Dead Souls

We commit all sorts of injustices at every step without the slightest evil intention. Every minute we are the cause of someone’s unhappiness...

1

John Rebus was pretending to stare at the meerkats when he saw the man, and knew he wasn’t the one.

For the best part of an hour, Rebus had been trying to blink away a hangover, which was about as much exercise as he could sustain. He’d planted himself on benches and against walls, wiping his brow even though Edinburgh’s early spring was a blood relative of midwinter. His shirt was damp against his back, uncomfortably tight every time he rose to his feet. The capybara had looked at him almost with pity, and there had seemed a glint of recognition and empathy behind the long-lashed eye of the hunched white rhino, standing so still it might have been a feature in a shopping mall, yet somehow dignified in its very isolation.

Rebus felt isolated, and about as dignified as a chimpanzee. He hadn’t been to the zoo in years; thought probably the last time had been when he’d brought his daughter to see Palango the gorilla. Sammy had been so young, he’d carried her on his shoulders without feeling the strain.

Today, he carried nothing with him but a concealed radio and set of handcuffs. He wondered how conspicuous he looked, walking such a narrow ambit while shunning the attractions further up and down the slope, stopping now and then at the kiosk to buy a can of Irn-Bru. The penguin parade had come and gone and seen him not leaving his perch. Oddly, it was when the visitors moved on, seeking excitement, that the first of the meerkats appeared, rising on its hind legs, body narrow and wavering, scouting the territory. Two more had appeared from their burrow, circling, noses to the ground. They paid little attention to the silent figure seated on the low wall of their enclosure; passed him time and again as they explored the same orbit of hard-packed earth, jumping back only when he lifted a handkerchief to his face. He was feeling the poison fizz in his veins: not the booze, but an early-morning double espresso from one of the converted police boxes near The Meadows. He’d been on his way to work, on his way to learning that today was zoo patrol. The mirror in the cop-shop toilet had lacked any sense of diplomacy.

Greenslade: ‘Sunkissed You’re Not’. Segue to Jefferson Airplane: ‘If You Feel Like China Breaking’.

But it could always be worse, Rebus had reminded himself, applying his thoughts instead to the day’s central question: who was poisoning the zoo animals of Edinburgh? The fact of the matter was, some individual was to blame. Somebody cruel and calculating and so far missed by surveillance cameras and keepers alike. Police had a vague description, and spot-checks were being made of visitors’ bags and coat pockets, but what everyone really wanted — except perhaps the media — was to have someone in custody, preferably with the tainted tidbits locked away as evidence.

Meantime, as senior staff had indicated, the irony was that the poisoner had actually been good for business. There’d been no copycat offences yet, but Rebus wondered how long that would last...

The next announcement concerned feeding the sea-lions. Rebus had sauntered past their pool earlier, thinking it not overly large for a family of three. The meerkat den was surrounded by children now, and the meerkats themselves had disappeared, leaving Rebus strangely pleased to have been accorded their company.

He moved away, but not too far, and proceeded to untie and tie a shoelace, which was his way of marking the quarter-hours. Zoos and the like had never held any fascination for him. As a child, his roll-call of pets had seen more than its fair share of those listed ‘Missing in Action’ or ‘Killed in the Line of Duty’. His tortoise had absconded, despite having its owner’s name painted on its shell; several budgies had failed to reach maturity; and ill-health had plagued his only goldfish (won at the fair in Kirkcaldy). Living as he did in a tenement flat, he’d never been tempted in adulthood by the thought of a cat or dog. He’d tried horse-riding exactly once, rubbing his inside legs raw in the process and vowing afterwards that the closest he’d come in future to the noble beast would be on a betting slip.

But he’d liked the meerkats for a mixture of reasons: the resonance of their name; the low comedy of their rituals; their instinct for self-preservation. Kids were dangling over the wall now, legs kicking in the air. Rebus imagined a role reversal — cages filled with children, peered at by passing animals as they capered and squealed, loving the attention. Except the animals wouldn’t share a human’s curiosity. They would be unmoved by any display of agility or tenderness, would fail to comprehend that some game was being played, or that someone had skinned a knee. Animals would not build zoos, would have no need of them. Rebus was wondering why humans needed them.

The place suddenly became ridiculous to him, a chunk of prime Edinburgh real estate given over to the unreal... And then he saw the camera.

Saw it because it replaced the face that should have been there. The man was standing on a grassy slope sixty-odd feet away, adjusting the focus on a sizeable telescopic lens. The mouth below the camera’s body was a thin line of concentration, rippling slightly as forefinger and thumb fine-tuned the apparatus. He wore a black denim jacket, creased chinos, and running shoes. He’d removed a faded blue baseball cap from his head. It dangled from a free finger as he took his pictures. His hair was thinning and brown, forehead wrinkled. Recognition came as soon as he lowered the camera. Rebus looked away, turning in the direction of the photographer’s subjects: children. Children leaning into the meerkat enclosure. All you could see were shoe-soles and legs, girls’ skirts and the smalls of backs where T-shirts and jerseys had ridden up.

Rebus knew the man. Context made it easier. Hadn’t seen him in probably four years but couldn’t forget eyes like that, the hunger shining on cheeks whose suffused redness highlighted old acne scars. The hair had been longer four years ago, curling over misshapen ears. Rebus sought for a name, at the same time reaching into his pocket for his radio. The photographer caught the movement, eyes turning to match Rebus’s gaze, which was already moving elsewhere. Recognition worked both ways. The lens came off and was stuffed into a shoulder-bag. A lens-cap was clipped over the aperture. And then the man was off, walking briskly downhill. Rebus yanked out his radio.

‘He’s heading downhill from me, west side of the Members’ house. Black denim jacket, light trousers...’ Rebus kept the description going as he followed. Turning back, the photographer saw him and broke into a trot, hindered by the heavy camera bag.

The radio burst into life, officers heading for the area. Past a restaurant and cafeteria, past couples holding hands and children attacking ice-creams. Peccaries, otters, pelicans. It was all downhill, for which Rebus was thankful, and the man’s unusual gait — one leg slightly shorter than the other — was helping close the gap. The walkway narrowed just at the point where the crowd thickened. Rebus wasn’t sure what was causing the bottleneck, then heard a splash, followed by cheers and applause.

‘Sea-lion enclosure!’ he yelled into his radio.

The man half-turned, saw the radio at Rebus’s mouth, looked ahead of him and saw heads and bodies, camouflaging the approach of any other officers. There was fear in his eyes now, replacing the earlier calculation. He had ceased to be in control of events. With Rebus just about within grabbing distance, the man pushed two spectators aside and clambered over the low stone wall. On the other side of the pool was a rock outcrop atop which stood the female keeper, stooping over two black plastic pails. Rebus saw that there were hardly any spectators behind the keeper, since the rocks obstructed any view of the sea-lions. By dodging the crowd, the man could clamber back over the wall at the far side and be within striking distance of the exit. Rebus cursed under his breath, lifted a foot on to the wall, and hauled himself over.

The onlookers were whistling, a few even cheering as video cameras were hoisted to record the antics of two men cautiously making their way along the sharp slopes. Glancing towards the water, Rebus saw rapid movement, and heard warning yells from the keeper as a sea-lion slithered up on to the rocks near her. Its sleek black body rested only long enough for a fish to be dropped accurately into its mouth, before turning and slipping back into the pool. It looked neither too big nor too fierce, but its appearance had rattled Rebus’s quarry. The man turned back for a moment, his camera bag sliding down his arm. He moved it so it was hanging around his neck. He looked ready to retreat, but when he saw his pursuer, he changed his mind again. The keeper had reached for a radio of her own, alerting security. But the pool’s occupants were becoming impatient. The water beside Rebus seemed to flex and sway. A wave foamed against his face as something huge and ink-black rose from the depths, obliterating the sun and slapping itself down on the rocks. The crowd screamed as the male sea-lion, easily four or five times the size of its offspring, landed and looked around for food, loud snorts belching from its nose. As it opened its mouth and let out a ferocious wail, the photographer yelped and lost his balance, plunging into the pool and taking the camera bag with him.

Two shapes in the pool — mother and child — nosed towards him. The keeper was blowing the whistle strung around her neck, for all the world like the referee at a Sunday kickabout faced with a conflagration. The male sea-lion looked at Rebus a final time and plunged back into its pool, heading for where its mate was prodding the new arrival.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Rebus shouted, ‘chuck in some fish!’

The keeper got the message and kicked a pail of food into the pool, at which all three sea-lions sped towards the scene. Rebus took his chance and waded in, closing his eyes and diving, grabbing the man and hauling him back towards the rocks. A couple of spectators came to help, followed by two plain-clothes detectives. Rebus’s eyes stung. The scent of raw fish was heavy in the air.

‘Let’s get you out,’ someone said, offering a hand. Rebus let himself be reeled in. He snatched the camera from around the drenched man’s neck.

‘Got you,’ he said. Then, kneeling on the rocks, starting to shiver, he threw up into the pool.

2

Next morning, Rebus was surrounded by memories.

Not his own, but those of his Chief Super: framed photographs cluttering the tight space of the office. The thing with memories was, they meant nothing to the outsider. Rebus could have been looking at a museum display. Children, lots of children. The Chief Super’s kids, their faces ageing over time, and then grandchildren. Rebus got the feeling his boss hadn’t taken the photos. They were gifts, passed on to him, and he’d felt it necessary to bring them here.

The clues were all in their situation: the photos on the desk faced out from it, so anyone in the office could see them with the exception of the man who used the desk every day. Others were on the window-ledge behind the desk — same effect — and still more on top of a filing cabinet in the corner. Rebus sat in Chief Superintendent Watson’s chair to confirm his theory. The snapshots weren’t for Watson; they were for visitors. And what they told visitors was that Watson was a family man, a man of rectitude, a man who had achieved something in his life. Instead of humanising the drab office, they sat in it with all the ease of exhibits.

A new photo had been added to the collection. It was old, slightly out of focus as though smeared by a flicker of camera movement. Crimped edges, white border, and the photographer’s illegible signature in one corner. A family group: father standing, one hand proprietorially on the shoulder of his seated wife, who held in her lap a toddler. The father’s other hand gripped the blazered shoulder of a young boy, cropped hair and glaring eyes. Some pre-sitting tension was evident: the boy was trying to pull his shoulder from beneath his father’s claw. Rebus took the photo over to the window, marvelled at the starched solemnity. He felt starched himself, in his dark woollen suit, white shirt and black tie. Black socks and shoes, the latter given a decent polish first thing this morning. Outside it was overcast, threatening rain. Fine weather for a funeral.

Chief Superintendent Watson came into the room, lazy progress belying his temperament. Behind his back they called him ‘the Farmer’, because he came from the north and had something of the Aberdeen Angus about him. He was dressed in his best uniform, cap in one hand, white A4 envelope in the other. He placed both on his desk, as Rebus replaced the photograph, angling it so it faced the Farmer’s chair.

‘That you, sir?’ he asked, tapping the scowling child.

‘That’s me.’

‘Brave of you to let us see you in shorts.’

But the Farmer was not to be deflected. Rebus could think of three explanations for the red veins highlighted on Watson’s face: exertion, spirits, or anger. No sign of breathlessness, so rule out the first. And when the Farmer drank whisky, it didn’t just affect his cheeks: his whole face took on a roseate glow and seemed to contract until it became puckish.

Which left anger.

‘Let’s get down to it,’ Watson said, glancing at his watch. Neither man had much time. The Farmer opened the envelope and shook a packet of photographs on to his desk, then opened the packet and tossed the photos towards Rebus.

‘Look for yourself.’

Rebus looked. They were the photos from Darren Rough’s camera. The Farmer reached into his drawer to pull out a file. Rebus kept looking. Zoo animals, caged and behind walls. And in some of the shots — not all of them, but a fair proportion — children. The camera had focused on these children, involved in conversations among themselves, or chewing sweets, or making faces at the animals. Rebus felt immediate relief, and looked to the Farmer for a confirmation that wasn’t there.

‘According to Mr Rough,’ the Farmer was saying, studying a sheet from the file, ‘the photos comprise part of a portfolio.’

‘I’ll bet they do.’

‘Of a day in the life of Edinburgh Zoo.’

‘Sure.’

The Farmer cleared his throat. ‘He’s enrolled in a photography night-class. I’ve checked and it’s true. It’s also true that his project is the zoo.’

‘And there are kids in almost every shot.’

‘In fewer than half the shots, actually.’

Rebus slid the photos across the desk. ‘Come on, sir.’

‘John, Darren Rough has been out of prison the best part of a year and has yet to show any sign of reoffending.’

‘I heard he’d gone south.’

‘And moved back again.’

‘He ran for it when he saw me.’

The Farmer just stared the comment down. ‘There’s nothing here, John,’ he said.

‘A guy like Rough, he doesn’t go to the zoo for the birds and the bees, believe me.’

‘It wasn’t even his choice of project. His tutor assigned it.’

‘Yes, Rough would have preferred a play-park.’ Rebus sighed. ‘What does his lawyer say? Rough was always good at roping in a lawyer.’

‘Mr Rough just wants to be left in peace.’

‘The way he left those kids in peace?’

The Farmer sat back. ‘Does the word “atonement” mean anything to you, John?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Not applicable.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Ever seen a leopard change its spots?’

The Farmer checked his watch. ‘I know the two of you have a history.’

‘I wasn’t the one he made the complaint against.’

‘No,’ the Farmer said, ‘Jim Margolies was.’

They left that in the air for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.

‘So we do nothing?’ Rebus queried at last. The word “atonement” was flitting about inside his skull. His friend the priest had been known to use it: reconciliation of God and man through Christ’s life and death. A far cry from Darren Rough. Rebus wondered what Jim Margolies had been atoning for when he’d pitched himself off Salisbury Crags...

‘His sheet’s clean.’ The Farmer reached into his desk’s deep bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle and two glasses. Malt whisky. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I need one of these before a funeral.’

Rebus nodded, watching the man pour. Cascading sound of mountain streams. Usquebaugh in the Gaelic. Uisge: water; beatha: life. Water of life. Beatha sounding like ‘birth’. Each drink was a birth to Rebus’s mind. But as his doctor kept telling him, each drop was a little death, too. He lifted the glass to his nose, nodded appreciation.

‘Another good man gone,’ the Farmer said.

