by Ian Rankin
When he got back to his table, Janice was taking the floor. She sang ‘Baker Street’ with real emotion, eyes closed, knowing the words by heart. Brian watched her, his face giving away little. He probably didn’t realise he spent the whole song tearing a beer-mat into tinier and tinier pieces, piling them on the table before sweeping them on to the floor as the number finished.
Rebus stepped outside, took deep gulps of the crisp night air. He was sticking to whisky, heavily watered. There were shouts in the distance, football chants. UVF spray-painted on the side wall of the pub. A man was urinating there. Afterwards, he reeled towards Rebus, asked if he could borrow a cigarette. Rebus gave him one, lit it.
‘Cheers, Jimmy,’ the drunk said. Then he studied Rebus’s face. ‘I knew your father,’ he said, walking away before Rebus could quiz him further.
Rebus stood there. This wasn’t where he belonged, he knew that now. The past was a place you could visit, but it didn’t do to linger there. He’d drunk too much to drive, but first thing . . . first thing he would head back. Cary Oakes wasn’t here. He’d visited only long enough to leave a message. Rebus felt sorry for Janice and Brian, the way things had gone for them. But right now they were the least important of his many problems. He’d allowed his perspective to skew, and Oakes had made far too much capital from that.
Back indoors, no one tried to press the microphone on him. By now they all knew who he was, knew about the act of desecration. Stories passed quickly through a town the size of Cardenden. What else was history made up of?
34
It was still dark when he awoke. He dressed, folded the blankets, left a note on the dining table. Then headed out to his car, drove through the quiet streets and quieter countryside, hitting dual carriageway and giving the Saab’s engine a proper work-out as he sped south towards Edinburgh.
He found a space round the corner from Oxford Terrace and walked back to Patience’s flat. It was still too dark to see the door; he ran his fingers over it, found the lock and keyed it open. The hall was in darkness too. He walked on tiptoe, headed for the kitchen, poured water into the kettle. When he turned round, Patience was standing in the doorway.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she said, tiredness failing to dampen her irritation.
‘Fife.’
‘You didn’t call.’
‘I told you I was going.’
‘I tried your mobile.’
He switched the kettle on. ‘I had it turned off.’ He saw pain suddenly crease her face. Took her by the arms. ‘What is it, Patience?’
She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. She sniffed them back, took him by the hand into the hallway, where she switched on the light. He saw marks on the floor, a trail of them leading to the front door.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Paint,’ she said. ‘It was dark, I didn’t see I was treading it in. I’ve tried cleaning it off.’
A white snail’s trail of footprints . . . Rebus thought of the white tracks leading to his father’s grave. He stared at her, then went to the front door and opened it. Behind him, she reached for the light-switch, illuminating the patio. Rebus saw the paint. Words daubed in foot-long letters on the paving-stones. He angled his head to read them.
YOUR COP LOVER KILLED DARREN.
The whole message underlined.
‘Christ,’ he gasped.
‘Is that all you can say?’ Her voice trembled. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all weekend!’
‘I was . . . When did it happen?’ He was walking around the message.
‘Friday night. I came home late, went to bed. About three, I woke up with a headache. Went to get some water, put the hall light on . . .’ She was pulling back her hair with her hands, her face stretching, tightening. ‘I saw the paint, came out here, and . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Patience.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Oakes again. All the time Rebus had been in Fife, Oakes had been right here, making his next move. He didn’t just know about Janice, he knew about Patience too. And had told Rebus as much, telling him it was lucky he knew a doctor.
He’d telegraphed the move, and Rebus hadn’t read it.
‘You’re lying,’ Patience said. ‘You know damned well. It’s him, isn’t it?’
Rebus tried putting his arms round her, but she shrugged him off.
