by Ian Rankin
Cal Brady, standing next to his mum, who looked on with pride at her son’s oratory. Cal Brady: Rebus’s first sighting in the flesh.
Well, not exactly: first sighting with the knowledge of who he was. But Rebus had seen Cal Brady before. At Gaitano’s nightclub, standing at the bar with the under-manager, Archie Frost. Frost with his pigtail and bad manners; his friend saying nothing, then making himself scarce . . .
‘Could we talk about it?’ Jane Barbour asked.
‘What’s there to talk about?’ Van Brady asked, folding her arms.
‘This whole situation.’
Cal Brady ignored her, spoke to his mother. ‘Is he in there?’
‘One of his neighbours heard sounds.’
Cal Brady thumped on the window, then had to wipe grease off on his jeans.
‘Look,’ Jane Barbour was saying, ‘if we could all—’
‘Right you are,’ Cal Brady said. Then, swiping the crowbar from his mother, he swung it at the window, shattering the glass. Grabbed at the soiled sheet, pulling it down from where drawing-pins held it in place. He was halfway over the windowsill and into the room, crowbar still in his hand. Rebus grabbed him by the feet, pulled him back. Glass shards ripped the front from Brady’s T-shirt.
‘Hey, you!’ Van Brady yelled, swinging a punch at Rebus. Cal Brady wriggled free, pulled himself up and got into Rebus’s face.
‘You want it, do you?’ Brandishing the crowbar. Not recognising the policeman.
‘I want you to calm down,’ Rebus said quietly. He turned to Van. ‘And you, behave yourself.’
The crowd had formed around the window, keen for a view of the flat’s interior. It looked much like any other: emulsioned walls, sofa, chair, bookcase. No TV, no hi-fi. Books piled on the sofa: photography texts; fiction titles. Newspapers on the floor, empty pot noodle containers, a pizza box. Cans and lemonade bottles on the bookcase. They all looked disappointed with this haul.
‘He’s polis,’ Van warned her son.
‘Listen to your mother, Cal,’ Rebus said.
Cal Brady was lowering the crowbar as half a dozen uniforms came out of the stairwell.
First thing they did was disperse the crowd. Van Brady shouted that there’d be a GAP meeting in her flat. The TV crew looked ready to follow. The photographer lingered to take shots of Darren Rough’s living room, until uniforms moved him on too. Barbour was on her mobile, calling for someone to come and board up the window.
‘And pronto, before someone tips a can of petrol into the place.’
Tom Jackson, mopping his brow, came over to where Rebus was standing.
‘Christ almighty,’ he said. ‘I think I preferred it the way it was before.’
When Rebus looked up, Jackson’s eyes were on him.
‘You’re blaming me for this?’ Rebus asked.
‘Did I say that?’ Jackson was still busy with his handkerchief. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’ He turned and walked away.
Rebus looked in through the window. There was a musty smell from the room; hardly surprising, when it got neither fresh air nor sunlight. In for a penny, he thought to himself, lifting a foot on to the sill and pulling himself up.
Broken glass crunched underfoot. No sign of Darren Rough.
This is what you wanted, John. The voice in his head: not his own, but Jack Morton’s. This is what you wanted, and now you’ve got it . . .
No, he thought, I didn’t want this.
But Jack was right to a degree: here it was anyway.
A narrow archway from the living room led into the kitchenette. Rebus felt the electric kettle: a trace of warmth. Looked in the fridge: bread, marge, jam. No milk. In the swing-top bin: empty milk carton, baked bean tins.
Jane Barbour looked in at him. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘How about opening the door?’
‘Sure.’ He opened the door to the hall, which was in darkness. Fumbled and found a light switch. Bare forty-watt bulb. He tried opening the door, but the mortice had been locked, no sign of a key anywhere. The letterbox was protected by a block of wood. Not that Rough would get much mail. He went back to the window, let Barbour know she’d have to climb in if she wanted the tour.
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘Once was enough.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘When I first brought him here.’
