by Ian Rankin
Rebus waited with McCall until the taxi arrived. He gave the driver McCall’s address, and watched the cab pull away. Damn, he felt a little groggy himself. He went back into the pub and headed for the toilets. The bar was busier now, the jukebox louder. The bar staff had grown in strength from one to three, and they were working hard to cope. The toilets were a cool tiled haven, free from much of the bar’s cigarette smoke. Pine disinfectant caught in Rebus’s nostrils as he leaned over into one of the sinks. Two fingers sought out his tonsils, pausing there at the back of his throat until he retched, bringing up half a pint of beer, then another half. He breathed deeply, feeling a little better already, then washed his face thoroughly with cold water, drying himself off with a fistful of paper towels.
‘You all right?’ The voice lacked real sympathy. Its owner had just pushed open the door to the gents’ and was already seeking the closest urinal.
‘Never felt better,’ said Rebus.
‘That’s good.’
Good? He didn’t know about that, but at least his head was clearer, the world more in focus. He doubted if he’d fail a breathalyser, which was just as well, since his next port of call was his car, parked on a darkened side road. He was still wondering how Tony McCall, shaky on his pins after half a dozen pints, had managed to play pool with such a steady eye and steady hand. The man was miraculous. He’d beaten Rebus six straight games. And Rebus had been trying. By the end he’d really been trying. After all, it didn’t look good when a man barely able to stand upright could pot ball after ball, cleaning up and roaring to yet another victory. It didn’t look good. It hadn’t felt good.
It was eleven o’clock, perhaps a little early yet. He allowed himself one cigarette in the stationary car, window open, picking up the sounds from the world around him. The honest sounds of the late evening: traffic, heightened voices, laughter, the clatter of shoes on cobblestones. One cigarette, that was all. Then he started the car, and slowly drove the half mile or so to his destination. There was still some light in the sky, typical of the Edinburgh summer. Further north he knew it never got truly dark at this time of year.
But the night could be dark in other ways.
He spotted the first one on the pavement outside the Scottish Assembly building. There was no reason for the teenager to be standing there. It was an unlikely time of night to have arranged to meet friends, and the nearest bus stop was a hundred yards further up Waterloo Place. The lad stood there, smoking, one foot up behind him resting against the stone wall. He watched Rebus as the car slowly went past, and even lowered his head forward a little so that he could peer in, as though inspecting the driver. Rebus thought there was a smile there, but couldn’t be sure. Further along the road, he turned the car and came back. Another car had stopped beside the boy, and a conversation was taking place. Rebus kept driving. Two young men were talking together outside the Scottish Office building on this side of the road. A little way past them, a line of three cars stood outside Calton Cemetery. Rebus cruised one more circuit, then parked near these cars, and walked.
The night was fresh. No cloud cover. There was a slight breeze, nothing more. The lad outside the Assembly building had gone off in the car. No one stood there now. Rebus crossed the road, stopped by the wall, and waited, biding his time. He watched. One or two cars drove past him slowly, the drivers turning to stare at him. But nobody stopped. He tried memorising the number plates, unsure why.
‘Got a light, mister?’
He was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Dressed in jeans, training shoes, a shapeless T-shirt and denim jacket. His hair had been razored short, face clean-shaven but scarred with acne. There were two gold studs in his left ear.
‘Thanks,’ he said as Rebus held out a box of matches. Then: ‘What’s happening then?’, with an amused glance towards Rebus before lighting the cigarette.
‘Not much,’ Rebus said, taking back the matchbox. The young man blew smoke out through his nostrils. He didn’t seem about to go. Rebus wondered if there were any codes he should be using. He felt clammy beneath his thin shirt, despite the gooseflesh.
‘Nah, there’s never much happens around here. Fancy a drink?’
‘At this time? Whereabouts?’
The young man nodded a vague direction. ‘Calton Cemetery. You can always get a drink there.’