‘I called St Leonard’s,’ she said. ‘They sent someone round. Two kids in uniform. In the morning, Siobhan turned up.’ She smiled. ‘She took me out for breakfast. I think she knew I hadn’t been to sleep. It made me realise how vulnerable this place is. Garden at the back: anyone could scale the wall, get in through the conservatory. Or break down the front door: who’s going to notice?’ She looked at him. ‘Who am I going to call?’
He made again to put his arms around her. This time she allowed it, but he could feel resistance.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘If I’d known . . . if there’d been any way . . .’ Friday night he’d switched off his mobile. Now he asked himself why. To conserve the battery? It was what he’d told himself back then, but maybe he’d been trying to block Fife off from everything else in his life; so busy thinking about Janice, he’d ignored Oakes’s more obvious move. He kissed Patience’s hair. Skewed perspectives, not thinking straight. Oakes was winning every fucking round. The bond Rebus felt with Janice was undeniable, but was all about failed chances. In the here and now, Patience was his lover. Patience was the one he was holding and kissing.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he told her. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’
She pulled away from him, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. ‘Something funny’s happened to your voice. You’ve gone all Fife.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll make us some tea. You go back to bed. If you need me, you know where I’ll be.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Ben the scullery, hen.’
‘It’s got to be Oakes,’ he said.
He’d called Siobhan to thank her. Patience had told him to ask her to lunch. So now, with the sun overhead, they were seated at the table in the conservatory. The Sunday papers lay unread in a pile in the corner. They ate Scotch broth, cooked ham and salad. A couple of bottles of wine had taken a pasting.
‘Know what she did last night?’ Patience had said – meaning Siobhan; talking to Rebus. ‘Phoned to check I was all right. Said if I wasn’t, I could sleep round at her place.’ A lazy half-drunken smile, and she got up to make the coffee. It was then that Rebus voiced his suspicions to Siobhan.
‘Evidence?’ she replied, before finishing her wine: just the two glasses – she was driving.
‘Gut feeling. He’s been watching my flat. He knows I was the last person to see Rough alive. He took Janice out, and now it’s Patience’s turn.’
‘What has he got against you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it could have been any one of us; just so happens I got the short straw.’
‘From what you say, he’s more calculating than that.’
‘Yes.’ Rebus pushed a cherry tomato around the bed of lettuce on his plate. ‘Patience said something a while back. She said it all could be some kind of tactic to keep us from seeing what he’s really up to.’
‘And what might that be?’
Rebus sighed. ‘I wish to God I knew.’ He studied the salad again. ‘Remember when you could only get one kind of lettuce? One kind of tomato?’
‘I’m too young.’
Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do you think she’ll be OK?’ Meaning Patience.
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘I should have been here.’
‘She said you were in Fife. What were you doing there?’
‘Living in the past,’ he said, finally stabbing the tomato with his fork.
He spent the rest of the day with Patience. They took a walk in the Botanic Gardens, then dropped in on Sammy. Patience hadn’t gone to see her on Saturday �
� had phoned to say something had come up, not elaborating. She had a lie prepared for their visit, briefed Rebus so he’d back her up. Another walk: this time with Sammy in the wheelchair. Rebus still felt awkward, going out with her in public. She teased him about it.
‘Ashamed to be seen with a cripple?’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘What is it then?’
But he had no answer for her. What was it? He didn’t know himself. Maybe it was other people, the way they stared. He wanted to say: she’s going to get better, she won’t be in this thing forever. He wanted to explain how it had happened and how well she’d taken it. He wanted to tell them she was normal.
With Sammy in a wheelchair . . . it was like she was a toddler again, and he felt himself watching for bumps and dips in the pavement, for awkward kerbs and safe crossing-places. He was insistent they wait for the green man, even when there was no traffic in sight.
‘Dad,’ she would say, ‘what are the odds of me getting hit again?’
‘Don’t forget, the bookies had us odds-on for Culloden.’
And she would laugh.
Her boyfriend Ned was with them, but Sammy insisted on pushing herself, leaning back to do wheelies and show her mastery of the vehicle. Ned laughed with her, walked alongside with hands in pockets. Patience slipped her hand into Rebus’s.