Rebus nodded, went back into the hall. Just the two bedrooms, plus bathroom and separate toilet. The first bedroom contained a sleeping bag on the floor. Bedtime reading: the Bible, Good News version. Empty crisp packets. Rebus picked them up. There was a used condom inside one. Curtain across the window: Rebus pulled it open, looked down on to a roadway. Second bedroom was empty, not even a lightbulb. Same view as bedroom one. The bathroom needed a clean. There was mould on the walls. The only towel was a pitifully small and frayed affair, hospital knock-off or similar. Rebus tried the toilet door. It was locked. He pushed harder, definitely locked. He tapped on the wood.
‘Rough? You in there?’ No way of locking the door from the outside. ‘Police,’ Rebus called. ‘Look, we’re about to move out, and your front window’s smashed. Minute we’re gone, the barbarians will be back.’ Silence. ‘Fine and dandy,’ Rebus said, turning away. ‘By the way, DI Barbour’s outside. Cheers, Darren.’
Rebus was half out of the window when he heard the noise behind him. Turned and saw Darren Rough standing in the doorway, face gaunt, eyes flickering in terrified expectation. Looking both haunted and hunted. He held shivering hands up to his chest, like they’d protect him from a crowbar’s blows.
Rebus, immune to most things, felt a sudden stab of pity. Jane Barbour was out on the walkway, talking to Tom Jackson. She saw Rebus’s look, broke off the conversation.
‘DI Barbour,’ he called. ‘One of yours, I believe.’
Jim Stevens tried to put from his mind the sight of Cary Oakes urinating in the church. Now that he had Oakes, he needed the story, needed it to be big. His boss had complained about the first instalment, called it a ‘cock-tease’, hoped there was better to come. Stevens had given him his word.
Oakes had a Bible beside his bed. Yet in the church . . . Stevens didn’t want to think about what it might mean. There was something about Oakes . . . you looked into his eyes sometimes and saw it, and if he caught you watching, he was able to blink it away. But for seconds at a time, his mind would be somewhere else, somewhere the reporter didn’t want to be.
Just do your job, he kept telling himself. A few more days, plenty of time to score maximum brownie points with his boss, show the other rags that he could still cut it, and put together a proposal for whichever publisher made the highest bid. He was already in negotiation with two London houses, but four more had turned the idea down.
‘Killers’ life stories,’ one editor had said dismissively, ‘been there, done that.’
To get a bidding war going, he needed more offers. Two interested parties barely qualified as a tiff.
And now this.
Oakes had said he was going to his room for half an hour after lunch. The morning session had been good; not brilliant, but all right. Enough nuggets for the next instalment. But Oakes had complained of a headache, said he wanted to soak in a bath. After half an hour, Stevens had tried his room: no one answering. Reception hadn’t seen him. Stevens had thought about going out and asking the surveillance, but that would have been rash. He persuaded the manager that he was worried about his colleague’s health. A skeleton key got them into the room. No one there, no one at all. Stevens had apologised to the manager, gone back to his own room. Where he now sat, nipping at his fingernails and wondering where his story had gone.
It had to be bravado.
Caught snivelling and shivering like that by the police . . . The only way for Darren Rough to scrape together any self-esteem was to turn down Barbour’s offer of a move. She could offer a police cell until something better came up; could no longer guarantee his safety in Greenfield.
Rough had smiled as she said ‘n
o longer’, both of them knowing she was playing with words.
‘I’m staying,’ he’d said. ‘Got to stop running some time, might as well be here and now.’ And he’d chuckled. ‘Like some old Western, isn’t it? Whatsisface, John Wayne.’ He made his fingers into a six-shooter, blasted the air. Then he looked around and sniffed, his face losing its animation.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Barbour said.
‘I agree,’ Andy Davies said. It was the first time Rebus had met Darren Rough’s social worker. He was tall and thin and bearded, red hair going bald at the dome. Laughter lines around his eyes; small pink mouth.
‘There is something you could do for me,’ Rough said.
Davies leaning forward on the sofa, hands pressed between his knees. ‘What’s that, Darren?’
‘A dustpan and brush, so I can clear up all this shit.’ Kicking at a fragment of glass.