And suddenly there were ghosts swirling around the room, just on the periphery of Rebus’s vision, and chief amongst them Jack Morton. Jack, his old colleague, now three months dead. The Byrds: ‘He Was a Friend of Mine’. A friend who refused to stay buried. The Farmer followed Rebus’s eyes, but saw nothing. Drained his glass and put the bottle away again.

‘Little and often,’ he said. And then, as though the whisky had opened some bargain between them: ‘There are ways and means, John.’

‘Of what, sir?’ Jack had melted into the windowpanes.

‘Of coping.’ Already the whisky was working on the Farmer’s face, turning it triangular. ‘Since what happened to Jim Margolies... well, it’s made some of us think more about the stresses of the job.’ He paused. ‘Too many mistakes, John.’

‘I’m having a bad patch, that’s all.’

‘A bad patch has its reasons.’

‘Such as?’

The Farmer left the question unanswered, knowing perhaps that Rebus was busy answering it for himself: Jack Morton’s death; Sammy in a wheelchair.

And whisky a therapist he could afford, at least in monetary terms.

‘I’ll manage,’ he said at last, not even managing to convince himself.

‘All by yourself?’

‘That’s the way, isn’t it?’

The Farmer shrugged. ‘And meantime we all live with your mistakes?’

Mistakes: like pulling men towards Darren Rough, who wasn’t the man they wanted. Allowing the poisoner open access to the meerkats — an apple tossed into their enclosure. Luckily a keeper had walked past, picked it up before the animals could. He’d known about the scare, handed it in for testing.

Positive for rat poison.

Rebus’s fault.

‘Come on,’ the Farmer said, after a final glance at his watch, ‘let’s get moving.’

So that once again Rebus’s speech had gone unspoken, the one about how he’d lost any sense of vocation, any feeling of optimism about the role — the very existence — of policing. About how these thoughts scared him, left him either sleepless or scarred by bad dreams. About the ghosts which had come to haunt him, even in daytime.

About how he didn’t want to be a cop any more.

Jim Margolies had had it all.

Ten years younger than Rebus, he was being tipped for accelerated advancement. They were waiting for him to learn the final few lessons, after which the rank of detective inspector would have been shed like a final skin. Bright, personable, a canny strategist with an eye to internal politics. Handsome, too, keeping fit playing rugby for his old school, Boroughmuir. He came from a good background and had connections to the Edinburgh establishment, his wife charming and elegant, his young daughter an acknowledged beauty. Liked by his fellow officers, and with an enviable ratio of arrests to convictions. The family lived quietly in The Grange, attended a local church, seemed the perfect little unit in every way.

The Farmer kept the commentary going, voice barely audible. He’d started on the drive to the church, kept it up during the service, and was closing with a graveside peroration.

‘He had it all, John. And then he goes and does something like that. What makes a man... I mean, what goes through his head? This was someone even older officers looked up to — I mean the cynical old buggers within spitting distance of their pension. They’ve seen everything in their time, but they’d never seen anyone quite like Jim Margolies.’

Rebus and the Farmer — their station’s representatives — were towards the back of the crowd. And it was a good crowd, too. Lots of brass, alongside rugby players, churchgoers, and neighbours. Plus extended family. And standing by the open grave, the widow dressed in black, managing to look composed. She’d lifted her daughter off the ground. The daughter in a white lace dress, her hair thick and long and ringlet-blonde, face shining as she waved bye-bye to the wooden casket. With the blonde hair and white dress, she looked like an angel. Perhaps that had been the intention. Certainly, she stood out from the crowd.

Margolies’ parents were there, too. The father looking ex-forces, stiff-backed as a grandfather clock but with both trembling hands gripping the silver knob of a walking-stick. The mother teary-eyed, fragile, a veil falling to her wet mouth. She’d lost both her children. According to the Farmer, Jim’s sister had killed herself too, years back. History of mental instability, and she’d slashed her wrists. Rebus looked again at the parents, who had now outlived both their offspring. His mind flashed to his own daughter, wondering how scarred she was, scarred in places you couldn’t see.

Other family members nestled close to the parents, seeking comfort or ready to offer support — Rebus couldn’t tell which.

‘Nice family,’ the Farmer was whispering. Rebus almost perceived a whiff of envy. ‘Hannah’s won competitions.’

Hannah being the daughter. She was eight, Rebus learned. Blue-eyed like her father and perfect-skinned. The widow’s name was Katherine.

‘Dear Lord, the sheer waste.’

Rebus thought of the Farmer’s photographs, of the way individuals met and interlaced, forming a pattern which drew in others, colours merging or taking on discernible contrasts. You made friends, married into a new family, you had children who played with the children of other parents. You went to work, met colleagues who became friends. Bit by bit your identity became subsumed, no longer an individual and yet stronger somehow as a result.

Except it didn’t always work that way. Conflicts could arise: work perhaps, or the slow realisation that you’d made a wrong decision some time back. Rebus had seen it in his own life, had chosen profession over marriage, pushing his wife away. She’d taken their daughter with her. He felt now that he’d made the right choice for the wrong reasons, that he should have owned up to his failings from the start. His work had merely given him a reasonable excuse for bailing out.

He wondered about Jim Margolies, who had thrown himself to his death in the dark. He wondered what had driven him to that final stark decision. No one seemed to have a clue. Rebus had come across plenty of suicides over the years, from bungled to assisted and all points in between. But there had always been some kind of explanation, some breaking point reached, some deep-seated sense of loss or failure or foreboding. Leaf Hound: ‘Drowned My Life in Fear’.

But when it came to Jim Margolies... nothing clicked. There was no sense to it. His widow, parents, workmates... no one had been able to offer the first hint of an explanation. He’d been declared A1 fit. Things had been fine on the work front and at home. He loved his wife, his daughter. Money was not a problem.

But something had been a problem.

Dear Lord, the sheer waste.

And the cruelty of it: to leave everyone not only grieving but questioning, wondering if they were somehow to blame.

To erase your own life when life was so precious.

Looking towards the trees, Rebus saw Jack Morton standing there, seeming as young as when the two had first met.

Earth was being tossed down on to the coffin lid, a final futile wake-up call. The Farmer started walking away, hands clasped behind his back.

‘As long as I live,’ he said, ‘I’ll never understand it.’

‘You never know your luck,’ said Rebus.

3

He stood atop Salisbury Crags. There was a fierce wind blowing, and he turned up the collar of his coat. He’d been home to change out of his funeral clothes and should have been heading back for the station — he could see St Leonard’s from here — but something had made him take this detour.

Behind and above him, a few hardy souls had achieved the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Their reward: the panoramic view, plus ears that would sting for hours. With his fear of heights, Rebus didn’t get too close to the edge. The landscape was extraordinary. It was as though God had slapped his hand down on to Holyrood Park, flattening part of it but leaving this sheer face of rock, a reminder of the city’s origins.

Jim Margolies had jumped from here. Or a sudden gust had taken him: that was the less plausible, but more easily digested alternative. His widow had stated her belief that he’d been ‘walking, just walking’, and had lost his footing in the dark. But this raised unanswerable questions. What would take him from his bed in the middle of the night? If he had worries, why did he need to think them out at the top of Salisbury Crags, several miles from his home? He lived in The Grange, in what had been his wife’s parents’ house. It was raining that night, yet he didn’t take the car. Would a desperate man notice he was getting soaked...?

Looking down, Rebus saw the site of the old brewery, where they were going to build the new Scottish parliament. The first in three hundred years, and sited next to a theme park. Nearby stood the Greenfield housing scheme, a compact maze of high-rise blocks and sheltered accommodation. He wondered why the Crags should be so much more impressive than the man-made ingenuity of high-rises, then reached into his pocket for a folded piece of paper. He checked an address, looked back down on to Greenfield, and knew he had one more detour to make.

Greenfield’s flat-roofed tower blocks had been built in the mid-1960s and were showing their age. Dark stains bloomed on the discoloured harling. Overflow pipes dripped water on to cracked paving slabs. Rotting wood was flaking from the window surrounds. The wall of one ground-floor flat, its windows boarded up, had been painted to identify the one-time tenant as ‘Junky Scum’.

No council planner had ever lived here. No director of housing or community architect. All the council had done was move in problem tenants and tell everyone central heating was on its way. The estate had been built on the flat bottom of a bowl of land, so that Salisbury Crags loomed monstrously over the whole. Rebus rechecked the address on the paper. He’d had dealings in Greenfield before. It was far from the worst of the city’s estates, but still had its troubles. It was early afternoon now, and the streets were quiet. Someone had left a bicycle, missing its front wheel, in the middle of the road. Further along stood a pair of shopping trolleys, nose to nose as though deep in local gossip. In the midst of the six eleven-storey blocks stood four neat rows of terraced bungalows, complete with pocket-handkerchief gardens and low wooden fences. Net curtains covered most of the windows, and above each door a burglar alarm had been secured to the wall.

Part of the tarmac arena between the tower blocks had been given over to a play area. One boy was pulling another along on a sledge, imagining snow as the runners scraped across the ground. Rebus called out the words ‘Cragside Court’ and the boy on the sledge waved in the direction of one of the blocks. When Rebus got up close to it, he saw that a sign on the wall identifying the building had been defaced so that ‘Cragside’ read ‘Crap-site’. A window on the second floor swung open.

‘You needn’t bother,’ a woman’s voice boomed. ‘He’s not here.’

Rebus stood back and angled his head upwards.

‘Who is it I’m supposed to be looking for?’

‘Trying to be smart?’

‘No, I just didn’t know there was a clairvoyant on the premises. Is it your husband or your boyfriend I’m after?’

The woman stared down at him, made up her mind that she’d spoken too soon. ‘Never mind,’ she said, pulling her head back in and closing the window.

There was an intercom system, but only the numbers of flats, no names. He pulled at the door; it was unlocked anyway. He waited a couple of minutes for the lift to come, then let it shudder its way slowly up to the fifth floor. A walkway, open to the elements, led him past the front doors of half a dozen flats until he was standing outside 5/14 Cragside Court. There was a window, but curtained with what looked like a frayed blue bedsheet. The door showed signs of abuse: failed break-ins maybe, or just people kicking at it because there was no bell or knocker. No nameplate, but that didn’t matter. Rebus knew who lived here.

Darren Rough.

The address was new to Rebus. When he’d helped build the case against Rough four years before, Rough had been living in a flat on Buccleuch Street. Now he was back in Edinburgh, and Rebus was keen for him to know just how welcome he was. Besides, he had a couple of questions for Darren Rough, questions about Jim Margolies...

The only problem was, he got the feeling the flat was empty. He tried one half-hearted thump at both door and window. When there was no response, he leaned down to peer through the letterbox, but found it had been blocked from inside. Either Rough didn’t want anyone looking in, or else he’d been getting unwelcome deliveries. Straightening up, Rebus turned and rested his arms on the balcony railing. He found himself staring straight down on to the kids’ playground. Kids: an estate like Greenfield would be full of kids. He turned back to study Rough’s abode. No graffiti on walls or door, nothing to identify the tenant as ‘Pervo Scum’. Down at ground level, the sledge had taken a corner too fast, throwing off its rider. A window below Rebus opened noisily.

‘I saw you, Billy Horman! You did that on purpose!’ The same woman, her words aimed at the boy who’d been pulling the sledge.

‘Never did!’ he yelled back.

‘You fucking did! I’ll murder you.’ Then, tone changing: ‘Are you all right, Jamie? I’ve told you before about playing with that wee bastard. Now get in here!’

The injured boy rubbed a hand beneath his nose — as close as he was going to get to defiance — then made his way towards the tower block, glancing back at his friend. Their shared look lasted only a second or two, but it managed to convey that they were still friends, that the adult world could never break that bond.

Rebus watched the sledge-puller, Billy Horman, shuffle away, then walked down three floors. The woman’s flat was easy to find. He could hear her shouting from thirty yards away. He wondered if she constituted a problem tenant; got the feeling few would dare to complain to her face...

The door was solid, recently painted dark blue, and boasting a spy-hole. Net curtains at the window. They twitched as the woman checked who her caller was. When she opened the door, her son darted back out and along the walkway.

‘Just going to the shop, Mum!’

‘Come back here, you!’

But he was pretending not to have heard; disappeared around a corner.

‘Give me the strength to wring his neck,’ she said.

‘I’m sure you love him really.’

She stared hard at him. ‘Do we have any business?’

‘You never answered my question: husband or boyfriend?’

She folded her arms. ‘Eldest son, if you must know.’

‘And you thought I was here to see him?’

‘You’re the police, aren’t you?’ She snorted when he said nothing.

‘Should I know him then?’

‘Calumn Brady,’ she said.

‘You’re Cal’s mum?’ Rebus nodded slowly. He knew Cal Brady by reputation: regal chancer. He’d heard of Cal’s mother, too.

She stood about five feet eight in her sheepskin slippers. Heavily built, with thick arms and wrists, her face had decided long ago that make-up wasn’t going to cure anything. Her hair, thick and platinum-coloured, brown at the roots, fell from a centre parting. She was dressed in regulation satin-look shell suit, blue with a silver stripe up the arms and legs.

‘You’re not here for Cal then?’ she said.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Not unless you think he’s done something.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

‘Ever have any dealings with one of your neighbours, youngish lad called Darren Rough?’

‘Which flat’s he in?’ Rebus didn’t answer. ‘We get a lot of coming and going. Social Work stuff them in here for a couple of weeks. Christ knows what happens to them, they go AWOL or get shifted.’ She sniffed. ‘What’s he look like?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said. Jamie was back down in the playground, no sign of his friend. He ran in circles, pulling the sledge. Rebus got the idea he could run like that all day.

‘Jamie’s not in school today?’ he asked, turning back towards the door.

‘None of your bloody business,’ Mrs Brady said, closing it in his face.

4

Back at St Leonard’s police station, Rebus looked up Calumn Brady on the computer. At age seventeen, Cal already had impressive form: assault, shoplifting, drunk and disorderly. There was no sign as yet that Jamie was following in his footsteps, but the mother, Vanessa Brady, known as ‘Van’, had been in trouble. Disputes with neighbours had become violent, and she’d been caught giving Cal a false alibi for one of his assault charges. No mention anywhere of a husband. Whistling ‘We Are Family’, Rebus went to ask the desk sergeant if he knew who the community officer was for Greenfield.

