by Ian Rankin
A little later, she went to bed. Rebus said he’d stay up a bit longer. Flipped TV channels, finding nothing. Went to Teletext, page 346. Stuck the headphones on so he could listen to Genesis: ‘For Absent Friends’. Jack Morton sitting on the arm of the sofa as screen after screen of missing persons appeared. No sign of Damon yet. Rebus lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the television, watching it dissolve. Then remembered this was Patience’s flat, and she didn’t like smoking. Back into the kitchen to extinguish his guilty pleasure. After Genesis, he switched to Family: ‘Song for Sinking Loves’.
Something’s gone bad inside you.
It was your lot wanted him here.
Saw two men in the dock, their lawyer working on the jury. Saw Cary Oakes leaning into the car.
He’ll do it again.
Saw Jim Margolies take that final flight into darkness. Maybe there was no way to understand any of it. He turned to Jack. Often he’d phoned Jack – didn’t matter what time of night it was, Jack never complained. They’d talk around subjects, share worries and depressions.
‘How could you do that to me, Jack?’ Rebus said quietly, drinking his drink as the room filled with ghosts.
It was late, but Jim Stevens knew his editor wouldn’t mind. He tried the mobile number first. Bingo: his boss was at a dinner party in Kelvingrove. Politicos, the usual movers and shakers. Stevens’s boss liked all that crowd. Maybe he was the wrong man for a tabloid.
Or maybe, all these years down the road, it was Jim Stevens who was out of touch. He seemed surrounded by journalists younger, brighter, and keener than him. These days, you could be washed up at fifty. He wondered how long it would be till the cheque for services rendered was being countersigned at his editor’s desk, how long before the young bloods in the office were having a whip-round to see off ‘good old Jim’. He knew the drill, even knew the speeches they’d make – stuff any self-respecting sub would block and delete. He knew because he’d been there himself, back in the days when he’d been a young blood and the old-timers had been complaining about falling standards and the changing world of journalism.
Soon as Jim had heard about Cary Oakes, he’d taken his boss aside for a private word, then had checked flight schedules, brown-nosing Heathrow Information so they’d page the prodigal son.
‘It’s yours, Jim,’ his editor had said, but with a warning finger. ‘Could be the cream on the cake. Just make sure it doesn’t turn sour.’
Now the boss was giving him a couple of snippets of gossip from the dinner party. He’d obviously had a few drinks. They wouldn’t stop him heading into the newsroom afterwards. Twelve-hour days: a while since Jim Stevens had worked any of those.
‘So what can I do you for, Jim?’
At last. Stevens took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got us settled in at the hotel.’
‘How does he seem?’
‘All right.’
‘Not a slavering monster or anything?’
‘No, pretty quiet really.’ Stevens deciding his boss needn’t know about the blow-up with Rebus.
‘And ready to give us the exclusive?’
‘Yes.’ Stevens lit a cigarette for himself.
‘You might try to sound a bit more enthusiastic.’
‘Just been a long day, boss, that’s all.’
‘Sure you’ve got the stamina, Jim? I could lend you one of the newsroom crew . . .?’
‘Thanks but no thanks.’ Stevens heard his boss laughing. Ha bloody ha. ‘That’s not the kind of back-up that worries me.’
‘You mean corroboration?’
‘Lack of it, more like.’
‘Mmm.’ Thoughtful now. ‘Got a game plan?’
‘You worked for a year or two in the States, didn’t you?’
‘While back.’
‘Still got friends there?’
‘Might have one or two.’
‘I need to hook up with someone on a Seattle paper, see if I can talk to one of the cops who worked the Oakes case.’
‘One guy I knew now works news for CBS.’
‘That’d be a start.’
‘Soon as I get to the office, OK, Jim?’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Jim? Don’t worry too much about confirmation. First thing you need to get from our friend Oakes is a bloody good story. Whatever it takes.’