A Sunday outing: that’s what it was.
And afterwards, back at the flat there were cream cakes and mugs of Darjeeling, football highlights on the TV with the sound turned down. Sammy talking to Patience about her latest exercise regime. Ned talking to Rebus. Rebus not listening, his eyes half-turned to the window, wondering if Cary Oakes was out there . . .
That evening, he told Patience he had to go home. ‘Couple of things I need. I’ll be back later.’ He kissed her. ‘You all right here, or do you want to come with me?’
‘I’ll stay,’ she said.
So Rebus got into his car and drove. Not to Arden Street but down to Leith. He walked into the hotel and asked to speak to Cary Oakes. Reception tried his room: no answer.
‘Maybe he’s in the bar,’ the woman said.
But Cary Oakes was not in the bar – Jim Stevens was.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said. Rebus shook his head, noticed Stevens was on large G and Ts.
‘Where’s your boy?’
Stevens just shrugged.
‘I thought you’d want to keep tabs on him,’ Rebus said, trying to control his anger.
‘I do, believe me. But he’s a slippery little bugger.’
‘How much more can you milk out of him?’
Stevens smiled, shaking his head. ‘Something strange and wonderful has happened. You know me, Rebus, I’m what they call a seasoned hack, meaning I’m tough and I’m relentless and I don’t take shit.’
‘And?’
‘And I think he’s been giving me shit.’ Stevens shrugged. ‘It’s not bad stuff, don’t get me wrong. But where’s the corroboration?’
‘Since when has that stopped you?’
Stevens bowed his head, acknowledging the point. ‘For my own satisfaction,’ he added, ‘I’d like to know. And along the way, dear old Cary seems to have managed to weasel almost as many stories out of me as I’ve had from him.’
‘Oh, you’ve always been known for your reticence.’
‘I don’t mind telling stories . . . bit of repartee at the bar. But Oakes . . . I don’t know. It’s not the stories themselves that interest him so much as what they say about the people involved.’ He picked up his drink. There were three empty glasses beside it. He’d decanted all the lemon slices into the most recent arrival. ‘That probably makes no sense. I don’t care: I’m off duty.’
‘So are you finished with him?’
Stevens smacked his lips. ‘I’d say we’re getting there. The question is: is he finished with me?’
Rebus took out a cigarette and lit it, offered one to the reporter. ‘He’s been tailing me, people I know.’
‘What for?’
‘Maybe he wants another story for you.’ Rebus moved closer. ‘Listen, off the record, just two old bastards talking . . .’
Stevens blinked away some of the alcohol. ‘Yes?’
‘Has he said anything about Deirdre Campbell?’ Stevens couldn’t place the name. ‘Alan Archibald’s niece.’
‘Oh, right.’ An exaggerated nod, face dipping towards the gin glass, then a frown of concentration. ‘He did say something about clear-up rates. Said that’s what happened when they pinned you for something: they tried to tidy away a few unsolveds by sweeping them into your case-file.’
Rebus had eased himself on to a stool. ‘He didn’t mention specifics?’
‘You think there’s something I’ve missed?’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘You’ve said it yourself: you think he’s using you.’
‘By putting clues in his story that I’m not going to get? Give me a bit of credit.’
‘He likes games,’ Rebus hissed. ‘That’s all we are to him.’
‘Not me, pal. I’m his sugar daddy.’
‘Sugar daddies get cheated on.’
‘John . . .’ Stevens sat up straight, took a reviving lungful of air. ‘This story’s put me back on the map. I got to him first. Me, washed-up old Jim Stevens, gold-watch contestant. Even if he buggered off tonight, I’d have the best part of a book’s-worth.’ He nodded to himself, eyes on the glass he was picking up. Rebus found himself not believing the reporter. ‘See, when I make a toast these days,’ Stevens went on, raising his glass, ‘it’s only ever to Number One. As far as I’m concerned, pal, the rest of you can go straight to hell, no Just Visiting and no Free Parking.’ He drank, drained the glass dry.
