by Ian Rankin
Rebus felt bad, which hadn’t been his intention in coming here. He squeezed his friend’s hand. ‘We’ll talk again, Conor. But you need to rest now.’
‘John, when do the likes of you and me ever rest?’
Rebus got up, looked down at the figure on the bed. Priest’s dog collar . . . Maybe, but never Conor Leary. Even one of your lot . . . Someone in uniform. Rebus didn’t want to think about it, but Jim Margolies had put some thought into it. And soon afterwards, he’d died.
‘John,’ the priest was saying, ‘remember me in your prayers, eh?’
‘Always, Conor.’
Hadn’t the heart to admit he’d stopped praying long ago.
20
Back at his flat, he made two mugs of coffee and took them through to the living room. Janice was on the phone to yet another charity, giving them details of Damon. Rebus sat at the dining table. It was a big room, twenty-two feet by fourteen. Bay window (still with the original shutters). High ceiling – maybe eleven feet – with cornicing. Rhona, his ex-wife, had loved the room, even with the original wallpaper from when they’d bought it (purple wavy lines which made Rebus feel seasick whenever he walked past). The wallpaper had gone, as had the brown carpet with matching paintwork.
He thought of Darren Rough’s flat. He’d seen worse in his time, of course, but not much worse. Janice put down the receiver and scratched at her hair with a pen, before scribbling a note on a pad of paper. Having scored a line through the charity’s phone number, she threw the pen on to the table.
‘Coffee,’ Rebus told her. She took the mug with a smile of thanks.
‘You look glum.’
‘My natural disposition,’ he said. ‘Mind if I use the phone?’
She shook her head, so he moved over to the chair, sat down and picked it up. A cordless model; he’d only had it a few months. He called Ama Petrie’s number again. A flustered male voice told him to try one of the function rooms at the Marquess Hotel, told him what he’d find there.
‘You got a message from Damon’s bank manager,’ Janice told him, when the call was finished.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Head office approval. If there are any debits from Damon’s account, he’ll let you know.’
‘Nothing so far?’
‘No.’
‘Night he vanished, he took out a hundred.’
‘How far does that go these days?’
‘If he’s sleeping rough, quite a way.’
‘We’re talking as if he’s a runaway.’
‘Until proved otherwise, that’s what he is.’
‘But why would he . . .?’ She broke off, smiled. ‘Same old questions. You must be sick of hearing them.’
‘The only one who can explain is Damon himself. Doing your head in isn’t going to help in the interim.’
She looked at him. ‘Right as ever, Johnny.’
He shrugged. ‘Pleased to be of service.’
When Janice had finished her coffee, using the last mouthfuls to wash down two paracetamol tablets, he told her they were going out.
‘Where?’ she asked, looking around for her jacket.
‘A beauty contest,’ Rebus told her. Then he winked. ‘Brought your swimsuit with you?’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t be eligible anyway: too old.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘You’ll see,’ he said, leading her to the door.
Cary Oakes had a newspaper cutting. It was old and fragile. These days, he didn’t look at it much for fear that it would crumble between his fingers. But today was a special occasion, sort of, so in the café he withdrew it from his pocket and read it through. Faded words on grey paper. A report of his trial and verdict, clipped from one British tabloid. And words of hate: ‘He should have had the electric chair.’ A simple statement of belief.
But they hadn’t given him ‘Old Sparky’, and here he was, back in the same town as the person who’d wanted them to fry him. The anger rising in him again, his hands trembled a little as he folded the cutting along its well-creased lines, slipping it back into his pocket. One day very soon, he’d make someone eat those words. He’d sit there watching them chew, seeing fear and knowledge in their eyes.
And then he’d spark out their life.
Leaving the café, he headed uphill, wandering past bungalows, along quiet pavements. Until he reached his destination. Stared at the building.
He was in there. Oakes could almost taste and smell him. Maybe he was alone in his room, resting or asleep. Or reading the newspaper, catching up on the exploits of Cary Oakes.