Stevens put the phone down, lay back on his bed. Part of him wanted to chuck the job right now. But the other part was still hungry. It wanted those kids in the office to stare at him, wondering if they’d ever be as good, as sharp. It wanted Oakes’s story. Afterwards, he could walk away if he liked: crowning glory and all that. He thought again of Rebus. Wondered what Oakes had to gain from sparring with him. From what Stevens knew, no one had ever got into the ring with Rebus and come away without at least a few cuts and bruises. And sometimes . . . sometimes there’d be traction and a hospital waiting.
But Oakes had looked keen. Oakes had looked ready, making Rebus come at him like that.
Jim Stevens was supposed to be Oakes’s baby-sitter. But it seemed to him that Oakes had either an agenda or a death wish. Difficult to baby-sit either one.
‘This is your last job, Jim,’ Stevens promised himself. Decided a raid on the mini-bar would seal the contract.
13
The surveillance budget was so tight, they were reduced to singles. Four in the morning, Rebus couldn’t sleep, so he drove down to the waterfront, stopping off at an all-night garage. Siobhan Clarke was in an unmarked Rover 200. She’d dressed for a mountain trek: trousers tucked into thick socks and climbing boots; thermal jacket and bobble hat. On the passenger seat: notebook and pen; three empty packets of lo-fat crisps; two flasks. Rebus climbed into the back and offered a microwaved pasty and beaker of coffee.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
Rebus looked out at the hotel. ‘Any movement?’
She shook her head, chewed and swallowed. ‘I’m a bit worried though. There are service exits to the back of the building. No way I can cover those.’
‘He’s probably jet-lagged anyway.’
‘Meaning awake all night, asleep all day?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Rebus leaned forward. ‘He hasn’t been out at all?’
She shook her head. ‘All those years in jail, maybe he’s turned agoraphobic.’
‘Maybe.’ Rebus knew she might have a point. He’d known ex-cons who just couldn’t cope with the outside world – all that space and light. They ended up reoffending, only way they could get put away again.
‘He ate dinner in the restaurant.’ She nodded towards the plate-glass windows of the hotel’s dining room.
‘Did he spot you?’
‘Not sure. His room’s on the second floor. That window at the far end.’
Rebus looked. Twelve small square panes of glass. The window was open an inch at the bottom. ‘How do you know?’
‘I asked the manager.’
Rebus nodded: orders from the Farmer – no need to be subtle. ‘How did the manager take it?’
‘He seemed uncomfortable.’ She took a final bite of pasty.
‘Don’t want to make Oakes’s stay too pleasant, do we?’
‘No, sir,’ Clarke said.
Rebus opened his door. ‘Just going for a recce.’ He paused. ‘What do you do when you need to . . .?’
She lifted one of the flasks, reached to the floor for a kitchen funnel.
‘And what if . . .?’
‘Self-control, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t get your flasks mixed up, will you?’
Outside, the air was fresh. Sounds of night traffic at the port, the occasional taxi cruising past the end of the road. Taxis: he had to ask them about Damon and the woman. He walked around the side of the hotel, wandered into the car park. The service exits were locked. Beside them were four rubbish skips, separated by a high wooden fence from the guests’ cars. Jim Stevens’s Astra was easy to spot. Rebus tore a page from his notebook, scribbled a couple of words, fol
ded the sheet and fixed it beneath a wiper blade. Back at the service doors, Rebus checked they couldn’t be opened from outside. He left satisfied that even if Oakes used them to get out of the hotel, he’d have to use the front entrance to get back in.
Always supposing he’d come back. Maybe he’d just scarper: wasn’t that what they wanted? No, not exactly: they wanted to be certain he’d left Edinburgh. Oakes missing from his hotel wasn’t quite the same thing. Rebus went back to Clarke’s car, got out his mobile and made a call. Hotel reception answered.
‘Good evening,’ Rebus said. ‘Could you put me through to Mr Oakes’s room, please?’
‘One moment.’
Rebus winked at Clarke. He held the mobile between them so she could listen. A buzzing noise repeated three or four times. Then the pick-up.
‘Yeah? What is it?’ Sounding authentically groggy.
‘Tommy, is that you?’ Mock-Glaswegian. ‘We’re having a bit of a bevvy in my room. Thought you were coming up.’