A council workman had arrived to put boards across the window. There was a dull loathing in his eyes. Someone down below had pressed a GAP label on to his toolbox. He used a cordless screwdriver, saw and hammer to fix the sheets of board to the windowframe, blotting out the last of the daylight.
When Rough went into the kitchenette, Rebus made to follow. The social worker stood up.
‘It’s OK,’ Rebus told him, ‘I just want a word.’ The two men fixed one another with a stare. Rebus motioned for Davies to sit back down, but instead Davies walked to the window. Rebus made his way to the kitchenette’s archway. Rough was opening and closing cupboards, not really sure what he was doing or why. He knew Rebus was there, but wouldn’t look at him.
‘Got what you wanted,’ he muttered.
‘What I want are some answers.’
‘Funny way to go about it.’
Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘How long have you been back?’
‘Three, four weeks.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen DI Margolies?’
‘He’s dead. I saw it in the paper.’
‘Yes, but before then.’
Rough slammed shut one of the doors, turned on Rebus, voice shaking. ‘Christ, what now? He topped himself, didn’t he?’
‘Maybe.’
Rough rubbed a hand over his forehead. ‘You think I . . .?’
Andy Davies had come over. ‘What the hell is it now?’
‘He’s trying to set me up,’ Rough blurted out.
‘Look, Inspector, I don’t know what you think—’
‘That’s right,’ Rebus snapped back, ‘you don’t. So why don’t you just keep out of it?’
‘I can’t handle this,’ Rough bawled, on the verge of tears.
Jane Barbour came in from the hall. Rebus read her look: four parts accusation to one part disappointment. He remembered what she’d told him about Rough. The man was sniffing now, rubbing the back of his hand beneath his nose. His knees looked like they were about to give way. The workman was nearly finished, leaving the room in twilight. Each screw that went home was like fixing the lid on a coffin.
‘Did DI Margolies come to see you?’ Rebus persisted.
Rough fixed him with a defiant look. ‘No.’
Rebus stared him out. ‘I think you’re lying.’
‘So slap me around a bit.’
Rebus took a step towards him. The social worker was pleading with Barbour.
‘DI Rebus,’ Barbour warned.
Rebus got right up into Rough’s face. Rough had backed all the way into the kitchenette, nowhere else to go.
‘Did he come to see you?’
Rough looked away, bit his lip.
‘Did he?’
‘Yes!’ Darren Rough screamed. He bowed his head, pulled a hand through his hair. Incessant hammering of nails into wood. He pushed both palms against his ears. Rebus pulled them away, using as little force as possible. Kept his voice quiet when he spoke.
‘What did he want?’
‘Shiellion,’ Rough groaned. ‘It’s always been Shiellion.’
Rebus frowned. ‘DI Rebus . . .’ Barbour’s voice growing taut, breaking point almost reached.
‘What about Shiellion?’
Rough looked to Jane Barbour, his words directed at her. ‘You told him what happened to me.’
‘And?’ Rebus probed.
‘He wanted to know why they’d blindfolded me . . . kept asking who else was there.’
‘Who else was there, Darren?’
Through gritted teeth: ‘I don’t know.’
‘That what you told him?’
A slow nod. ‘Could have been anyone.’
‘Someone they didn’t want you to see. Maybe you knew them.’
Rough nodded. His voice was calmer. ‘I’ve often wondered. Maybe I’d have recognised . . . I don’t know, a uniform or something. Priest’s dog collar.’ He looked up. ‘Maybe even one of your lot.’
But Rebus had stopped listening. ‘Priest?’ he said. ‘Callstone and Shiellion were run by the Church of Scotland. They don’t have priests.’
But Rough nodded. ‘We had one.’
Barbour, looking intrigued now, frowned. ‘You had a priest?’
‘Visited for a while, then stopped coming. I liked him. Father Leary, his name was.’ A weak smile. ‘Told us to call him Conor.’
When Rebus headed downstairs, Jane Barbour followed.
‘What do you make of it?’ she asked.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Why was Jim Margolies interested in Shiellion?’
Her turn to shrug.
‘You told Jim that Rough was abused there?’
She nodded. ‘You think it has something to do with his suicide?’
