his neck out of the window. ‘Tenth floor apparently, let’s
hope the lift’s working.’ He turned to Siobhan. ‘Otherwise we’ll have to resort to the telephone.’

The lift was working, though barely. Rebus and Siobhan ignored the wrapped paper parcel in one corner. Neither liked to think what it might contain. Still, Rebus was impressed that he could hold his breath for as long as the lift took to crackle its way up ten flights. The tenth floor seemed all draughts and high-pitched winds. The building had a perceptible sway, not quite like being at sea. Rebus pushed the bell of June Redwood’s flat and waited. He pushed again. Siobhan was standing with her arms folded around her, shuffling her feet.

‘I’d hate to see you on a football terrace in January,’ said Rebus.

There was a sound from inside the door, then the door itself was opened by a woman with unwashed hair, a tissue to her nose, and wrapped in a thick dressing-gown.

‘Hello there, Miss Redwood,’ said Rebus brightly. ‘Remember me?’ Then he held up the photograph. ‘Doubtless you remember him too. Can we come in?’

They went in. As they sat in the untidy living-room, it crossed Siobhan Clarke’s mind that they had no way of proving
when
the photo was taken. And without that, they had nothing. Say the party had taken place after the trial – it could well be that Leyton and June Redwood had met then. In fact, it made sense. After his release, Leyton probably
would
want to throw a party, and he would certainly want to invite the woman who had been his saviour. She hoped Rebus had thought of this. She hoped he wasn’t going to go too far … as usual.

‘I don’t understand,’ said June Redwood, wiping her nose again.

‘Come on, June,’ said Rebus. ‘Here’s the proof. You and Keith together in a clinch. The man you claimed at his trial was a complete stranger. Do you often get this comfortable with strangers?’

This earned a thin smile from June Redwood.

‘If so,’ Rebus continued, ‘you must invite me to one of your parties.’

Siobhan Clarke swallowed hard. Yes, the Inspector was going to go too far. Had she ever doubted it?

‘You’d be lucky,’ said the social worker.

‘It’s been known,’ said Rebus. He relaxed into his chair. ‘Doesn’t take a lot of working out, does it?’ he went on. ‘You must have met Keith through his mum. You became … friends, let’s call it. I don’t know what his wife will call it.’ Blood started to tinge June Redwood’s neck. ‘You look better already,’ said Rebus. ‘At least I’ve put a bit of colour in your cheeks. You met Keith, started going out with him. It had to be kept secret though. The only thing Keith Leyton fears is
Mrs
Keith Leyton.’

‘Her name’s Joyce,’ said Redwood.

Rebus nodded. ‘So it is.’

‘I could know that from the trial,’ she snapped. ‘I wouldn’t have to know him to know that.’

Rebus nodded again. ‘Except that you were a witness, June. You weren’t in court when Joyce Leyton was mentioned.’

Her face now looked as though she’d been lying out too long in the non-existent sun. But she had a trump card left. ‘That photo could have been taken any time.’

Siobhan held her breath: yes, this was the crunch. Rebus seemed to realise it too. ‘You’re right there,’ he said. ‘Any time at all … up to a month before Keith’s trial.’

The room was quiet for a moment. The wind found a gap somewhere and rustled a spider-plant near the window, whistling as though through well-spaced teeth.

‘What?’ said June Redwood. Rebus held the photograph up again.

‘The man behind you, the one with long hair and the tattoo. Ugly-looking loon. He’s called Mick McKelvin. It must have been some party, June, when bruisers like Keith and Mick were invited. They’re not exactly your cocktail crowd. They think a canapé’s something you throw over a stolen car to keep it hidden.’ Rebus smiled at his own joke. Well, someone had to.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Mick went inside four weeks before Keith’s trial. He’s serving three years in Peterhead. Persistent B and E. So you see, there’s no way this party could have taken place
after
Keith’s trial. Not unless Peterhead’s security has got a bit lax. No, it had to be before, meaning you
had
to know him before the trial. Know what that means?’ Rebus sat forward. June Redwood wasn’t wiping her nose with the tissue now; she was hiding behind it, and looking frightened. ‘It means you stood in the witness-box and you lied, just like Keith told you to. Serious trouble, June. You might end up with your own social worker, or even a prison visitor.’ Rebus’s voice had dropped in volume, as though June and he were having an intimate tête-à-tête over a candlelit dinner. ‘So I really think you’d better help us, and you can start by talking about the party. Let’s start with the photograph, eh?’

‘The photo?’ June Redwood looked ready to weep.

‘The photo,’ Rebus echoed. ‘Who took it? Did he take any other pics of the two of you? After all, at the moment you’re looking at a jail sentence, but if any photos like this one get to Joyce Leyton, you might end up collecting signatures.’ Rebus waited for a moment, until he saw that June didn’t get it. ‘On your plaster casts,’ he explained.