Silence for a moment. Then: ‘What room is it again?’
Rebus pondered an answer, cut the connection instead. ‘At least we know he’s there.’
‘And awake now.’
Rebus checked his watch. ‘Your shift ends at six.’
‘If Bill Pryde doesn’t sleep in.’
‘I’ll give him an alarm call for you.’ Rebus made to leave the car again.
‘Look, sir.’ Clarke was nodding towards the hotel.
Rebus looked: second-floor window, right at the far end. No light on, but curtains open and a face at the window, peering out. Looking straight at them. Rebus gave Cary Oakes a wave as he made for his own car.
No need to be subtle.
At eight sharp he was in the office, typing up details of Damon Mee, preparing a blitz on charities, hostels and organisations for the homeless. At nine there was a message from the front desk. Someone to see him.
Janice.
‘You must be psychic,’ Rebus told her. ‘I was just working on Damon. Any news?’
He was guiding her down Rankeillor Street. They’d find a café on Clerk Street. He didn’t want to talk to her in the cop-shop. A bundle of motives: didn’t want anyone to suspect he was working on a case that wasn’t official L&B business; didn’t want her seeing some of the stuff in St Leonard’s – photos of MisPers and suspects, cases dealt with without emotion or (often) enthusiasm; and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to share her. Didn’t want the part of her that belonged to his past intruding on his here and now, his workplace.
‘No news,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d spend the day in Edinburgh, see if I couldn’t . . . I don’t know. I have to do something.’
Rebus nodded. There were dark half-moons beneath her eyes. ‘Are you getting much sleep?’ he asked.
‘The doctor gave me some pills.’
Rebus remembered the way her replies to questions could sometimes only seem to be answers.
‘Do you take them?’ She smiled, glanced at him. ‘Thought not,’ he said. It wasn’t that Janice would lie to you, but you had to know how to phrase a question to make sure of getting a truthful response.
‘We used to have these conversations all the time, didn’t we?’
She was right, they did. Rebus wondering if she fancied any of his friends, trying to find ways of asking without seeming jealous. She telling him versions of her life before they’d started dating. Dialogues of the left-unsaid.
He guided her into the café. They took a corner table. The owner, recently arrived, had only unlocked the door because he recognised Rebus.
‘I can’t cook anything,’ he warned them.
‘Coffee’s fine for me,’ Rebus said. He looked to Janice, who nodded. Their eyes stayed on one another as the café owner walked away.
‘Have you ever forgiven me?’ she asked.
‘For what?’
‘I think you know.’
He nodded. ‘But I want to hear you say it.’
She smiled. ‘For knocking you out.’
He looked around. ‘Keep your voice down, someone might hear.’
She laughed, the way he’d meant her to. ‘You were always the joker, Johnny.’
‘Was I’ He tried to remember.
‘Did you keep in touch with Mitch?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Now there’s a name from the past.’
‘The two of you were like this.’ She twisted two fingers together.
‘I’m not sure that’s legal these days.’
She smiled, looked down at the tabletop. ‘Always the joker.’ There were spots of red high on her cheeks. Yes, he’d been able to make her blush back then too.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘What about me?’
‘You and Barney.’
‘Nobody calls him Barney these days.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘We were just friendly, stayed that way for a few years. One night he asked me out. Started seeing one another.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s how it works sometimes. No Cupid’s arrow, no fireworks. Just . . . nice.’ She looked up at him, smiled again. ‘As for the rest of the crew . . . Billy and Sarah are still around. They got married but split up, three kids. Tom’s still around, got some industrial injury, hasn’t been back to work in years. Cranny – you remember her?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Some moved away . . . a few died.’
‘Died?’
‘Car smashes, accidents. Wee Paula got cancer. Midge had a heart attack.’ She paused as their coffees arrived, topped with a froth of milk.
‘I’ve got some biscuits . . .?’ the café owner suggested. They shook their heads.
Janice blew on the coffee, sipped. ‘Then there was Alec . . .’