‘Tom Jackson,’ he was told. ‘And I know where he is, because I saw him not two minutes ago.’

Tom Jackson was in the car park at the back of the station, finishing a cigarette. Rebus joined him, lit one for himself and made the offer. Jackson shook his head.

‘Got to pace myself, sir,’ he said.

Jackson was in his mid-forties, barrel-chested and silver-haired with matching moustache. His eyes were dark, so that he always looked sceptical. He saw this as a decided bonus, since all he had to do was keep quiet and suspects would offer up more than they wanted to, just to appease that look.

‘I hear you’re still working Greenfield, Tom.’

‘For my sins.’ Jackson flicked ash from his cigarette, then brushed a few flecks from his uniform. ‘I was due a transfer in January.’

‘What happened?’

‘The locals needed a Santa for their Christmas do. They have one every year at the church. Underprivileged kids. They asked muggins here.’

‘And?’

‘And I did it. Some of those kids... poor wee bastards. Almost had me in tears.’ The memory stopped him for a moment. ‘Some of the locals came up afterwards, started whispering.’ He smiled. ‘It was like the confessional. See, the only way they could think to thank me was to furnish a few tip-offs.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Shopping their neighbours.’

‘As a result of which, my clear-up rate got a sudden lift. Bugger is, they’ve decided to keep me there, seeing how I’m suddenly so clever.’

‘A victim of your own success, Tom.’ Rebus inhaled, holding the smoke as he examined the tip of his cigarette. Exhaling, he shook his head. ‘Christ, I love smoking.’

‘Not me. Interviewing some kid, warning him off drugs, and all the time I’m gasping for a draw.’ He shook his head. ‘Wish I could give it up.’

‘Have you tried patches?’

‘No good, they kept slipping off my eye.’

They shared a laugh at that.

‘I’m assuming you’ll get round to it eventually,’ Jackson said.

‘What, trying a patch?’

‘No, telling me what it is you’re after.’

‘Am I that transparent?’

‘Maybe it’s just my finely honed intuition.’

Rebus flicked ash into the breeze. ‘I was out at Greenfield earlier. You know a guy called Darren Rough?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘I had a run-in with him at the zoo.’

Jackson nodded, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I heard about it. Paedophile, yes?’

‘And living in Cragside Court.’

Jackson stared at Rebus. ‘That I didn’t know.’

‘Neighbours don’t seem to know either.’

‘They’d murder him if they did.’

‘Maybe someone could have a word...’

Jackson frowned. ‘Christ, I don’t know about that. They’d string him up.’

‘Bit of an exaggeration, Tom. Run him out of town maybe.’

Jackson straightened his back. ‘And that’s what you want?’

‘You really want a paedophile on your beat?’

Jackson thought about it. He brought out his pack of cigarettes and was reaching into it when he checked his watch: ciggie break over.

‘Let me think on it.’

‘Fair enough, Tom.’ Rebus flicked his own cigarette on to the tarmac. ‘I bumped into one of Rough’s neighbours, Van Brady.’

Jackson winced. ‘Don’t get on the wrong side of that one.’

‘You mean she has a right side?’

‘Best seen when retreating.’

Back at his desk, Rebus put a call in to the council offices and was eventually put through to Darren Rough’s social worker, a man called Andy Davies.

‘Do you think it was a wise move?’ Rebus asked.

‘Care to give me some clue what you’re talking about?’

‘Convicted paedophile, council flat in Greenfield, nice view of the children’s playground.’

‘What’s he done?’ Sounding suddenly tired.

‘Nothing I can pin him for.’ Rebus paused. ‘Not yet. I’m phoning while there’s still time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘To move him.’

‘Move him where exactly?’

‘How about Bass Rock?’

‘Or a cage at the zoo maybe?’

Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘He’s told you.’

‘Of course he’s told me. I’m his social worker.’

‘He was taking photos of kids.’

‘It’s all been explained to Chief Superintendent Watson.’

Rebus looked around the office. ‘Not to my satisfaction, Mr Davies.’

‘Then I suggest you take it up with your superior, Inspector.’ No hiding the irritation in the voice.

‘So you’re going to do nothing?’

‘It was your lot wanted him here in the first place!’

Silence on the line, then Rebus: ‘What did you just say?’

‘Look, I’ve nothing to add. Take it up with your Chief Superintendent. OK?’

The connection was broken. Rebus tried Watson’s office, but his secretary said he was out. He chewed on his pen, wishing plastic had a nicotine content.

It was your lot wanted him here.

DC Siobhan Clarke was at her desk, busy on the phone. He noticed that on the wall behind her was pinned up a postcard of a sea-lion. Walking up to it, he saw someone had added a speech balloon, issuing from the creature’s mouth: ‘I’ll have a Rebus supper, thanks.’

‘Ho ho,’ he said, pulling the card from the wall. Clarke had finished her call.

‘Don’t look at me,’ she said.

He scanned the room. DC Grant Hood reading a tabloid, DS George Silvers frowning at his computer screen. Then DI Bill Pryde walked into the office, and Rebus knew he had his man. Curly fair hair, ginger moustache: a face just made for mischief. Rebus waved the card at him and watched Pryde’s face take on a look of false wounded innocence. As Rebus walked towards him, a phone began sounding.

‘That’s yours,’ Pryde said, retreating. On his way to the phone, Rebus tossed the card into a bin.

‘DI Rebus,’ he said.

‘Oh, hello. You probably won’t remember me.’ A short laugh on the line. ‘That used to be a bit of a joke at school.’

Rebus, immune to every kind of crank, rested against the edge of the desk. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, wondering what kind of punch-line he was walking into.

‘Because it’s my name: Mee.’ The caller spelled it for him. ‘Brian Mee.’

Inside Rebus’s head, a fuzzy photograph began to develop — mouthful of prominent teeth; freckled nose and cheeks; kitchen-stool haircut.

‘Barney Mee?’ he said.

More laughter on the line. ‘I never knew why everyone called me that.’

Rebus could have told him: after Barney Rubble in The Flintstones. He could have added: because you were a dense wee bastard. Instead, he asked Mee what he could do for him.

‘Well, Janice and me, we thought... well, it was my mum’s idea actually. She knew your dad. Both my parents knew him, only my dad passed away, like. They all drank at the Goth.’

‘Are you still in Bowhill?’

‘Never quite escaped. I work in Glenrothes though.’

The photo had become clearer: decent footballer, bit of a terrier, the hair reddish-brown. Dragging his satchel along the ground until the stitching burst. Always with some huge hard sweet in his mouth, crunching down on it, nose running.

‘So what can I do for you, Brian?’

‘It was my mum’s idea. She remembered you were in the police in Edinburgh, thought maybe you could help.’

‘With what?’

‘It’s our son. Mine and Janice’s. He’s called Damon.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘He’s vanished.’

‘Run away?’

‘More like a puff of smoke. He was in this club with his pals, see—’

‘Have you tried calling the police?’ Rebus caught himself. ‘I mean Fife Constabulary.’

‘Thing is, the club’s in Edinburgh. Police there say they looked into it, asked a few questions. See, Damon’s nineteen. They say that means he’s got a right to bugger off if he wants.’

‘They’ve got a point, Brian. People run away all the time. Girl trouble maybe.’

‘He was engaged.’

‘Maybe he got scared.’

‘Helen’s a lovely girl. Never a raised voice between them.’

‘Did he leave a note?’

‘I went through this with the police. No note, and he didn’t take any clothes or anything.’

‘You think something’s happened to him?’

‘We just want to know he’s all right...’ The voice fell away. ‘My mum always speaks well of your dad. He’s remembered in this town.’

And buried there, too, Rebus thought. He picked up his pen. ‘Give me a few details, Brian, and I’ll see what I can do.’

A little later, Rebus visited Grant Hood’s desk and retrieved the discarded newspaper from the bin. Turning the pages, he found the editorial section. At the bottom, in bold script, were the words ‘Do you have a story for us? Call the newsroom day or night.’ They’d printed the telephone number. Rebus jotted it into his notebook.

5

The silent dance resumed. Couples writhed and shuffled, threw back their heads or ran hands through their hair, eyes seeking out future partners or past loves to make jealous. The video monitor gave a greasy look to everything.

No sound, just pictures, the tape cutting from dancefloor to main bar to second bar to toilet hallway. Then the entrance foyer, exterior front and back. Exterior back was a puddled alley boasting rubbish bins and a Merc belonging to the club’s owner. The club was called Gaitano’s, nobody knew why. Some of the clientele had come up with the nickname ‘Guiser’s’, and that was the name by which Rebus knew it.

It was on Rose Street, started to get busy around ten thirty each evening. There’d been a stabbing in the back alley the previous summer, the owner complaining of blood on his Merc.

Rebus was seated in a small uncomfortable chair in a small dimly lit room. In the other chair, hand on the video’s remote, sat DC Phyllida Hawes.

‘Here we go again,’ she said. Rebus leaned forward a little. The view jumped from back alley to dancefloor. ‘Any second.’ Another cut: main bar, punters queuing three deep. She froze the picture. It wasn’t so much black and white as sepia, the colour of dead photographs. Interior light, she’d explained earlier. She moved the action along one frame at a time as Rebus moved in on the screen, bending so one knee touched the floor. His finger touched a face.

‘That’s him,’ she agreed.

On the desk was a slim file. Rebus had taken from it a photograph, which he now held to the screen.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Forward at half-speed.’

The security camera stayed with the main bar for another ten seconds, then switched to second bar and all points on the compass. When it returned to the main bar, the crush of drinkers seemed not to have moved. She froze the tape again.

‘He’s not there,’ Rebus said.

‘No chance he got served. The two ahead of him are still waiting.’

Rebus nodded. ‘He should be there.’ He touched the screen again.

‘Next to the blonde,’ Hawes said.

Yes, the blonde: spun-silver hair, dark eyes and lips. While those around her were intent on catching the eyes of the bar staff, she was looking off to one side. There were no sleeves to her dress.

Twenty seconds of footage from the foyer showed a steady stream entering the club, but no one leaving.

‘I went through the whole tape,’ Hawes said. ‘Believe me, he’s not on it.’

‘So what happened to him?’

‘Easy, he walked out, only the cameras didn’t pick him up.’

‘And left his pals gasping?’

Rebus studied the file again. Damon Mee had been out with two friends, a night in the big city. It had been Damon’s shout — two lagers and a Coke, this last for the designated driver. They’d waited for him, then gone looking. Initial reaction: he’d scored and slunk off without telling them. Maybe she’d been a dinosaur, not something to brag about. But then he hadn’t turned up at home, and his parents had started asking questions, questions no one could answer.

Simple truth: Damon Mee had, as the timer on the camera footage showed, vanished from the world between 11.44 and 11.45 p.m. the previous Friday night.

Hawes switched off the machine. She was tall and thin and knew her job; hadn’t liked Rebus appearing at Gayfield cop shop like this; hadn’t liked the implication.

‘There’s no hint of foul play,’ she said defensively. ‘Quarter of a million MisPers every year, most turn up again in their own sweet time.’

‘Look,’ Rebus assured her, ‘I’m doing this for an old friend, that’s all. He just wants to know we’ve done all we can.’

‘What’s to do?’

Good question, and one Rebus was unable to answer right that minute. Instead, he brushed dust from the knees of his trousers and asked if he could look at the video one last time.

‘And something else,’ he said. ‘Any chance we can get a print-out?’

‘A print-out?’

‘A photo of the crush at the bar.’

‘I’m not sure. It’s not going to be much use though, is it? And we’ve decent photos of Damon as it is.’

‘It’s not him I’m interested in,’ Rebus said as the tape began to play. ‘It’s the blonde who watched him leave.’

That evening, he drove north out of Edinburgh, paid his toll at the Forth Road Bridge, and crossed into Fife. The place liked to call itself ‘the Kingdom’ and there were those who would agree that it was another country, a place with its own linguistic and cultural currency. For such a small place, it seemed almost endlessly complex, had seemed that way to Rebus even when he’d been growing up there. To outsiders the place meant coastal scenery and St Andrews, or just a stretch of motorway between Edinburgh and Dundee, but the west central Fife of Rebus’s childhood had been very different, ruled by coal mines and linoleum, dockyard and chemical plant, an industrial landscape shaped by basic needs and producing people who were wary and inward-looking, with the blackest humour you’d ever find.

They’d built new roads since Rebus’s last visit, and knocked down a few more landmarks, but the place didn’t feel so very different from thirty-odd years before. It wasn’t such a great span of time after all, except in human terms, and maybe not even then. Entering Cardenden — Bowhill had disappeared from road-signs in the 1960s, even if locals still knew it as a village distinct from its neighbour — Rebus slowed to see if the memories would turn out sweet or sour. Then he caught sight of a Chinese takeaway and thought: both, of course.

Brian and Janice Mee’s house was easy enough to find: they were standing by the gate waiting for him. Rebus had been born in a pre-fab but brought up in a terrace much like this one. Brian Mee practically opened the car door for him, and was trying to shake his hand while Rebus was still undoing his seat-belt.

‘Let the man catch his breath!’ his wife snapped. She was still standing by the gate, arms folded. ‘How have you been, Johnny?’

And Rebus realised that Brian had married Janice Playfair, the only girl in his long and trouble-strewn life who’d ever managed to knock John Rebus unconscious.

The narrow low-ceilinged room was full to bursting — not just Rebus, Brian and Janice, but Brian’s mother and Mr and Mrs Playfair, plus a billowing three-piece suite and assorted tables and units. Introductions had to be made and Rebus guided to ‘the seat by the fire’. The room was overheated. A pot of tea was produced, and on the table by Rebus’s armchair sat enough slices of cake to feed a football crowd.

‘He’s a brainy one,’ Janice’s mother said, handing Rebus a framed photograph of Damon Mee. ‘Plenty of certificates from school. Works hard. Saving to get married.’

The photo showed a smiling imp, not long out of school.

‘We gave the most recent pictures to the police,’ Janice explained. Rebus nodded: he’d seen them in the file. All the same, when a packet of holiday snaps was handed to him, he went through them slowly: it saved having to look at the expectant faces. He felt like a doctor, expected to produce both immediate diagnosis and remedy. The photos showed a face more careworn than in the framed print. The impish smile remained, but noticeably older: some effort had gone into it. There was something behind the eyes, disenchantment maybe. Damon’s parents were in a few of the photos.