‘No, thanks anyway.’ Rebus was appalled to find himself blushing. He hoped the street lighting would disguise it.
‘Fair enough. See you around then.’ The young man was moving off.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said, relieved. ‘See you.’
‘And thanks for the light.’
Rebus watched him go, walking slowly, purposefully, turning from time to time at the sign of an approaching car. A hundred yards or so on, he crossed the road and began walking back, paying Rebus no attention, his mind on other things. It struck Rebus that the boy was sad, lonely, certainly no hustler. But no victim either.
Rebus stared at the wall of Calton Cemetery, broken only by its metal gates. He’d taken his daughter in there once to show her the graves of the famous – David Hume, the publisher Constable, the painter David Allan – and the statue of Abraham Lincoln. She’d asked him about the men who walked briskly from the cemetery, their heads bowed down. One older man, two teenagers. Rebus had wondered about them, too. But not too much.
No, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go in there. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Jesus, no, not that, not for one minute. He was just . . . he didn’t know what. But he was feeling giddy again, unsteady on his pins. I’ll go back to the car, he thought.
He went back to the car.
He had been sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking another cigarette thoughtfully for about a minute before he caught sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned and looked towards where the boy was seated; no, not seated, crouching against a low wall. Rebus turned away and resumed smoking. Only then did the boy rise to his feet and walk towards the car. He tapped on the passenger side window. Rebus took a deep breath before unlocking the door. The boy got in without a word, closing the door solidly behind him. He sat there, staring out through the windscreen, silent. Rebus, unable to think of a single sensible thing to say, stayed silent, too. The boy cracked first.
‘Hiya.’
It was a man’s voice. Rebus turned to examine the boy. He was maybe sixteen. Dressed in leather jacket, open-necked shirt. Torn jeans.
‘Hello,’ he said in reply.
‘Got a cigarette?’
Rebus handed over the packet. The boy took one and swopped the packet for a box of matches. He inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply, holding it for a long time, then exhaling almost nothing of it back into the atmosphere. Take without give, thought Rebus. The creed of the street.
‘So what are you up to tonight then?’ The question had been on Rebus’s own lips, but the boy had given voice to it.
‘Just killing time,’ said Rebus. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
The boy laughed harshly. ‘Yeah, couldn’t sleep, so you came for a drive. Got tired driving so you just happened to stop here. This particular street. This time of night. Then you went for a walk, a stretch of the legs, and came back to the car. Right?’
‘You’ve been watching me,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I didn’t need to watch you. I’ve seen it all before.’
‘How often?’
‘Often enough, James.’
The words were tough, the voice was tough. Rebus had no cause to doubt the teenager. Certainly he was as dissimilar to the first boy as chalk to cheese.
‘The name’s not James,’ he said.
‘Of course it is. Everybody’s called James. Makes it easier to remember a name, even if you can’t recall the face.’
‘I see.’
The boy finished the cigarette in silence, then flicked it out of the window.
‘So what’s it to be?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rebus sincerely. ‘A drive maybe?’
>
‘Fuck that.’ He paused, seeming to change his mind. ‘Okay, let’s drive to the top of Calton Hill. Take a look out over the water, eh?’
‘Fine,’ said Rebus, starting the car.
They drove up the steep and winding road to the top of the hill, where the observatory and the folly – a copy of one side of Greece’s Parthenon – sat silhouetted against the sky. They were not alone at the top. Other darkened cars had parked, facing across the Firth of Forth towards the dimly lit coast of Fife. Rebus, trying not to look too closely at the other cars, decided to park at a discreet distance from them, but the boy had other ideas.
‘Stop next to that Jag,’ he ordered. ‘What a great-looking car.’
Rebus felt his own car take the insult with as much pride as it could muster. The brakes squealed in protest as he pulled to a halt. He turned off the ignition.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Whatever you want,’ said the boy. ‘Cash on delivery, of course.’
‘Of course. What if we just talk?’