‘Never turned up?’ Alec Chisholm, who’d gone to play football. Alec, who’d never reached the park.
‘His mum’s still alive, you know. She’s in her eighties. Still wonders what happened to him.’
Rebus said nothing. He could see what she was thinking: maybe that’s my future too. He leaned across the table, squeezed her hand. It was warm, pliant.
‘You can help me,’ he said.
She looked in her bag for a handkerchief. ‘How?’
Rebus took out the list he’d printed that morning. ‘Hostels and charities,’ he told her. She blew her nose and examined the list. ‘They all need contacting. I was going to do it myself, but we’d save time if you made a start.’
‘OK.’
‘Then there are the taxis. That means putting the word out, visiting each rank and letting them know what we need. Damon and the blonde, across the road from The Dome.’
Janice was nodding. ‘I can do that,’ she said.
‘I’ll give you a list of where to find them.’
The café owner was standing by the counter, smoking a breakfast cigarette and opening the morning’s paper. Rebus caught a headline, knew he had to buy the paper for himself. Janice was checking in her purse.
‘I’ll get these,’ Rebus told her.
‘I’ll need coins for the phone,’ she said.
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Why not use my flat as a base? It’s not that much more comfortable than most phone boxes, but at least you can sit down, have a cup of coffee . . .’ He held out a bunch of keys to her. She looked at him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ He wrote his address on a page of his notebook, added his work and mobile phone numbers, tore the page out and handed it to her. She studied it.
‘No secrets there you don’t want anyone to see?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t use the place much, to be honest. There’s a couple of local shops if you need—’
‘So where do you usually stay?’
He cleared his throat. ‘With a friend.’
Her turn to smile. ‘That’s nice.’
Why had he said ‘friend’ rather than ‘lover’? Rebus wondered if they sounded as awkward as he felt: kids again, language the clumsiest form of communication.
‘I’
ll give you a lift,’ he said.
‘Remember the list of taxi ranks,’ she told him. ‘And an A to Z if you’ve got one.’
Rebus went to pay. The owner rang it up on the till. His paper was open at a court headline: previous day’s testimony from the Shiellion case. KIDS’ BOSS BRANDED MONSTER. There was a photograph of Harold Ince being led to a police van by the court guard Rebus had shared a smoke with. Ince looked tired, ordinary.
That was the trouble with monsters. They could be every bit as ordinary as anyone else.
Jim Stevens couldn’t hide the relief on his face when he walked into the dining room. He made for one of the window tables. A couple of guests nodded and smiled at him as he passed them. He got the idea they’d been in the bar last night.
‘Morning, Jim,’ Cary Oakes said, wiping egg yolk from the corners of his mouth. He gazed out of the window. ‘Grey old day, just the way I remember.’ He picked up the last triangle of fried bread and started working on it. ‘Cops are still out there.’
Jim Stevens looked out of the window. An unmarked car, but unmistakable. A man in the driver’s seat, chewing on a roll.
‘How long do you think they’ll keep it up?’ Oakes asked.
Stevens looked at him. ‘I tried phoning your room.’
‘When?’
‘Fifteen, twenty minutes ago.’
‘I was down here, partner, soaking up the ambience.’
Stevens looked around for a waiter.
‘You help yourself to fruit juices and cereals,’ Oakes explained, nodding towards a self-serve area. ‘Then they take your order for the hot breakfast.’
Stevens looked at Oakes’s greasy plate. ‘After last night, I think I’ll stick to orange juice and coffee.’
Oakes laughed. ‘That’s why I don’t drink.’ Last night he’d been on pints of orange and lemonade: Stevens remembered now. ‘Besides,’ Oakes said, leaning over the table towards the reporter, ‘when I drink I do crazy things.’
‘Save it for the tape machine, Cary.’
When the waiter came, Oakes asked if he could have another cooked breakfast. ‘Just the bits I missed out on last time.’ He studied the menu. ‘Uh, how about fried liver, some onions and maybe some fried haggis and black pudding.’ He patted his stomach, smiling at Stevens. ‘Just today, you understand. The fitness regime recommences tomorrow.’