‘We all went together,’ Brian explained. ‘The whole family.’

Beaches, a big white hotel, poolside games. ‘Where is it?’

‘Lanzarote,’ Janice said, handing him his tea. ‘Do you still take sugar?’

‘Haven’t done for years,’ Rebus said. In a couple of the pictures she was wearing her bikini: good body for her age, or any age come to that. He tried not to linger.

‘Can I take a couple of the close-ups?’ he asked. Janice looked at him. ‘Of Damon.’ She nodded and he put the other photos back in the packet.

‘We’re really grateful,’ someone said: Janice’s mum? Brian’s? Rebus couldn’t tell.

‘You said his girlfriend’s called Helen?’

Brian nodded. He’d lost some hair and put on weight, his face jowly. There was a row of cheap trophies above the mantelpiece: darts and pool, pub sports. He reckoned Brian kept in training most nights. Janice... Janice looked the same as ever. No, that wasn’t strictly true. She had wisps of grey in her hair. But all the same, talking to her was like stepping back into a previous age.

‘Does Helen live locally?’ he asked.

‘Practically round the corner.’

‘I’d like to talk to her.’

‘I’ll give her a bell.’ Brian got to his feet, left the room.

‘Where does Damon work?’ Rebus asked, for want of a better question.

‘Same place as his dad,’ Janice said, lighting a cigarette. Rebus raised an eyebrow: at school, she’d been anti-tobacco. She saw his look and smiled.

‘He got a job in packaging,’ her dad said. He seemed frail, chin quivering. Rebus wondered if he’d had a stroke. One side of his face looked slack. ‘He’s learning the ropes. It’ll be management soon.’

Working-class nepotism, jobs handed down from father to son. Rebus was surprised it still existed.

‘Lucky to find any work at all around here,’ Mrs Playfair added.

‘Are things bad?’

She made a tutting sound, dismissing the question.

‘Remember the old pit, John?’ Janice asked.

Of course he remembered it, and the bing and the wilderness around it. Long walks on summer evenings, stopping for kisses that seemed to last hours. Wisps of coal-smoke rising from the bing, the dross within still smouldering.

‘It’s all been levelled now, turned into parkland. They’re talking about building a mining museum.’

Mrs Playfair tutted again. ‘All it’ll do is remind us what we once had.’

‘Job creation,’ her daughter said.

‘They used to call Cowdenbeath the Chicago of Fife,’ Brian Mee’s mother added.

‘The Blue Brazil,’ Mr Playfair said, giving a croaking laugh. He meant Cowdenbeath football club, the nickname a self-imposed piece of irony. They called themselves the Blue Brazil because they were rubbish.

‘Helen’ll be here in a minute,’ Brian said, coming back in.

‘Are you not eating any cake, Inspector?’ added Mrs Playfair.

On the drive back to Edinburgh, Rebus thought back to his chat with Helen Cousins. She hadn’t been able to add much to Rebus’s picture of Damon, and hadn’t been there the night he’d vanished. She’d been out with friends. It was a Friday ritual: Damon went out with ‘the lads’, she went out with ‘the girls’. He’d spoken with one of Damon’s companions; the other had been out. He’d learned nothing helpful.

As he crossed the Forth Road Bridge, he thought about the symbol Fife had decided upon for its ‘Welcome to Fife’ signs: the Forth Rail Bridge. Not an identity so much as an admission of failure, recognition that Fife was for many people a conduit or mere adjunct to Edinburgh.

Helen Cousins had worn black eyeliner and crimson lipstick and would never be pretty. Acne had carved cruel lines into her sallow face. Her hair had been dyed black and fell to a gelled fringe. When asked what she thought had happened to Damon, she’d just shrugged and folded her arms, crossing one leg over the other in a refusal to take any blame he might be trying to foist on her.

Joey, who’d been at Guiser’s that night, had been similarly reticent.

‘Just a night out,’ he’d said. ‘Nothing unusual about it.’

‘And nothing different about Damon?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Was he maybe preoccupied? Did he look nervous?’

A shrug: the apparent extent of Joey’s concern for his friend...

Rebus knew he was headed home, meaning Patience’s flat. But as he stop-started between the lights on Queens-ferry Road, he thought maybe he’d go to the Oxford Bar. Not for a drink, maybe just for a cola or a coffee, and some company. He’d drink a soft drink and listen to the gossip.

So he drove past Oxford Terrace, stopped at the foot of Castle Street. Walked up the slope towards the Ox. Edinburgh Castle was just over the rise. The best view you could get of it was from a burger place on Princes Street. He pushed open the door to the pub, feeling heat and smelling smoke. He didn’t need cigarettes in the Ox: breathing was like killing a ten-pack. Coke or a coffee, he was having trouble making up his mind. Harry was on duty tonight. He lifted an empty pint glass and waved it in Rebus’s direction.

‘Aye, OK then,’ Rebus said, like it was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

He got in at quarter to midnight. Patience was watching TV. She didn’t say much about his drinking these days: silence every bit as effective as lectures had ever been. But she wrinkled her nose at the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, so he dumped them in the washing basket and took a shower. She was in bed by the time he got out. There was a fresh glass of water his side of the bed.

‘Thanks,’ he said, draining it with two paracetamol.

‘How was your day?’ she asked: automatic question, automatic response.

‘Not so bad. Yours?’

A sleepy grunt in reply. She had her eyes closed. There were things Rebus wanted to say, questions he’d like to ask. What are we doing here? Do you want me out? He thought maybe Patience had the same questions or similar. Somehow they never got asked; fear of the answers, perhaps, and what those answers would mean. Who in the world relished failure?

‘I went to a funeral,’ he told her. ‘A guy I knew.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I didn’t really know him that well.’

‘What did he die of?’ Head still on the pillow, eyes closed.

‘A fall.’

‘Accident?’

She was drifting away from him. He spoke anyway. ‘His widow, she’d dressed their daughter to look like an angel. One way of dealing with it, I suppose.’ He paused, listening to Patience’s breathing grow regular. ‘I went to Fife tonight, back to the old town. Friends I haven’t seen in years.’ He looked at her. ‘An old flame, someone I could have ended up married to.’ Touched her hair. ‘No Edinburgh, no Dr Patience Aitken.’ His eyes turned towards the window. No Sammy... maybe no job in the police either.

No ghosts.

When she was asleep, he went back through to the living room and plugged headphones into the hi-fi. He’d added a record deck to her CD system. In a bag under the bookshelf he found his last purchases from Backbeat Records: Light of Darkness and Writing on the Wall, two Scottish bands he vaguely remembered from times past. As he sat to listen, he wondered why it was he was only ever happy on rewind. He thought back to times when he’d been happy, realising that at the time he hadn’t felt happy: it was only in retrospect that it dawned on him. Why was that? He sat back with eyes closed. Incredible String Band: ‘The Half-Remarkable Question’. Segue to Brian Eno: ‘Everything Merges with the Night’. He saw Janice Playfair the way she’d been the night she’d laid him out, the night that had changed everything. And he saw Alec Chisholm, who’d walked away from school one day and never been seen again. He didn’t have Alec’s face, just a vague outline and a way of standing, of composing himself. Alec the brainy one, the one who was going to go far.

Only nobody’d expected him to go the way he did.

Without opening his eyes, Rebus knew Jack Morton was seated in the chair across from him. Could Jack hear the music? He never spoke, so it was hard to know if sounds meant anything to him. He was waiting for the track called ‘Bogeyman’; listening and waiting...

It was nearly dawn when, on her way back from the toilet, Patience removed the headphones from his sleeping form and threw a blanket over him.

6

There were three men in the room, all in uniform, all wanting to hit Cary Oakes. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they stood half-tensed, cheekbones working at wads of gum. He made a sudden movement, but only stretching his legs out, shifting his weight on the chair, arching his head back so it caught the full glare of the sun, streaming through the high window. Bathed in heat and light, he felt the smile stretch across his face. His mother had always told him, ‘Your face shines when you smile, Cary.’ Crazy old woman, even back then. She’d had one of those double sinks in the kitchen, with a mangle you could fix between them. Wash the clothes in one sink, then through the mangle into the other. He’d stuck the tips of his fingers against the rollers once, started cranking the handle until it hurt.

Three prison guards: that’s what they reckoned Cary Oakes was worth. Three guards, and chains for his legs and arms.

‘Hey, guys,’ he said, pointing his chin at them. ‘Take your best shot.’

‘Can it, Oakes.’

Cary Oakes grinned again. He’d forced a reaction: of such small victories were his days made. The guard who’d spoken, the one with the tag identifying him as SAUNDERS, did tend towards the excitable. Oakes narrowed his eyes and imagined the moustached face pressed against a mangle, imagined the strength needed to force that face all the way through. Oakes rubbed his stomach; not so much as an ounce of flab there, despite the food they tried to serve him. He stuck to vegetables and fruit, water and juices. Had to keep the brain in gear. A lot of the other prisoners, they’d slipped into neutral, engines revving but heading nowhere. A stretch of confinement could do that to you, make you start believing things that weren’t true. Oakes kept up with events, had magazine and newspaper subscriptions, watched current affairs on TV and avoided everything else, except maybe a little sport. But even sport was a kind of novocaine. Instead of watching the screen, he watched the other faces, saw them heavy-lidded, no need to concentrate, like babies being spoon-fed contentment, bellies and brains filled to capacity with warmed-over gunk.

He started whistling a Beatles song: ‘Good Day, Sunshine’, wondering if any of the guards would know it. Potential for another reaction. But then the door opened and his attorney came in. His fifth lawyer in sixteen years, not a bad average, batting.300. This lawyer was young — mid-twenties — and wore blue blazers with cream slacks, a combination which made him look like a kid trying on his dad’s clothes. The blazers had brass-effect buttons and intricate designs on the breast pocket.

‘Ahoy, shipmate!’ Oakes cried, not shifting in his chair.

His lawyer sat down opposite him at the table. Oakes put his hands behind his head, rattling the chains.

‘Any chance of removing those from my client?’ the lawyer asked.

‘For your own protection, sir.’ The stock response.

Oakes used both hands to scratch his shaved head. ‘Know those divers and spacemen? Use weighted boots, necessary tool of the trade. I reckon when I lose these chains, I’m going to float up to the ceiling. I can make my living in freak shows: the human fly, see him scale the walls. Man, imagine the possibilities. I can float up to second-floor windows and watch all the ladies getting ready for bed.’ He turned his head to the guards. ‘Any of you guys married?’

The lawyer was ignoring this. He had his job to do, opening the briefcase and lifting out the paperwork. Wherever lawyers went, paper went with them. Lots of paper. Oakes tried not to look interested.

‘Mr Oakes,’ the lawyer said, ‘it’s just a matter of detail now.’

‘I’ve always enjoyed detail.’

‘Some papers that have to be signed by various officials.’

‘See, guys,’ Oakes called to the guards, ‘I told you no prison could hold Cary Oakes! OK, so it’s taken me fifteen years, but, hey, nobody’s perfect.’ He laughed, turning to his lawyer. ‘So how long should all these... details take?’

‘Days rather than weeks.’

Inside, Oakes’s heart was pumping. His ears were hissing with the intensity of it, the swell of apprehension and anticipation. Days...

‘But I haven’t finished painting my cell. I want it left pretty for the next tenant.’

Finally the attorney smiled, and Oakes knew him in that instant: working his way up in Daddy’s practice; reviled by his elders, mistrusted by his peers. Was he spying on them, reporting back to the old man? How could he prove himself? If he joined them for drinks on a Friday night, loosening his tie and mussing up his hair, they felt uncomfortable. If he kept his distance, he was a cold fish. And what about the father? The old man couldn’t have anyone accusing him of nepotism, the boy had to learn the hard way. Give him the shitty-stick cases, the no-hopers, the ones that left you needing a shower and change of clothes. Make him prove himself. Long hours of thankless toil, a shining example to everyone else in the firm.

All this discerned from a single smile, the smile of a half-shy, self-conscious drone who dreamt of being King Bee, who perhaps even harboured little fantasies of patricide and succession.

‘You’ll be deported, of course,’ the prince was saying now.

‘What?’

‘You were in this country illegally, Mr Oakes.’

‘I’ve been here nearly half my life.’

‘Nevertheless...’

Nevertheless... His mother’s word. Every time he had an excuse prepared, some story to explain the situation, she’d listen in silence, then take a deep breath, and it was like he could see the word forming in the air that issued from her mouth. During his trial, he’d rehearsed little conversations with her.

‘Mother, I’ve been a good son, haven’t I?’

‘Nevertheless...’

‘Nevertheless, I killed two people.’

‘Really, Cary? You’re sure it was only two...?’

He sat up in his chair. ‘So let them deport me, I’ll come straight back.’

‘It won’t be so easy. I can’t see you securing a tourist visa this time, Mr Oakes.’

‘I don’t need one. You’re behind the times.’

‘Your name will be on record...’

‘I’ll walk across from Canada or Mexico.’

The lawyer shifted in his seat. He didn’t like to hear this.

‘I have to come back and see my pals,’ nodding towards the guards. ‘They’ll miss me when I’m gone. And so will their wives.’

‘Fuck you, slime.’ Saunders again.

Oakes beamed at his lawyer. ‘Isn’t that nice? We have nicknames for each other.’

‘I don’t think any of this is very helpful, Mr Oakes.’

‘Hey, I’m the model prisoner. That’s the way it works, right? I learned a fast lesson: use the same system they used to put you where you are. Read up on the law, go back over everything, know the questions to ask, the objections that should have been made at the original trial. The lawyer they had representing me, I’ll tell you, he couldn’t have presented a school prize, never mind my case.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re better than him. You’re going to be all right. Remember that next time your pop is chewing you out. Just say to yourself: I’m better than that, I’m going to be all right.’ He winked. ‘No charge for my time, son.’

Son: as if he was fifty rather than thirty-eight. As if the knowledge of the ages was his for the dispensing.

‘So I get a free flight back to London?’

‘I’m not sure.’ The lawyer looked through his notes. ‘You’re from Lothian originally?’ Pronouncing it loathing.

‘As in Edinburgh, Scotland.’

‘Well, you might end up back there.’

Cary Oakes rubbed at his chin. Edinburgh might do for a while. He had unfinished business in Edinburgh. Was going to leave it till the heat had died down, but nevertheless... He leaned forward over the table.

‘How many murders did they pin on me?’