‘Depends on the kind of talk you want. The dirtier it is, the more it’ll cost.’
‘I was just thinking about a guy I met here once. Not so long ago. Haven’t seen him around. I was wondering what happened to him.’
The boy suddenly placed his hand on Rebus’s crotch, rubbing hard and fast against the material. Rebus stared at the hand for a full second before calmly, but with a deliberate grip, removing it. The boy grinned, leaning back in his seat.
‘What’s his name, James?’
Rebus tried to stop himself trembling. His stomach was filling with bile. ‘Ronnie,’ he said at last, clearing his throat. ‘Not too tall. Dark hair, quite short. Used to take a few pictures. You know, keen on photography.’
The boy’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’re a photographer, are you? Like to take a few snaps? I see.’ He nodded slowly. Rebus doubted that he did see, but wasn’t about to say more than was necessary. And yes, that Jag was nice. New-looking. Paintwork brightly reflective. Someone with a bit of money. And dear God why did he have an erection?
‘I think I know which Ronnie you mean now,’ said the boy. ‘I haven’t seen him around much myself.’
‘So what can you tell me about him?’
The boy was staring out of the windscreen again. ‘Great view from here, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Even at night. Especially at night. Amazing. I hardly ever come here in the daytime. It all looks so ordinary. You’re a copper, aren’t you?’
Rebus looked towards him, but the boy was still staring out of the windscreen, smiling, unconcerned.
‘Thought you were,’ he went on. ‘Right from the start.’
‘So why did you get in the car?’
‘Curious, I suppose. Besides,’ and now he looked towards Rebus, ‘some of my best customers are officers of the law.’
‘Well, that’s none of my concern.’
‘No? It should be. I’m underage, you know.’
‘I guessed.’
‘Yeah, well. . . .’ The boy slumped in his seat, putting his feet up on the dashboard. For a moment, Rebus thought he was about to do something, and jerked himself upright. But the boy just laughed.
‘What did you think? Think I was going to touch you again? Eh? No such luck, James.’
‘So what about Ronnie?’ Rebus wasn’t sure whether he wanted to punch this rather ugly little kid in the gut, or take him to a good and a caring home. But he knew, above all, that he wanted answers.
‘Give me another ciggie.’ Rebus obliged. ‘Ta. Why are you so interested in him?’
‘Because he’s dead.’
‘Happens all the time.’
‘He overdosed.’
‘Ditto.’
‘The stuff was lethal.’
The boy was silent for a moment.
‘Now that is bad news.’
‘Has there been any poisoned stuff going around recently?’
‘No.’ He smiled again. ‘Only good stuff. Got any on you?’ Rebus shook his head, thinking: I do want to punch him in the gut. ‘Pity,’ said the boy.
‘What’s your name, by the way?’
‘No names, James, and no pack drill.’ He put out his hand, palm up. ‘I need some money.’
‘I need some answers first.’
‘So give me the questions. But first, a little goodwill, eh?’ The hand was still there, expectant as any father-to-be. Rebus found a crumpled tenner in his jacket and handed it over. The boy seemed satisfied. ‘This gets you the answers to two questions.’
Rebus’s anger ignited. ‘It gets me as many answers as I want, or so help me –’
‘Rough trade? That your game?’ The boy seemed unconcerned. Maybe he’d heard it all before. Rebus wondered.
‘Is there much rough stuff goes on?’ he asked.
‘Not much.’ the boy paused. ‘But still too much.’
‘Ronnie was into it, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s your second question,’ stated the boy. ‘And the answer is, I don’t know.’
‘Don’t knows don’t count,’ said Rebus. ‘And I’ve got plenty of questions left.’
‘Okay, if that’s the way –’ The boy was reaching for the door handle, ready to walk away from it all. Rebus grabbed him by the neck and brought his head down against the dashboard, right between where both feet were still resting.
