bad news, certainly not news as bad as this. ‘Your husband’s lost the heid’ just didn’t fit the bill.
The intercom clattered to life. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the keys, Shug? If you’ve been drinking and lost them, you can freeze your arse off, see if I care!’
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Detective Inspector Rebus. Can I come up?’
‘Name of God, what’s he done?’
‘Can I come up, Mrs McAnally?’
‘You better had.’ The intercom buzzed, and Rebus pushed open the door.
The McAnallys lived one floor up: for once Rebus had been hoping for the top storey. He climbed slowly, trying to prepare his speech. She was waiting at the door for him. It was a nice new-looking door, dark-stained wood with a fan-shaped glass motif. New brass knocker and letterbox too.
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Come in.’ She led him down a short hall into the living room. It was a tiny flat, but nicely furnished and carpeted. There was a kitchenette off the living room, both rooms adding up to about twenty feet by twelve. Estate agents would call it ‘cosy’ and ‘compact’. All three bars of the electric fire were on, and the room was stifling. Mrs McAnally had been watching television, a can of Sweetheart stout balanced on one wide arm of her chair, ashtray and cigarettes on the other.
She looked feisty; no other words would do. Cons’ wives often got that look. The prison visits hardened their jawlines and turned their eyes into distrustful slits. Her hair was dyed blonde, and though she was spending the night in, she’d still polished her nails and stuck on some eyeliner and mascara.
‘What’s he done?’ she said again. ‘Sit down if you like.’
‘I’ll stand, thanks. The thing is, Mrs McAnally …’ Rebus paused. That’s what you did: you lowered your voice respectfully, said a few introductory words, and then you paused, hoping the widow or widower or mother or father or son or daughter would twig.
‘The thing is what?’ she snapped.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you …’
Her eyes were on the television. It was a film, some noisy Hollywood adventure.
‘Could we maybe have the sound down?’ he suggested.
She shrugged and pressed the remote. The ‘mute’ sign came up on the screen. Rebus suddenly noticed how big the TV was; it filled a whole corner of the room. Don’t make me say the words, he thought. Then he saw that her eyes were glinting. Tears, he thought. She’s holding them back.
‘You know, don’t you?’ he said quietly.
‘Know what?’ she snapped.
‘Mrs McAnally, we think your husband may be dead.’ She threw the remote across the room and got to her feet. ‘A man committed suicide,’ Rebus continued. ‘He had a letter in his pocket addressed to your husband.’
She glared at him. ‘What does that mean? It means nothing. Might have dropped it, somebody might’ve picked it up.’
‘The deceased … the man, he was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and some light-coloured trousers, a green jersey …’
She turned away from him. ‘Where? Where was this?’
‘Warrender Park.’
‘Well then,’ she said defiantly, ‘Wee Shug went down Lothian Road, his usual haunts.’
‘What time were you expecting him home?’
‘Pubs are still open, if that answers your question.’
‘Look, Mrs McAnally, I know this isn’t easy, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary and look at some clothing. Would that be all right?’
She had her arms folded and was rocking on the balls of her feet. ‘No, it wouldn’t be all right. What’s the point? It’s not Wee Shug. He’s only been out a week, one miserable week. He can’t be dead.’ She paused. ‘Was it a car run him over?’
‘We think he took his own life.’
‘Are you mad? Took his own …? Get out of my house! Go on, out with you!’
‘Mrs McAnally, we need to –’
But now she was swiping at him, catching him with her solid fists, propelling him before her, out of the room
The intercom clattered to life. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the keys, Shug? If you’ve been drinking and lost them, you can freeze your arse off, see if I care!’
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Detective Inspector Rebus. Can I come up?’
‘Name of God, what’s he done?’
‘Can I come up, Mrs McAnally?’
‘You better had.’ The intercom buzzed, and Rebus pushed open the door.
The McAnallys lived one floor up: for once Rebus had been hoping for the top storey. He climbed slowly, trying to prepare his speech. She was waiting at the door for him. It was a nice new-looking door, dark-stained wood with a fan-shaped glass motif. New brass knocker and letterbox too.
‘Mrs McAnally?’
‘Come in.’ She led him down a short hall into the living room. It was a tiny flat, but nicely furnished and carpeted. There was a kitchenette off the living room, both rooms adding up to about twenty feet by twelve. Estate agents would call it ‘cosy’ and ‘compact’. All three bars of the electric fire were on, and the room was stifling. Mrs McAnally had been watching television, a can of Sweetheart stout balanced on one wide arm of her chair, ashtray and cigarettes on the other.
She looked feisty; no other words would do. Cons’ wives often got that look. The prison visits hardened their jawlines and turned their eyes into distrustful slits. Her hair was dyed blonde, and though she was spending the night in, she’d still polished her nails and stuck on some eyeliner and mascara.
‘What’s he done?’ she said again. ‘Sit down if you like.’
‘I’ll stand, thanks. The thing is, Mrs McAnally …’ Rebus paused. That’s what you did: you lowered your voice respectfully, said a few introductory words, and then you paused, hoping the widow or widower or mother or father or son or daughter would twig.
‘The thing is what?’ she snapped.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you …’
Her eyes were on the television. It was a film, some noisy Hollywood adventure.
‘Could we maybe have the sound down?’ he suggested.
She shrugged and pressed the remote. The ‘mute’ sign came up on the screen. Rebus suddenly noticed how big the TV was; it filled a whole corner of the room. Don’t make me say the words, he thought. Then he saw that her eyes were glinting. Tears, he thought. She’s holding them back.
‘You know, don’t you?’ he said quietly.
‘Know what?’ she snapped.
‘Mrs McAnally, we think your husband may be dead.’ She threw the remote across the room and got to her feet. ‘A man committed suicide,’ Rebus continued. ‘He had a letter in his pocket addressed to your husband.’
She glared at him. ‘What does that mean? It means nothing. Might have dropped it, somebody might’ve picked it up.’
‘The deceased … the man, he was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and some light-coloured trousers, a green jersey …’
She turned away from him. ‘Where? Where was this?’
‘Warrender Park.’
‘Well then,’ she said defiantly, ‘Wee Shug went down Lothian Road, his usual haunts.’
‘What time were you expecting him home?’
‘Pubs are still open, if that answers your question.’
‘Look, Mrs McAnally, I know this isn’t easy, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary and look at some clothing. Would that be all right?’
She had her arms folded and was rocking on the balls of her feet. ‘No, it wouldn’t be all right. What’s the point? It’s not Wee Shug. He’s only been out a week, one miserable week. He can’t be dead.’ She paused. ‘Was it a car run him over?’
‘We think he took his own life.’
‘Are you mad? Took his own …? Get out of my house! Go on, out with you!’
‘Mrs McAnally, we need to –’
But now she was swiping at him, catching him with her solid fists, propelling him before her, out of the room
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