The lawyer blinked, sat there with palms flat on the table. ‘Two,’ he said at last.

‘How many did they start with?’

‘I believe it was five.’

‘Six actually.’ Oakes nodded slowly. ‘But who’s counting, eh?’ A chuckle. ‘They ever catch anyone for the others?’

The lawyer shook his head. There were beads of perspiration at his temples. He’d be making a detour home for a shower and fresh clothes.

Cary Oakes sat back again and angled his face into the sun, turning his head so every part felt the warmth. ‘Two’s not much of a tally, is it, in the scheme of things? You kill your old man, you’ll only be one behind.’

He was still chuckling to himself as his lawyer was led out of the room.

7

Younger runaways tended to take the same few routes: by bus, train or hitching, and to London, Glasgow or Edinburgh. There were organisations who would keep an eye open for runaways, and even if they wouldn’t always reveal their whereabouts to the anxious families, at least they could confirm that someone was alive and unharmed.

But a nineteen-year-old, someone with money to hand... could be anywhere. No destination was too distant — his passport hadn’t turned up. He took it with him to clubs as proof of age. Damon had a current account at the local bank, complete with cashcard, and an interest-bearing account with a building society in Kirkcaldy. The bank might be worth trying. Rebus picked up the telephone.

The manager at first insisted that he’d need something in writing, but relented when Rebus promised to fax him later. Rebus held while the manager went off to check, and had doodled half a village, complete with stream, parkland and pit-head, by the time the man came back.

‘The most recent withdrawal was a cash machine in Edinburgh’s West End. One hundred pounds on the fifteenth.’

The night Damon had gone to Gaitano’s. A hundred seemed a lot to Rebus, even for a good night out.

‘Nothing since then?’

‘No.’

‘How up to date is that?’

‘Up to the close of play yesterday.’

‘Could I ask you a favour, sir? I’d like tabs kept on that account. Any new withdrawals, I’d like to know about them pronto.’

‘I’d need that in writing, Inspector. And I’d probably also need the approval of my head office.’

‘I’d appreciate it, Mr Brayne.’

‘It’s Bain,’ the bank manager said coldly, putting down the phone.

Rebus called the building society and endured the same rigmarole before learning that Damon hadn’t touched his account in more than a fortnight. He made one last call to Gayfield police station and asked for DC Hawes. She didn’t sound too thrilled when he identified himself.

‘What’s the word on Gaitano’s?’ he asked.

‘Everyone calls it Guiser’s. Pretty choice establishment. Two stabbings last year, one in the club itself, one in the alley out back. Been quieter this year, which is probably down to a stricter door policy.’

‘You mean bigger bouncers.’

‘Front-of-house managers, if you please. Locals still complain about the noise at chucking-out time.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘Charles Mackenzie, nicknamed “Charmer”.’

A couple of uniforms had talked to Mackenzie about Damon Mee, and he’d offered up the security tape which had languished in Gayfield ever since.

‘Know how many MisPers there are every year?’ Hawes said with a sigh.

‘You told me.’

‘Then you should know that if there’s no suspicion of foul play, they’re not exactly a white-hot priority. God knows there are times I’ve felt like doing a runner myself.’

Rebus thought of his night-time car-rides, long, directionless hours, just filling in the blank spaces of his life. ‘Haven’t we all?’ he said.

‘Look, I know you’re doing this as a favour...’

‘Yes?’

‘But we’ve done all we can, haven’t we?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘So what’s the point?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Rebus could have told her that it had to do with the past, with some debt he felt he owed to Janice Playfair and Barney Mee — and to the memory of a friend he’d once had called Mitch. Somehow, he didn’t think explaining it to an outsider would help. ‘One last thing,’ he asked instead. ‘Did you get me a still of that woman?’

Gaitano’s was little more than a solid black door with a neon sign above it, flanked either side by pubs and with a hi-fi shop across the road. There were valve amplifiers and an outsized record deck in the shop window. The deck had an outsized price-tag to match. One of the pubs was called The Headless Coachman. It had changed its name a couple of years back and was touting for tourists.

Rebus pushed the door-buzzer to Gaitano’s and a woman opened it for him. She was the cleaner, and Rebus didn’t envy her the job. Glasses had been cleared from the tables, but the place still looked like a wreck. There was an industrial vacuum cleaner on the carpet which encircled the dance floor. The floor was littered with cigarette stubs, cellophane, the occasional empty bottle. She’d finished cleaning the foyer, but was only halfway through the main dance area. There were mirrors on all the walls, and in the right light the place would look many times its actual size. In bare white light and with no music, no punters, it looked and felt desolate. There was a fug of stale sweat and beer in the air. Rebus saw a security camera in one corner and gave it a wave.

‘Inspector Rebus.’

The man walking towards him across the dancefloor was about five feet four inches and as thin as a swizzle-stick. Rebus placed him in his mid-fifties. He wore a powder-blue suit and open-necked white shirt to show off his suntan and gold jewellery. His hair was silver and thinning, but as well-cut as the suit. They shook hands.

‘Do you want a drink?’

He was leading Rebus towards the bar. Rebus looked at the row of optics.

‘No thank you, sir.’

Charmer Mackenzie went behind the bar and poured himself a cola.

‘Sure?’ he said.

‘Same as you’re having,’ Rebus said. He examined one of the bar stools for cigarette ash, then pulled himself up on to it. They faced one another across the bar.

‘Not your normal tipple?’ Mackenzie guessed. ‘In my trade, you get a nose for these things.’ And he tapped his nose for effect. ‘The kid hasn’t turned up then?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Sometimes they get a notion...’ He shrugged, dismissing the foibles of a generation.

‘I’ve got a photograph.’ Rebus reached into his pocket, handed it over. ‘The missing person is second row.’

Mackenzie nodded, not really interested.

‘See just behind him?’

‘Is that his doll?’

‘Do you know her?’

Mackenzie snorted. ‘Wish I did.’

‘You haven’t seen her before?’

‘Picture’s not the best, but I don’t think so.’

‘What time do the staff clock on?’

‘Not till tonight.’

Rebus took the photo back, put it in his pocket.

‘Any chance of getting my video back?’ Mackenzie asked.

‘Why?’

‘Those things cost money. Overheads, that’s what can cripple a business like this, Inspector.’

Rebus wondered how he’d merited the nickname ‘Charmer’. He had all the charm of sandpaper. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we, Mr Mackenzie?’ he said, getting to his feet.

Back at the office, he played the tape again, watching the blonde. The way her head was angled, strong jawline, mouth open slightly. Could she be saying something to Damon? A minute later, he was gone. Had she said she’d meet him somewhere? After he’d gone, she’d stayed at the bar, ordering a drink for herself. At dead on midnight, fifteen minutes after Damon had vanished, she’d left the nightclub. The final shot was from a camera mounted on the club’s exterior wall. It showed her turning left along Rose Street, watched by a few drunks who were trying to get into Gaitano’s.

Someone put their head round the door and told him he had a call. It was Mairie Henderson.

‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ he said.

‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’

‘Quite the reverse.’

‘In that case, lunch is on me. I’m in the Engine Shed.’

‘How convenient.’ Rebus smiled: the Engine Shed was just behind St Leonard’s. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘Make it two, or all the meatballs will have gone.’

Which was a joke of sorts, in that there was no meat in the meatballs. They were savoury balls of mushroom and chickpea with a tomato sauce. Though a one-minute walk from his office, Rebus had never eaten in the Engine Shed. Everything about it was too healthy, too nutritious. The drink of the day was organic apple juice, and smoking was strictly forbidden. He knew it was run by some sort of charity, and staffed by people who needed a job more than most. Typical of Mairie to choose it for a meeting. She was seated by a window, and Rebus joined her with his tray.

‘You look well,’ he said.

‘It’s all this salad.’ She nodded towards her plate.

‘Lifestyle still suit you?’

He meant her decision to quit the local daily paper and go freelance. They’d helped one another out on occasion, but Rebus was aware he owed her more brownie points than she owed him. Her face was all clean, sharp lines, her eyes quick and dark. She’d restyled her hair to early Cilia Black. On the table beside her sat her notebook and cellphone.

‘I get the occasional story picked up by the London papers. Then my old paper has to run its own version the next day.’

‘That must annoy them.’

She beamed. ‘Have to let them know what they’re missing.’

‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve been missing a story that’s right under their noses.’ He pushed another forkful of food into his mouth, having to admit to himself that it wasn’t at all bad. Looking around the other tables, he realised all the other diners were women. Some of them were tending to kids in high chairs, some were involved in quiet gossip. The restaurant wasn’t big, and Rebus kept his voice down when he spoke.

‘What story’s that?’ Mairie said.

Rebus’s voice went lower. ‘Paedophile living in Greenfield.’

‘Convicted?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Served his time, now they’ve plonked him in a flat with a lovely view of a kids’ play-park.’

‘What’s he been up to?’

‘Nothing yet, nothing I can pin him for. Thing is, his neighbours don’t know what’s living next door to them.’

She was staring at him.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Nothing.’ She munched on more salad, chewing slowly. ‘So where’s the story?’

‘Come on, Mairie...’

‘I know what you want me to do. She pointed her fork at him. ‘I know why you want it.’

‘And?’

‘And what has he done?’

‘Christ, Mairie, do you know what the reoffending rate is? It’s not something you cure by slapping them in prison for a few years.’

‘We’ve got to take a chance.’

‘We? It’s not us he’ll be after.’

‘All of us, we’ve all got to give them a chance.’

‘Look, Mairie, it’s a good story.’

‘No, it’s your way of getting to him. Does this all come back to Shiellion?’

‘It’s got bugger all to do with Shiellion.’

‘I hear they’ve got you down to give evidence.’ She stared at him again, but all he did was shrug. ‘Only,’ she went on, ‘the knives are out as it is. If I do a story on a paedophile living in Greenfield of all places... it’d be incitement to murder.’

‘Come on, Mairie...’

‘Know what I think, John?’ She put down her knife and fork. ‘I think something’s gone bad inside you.’

‘Mairie, all I want...’

But she was on her feet, unhooking her coat from the back of the chair, collecting her phone, notebook, bag.

‘I don’t have much of an appetite any more,’ she said.

‘Time was, you’d have gnawed a story like this to the bone.’

She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘I hope to God you’re not, but maybe you are.’

She walked the length of the restaurant’s wooden floorboards on noisy heels. Rebus looked down at his lunch, at the untouched glass of juice. There was a pub not three minutes away. He pushed the plate away. He told himself Mairie was wrong: it had nothing to do with Shiellion. It was down to Jim Margolies, to the fact that Darren Rough had once made a complaint against him. Now Jim was dead, and Rebus wanted something back. Could he lay Jim’s ghost to rest by tormenting Jim’s tormentor? He reached into his pocket, found the sliver of paper there, the telephone number still perfectly legible.

I think something’s gone bad inside you.

Who was he to disagree?

8

Four years before, Jim Margolies had been passing through St Leonard’s, seconded to help with a staff shortfall. Three of the CID were down with flu, and another was in hospital for a minor op. Margolies, whose usual beat was Leith, came highly recommended, which made his new colleagues wary. Sometimes a recommendation was made so a station could offload dead weight elsewhere. But Margolies had proved himself quickly, handling a paedophile inquiry with dedication and tact. Two boys had been interfered with on The Meadows during, of all things, a children’s festival. Darren Rough was already in police files. At twelve, he’d interfered with a neighbour’s son, aged six at the time. He’d had counselling, and spent time in a children’s home. At fifteen, he’d been caught peeping in at windows at the student residences in Pollock Halls. More counselling. Another mark in his police file.

The schoolboys’ description of their attacker had taken police to the house Rough shared with his father. At nine in the morning, the father was drunk at the kitchen table. The mother had died the previous summer, which looked to be the last time the house had been cleaned. Soiled clothes and mouldy dishes were everywhere. It looked like nothing ever got thrown out: burst and rotting binbags stood inside the kitchen door; mail was piled high in a corner of the front hall, where damp had turned it into a single sodden mass. In Darren Rough’s bedroom, Jim Margolies found clothing catalogues, crude penned additions made to the child models. There were collections of teen magazines under the bed, stories about — and pictures of — teenage girls and boys. And best of all from the police point of view, tucked under a corner of rotting carpet was Darren’s ‘Fantasy League’, detailing his sexual proclivities and wish lists, with his Meadows exploit dated and signed.

For all of which the Procurator Fiscal was duly grateful. Darren Rough, by now twenty years old, was found guilty and sent to jail. A crate of beer was opened at St Leonard’s, and Jim Margolies sat at the top of the table.

Rebus was there, too. He’d been part of the shift team interviewing Rough. He’d spent enough time with the prisoner to know that they were doing the right thing locking him up.

‘Not that it ever helps with those bastards,’ DI Alistair Flower had said. ‘Reoffend as soon as they’re out.’

‘You’re suggesting treatment replaces incarceration?’ Margolies had asked.

‘I’m suggesting we throw away the fucking key!’ To which there had been cheers of agreement. Siobhan Clarke had been too canny to add her own view, but Rebus knew what she’d been thinking. Nothing was said of the complaint Rough had made. Bruising to his face and body: he’d told his solicitor Jim Margolies had given him a beating. No witnesses. Self-inflicted was the consensus. Rebus knew he’d felt like giving Rough a couple of slaps himself, but Margolies had no history of aggression against suspects.

There’d been an internal inquiry. Margolies had denied the accusation. A medical examination had been unable to determine whether Rough’s bruises were self-inflicted. And that’s where it had ended, with the faintest of blots on Margolies’ record, the faintest doubt hanging over the rest of his career.

Rebus closed the case file and walked back to the vault with it.

Mairie: I think something’s gone bad inside you.

Rough’s social worker: Your lot wanted him here.

Rebus went to the Farmer’s office, knocked on the door, entered when told.

‘What can I do for you, John?’

‘I had a word with Darren Rough’s social worker, sir.’

The Farmer looked up from his paperwork. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Just wanted to know why Rough had been given a flat with a view of a kiddies’ playground.’

‘I bet they loved you for that.’ Not sounding disapproving. Social workers rated only a rung or two above paedophiles on the Farmer’s moral stepladder.

‘They told me that we wanted him here in the first place.’

The Farmer’s face furrowed. ‘Meaning what?’

‘They suggested I ask you.’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘We wanted him here?’