‘If it was suicide.’
She blew air from her cheeks. ‘I’d better talk to the vigilantes,’ she told him. ‘Keep the lid on the pressure cooker.’
‘Tom Jackson’s already had a word.’
They turned, hearing footsteps behind them on the stairwell: Andy Davies.
‘We should move him,’ Davies said. ‘It’s not safe for him to stay here.’
‘He doesn’t want to leave.’
‘We could insist.’
‘If that mob up there couldn’t make him leave, what chance have we got?’
‘You could arrest him.’
Rebus burst out laughing. ‘A couple of days back—’
Davies turned on him. ‘I’m talking about protecting him, not harassment.’
‘We’ll keep someone in the vicinity,’ Barbour said.
‘Tom Jackson’s got to go home some time,’ Rebus commented.
‘I’ll do guard duty myself if need be.’ She turned to Davies. ‘At the moment, I’m not sure what more we can be expected to do.’
‘And if he’d proved useful to you in court . . .?’
‘I’ll ignore that remark, Mr Davies.’ Said with ice in her voice, and eyes like weaponry.
‘They’ll kill him,’ the social worker said. ‘And I don’t suppose you’ll be shedding too many tears.’
Barbour looked to Rebus, wondering if he would respond. All Rebus did was shake his head and light up a cigarette.
Rebus had known Father Conor Leary for years. For a time, he’d visited the priest regularly, sharing conversation and cans of Guinness. But when Rebus called Leary’s number, another priest answered.
‘Conor’s in hospital,’ the young priest explained.
‘Since when?’
‘A few days ago. We think it was a heart attack. Fairly mild, I think he’ll be fine.’
So Rebus drove to the hospital. Last time he’d visited Leary, there’d been a fridge full of medicine. The priest had explained that they were for minor ailments.
‘How long have you known?’ Rebus asked, drawing a chair over to his friend’s bedside. Conor Leary looked old and pale, his skin slack.
‘No grapes, I notice,’ Leary said, his voice lacking its usual gruff power. He was sitting up in the bed, surrounded by flowers and get-well cards. On the wall above his head Christ on the cro
ss gazed down.
‘I only heard half an hour ago.’
‘Nice of you to drop by. Can’t offer you a drink, I’m afraid.’
Rebus smiled. ‘They say you’ll be out in no time.’
‘Ah, but did they say whether I’d be leaving in a box?’
Rebus managed a smile. Inside, he saw a carpenter, hammering home nails.
‘I’ve a favour to ask,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it.’
‘You want to turn Catholic?’ Leary joked.
‘Think the confessional could cope?’
‘True enough. We’d need a relay team of priests for a sinner like yourself.’ He rested his eyes. ‘So what is it then?’
‘Sure you’re up to it? I could come back . . .’
‘Cut it out, John. You know you’re going to ask me anyway.’
Rebus leaned forward in his chair. His old friend had flecks of white at the corners of his mouth. ‘A name you might remember,’ he said. ‘Darren Rough.’
Leary thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to give me a clue.’
‘Callstone House.’
‘Now that was a while back.’
‘You spent time there?’
Leary nodded. ‘One of those multi-faith things. God knows whose idea it was, but it wasn’t mine. A minister would visit Catholic homes, and I got to spend time in Callstone.’ He paused. ‘Was Darren one of the kids?’
‘He was.’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything. I spoke with a lot of them.’
‘He remembers you. Says you told him to call you Conor.’
‘I’m sure he’s right. Is he in trouble, this Darren?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘This place tends to swaddle you. No newspapers, no news.’
‘He’s a paedophile, released into the community. Only the community doesn’t want him.’
Conor Leary nodded, eyes still closed. ‘Did he abuse another child?’
‘When he was twelve. The victim was six.’
‘I remember him now. Whey-faced, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. The man who ran Callstone . . .’
‘Ramsay Marshall.’
‘He’s on trial, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he . . .? With Darren?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Ah, dear Lord. Probably going on under my very nose.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Maybe the boys . . . maybe they tried to tell me, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’ When the priest’s eyes closed again, a tear escaped from one and trickled down his cheek.