‘Jesus Christ!’ The boy checked for blood on his forehead. There was none. Rebus was pleased with himself: maximum shock, minimum visible damage. ‘You can’t –’
‘I can do anything I like, son, and that includes tipping you over the edge of the highest point in the city. Now tell me about Ronnie.’
‘I can’t tell you about Ronnie.’ There were tears in his eyes now. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to erase the hurt. ‘I didn’t know him well enough.’
‘So tell me what you do know.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He sniffed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘All I know is that a few friends of mine have gotten into a scene.’
‘What scene?’
‘I don’t know. Something heavy. They don’t talk about it, but the marks are there. Bruises, cuts. One of them ended up in the Infirmary for a week. Said he fell down the stairs. Christ, he looked like he fell down a whole high-rise.’
‘But nobody’s talking?’
‘There must be good money in it somewhere.’
‘Anything else?’
‘It may not be important. . . .’ The kid had broken. Rebus could hear it in his voice. He’d talk from now till judgment day. Good: Rebus didn’t have too many ears in this part of the city. A fresh pair might make all the difference.
‘What?’ he barked, enjoying his role now.
‘Photographs. Somebody’s putting a whisper around that there’s interest in photographs. Not faked ones, either. The real McCoy.’
‘Porn shots?’
‘I suppose so. The rumours have been a bit vague. Rumours get that way when they’ve gone past being second-hand.’
‘Chinese whispers,’ said Rebus. He was thinking: this whole thing is like a game of Chinese whispers, everything at second and third remove, nothing absolutely proof positive.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Anything else?’
The boy shook his head. Rebus reached into his pocket and, to his own surprise, found yet another tenner. Then he remembered that he’d visited a cashpoint machine somewhere during the drinking session with McCall. He handed the money over.
‘Here. And I’ll give you my name and phone number. I’m always open to bits of information, no matter how small. Sorry about your head, by the way.’
The boy took the money. ‘That’s all right. I’ve seen worse pay.’ Then he smiled.
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘The Bridges maybe?’
‘No problem. What’s your name?’
‘James.’
‘Really?’ Rebus was smiling.
‘Yes, really.’ The
boy was smiling, too. ‘Listen, there is one other thing.’
‘Go ahead, James.’
‘It’s just a name I’ve been hearing. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Yes?’
‘Hyde.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Hide? Hide what?’
‘No, Hyde. H-y-d-e.’
‘What about Hyde?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, it’s just a name.’
Rebus gripped the steering wheel. Hyde? Hyde? Was that what Ronnie had been telling Tracy? Not just to hide, but to hide from some man called Hyde? Trying to think, he found himself staring at the Jag again. Or rather, staring at the profile of the man in the driver’s seat. The man with his hand up around the neck of the much younger occupant of the passenger seat. Stroking, and all the time talking in a low voice. Stroking, talking. All very innocent.
A wonder then that James Carew of Bowyer Carew Estate Agents should look so startled when, being stared at, he returned the stare and found himself eye to eye with Dectective Inspector John Rebus.
Rebus was taking all this in as Carew fumbled with his ignition key, revved up the new V12 engine and reversed out of the car park as though Cutty Sark herself were after him.
‘He’s in a hurry,’ said James.
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘Didn’t really catch his face. Haven’t seen the car before though.’
‘No, well, it’s a new car, isn’t it?’ said Rebus, lazily starting his own.
The flat was still redolent of Tracy. She lingered in the living room and the bathroom. He saw her with a towel falling down around her head, legs tucked beneath her. . . . Bringing him breakfast: the dirty dishes were still lying beside his unmade bed. She had laughed to find that he slept on a mattress on the floor. ‘Just like in a squat,’ she had said. The flat seemed emptier now, emptier than it had felt for a while. And Rebus could do with a bath. He returned to the bathroom and turned the hot tap on. He could still feel James’s hand on his leg. . . . In the living room, he looked at a bottle of whisky for a full minute, but turned his back on it and fetched a low-alcohol lager from the fridge instead.