‘That’s what they said.’

‘Meaning Edinburgh?’

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve just been through the file on Rough. He was in a children’s home for a while.’

‘Not Shiellion?’ The Farmer was looking interested.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Callstone House, other side of the city. Just for a short spell. Both parents were alcoholic, neglecting him. There was nowhere else for him to go.’

‘What happened?’

‘Mother dried out, Rough went back home. Then, later on, she was diagnosed with liver disease, only nobody bothered moving Rough.’

‘Why?’

‘Because by that time, he was looking after his father.’

The Farmer looked towards his collection of family snaps. ‘The way some people live...’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus agreed.

‘So where’s this leading?’

‘Only this: Rough comes back to Edinburgh, apparently because we want him here. Next thing, the officer who put him away ends up walking off Salisbury Crags.’

‘You’re not suggesting a connection?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Jim goes out to dinner at some friends’ with his wife and kid. Drives home. Goes to bed. Next morning he’s dead. I’m looking for reasons why Jim Margolies would take his own life. Thing is, I’m not finding any. And I’m also wondering who’d want Darren Rough back here and why.’

The Farmer was thoughtful. ‘You want me to talk to Social Work?’

‘They wouldn’t talk to me.’

The Farmer reached for paper and a pen. ‘Give me a name.’

‘Andy Davies is Rough’s social worker.’

The Farmer underlined the words. ‘Leave it with me, John.’

‘Yes, sir. Meantime, I’d like to take a look at Jim’s suicide.’

‘Mind if I ask why?’

‘To see if it does tie in with Rough.’ And maybe, he could have added, to satisfy his own curiosity.

The Farmer nodded. ‘On the subject of Shiellion... when do you give evidence?’

‘Tomorrow, sir.’

‘Got your spiel rehearsed?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Remember the secret of a good court appearance, John.’

‘Presentation, sir?’

The Farmer shook his head. ‘Make sure you take plenty of reading matter with you.’

That evening, on his way home, he dropped in to see his daughter. Sammy had moved out of her first-floor colony flat into a newish ground-floor flat in a brick-built block off Newhaven Road.

‘Downhill all the way to the coast,’ she’d told her father. ‘And you should see this thing with the brakes off.’

Referring to her wheelchair. Rebus had wanted to put his hand in his pocket for a motorised one, but she’d waved away the offer.

‘I’m building up my muscles,’ she’d said. ‘And besides, I won’t be in this thing for long.’

Perhaps not, but the road back to full mobility was proving hard going. She was receiving physio only twice a week, spending the rest of her time concentrating on home exercises. It was as if the accident had affected both her spine and her legs.

‘My brain tells them what to do, but they don’t always listen.’

There was a little wooden ramp at the main door to her block. A friend of a friend had constructed it for her. One of the bedrooms in the flat had been turned into a makeshift gym, a large mirror placed against one wall, and parallel bars taking up most of the available space. The doorways were narrow, but Sammy had proved adept at manoeuvring her wheelchair in and out without grazing knuckles or elbows.

When Rebus arrived, Ned Farlowe opened the door. He had a job subbing for one of the local freesheets. The hours were short, which gave him time to help Sammy with her workouts. The two men still didn’t trust one another — did fathers ever really come to trust the men who were sleeping with their daughters? — but Ned seemed to be doing his damnedest for Sammy.

‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘She’s working out. Fancy a cuppa?’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’m just making some dinner.’ Ned was already retreating to the long, narrow kitchen. Rebus knew he’d only be in the way.

‘I’ll just go and...’

‘Fine.’

The smells from the kitchen were like those in the Engine Shed: aromatic and vegetarian. Rebus walked down the hall, noting graze-marks on the walls where the wheelchair had connected. Music was coming from the spare bedroom, a disco beat. Sammy was lying on the floor in her black leotard and tights, trying to get her legs to do things. Her face was flushed with effort, hair matted to her forehead. When she saw her father, she rested her head against the floor.

‘Turn that thing off, will you?’ she said.

‘I could just watch.’

But she shook her head. She didn’t like him watching her at work. This was her fight, a private battle with her own body. Rebus switched off the tape machine.

‘Recognise it?’ she asked.

‘Chic, “Le Freak”. I went to enough bad discos in the seventies.’

‘I can’t imagine you in flares.’

‘Distress flares.’

She had pushed herself up to sitting. He made just the one step forward to help her, knowing if he got any closer she’d shoo him away.

‘How’s your claim for disability going?’

She rolled her eyes, reached a hand out for a towel, starting wiping her face. ‘I thought I knew all about bureaucracy. Thing is, I’m going to get better.’

‘Sure.’

‘So there are all kinds of complications. Plus my job at SWEEP’s still open.’

‘But the office is three floors up.’ He sat on the floor beside her.

‘I can work from home.’

‘Really?’

‘Only I don’t want to. I don’t want to become dependent on just these four walls.’

Rebus nodded. ‘If there’s anything you need...’

‘Got any disco tapes?’

He smiled. ‘I was more Rory Gallagher and John Martyn.’

‘Well, nobody’s perfect,’ she said, wrapping the towel around her neck. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Patience?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘I talk to her on the phone.’

‘Oh?’

‘She says I speak to her more than you do.’

‘I don’t think that’s true.’

‘Don’t you?’

Rebus looked at his daughter. Had she always had this edge to her? Was it something to do with the accident?

‘We get along fine,’ he said.

‘On whose terms?’

He stood up. ‘I think your dinner’s nearly ready. Want me to help you into the chair?’

‘Ned likes to do it.’

He nodded slowly.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I’m a policeman. Usually we ask the questions.’

She draped the towel over her head. ‘Is it because of me?’

‘What?’

‘Ever since...’ She looked down at her legs. ‘It’s like you blame yourself.’

‘It was an accident.’ He wasn’t looking at her.

‘It pushed the two of you back together. Do you see what I’m saying?’

‘You’re saying I’m busy blaming myself for your accident, while you’re busy blaming yourself for Patience and me.’ He glanced towards her. ‘Does that just about sum it up?’

She smiled. ‘Stay and have something to eat.’

‘Don’t you think I should head home to Patience?’

She lifted the towel from her eyes. ‘Is that where you’re going?’

‘Where else?’ He gave her a wave as he left the room.

9

Being down Newhaven Road, he stopped off at a couple of waterfront bars, a pint in one, nip of whisky in the other. Plenty of water in the whisky. It was dark, but he could see streetlights across the Forth in Fife. He thought of Janice and Brian Mee, who had never left their home town. He wondered how he’d have turned out if he’d stayed. He thought again of Alec Chisholm, the boy who had never been found. They’d scoured the countryside, sent men down into disused coal-shafts, dredged the river. A long hot summer, the Beatles and the Stones on the café jukebox, ice-cold bottles of Coke from the machine. Glass coffee cups topped with frothed milk. And questions about Alec, questions which showed that none of them had ever really known him, not deep down, not the way they thought they knew each other. And Alec’s parents and grandparents, walking the streets late at night, stopping to ask strangers the same thing: have you seen our boy? Until the strangers became acquaintances, and they ran out of people to stop.

Now Damon Mee had stepped away from the world, or had been yanked out of it by some irresistible force. Rebus got back in his car and drove along the coast, came up on to the Forth Bridge, and headed into Fife. He tried telling himself he wasn’t escaping — from Sammy’s words and Patience and Edinburgh, from all the ghosts. From thoughts of paedophiles and suicide leaps.

When he got to Cardenden, he slowed the car, finally coming to a stop on the main drag. There seemed to be flyers in every shop window: Damon’s picture and the word MISSING. There were more taped to lamp-posts and the bus shelter. Rebus started the car again and headed for Janice’s house. But there was no one at home. A neighbour supplied the information Rebus needed, information which sent him straight back to Edinburgh and Rose Street, where he found Janice and Brian sticking more flyers on to lamp-posts and walls, pushing them through letterboxes. Photocopied sheets of A4. Holiday photo of Damon, and handwritten plea: DAMON MEE IS MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? Physical description, including the clothes he’d been wearing, and the Mees’ telephone number.

‘We’ve covered the pubs,’ Brian Mee said. He looked tired, eyes dark, face unshaven. The roll of sellotape he held was nearly finished. Janice leaned against a wall. Looking at the pair of them was far from like stepping into the past — present worries had scarred them.

‘The one place they don’t want to know,’ Janice said, ‘is that club.’

‘Gaitano’s?’

She nodded. ‘Bouncers wouldn’t let us in. Wouldn’t even take flyers from us. I stuck one on the door but they took it down.’ She was almost in tears. Rebus looked back along the street towards the flashing neon sign above Gaitano’s.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the magic word this time.’

And when he got to the door, he flashed his ID and said, ‘Police.’ The three were ushered inside while someone got on the phone to Charmer Mackenzie. Rebus looked to Janice and winked.

‘Open Sesame,’ he said. She was looking at him as if he’d done something wonderful.

‘Mr Mackenzie’s not here,’ one of the bouncers said.

‘So who’s in charge?’

‘Archie Frost. He’s assistant manager.’

‘Lead me to him.’

The bouncer looked unhappy. ‘He’s having a drink at the bar.’

‘No problem,’ Rebus said. ‘We know our way.’

Bass music was pulsing, the club’s interior dark and hot. Couples were hitting the dancefloor, others smoking furiously, knees pumping as they scanned the dimness for action. Rebus leaned towards Janice, so his mouth was an inch from her ear.

‘Go round the tables, ask your questions.’

She nodded, passed the message along to Brian, who was looking uncomfortable with the noise.

Rebus walked towards the bar, walked through beams of indigo light. There were people waiting for drinks, but only two men actually drinking at the bar. Well, one of them was drinking. The other — who looked thirsty — was listening to what was being said to him.

‘Sorry to butt in,’ Rebus said.

The speaker turned to him. ‘You will be in a minute.’

Maybe twenty or twenty-one, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Stocky, wearing a suit with no lapels and a dazzling white T-shirt. Rebus pushed his warrant card into the face, identified himself.

‘Been taking charm-school lessons from your boss?’ he asked. Archie Frost said nothing, just finished his drink. ‘I want a word, Mr Frost.’

‘They don’t look like polis,’ Frost said, nodding towards where Janice and Brian Mee were working the room.

‘That’s because they’re not. Their son went missing. Disappeared from here, in fact.’

‘I know.’

‘Well then, you’ll know why I’m here.’ Rebus brought out the photograph of the mystery blonde. ‘Seen her before?’

Frost shook his head automatically.

‘Take a closer look.’

Frost took the photo grudgingly, and angled it towards the light. Then he shook his head and tried handing it back.

‘What about your pal?’

‘What about him?’

The ‘pal’ in question, the young man without a drink, had half-turned from them, so he was watching the dancefloor.

‘He’s not in here much,’ Frost said.

‘All the same,’ Rebus persisted. So Frost stuck the photo in front of his friend’s nose. An immediate shake of the head.

‘I’m going to take this around your punters,’ Rebus said, lifting the photo from Frost’s hand, ‘see if their memories are any better.’ He wasn’t looking at Frost; he was looking at his companion. ‘Do I know you from somewhere, son? Your face looks familiar.’

The young man snorted, kept his eyes on the dancing.

‘I’ll let you get back to your business then,’ Rebus said. He did a circuit of the room, following behind Janice and Brian. They’d left flyers on most of the tables. A couple had already been crumpled up. Rebus fixed the culprits with a stare. He wasn’t faring any better with his own picture, but saw that ahead of him Janice and Brian had seated themselves at a table and were deep in conversation with two girls there. Eventually, he caught up with them. Janice looked up at him.

‘They say they saw Damon,’ she yelled, fighting the music.

‘He was getting into a taxi,’ one of the girls repeated for the newcomer’s benefit.

‘Where?’ Rebus asked.

‘Outside The Dome.’

‘Other side of the road,’ her friend corrected. They were wearing too much make-up, trying for a look they’d probably call ‘sophisticated’, trying to look older than their years. Soon enough, they’d be reversing the process. They wore incredibly short skirts. Rebus could see Brian trying not to stare.

‘What time was this?’

‘About quarter past twelve. We were late for a party.’

‘You’re sure about the date?’ Rebus asked. Janice looked at him accusingly, not wanting this fragile bubble to burst.

One girl got a diary out of her handbag, tapped a page. ‘That’s the party.’

Rebus looked: it was the same date Damon had disappeared. ‘How come you noticed him?’

‘We’d seen him in here earlier.’

‘Just standing at the bar,’ her friend added. ‘Not dancing or anything.’

A couple of young men, still in their day-job suits, had peeled off from an office party and were approaching, ready to ask for a dance. The girls tried to look disinterested, but a glower from Rebus sent the suitors back in the direction they’d come.

‘We were after a taxi ourselves,’ one girl explained. ‘Saw them waiting across the road. Only they got lucky, we ended up walking.’

‘“They”?’

‘Him and his girl.’

Rebus looked to Janice, then handed over the photo.

‘Yeah, that looks like her.’

‘Blonde out of a bottle,’ the other agreed.

Janice took the photo from them, looked at it herself.

‘Who is she, John?’

Rebus shook his head, telling her he didn’t know. Glancing towards the bar, he saw two things. One was that Archie Frost was watching him intently over the rim of a fresh glass. The other was that his non-drinking friend had gone.

‘Maybe they’ve run off together,’ one of the girls was saying, trying hard to be helpful. ‘That would be romantic, wouldn’t it?’

Janice and Brian hadn’t eaten, so Rebus took them to an Indian on Hanover Street, where he explained the little he knew about the woman in the photograph. Janice kept the photo in one hand as she ate.

‘It’s a start, isn’t it?’ Brian said, pulling apart a nan bread.

Rebus nodded agreement.

‘I mean,’ Brian went on, ‘we know now he left with someone. He’s probably still with her.’

‘Only he didn’t go off with her,’ Janice said. ‘John’s already told us, Damon left on his own.’

In fact, Rebus hadn’t even gone that far. They only had the girls’ word for it that Damon had left the club at all...

‘Well,’ Brian stumbled on, ‘thing is, he wouldn’t want his mates seeing them together, not when he was supposed to be engaged.’

‘I can’t believe it of Damon.’ Janice’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘He loves Helen.’

Rebus nodded. ‘But it happens, doesn’t it?’

She gave a rueful smile. Brian saw a look passing between them, but chose to ignore it.