He was ordering another as Rebus made for the door.
35
When Rebus left Patience’s next morning, she was out on the patio, discussing with two workmen how best to clean the paint off the flagstones. As he walked into St Leonard’s and made for the CID suite, he could feel that something had happened. There was activity around him and the air felt charged. Siobhan Clarke was first with the news.
‘Joanna Horman’s lover.’ She handed Rebus a report. ‘He’s dirty.’
Rebus glanced down the sheet. The lover’s name was Ray Heggie. He’d done time for housebreaking and assorted acts of drunken violence. He was ten years older than Joanna. He’d been living with her for six weeks.
‘Roy Frazer’s got him in the interview room.’
‘How come?’ Rebus handed back the report.
‘A previous girlfriend of Heggie’s. She read about the kid going missing, phoned to tell us he’d abused her little girl. That was why they broke up.’
‘She didn’t think to tell us before?’
Clarke shrugged. ‘She’s told us now.’
Rebus twitched his nose. ‘How old’s the girl?’
‘Eleven. Someone from Sex Offences is talking to her at home.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re not buying it, are you?’
‘Caveat emptor, Siobhan. I’ll decide after the test drive.’ He winked, moved away. An old girlfriend with a grudge, probably all it was. Saw a chance to make mischief . . . All the same, if Heggie was an abuser, maybe he’d known Darren Rough. Rebus knocked on the interview room door.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus enters the room,’ Frazer said, for the benefit of the recording tape. He was following procedure: audio- and video-taping. ‘Hi-Ho’ Silvers sat beside him at one side of the table, arms folded, looking unimpressed by everything he’d heard. That was Silvers’s role: say nothing, but make the suspect uncomfortable. Across the table sat a man in his forties, black curly hair with a pronounced bald spot. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. His eyes were dark-ringed. He wore a black T-shirt, and ran his hands over thickly haired arms.
‘Join the party,’ was his comment to Rebus. The room was so small, Rebus stood by the wall, folding his own arms and preparing to listen.
‘The locals o
rganised a search party,’ Frazer went on, ‘you weren’t part of it. How come?’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Glasgow. I went out drinking with a mate, stayed the night at his place. Ask him, he’ll tell you.’
‘I’m sure he will. Mates are good that way, aren’t they?’
‘It’s the truth.’
Frazer scribbled a note to himself. ‘You went out drinking, that means there’ll be witnesses.’ He looked up from his notebook. ‘So name me some.’
‘Give me a break. Look, the pubs were all dead, so we got a carry-out and went back to his flat. Sat watching some videos.’
‘Anything good?’
‘Top-shelf stuff.’ Heggie winked. Frazer just glared back.
‘Porn?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Straight?’
‘I’m not a poof.’ Heggie stopped rubbing his arms.
‘I meant, was there any lezzie action?’
‘Might have been.’
‘Bondage? Animals? Kids?’
Heggie saw where this was leading. ‘I’m not into any of that, I’ve told you.’
‘Your ex says different.’
‘That slut’d say anything. Wait till I see her . . .’
‘Anything happens to her, Mr Heggie, if she so much as catches a cold, I’ll have you back in here. Understood?’
‘I didn’t mean anything. It’s just a saying, isn’t it? But she’s been slagging me off, telling people I’ve got AIDS, you name it. Vindictive, she is. Any chance of a cuppa?’
Frazer made a show of checking his watch. ‘We’ll take a break in five minutes.’ Rebus had to stifle a smile, knowing they’d only break when Frazer was good and ready. ‘You’ve got a record of violence, Mr Heggie. My thinking is: you lost patience with the kid, didn’t mean to hurt him. But a valve blew, and next thing you knew he was dead.’
‘No.’
‘So you had to hide him somewhere.’