‘Soon,’ Oakes said quietly to himself, turning away, not wanting to seem conspicuous. ‘Soon,’ he repeated, beginning to walk back down the hill towards the town.
The hotel was a 1930s design, next to a roundabout on the western edge of Edinburgh.
‘Looks like the Rex, doesn’t it?’ Janice said.
She had a point. The Rex had been one of Cardenden’s three cinemas, perched on a prominent site on the town’s main street. As a kid, it had looked to Rebus like one of those state buildings you saw in films about the Iron Curtain: forbidding, all straight lines and right angles. This hotel was an elongated version of the Rex, as though someone had gripped its sides and pulled. The spaces in the car park were taken, so Rebus did what others before him had done: bumped the Saab up on to the grass verge so that its nose touched the flower beds.
There was a large noticeboard in the middle of the hotel lobby. It told them that Our Little Angels could be found in the Devonshire Suite. Through a double set of doors and along a corridor, hearing a smattering of applause. At the door to the Devonshire Suite was a large woman in a fuchsia two-piece. She sat behind a small table with half a dozen name-tags left lying on it. She asked them their names.
‘We’re not expected,’ Rebus told her, taking out his warrant card. Her eyes widened, and stayed that way as Rebus led Janice into the room.
There was a temporary stage at one end, rows of chairs arranged in front of it, pink and blue drapes hanging behind it. Burgeoning vases of flowers sat along the front of the stage and at the ends of each row of chairs. The room was about half-full. Around the walls sat bags and coats. Mothers and daughters were busy at work, primping and preening. Hair was brushed and teased, make-up perfected, a dress straightened or a ribbon retied. The daughters looked around the room, studying the competition nervously – or occasionally with a hint of contempt. None of them could have been older than eight or nine.
‘It’s like a dog show,’ Janice whispered to Rebus.
A man at a microphone was reading from a prompt-card, introducing the next contestant.
‘Molly comes from Burntisland and attends the local primary school. Her hobbies are pony-trekking and dress-designing. She designed her own dress for today’s competition.’ He looked up at his audience. ‘How about that, eh, folks? The next Dior. Please welcome Molly.’
The mother patted her daughter on the shoulder, and with hesitant tread Molly made her way up the three wooden steps to the stage. The compère crouched down, microphone in hand. Fake tan and hair-weave – or maybe Rebus was just jealous. The judges were in the front row, trying to hide their voting papers from prying eyes.
‘And how old are you, Molly?’
‘Seven and three-quarters.’
‘Seven and three-quarters? You’re sure it’s not seven-eighths?’ The compère was smiling, but Molly’s face had turned panicky, unsure how to respond. ‘Not to worry, my darling,’ the compère went on. ‘So tell us about that lovely dress you’re wearing.’
Rebus looked around him. Make-up applied to faces not yet ready for it, so that the girls looked like clowns. Hair spun into grown-up shapes. Mothers fussing, looking fraught and expectant. The mothers wore make-up too, and bright clothes. Some of them had dyed hair. A few had probably been under the knife. Nobody was paying any attention to Rebus and Janice: there were plenty of couples in evidence. But
this was a mother-and-daughter show, no doubt about that.
No sign of Ama Petrie, and he’d no idea what she’d be doing here anyway. The voice on the phone hadn’t had time to explain. Then he saw two figures he recognised. Hannah Margolies, long blonde hair curling past her shoulders. At her father’s funeral she’d worn white lace. Today she was in a pale-blue dress with white tights and glossy red shoes. There were blue bows in her hair, her mouth a glistening crimson button. Her mother, Katherine Margolies, was kneeling in front of her, giving a final pep-talk. Hannah kept her eyes on her mother’s, nodding slightly from time to time. Katherine took her hands and squeezed them, then stood up.