‘Anyone want any more rice?’ he asked instead, lifting the salver from its hotplate.

‘We should be getting home,’ his wife said. ‘Damon might have tried phoning.’ She was getting to her feet. Rebus gestured towards the photo, and she handed it back. It was smudged, creased at the corners. Brian was looking down at the food still on his plate.

‘Brian...’ Janice said. He sniffed and got up from his chair. ‘Get the bill, will you?’

‘This is on me,’ Rebus said. ‘They’ll stick it on my tab.’

‘Thanks again, John.’ She held out her hand and he took it. It was long and slender. Rebus remembered holding it when they danced, remembered the way it would be warm and dry, unlike other girls’ hands. Warm and dry, and his heart pounding in his chest. She’d been so slender at the waist, he’d felt he could encircle her with just his hands.

‘Yes, thanks, Johnny.’ Brian Mee laughed. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Johnny?’

‘Why should I mind?’ Rebus said, still looking into Janice’s eyes. ‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’

10

First thing, Rebus looked through the newspapers, but he didn’t find anything to interest him.

He headed down to Leith police station, where Jim Margolies had been stationed. He’d told the Farmer he was looking for a connection between Rough’s reappearance and Jim’s death, but he wasn’t particularly confident of finding one. Still, he really did want to know why Jim had done it, had done something Rebus had thought about doing more than once — taking the high walk. He was met in Leith by a wary Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan.

‘I know I owe you a favour or two, John,’ Hogan began. ‘But do you mind telling me what it’s all about? Margolies was a good man, we’re missing him badly.’

They were walking through the station, making for CID. Hogan was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had been on the force for longer. He could take retirement any time he wanted, but Rebus doubted the man would ever want it.

‘I knew him, too,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I’m probably just asking myself the same question all of you have been asking.’

‘You mean why?’

Rebus nodded. ‘He was headed for the top, Bobby. Everyone knew it.’

‘Maybe he got vertigo.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘The notes aren’t going to tell you anything, John.’

They had stopped outside an interview room.

‘I just need to see them, Bobby.’

Hogan stared at him, then nodded slowly. ‘This makes us even, pal.’

Rebus touched him on the shoulder, walked into the room. The manila file was sitting on the otherwise empty desk. There were two chairs in the room.

‘Thought you’d like some privacy,’ Hogan said. ‘Look, if anyone wonders...’

‘My lips are sealed, Bobby.’ Rebus was already sitting down. He examined the folder. ‘This won’t take long.’

Hogan fetched a cup of coffee, then left him to it. It took Rebus precisely twenty minutes to sift through everything: initial report and back-up, plus Jim Margolies’ history. Twenty minutes wasn’t long for a CV. Of course, there was little about his home life. Speculation was for after-work drinks, for cigarette breaks and coffee-machine meetings. The bare facts, set down between double margins, gave no clues at all. His father was a doctor, now retired. Comfortable upbringing. The sister who’d committed suicide in her teens... Rebus wondered if his sister’s death had been at the back of Jim Margolies’ mind all these years. There was no mention of Darren Rough, no mention of Margolies’ short time at St Leonard’s. His last night on earth, Jim had been out to dinner at some friends’ house. Nothing out of the ordinary. But afterwards, in the middle of the night, he’d slipped from his bed, got dressed again, and gone walking in the rain. All the way to Holyrood Park...

‘Anything?’ Bobby Hogan asked.

‘Not a sausage,’ Rebus admitted, closing the file.

Walking in the rain... A long walk, from The Grange to Salisbury Crags. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him. Inquiries had been made, cabbies questioned. Perfunctory for the most part: you didn’t want to linger over a suicide. Sometimes you could find out things that were better left undisturbed.

Rebus drove back into town, parked in the car park behind St Leonard’s and went into the station. He knocked on Farmer Watson’s door, obeyed the command to enter. Watson looked like the day had started badly.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I had a bit of business down at D Division, looking at Jim Margolies’ file.’ Rebus watched the Farmer pace behind his desk. He cradled a mug of coffee in both hands. ‘Did you speak to Andy Davies, sir?’

‘Who?’

‘Andy Davies. Darren Rough’s social worker.’

The Farmer nodded.

‘And, sir?’

‘And he told me I’d have to speak to his boss.’

‘What did his boss say?’

The Farmer swung round. ‘Christ, John, give me time, will you? I’ve got more to deal with than your little...’ He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. Then he mumbled an apology.

‘No problem, sir. I’ll just...’ Rebus headed for the door.

‘Sit down,’ the Farmer ordered. ‘Now you’re here, let’s see if you can come up with any clever ideas.’

Rebus sat down. ‘To do with what, sir?’

The Farmer sat too, then noticed that his mug was empty. He got up again to fill it from the pot, pouring for Rebus too. Rebus examined the dark liquid suspiciously. Over the years, the Farmer’s coffee had definitely improved, but there were still days...

‘To do with Cary Dennis Oakes.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Should I know him?’

‘If you don’t, you soon will.’ The Farmer tossed a newspaper in Rebus’s direction. It fell to the floor. Rebus picked it up, saw that it was folded to a particular story, a story Rebus had missed because it wasn’t the one he’d been looking for.

KILLER IS SENT ‘HOME’.

‘Cary Oakes,’ Rebus read, ‘convicted of two murders in Washington State, USA, will today board a flight back to the United Kingdom after serving a fifteen-year sentence in a maximum-security prison in Walla Walla, Washington. It is believed that Oakes will make his way back to Edinburgh, where he lived for several years before going to the United States.’

There was a lot more. Oakes had flown to the States toting a rucksack and a tourist visa, and then had simply stayed put, taking a series of short-term jobs before embarking on a mugging and robbery spree which had climaxed with two killings, the victims clubbed and strangled to death.

Rebus put down the paper. ‘Did you know?’

The Farmer slammed his fists down on the table. ‘Of course I didn’t know!’

‘Shouldn’t we have been told?’

‘Think about it, John. You’re a cop in Wallumballa or whatever it’s called. You’re sending this murderer back to Scotland. Who do you tell?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Scotland Yard.’

‘Not realising for one minute that Scotland Yard might actually be in another country altogether.’

‘And the brainboxes in London decided not to pass the message on?’

‘Their version is, they got their wires crossed, thought Oakes was only travelling as far as their patch. In fact, his ticket only goes as far as London.’

‘So he’s their problem.’ But the Farmer was shaking his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve had a whip-round and added the fare to Edinburgh?’

‘Bingo.’

‘So when does he get here?’

‘Later on today.’

‘And what do we do?’

The Farmer stared at Rebus. He liked that we. A problem shared — even if with a thorn like Rebus — was a problem that could be dealt with. ‘What would you suggest?’

‘High-visibility surveillance, let him know we’re watching. With any luck he’ll get fed up and slope off somewhere else.’

The Farmer rubbed at his eyes. ‘Take a look,’ he said, sliding a folder across the desk. Rebus looked: sheets of fax paper, about twenty of them. ‘The Met took pity on us at the last, sent what they’d been sent by the Americans.’

Rebus started reading. ‘How come he’s been released? I thought in America “life” meant till death.’

‘Some technicality to do with the original trial. So arcane, even the American authorities aren’t sure.’

‘But they’re letting him go?’

‘A retrial would cost a fortune, plus there’s the problem of tracing the original witnesses. They offered him a deal. If he gave it up, signed away the right to any retrial or compensation, they’d fly him home.’

‘In the news story, “home” had inverted commas.’

‘He hasn’t spent much time in Edinburgh.’

‘So why here?’

‘His choice, apparently.’

‘But why?’

‘Maybe the fax will tell you.’

The message of the fax was clear and simple. It said Cary Oakes would kill again.

The psychologist had warned the authorities of this. The psychologist said, Cary Oakes has little concept of right and wrong. There were lots of psychological terms applied to this. The word ‘psychopath’ wasn’t used much any more by the experts, but reading between the lines and the jargon, Rebus knew that was what they were dealing with. Anti-social tendencies... deep-seated sense of betrayal...

Oakes was thirty-eight years old. There was a grainy photo of him included with the file. His head had been shaved. The forehead was large and jutting, the face thin and angular. He had small eyes, like little black beads, and a narrow mouth. He was described as above-average intelligence (self-taught in prison), interested in health and fitness. He’d made no friends during his incarceration, kept no pictures on his walls, and his only correspondence was with his team of lawyers (five different sets in total).

The Farmer was on the telephone, finding out Oakes’s flight schedule, liaising with the Assistant Chief Constable at Fettes. When he’d finished, Rebus asked what the ACC thought.

‘He thinks we should ca’ canny.’

Rebus smiled: it was a typical response.

‘He’s right in a way,’ the Farmer continued. ‘The media will be all over this. We can’t be seen to be harassing the man.’

‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and the reporters will scare him off.’

‘Maybe.’

‘It says here he was originally questioned about another four murders.’

The Farmer nodded, but seemed distracted. ‘I don’t need this,’ he said at last, staring at his desk. The desk was a measure of the man: always carefully ordered, reflecting the room as a whole. No piles of paperwork, no mess or clutter, not so much as a single stray paperclip on the carpet.

‘I’ve been at this job too long, John.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘You know the worst kind of officers?’

‘You mean ones like me, sir?’

The Farmer smiled. ‘Quite the opposite. I mean the ones who’re biding their time till pension day. The clock-watchers. Recently, I’ve been turning into one. Another six months, that’s what I was giving myself. Six more months till retirement.’ He smiled again. ‘And I wanted them quiet. I’ve been praying for them to be quiet.’

‘We don’t know this guy’s going to be a problem. We’ve been here before, sir.’

The Farmer nodded: so they had. Men who’d done time in Australia and Canada, and hardmen from Glasgow’s Bar-L, all of them settling in Edinburgh, or just passing through. All of them with pasts carved into their faces. Even when they weren’t a problem, they were still a problem. They might settle down, live quietly, but there were people who knew who they were, who knew the reputation they carried with them, something they’d never shake off. And eventually, after too many beers down the pub, one of these people would decide it was time to test himself, because what the hardman brought with him was a parameter, something you could measure yourself against. It was pure Hollywood: the retired gunslinger challenged by the punk kid. But to the police, all it was was trouble.

‘Thing is, John, can we afford to play a waiting game? The ACC says we can have funding for partial surveillance.’

‘How partial?’

‘Two teams of two, maybe a fortnight.’

‘That’s big of him.’

‘The man likes a nice tight budget.’

‘Even when this guy might kill again?’

‘Even murder has a budget these days, John.’

‘I still don’t get it.’ Rebus picked up the fax. ‘According to the notes, Oakes wasn’t born here, doesn’t have family here. He lived here for, what, four or five years. Went to the States at twenty, he’s been almost half his life there. What’s for him back here?’

The Farmer shrugged. ‘A fresh start?’

A fresh start: Rebus was thinking of Darren Rough.

‘There has to be more to it than that, sir,’ Rebus said, picking up the file again. ‘There has to be.’

The Farmer looked at his watch. ‘Aren’t you due in court?’

Rebus nodded agreement. ‘Waste of time, sir. They won’t call me.’

‘All the same, Inspector...’

Rebus got up. ‘Mind if I take this stuff?’ Waving the sheets of fax paper. ‘You told me I should take something to read.’

11

Rebus sat with other witnesses, other cases, all of them waiting to be called to give evidence. There were uniforms, attentive to their notebooks, and CID officers, arms folded, trying to be casual about the whole thing. Rebus knew a few faces, held quiet conversations. The members of the public sat there with hands clasped between knees, or with heads angled to the ceiling, bored out of their minds. Newspapers — already read, crosswords finished — lay strewn around the room. A couple of dog-eared paperbacks had attracted interest, but not for long. There was something about the atmosphere that sucked all the enthusiasm out of you. The lighting gave you a headache, and all the time you were wondering why you were here.

Answer: to serve justice.

And one of the court officers would wander in and, looking at a clipboard, call your name, and you’d creak your way to the court, where your numbed memory would be poked and prodded by strangers playing to a judge, jury, and public gallery.

This was justice.

There was one witness, seated directly across from Rebus, who kept bursting into tears. He was a young man, maybe mid-twenties, corpulent and with thin strands of black hair plastered to his head. He kept emptying his nose loudly into a stained handkerchief. One time, when he looked up, Rebus gave him a reassuring smile, but that only started him off again. Eventually, Rebus had to get out. He told one of the uniforms that he was going for a ciggie.

‘I’ll join you,’ the uniform said.

Outside, they smoked furiously and in silence, watching the ebb and flow of people from the building. The High Court was tucked in behind St Giles’ Cathedral, and occasionally tourists would wander towards it, wondering what it was. There were few signs about, just Roman numerals above the various heavy wooden doors. A guard on the car park would sometimes point them back towards the High Street. Though members of the public could enter the court building, tourists were actively discouraged. The Great Hall was enough of a cattle market as it was. But Rebus liked it: he liked the carved wooden ceiling, the statue of Sir Walter Scott, the huge stained-glass window. He liked peering through the glass door into the library where the lawyers sought precedents in large dusty tomes.

But he preferred the fresh air, setts below him and grey stone above, and the inhalation of nicotine, and the illusion that he could walk away from all this if he chose. For the thing was, behind the splendour of the architecture, and the weight of tradition, and the high concepts of justice and the law, this was a place of immense and continual human pain, where brutal stories were wrenched up, where tortured images were replayed as daily fare. People who thought they’d put the whole thing behind them were asked to delve into the most secret and tragic moments of their past. Victims rendered their stories, the professionals laid down cold facts over the emotions of others, the accused wove their own versions in an attempt to woo the jury.

And while it was easy to see it as a game, as some kind of cruel spectator sport, still it could not be dismissed. Because for all the hard work Rebus and others put into a case, this was where it sank or swam. And this was where all policemen learned an early lesson that truth and justice were far from being allies, and that victims were something more than sealed bags of evidence, recordings and statements.

It had probably all been simple enough once upon a time; the concept still was fairly simple. There is an accused, and a victim. Lawyers speak for both sides, presenting the evidence. A judgment is made. But the whole thing was a matter of words and interpretation, and Rebus knew how facts could be twisted, misrepresented, how some evidence sounded more eloquent than others, how juries could decide from the off which way they’d vote, based on the manner or styling of the accused. And so it turned into theatre, and the cleverer the lawyers became, the more arcane became their games with language. Rebus had long since given up fighting them on their own terms. He gave his evidence, kept his answers short, and tried not to fall for any of the tried and tested tricks. Some of the lawyers could see it in his eyes, could see that he’d been here too often before. They detained him only briefly, before moving on to more amenable subjects.

