Free Let It Bleed by Ian Rankin Page B

Maisie Finch’s door was ajar. He closed it after him.
    ‘Miss Finch?’
    She emerged suddenly from the bathroom, wearing a short towelling-robe and brushing her hair. He could smell soap and feel the warmth from her body.
    ‘I was in the bath,’ she said.
    ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
    He followed her into the living room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Half the space was taken up with what looked like a hospital bed, with cast-iron frame, roller wheels, and a side-guard. Next to it was a liver-coloured commode. Themantelpiece was like a chemist’s display, two dozen assorted boxes and bottles standing in a row.
    Maisie Finch was moving magazines from the sofa. She motioned for him to sit, and took the commode for herself, tucking one leg under the other.
    ‘What’s the problem, Inspector?’
    Her face was too angular to be good-looking, and she had slightly protruberant eyes, yet she was undeniably … the word that came to his mind was
charged
. He shifted on the sofa.
    ‘Well, Miss Finch …’
    ‘I suppose it’s about Tresa?’
    ‘In a way, yes.’ He looked at the bed again.
    ‘It’s my mum’s,’ she explained. ‘She’s house-bound, I have to look after her.’ Rebus made show of looking around for the missing parent, and Maisie Finch laughed. ‘She’s in hospital.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Don’t be. They take her every few months, just for a few days. It’s to give me a break. This,’ she said, opening her arms wide, ‘is my winter holiday.’
    Her movements had loosened her robe. She didn’t seem to notice, and Rebus tried not to look. Men, he thought, are daft bastards.
    ‘Want something to drink?’ she asked. ‘Or is it too early for you?’
    ‘One person’s early is someone else’s late.’
    She went into the kitchenette. Rebus walked over to the mantelpiece and examined the array of prescription drugs. He found a bottle of paracetamol and shook two into his hand.
    ‘Heavy night?’ she said, coming back with two bottles.
    ‘Toothache,’ he explained. He took the narrow bottle. It was chilled.
    ‘San Miguel,’ she told him. ‘Spanish lager. Know what Ido?’ She sat down again, legs apart, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘I stick the heater on as high as it’ll go, shut my eyes and imagine I’m in Spain, poolside at some posh hotel.’ She closed her eyes to prove the point, and angled her head towards an imaginary Mediterranean sun.
    Rebus washed the pills down with lager. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum though,’ he said.
    She opened her eyes, not pleased to have her reverie broken. ‘Everyone tells me what a saint I am.’ She mimicked a much older woman: ‘“There’s no’ many like you, hen.” Too right, there’s not many as
daft
as me. You know how some people say life’s passing them by? Well, in this case it’s a fact. I sit on the commode between her bed and the window, and just stare out at the street for hours on end, listening to her breathing, waiting for it to stop.’ She looked over at him. ‘Have I shocked you?’
    He shook his head. His own mother had been bedridden; he knew the feeling. But he hadn’t come here for any of this.
    ‘Sitting by the window all day,’ he said, ‘you must have seen Mr McAnally coming and going?’
    ‘Yes, I saw him.’
    ‘You don’t like him, do you?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’ She stood up abruptly.
    ‘Mrs McAnally’s all right though?’
    She was moving towards the kitchenette, but stopped and turned on him. ‘I’m not the saint; that woman’s the saint! She’s suffered, you wouldn’t believe how she’s suffered.’
    ‘I think I would.’
    She wasn’t listening. ‘Married to an animal like that.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what he did to me?’ Rebus nodded, and she took a step back, recovering. ‘You do?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
    ‘I’m here because I’m curious, Miss Finch. I mean, you still live next door, you’re friends with his wife.’
    ‘What?