Jim Margolies’ widow had looked composed at the funeral; she looked more nervous now. She was still wearing black – skirt and jacket over a white silk blouse. She glanced towards the stage where Molly, aided by tape-recorded backing, was singing ‘Sailor’, a song Rebus associated with Petula Clark. Janice, who had found a seat at the end of a row, turned to look up at Rebus with disbelieving eyes. When he looked back at Hannah, he saw Katherine Margolies studying him, as if trying to work out where she’d met him before. Molly was finishing her act, taking the applause with a curtsey. She fairly skipped off the stage, grinning to show wide-spaced teeth.
‘Our next contestant,’ the compère was saying, ‘is Hannah, who lives right here in Edinburgh . . .’
When Hannah had taken the stage, Rebus wandered across to her mother.
‘Hello, Mrs Margolies.’
She put a finger to her lips, her concentration focused on the stage. She pressed her hands together in something like prayer as she watched Hannah’s performance, her mouth twisting when the compère asked what seemed to her a tricky question. Finally, the mother reached down into one of her bags and walked to the stage with a recorder, handing it to her daughter with a smile. Unaccompanied, Hannah played a tune which Rebus suspected was classical. He’d heard it on an advert somewhere, couldn’t think what the advert was for. Looking towards Janice, Rebus saw that seated next to her were an elderly couple, beaming at the stage. They held hands. In the man’s free hand was a walking stick. Rebus recognised them: Jim Margolies’ parents.
Finally: applause, and Hannah came back to her mother, who kissed her hair.
‘You were perfect,’ Katherine Margolies said. ‘Just perfect.’
‘I played a wrong note.’
‘I didn’t hear it.’
Hannah turned to Rebus. ‘Did you hear it?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Sounded fine to me.’
Hannah’s face relaxed a little. She whispered something to her mother.
‘Off you go then.’
As Hannah made her way to her grandparents, Katherine Margolies got slowly to her feet, watching her leave.
‘We haven’t actually met, Mrs Margolies,’ Rebus said, ‘but I was at Jim’s funeral. I used to work with him. My name’s John Rebus.’
She nodded distractedly. ‘You must think I’m . . .’ She sought the words. ‘I mean, so soon after Jim’s accident. But I thought it might take Hannah’s mind off things.’
‘Of course.’
‘She’s been so upset.’
‘I’m sure.’ He noticed that she was now studying the judges, the members of the audience, as if looking for some clue as to Hannah’s success. ‘You think Jim fell?’ he asked.
She looked at him. ‘What?’
‘People seem to think it was suicide.’
‘Let them think what they like,’ she snapped. Then she turned to him. ‘You want me to tell Hannah her father took his own life?’
‘Of course not . . .’
‘He was out walking, got too close to the edge. It was dark . . . a gust of wind maybe.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ She didn’t reply. ‘Did Jim often go out walking at night?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
He looked down at the carpet. ‘Frankly, none.’
‘Well then.’
‘It’s just that I’ve been trying to make sense of it.’
She looked at him again. ‘Why?’
‘For my own satisfaction.’ He held her stare. She was beautiful. Black hair pulled back to show the geometry of her face. Thin arched eyebrows, good cheekbones. Hannah’s eyes were blue, same as her father’s, but Katherine Margolies’ were hazel. ‘And because,’ Rebus went on, ‘I thought it might have something to do with Darren Rough.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Didn’t Jim mention him?’
She shook her head, sighed with impatience, and turned her gaze towards the judges again. One of them was having a conversation with the compère, who had switched his microphone off.
Rebus thought she was about to say something. When she didn’t, he tried another question.
‘He didn’t take his car, did he?’
‘What?’
‘It was raining that night.’
‘When you go for a walk, do you take your car?’
‘I wouldn’t head up Salisbury Crags in a downpour, day or night.’
‘Well, Jim did, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did . . . and I still don’t understand why.’
‘Well, Mr Rebus, I’ve enough to worry about, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’ She looked over his shoulder and her face brightened.
‘Amanda, darling!’
A young woman had breezed through the door, completely ignoring the woman at the desk. She now came forward with arms open, shopping bags swinging from both hands, and embraced Katherine Margolies.
