Let It Bleed by Ian Rankin Page A

‘Cosy as this room is,’ Dr Curt said, ‘I’d prefer my own hearth.’
    In the back pocket of the deceased’s trousers, Rebus found an official-looking envelope, folded in two.
    ‘Mr H McAnally,’ he read. ‘An address in Tollcross.’
    ‘Not five minutes away.’
    Rebus eased the letter out of the envelope and read it. ‘It’s from the Prison Service,’ he told Dr Curt. ‘Details of assistance open to Mr H McAnally on his release from Saughton Jail.’
*  *  *
    Tom Gillespie had a wash in the school toilets. His hair was damp and lay in clumps against his skull. He kept rubbing a hand over his face and then checking the palm for blood. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
    Rebus sat across from him in the headteacher’s office. The office had been locked, but Rebus had commandeered it when the head arrived at the school. The cleaning ladies were being given mugs of tea in the staffroom. Siobhan Clarke was there with them, doing her best to calm down Miss Profitt.
    ‘Did you know the man at all, Mr Gillespie?’
    ‘Never seen him in my life.’
    ‘You’re sure of that?’
    ‘Positive.’
    Rebus reached into his pocket, then stopped. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ From the odour of stale tobacco in the room, he already knew the head wouldn’t mind.
    Gillespie shook his head. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘give me one while you’re at it.’ Gillespie lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Gave up three years ago.’
    Rebus didn’t say anything. He was studying the man. He’d seen his photo before, in election rubbish pushed through the letterbox. Gillespie was in his mid-forties. He wore red-rimmed glasses normally, but had left them on the desk. His hair was very thin and wispy on top, but curled thickly either side of his pate. His eyes had thick dark lashes, not just from the crying, and his chin was weak. Rebus couldn’t have called him handsome. There was a simple gold band on his wedding finger.
    ‘How long have you been a councillor, Mr Gillespie?’
    ‘Six years, coming up for seven.’
    ‘I live in your ward.’
    Gillespie studied him. ‘Have we met before?’
    Rebus shook his head. ‘So this man walks into the classroom …?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Looking for you in particular?’
    ‘He asked if I was the councillor. Then he asked who Helena was.’
    ‘Helena being Miss Profitt?’
    Gillespie nodded. ‘He told her to get out … Then he turned the shotgun around and stuck the end of it in his mouth.’ He shivered, ash falling from his cigarette. ‘I’ll never forget that, never.’
    ‘Did he say anything else?’ Gillespie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say
any
thing?’
    ‘Not a word.’
    ‘Do you have any idea why he did it?’
    Gillespie looked at Rebus. ‘That’s your department, not mine.’
    Rebus held the stare until Gillespie broke it by looking for somewhere to stub out the cigarette.
    There’s something in you, Rebus thought, something below the surface that’s a lot cooler, a lot more deliberate.
    ‘Just a few more questions, Mr Gillespie. How are your surgeries publicised?’
    ‘There’s a district council leaflet, most homes had one delivered. Plus I put up notices in doctors’ surgeries, that sort of place.’
    ‘They’re no secret then?’
    ‘What good would a councillor be if he kept his surgeries secret?’
    ‘Mr McAnally lived at an address in Tollcross.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The man who killed himself.’
    ‘Tollcross? That’s not in my ward.’
    ‘No,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘I didn’t think it was.’
    DC Siobhan Clarke sat in on the interview with HelenaProfitt. Miss Profitt was still bawling, her few utterances barely decipherable. She was older than the councillor, maybe by as much as ten years. She clutched a large shopping-bag on her lap as if it was a lifebuoy keeping her afloat. Maybe it was. She was short, with fair hair which had been permed a while back, most of it lost now. A pair of knitting needles protruded from her