‘Sorry I’m late, Katy. Traffic was murder. Tell me I haven’t missed her.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Oh, fuck it!’ Loud enough for heads to turn. From a distance of four feet, Rebus could smell the cigarettes and booze. The shopping bags: Jenners, Cruise, Body Shop. ‘How was she? I’ll bet she was brilliant . . .’ Looking around. ‘Where is she anyway?’
Hannah was coming towards them, leading her grandmother by the hand, her grandfather following. Her face lit up at the sight of her new visitor. Amanda crouched down and opened her arms again, and Hannah ran into them.
‘Careful with her make-up, Ama,’ Katherine Margolies warned.
‘You look like an angel,’ Amanda told Hannah. ‘Not that angels ever wore lipstick.’
Katherine Margolies was looking at Rebus. ‘I’m sorry, I thought we’d finished chatting.’ A polite dismissal.
‘We had,’ Rebus said. ‘But it’s Miss Petrie I’ve come here to see.’
Amanda Petrie stood up. She was wearing a clinging black mini-dress and black leather jacket with zips to spare. Black high heels and bare legs. She looked Rebus up and down.
‘Who do I owe money to?’ she asked. Her attention shifted to Dr and Mrs Margolies. ‘Hello, you two.’ She kissed and embraced both of them. ‘How are you bearing up?’
‘Well, you know, dear,’ Mrs Margolies said.
‘Hannah was splendid,’ Dr Margolies said. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ He held a hand towards Rebus.
‘DI Rebus,’ Rebus said, watching the old man’s face fall. And now Ama Petrie was studying him. He smiled. ‘I’ve been taken for worse things than a loan-shark’s muscle,’ he told her. ‘Maybe we could have a drink at the bar . . .?’
But Amanda Petrie wasn’t that stupid. Rebus’s thinking: a couple more drinks would loosen her up even more. Amanda, however, had insisted on a pot of tea and several glasses of orange juice. Rebus, Janice and Ama Petrie: just the three of them, seated in the hotel lounge. Ama tucking a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. Rebus looking at her, knowing what Janice was thinking: could she be the mystery blonde? He didn’t think so; her build was different, not so tall, narrower at the shoulders. He couldn’t see any resemblance to her father . . .
She played with one of the shoulders of her dress. Her eyes kept scanning the lounge, looking for anyone more interesting, more glamorous, anyone she should know.
‘I want to be back for the
judging,’ she reminded them. ‘Hannah’s bound to win.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She’s got breeding. It’s not something you can paint on to a face or run up with a sewing-machine.’
‘Ever done any sewing yourself?’ Rebus asked.
She pulled her attention back to him. ‘Needlework and home economics. My school wanted to make little women of us.’ She lit a cigarette, tucked her legs under her. Since she hadn’t offered, Rebus made a show of taking out his own pack, lighting one for himself and offering another to Janice.
‘Sorry,’ Ama Petrie said, offering them her pack. Rebus waved his already lit cigarette at her. ‘How did you find me?’ she asked.
‘Phoned your number.’
‘You probably spoke to Nick.’ She blew out smoke. ‘He’s my brother. Always ready to shop his sis to the filth.’
Rebus let that one go. ‘How do you know Hannah?’ he asked.
‘We’re cousins or something. Twice removed, you know how it is with families.’
Rebus knew Jim Margolies had married someone with ‘society connections’. He hadn’t known Katherine was related to Lord Justice Petrie.
‘Not that I’d have anything to do with most of my family,’ Ama Petrie went on, ‘but Hannah’s just adorable, don’t you think?’ She asked the question of Janice, who nodded.
‘I’m not sure about these shows, though,’ Janice said.
Ama seemed to agree. ‘Yes, but Katy loves them, and I think Hannah does too.’
‘All those mothers . . .’ Janice mused. ‘Pushing their daughters.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Ama tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. ‘What is it you want, anyway?’
Rebus explained the situation. As he talked, Ama’s attention moved to Janice. At one point, she leaned forward and took her hand, squeezing it.
‘You poor dear.’
An agony aunt’s look on her face; someone who’d been touched by loss only at one remove.