That was why he didn’t think they’d call him today. But all the same, he had to sit it out, had to waste his time and energy in the great name of justice.

One of the guards came out. Rebus knew him, and offered a cigarette. The man took it with a nod, accepting Rebus’s box of matches.

‘Fucking awful in there today,’ the guard said, shaking his head. All three men were staring across the car park.

‘We’re not allowed to know,’ Rebus reminded him with a sly smile.

‘Which court are you in?’

‘Shiellion,’ Rebus said.

‘That’s the one I’m talking about,’ the guard said. ‘Some of the testimony...’ And he shook his head, a man who’d heard more horror stories than most in his working life.

Suddenly, Rebus knew why the man across from him had been crying. And if he couldn’t put a name to the man, at least now he knew who he was: he was one of the Shiellion survivors.

Shiellion House lay just off the Glasgow Road at Ingliston Mains. Built in the 1820s for one of the city’s Lord Provosts, after his death and various family wranglings it had passed into the care of the Church of Scotland. As a private residence it was found to be too big and draughty, its isolation — distant farms its only neighbours — driving away most of its residents. By the 1930s it had become a children’s home, dealing with orphans and the impoverished, teaching them Christianity with hard lessons and early rises. Shiellion had finally closed the previous year. There was talk of it becoming a hotel or a country club. But in its later years, Shiellion had garnered something of a reputation. There had been accusations from former residents, similar stories told by different intakes about the same two men.

Stories of abuse.

Physical and mental abuse to be sure, but eventually sexual abuse too. A couple of cases had come to the attention of the police, but the accusations were one-sided — the word of aggressive children against their quietly spoken carers. The investigations had been half-hearted. The Church had carried out its own internal inquiries, which had shown the children’s stories to be tissues of vindictive lies.

But these inquiries, it now transpired, had been fixed from the start, comprising little more than cover-ups. Something had been happening in Shiellion. Something bad.

The survivors formed a pressure group, and got some media interest. A fresh police investigation was implemented, and it had led to this — the Shiellion trial; two men up on charges ranging from assault to sodomy. Twenty-eight counts against either man. And meantime, the victims were readying to sue the Church.

Rebus didn’t wonder that the guard was pale-faced. He’d heard whispers about the stories being retold in court number one. He’d read some of the original transcripts, details of interviews held at police stations up and down the country, as children who’d been held in Shiellion were traced — adults now — and questioned. Some of them had refused to have anything to do with it. ‘That’s all behind me,’ was an oft-used excuse. Only it was more than an excuse: it was the simple truth. They’d worked hard to lock out the nightmares from their childhood: why would they want to relive them? They had whatever peace would ever be available to them in life: why change that?

Who would face terror across a courtroom, if they could choose to avoid it?

Who indeed.

The survivors’ group comprised eight individuals who had chosen the more difficult path. They were going to see to it that after all these years justice was finally done. They were going to lock away the two monsters who’d ripped apart their innocence, monsters who were still there in the world whenever they woke from their nightmares.

Harold Ince was fifty-seven, short and skinny and bespectacled. He had curly hair, turning grey. He had a wife and three grown children. He was a grandfather. He hadn’t worked in seven years. He had a dazed look to him in all the photographs Rebus had seen.

Ramsay Marshall was forty-four, tall and broad, hair cut short and spiky. Divorced, no children, had until recently been living and working (as a chef) in Aberdeen. Photographs showed a scowling face, jutting chin.

The two men had met at Shiellion in the early 1980s, formed a friendship or at the very least an alliance. Found they shared a common interest, one that could, it seemed, be carried out with impunity in Shiellion House.

Abusers. Rebus was sickened by them. They couldn’t be cured or changed. They just went on and on. Released into the community, they’d soon revert to type. They were control junkies, weak-minded, and just awful. They were like addicts who couldn’t be weaned off their fix. There were no prescription drugs, and no amount of psychotherapy seemed to work. They saw weakness and had to exploit it; saw innocence and had to explore it. Rebus had had a bellyful of them.

Like with Darren Rough. Rebus knew he’d snapped in the zoo because of Shiellion, because of the way it wasn’t going away. The trial had lasted two weeks so far, heading into week three, and still there were stories to be told, still there were people crying in the waiting room.

‘Chemical castration,’ the guard said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘It’s the only way.’

Then there was a cry from the courthouse door: one of the ushers.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ she called. Rebus nodded, flicked his cigarette on to the setts.

‘You’re up,’ she called. He was already moving towards her.

Rebus didn’t know why he was here. Except that he’d interviewed Harold Ince. Which was to say, he’d been part of the team interviewing Ince. But only for one day — other work had pulled him away from Shiellion. Only for one day, early on in the inquiry. He’d shared the sessions with Bill Pryde, but it wasn’t Bill Pryde the defence wanted to examine. It was John Rebus.

The public gallery was half-empty. The jury of fifteen sat with glazed expressions, the effect of sharing someone else’s nightmare, day in, day out. The judge was Lord Justice Petrie. Ince and Marshall sat in the dock. Ince leaned forward, the better to hear the evidence, his hands twisting the polished brass rail in front of him. Marshall leaned back, looking bored by proceedings. He examined his shirt-front, then would turn his neck from side to side, cracking it. Clear his throat and click his tongue and go back to studying himself.

The defence lawyer was Richard Cordover, Richie to his friends. Rebus had had dealings with him before; he’d yet to be invited to call the lawyer ‘Richie’. Cordover was in his forties, hair already grey. Medium height and with a muscular neck, face tanned. Health club regular, Rebus guessed. Prosecution was a fiscal-depute nearly half Rebus’s age. He looked confident but careful, browsing through his case notes, jotting points down with a fat black fountain pen.

Petrie cleared his throat, reminding Cordover that time was passing. Cordover bowed to the judge and approached Rebus.

‘Detective Inspector Rebus...’ Pausing immediately for effect. ‘I believe you interviewed one of the suspects.’

‘That’s right, sir. I was present at the interview of Harold Ince on October the twentieth last year. Others present included—’

‘This was where exactly?’

‘Interview Room B, St Leonard’s police station.’

Cordover turned away from Rebus, walked slowly towards the jury. ‘You were part of the investigating team?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘For how long?’

‘Just over a week, sir.’

Cordover turned to Rebus. ‘How long did the investigation last in total, Inspector?’

‘A matter of some months, I believe.’

‘Some months, yes...’ Cordover went as if to check his notes. Rebus noticed a woman seated on a chair near the door. She was a CID detective called Jane Barbour. Though she sat with arms folded and legs crossed, she looked as tense as Rebus felt. Normally, she worked out of Fettes, but halfway through Shiellion she’d been put in charge: after Rebus’s time; he hadn’t had any dealings with her.

‘Eight and a half months,’ Cordover was saying. ‘A decent period of gestation.’ He smiled coldly at Rebus, who said nothing. He was wondering where this was leading; knew now that the defence had some bloody good reason for bringing him here. Only he didn’t yet know what.

‘Were you pulled from the inquiry, Inspector Rebus?’ Asked casually, as if to satisfy curiosity only.

‘Pulled? No, sir. Something else came up—’

‘And someone was needed to deal with it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why you, do you think?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

‘No?’ Cordover sounded surprised. He turned towards the jury. ‘You’ve no idea why you were pulled from that inquiry after just one—’

The prosecution counsel was on his feet, arms spread. ‘The detective inspector has already stated that the word “pulled” is an inaccuracy, Your Honour.’

‘Well then,’ Cordover went on quickly, ‘let’s say you were transferred. Would that be more accurate, Inspector?’

Rebus just shrugged, unwilling to agree to anything. Cordover was persistent.

‘Yes or no will do.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, you were transferred from a major inquiry after one week?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’ve no idea why?’

‘Because I was needed elsewhere, sir.’ Rebus was trying not to look towards the fiscal-depute: any glance in that direction would have Cordover scenting blood, scenting someone who needed rescuing. Jane Barbour was shifting in her seat, still with arms folded.

‘You were needed elsewhere,’ Cordover repeated in a flat tone of voice. He returned to his notes. ‘How’s your disciplinary record, Inspector?’

The fiscal-depute was on his feet. ‘Inspector Rebus is not on trial here, Your Honour. He has come to give evidence, and so far I can’t see any point to the—’

‘I withdraw the remark, Your Honour,’ Cordover said airily. He smiled at Rebus, approached again. ‘You conducted how many interviews with Mr Ince?’

‘Two sessions over a single day.’

‘Did they go well?’ Rebus looked blank. ‘Did my client co-operate?’

‘His answers were deliberately obtuse, sir.’

‘“Deliberately”? Are you some kind of expert, Inspector?’

Rebus fixed his eyes on the advocate. ‘I can tell when someone’s being evasive.’

‘Really?’ Cordover was making for the jury again. Rebus wondered how many miles of floor he covered in a day. ‘My client is of the opinion that you were “a threatening presence” — his words, not mine.’

‘The interviews were recorded, sir.’

‘Indeed they were. And videotaped, too. I’ve watched them several times, and I think you’d have to agree that your method of questioning is aggressive.’

‘No, sir.’

‘No?’ Cordover raised his eyebrows. ‘My client was obviously terrified of you.’

‘The interviews followed every procedure, sir.’

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Cordover said dismissively, ‘but let’s be honest here, Inspector.’ He was in front of Rebus now, close enough to hit. ‘There are ways and ways, aren’t there? Body language, gestures, ways of phrasing a question or statement. You may or may not be expert at divinating obtuse answers, but you’re certainly a ruthless questioner.’

The judge peered over the top of his glasses. ‘Is this leading somewhere, other than to an attempt at character assassination?’

‘If you’ll bear with me a moment longer, Your Honour.’ Cordover bowed again, consummate showman. Not for the first time, Rebus was struck by the utter ridiculousness of the whole enterprise: a game played by well-paid lawyers using real lives as the pieces.

‘A few days ago, Inspector,’ Cordover went on, ‘were you part of a surveillance team at Edinburgh Zoo?’

Oh, hell. Rebus knew now exactly where Cordover was leading, and like a bad chess-player put against a master, he could do little to forestall the conclusion.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You ended up in pursuit of a member of the public?’

The fiscal-depute was on his feet again, but the judge waved him aside.

‘I did, yes.’

‘You were part of an undercover team trying to catch our notorious poisoner?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the man you chased... I believe it was into the sea-lion enclosure?’ Cordover looked up for confirmation. Rebus nodded dutifully. ‘Was this man the poisoner?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you suspect him of being the poisoner?’

‘He was a convicted paedophile...’ There was anger in Rebus’s voice, and he knew his face had reddened. He broke off, but too late. He’d given the defence lawyer everything he wanted.

‘A man who had served his sentence and been released into the community. A man who has not reoffended. A man who was enjoying the pleasures of a trip to the zoo until you recognised him and chased after him.’

‘He ran first.’

‘He ran? From you, Inspector? Now why would he do a thing like that?’

All right, you sarky bastard, get it over with.

‘The point I’m making,’ Cordover said to the jury, approaching them with something close to reverence, ‘is that there is prejudice against anyone even suspected of crimes against children. The Inspector happened to catch sight of a man who had served a single custodial sentence, and immediately suspected the worst, and acted on that suspicion — quite wrongly, as it turned out. No charges were made, the poisoner struck again, and I believe the innocent party is considering suing the police for wrongful arrest.’ He nodded. ‘Your tax money, I’m afraid.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, it may be that we can all understand the Inspector’s feelings. The blood rises where children are involved. But I’d ask you: is it morally right? And does it contaminate the entire case against my clients, seeping down through the tools of the investigation, coming to rest with the very officers who conducted the inquiry?’ He pointed towards Rebus, who felt now that he was in the dock rather than the witness box. Seeing his discomfort, Ramsay Marshall’s eyes were twinkling with pleasure. ‘Later, I shall produce further evidence that the initial police investigation was flawed from the outset, and that Detective Inspector Rebus here was not the only culprit.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘No more questions.’

And Rebus was dismissed.

‘That was a tough one.’

Rebus looked up at the figure walking slowly towards him. He was lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply. He offered one over, but she shook her head.

‘Have you come across Cordover before?’ Rebus asked.

‘We’ve had our run-ins,’ Jane Barbour said.

‘Sorry I couldn’t...’

‘Not much you could have done about it.’ She exhaled noisily, clutching a briefcase to her chest. They were outside the court building. Rebus felt gritty and exhausted. He noticed she was looking pretty tired herself.

‘Fancy a drink?’

She shook her head. ‘Things to do.’

He nodded. ‘Think we’ll win?’

‘Not if Cordover has anything to do with it.’ She scraped the heel of one shoe across the ground. ‘I seem to be losing more than I’m winning lately.’

‘You still at Fettes?’

She nodded. ‘Sex Offences.’

‘Still a DI?’

She nodded again. Rebus remembered a rumour about a promotion. So Gill Templer remained the only female chief inspector in Lothian. Rebus studied her from behind his cigarette. She was tall, what his mother would have called ‘big-boned’. Shoulder-length brown hair fashioned into waves. Mustard-coloured two-piece with a light silk blouse. She sported a mole on one cheek and another on her chin. Mid-thirties...? Rebus was hopeless with ages.

‘Well...’ she said, ready to leave but looking for an excuse not to.

‘Goodbye then.’ A voice sounded behind them. They turned and watched Richard Cordover walking to his car. It was a red TVR with personalised plate. By the time he was unlocking the car, he seemed to have forgotten about them.

‘One cold bastard,’ Barbour muttered.

‘Must have saved him a few bob.’

She looked at Rebus. ‘How’s that?’

‘He could skip the TVR’s air-conditioning option. Sure about that drink? There’s something I wanted to ask you...’

They bypassed Deacon Brodie’s — too many ‘clients’ drank there — and headed for the Jolly Judge. Rebus had once had a drink there with an advocate who drank advocaat. Now Rangers had signed a Dutch manager called Advocaat and the jokes were being dusted off... He bought a Virgin Mary for Barbour and a half of Eighty for himself. They sat at a table below the stairs, well out of the way.

‘Cheers,’ she said.

Rebus raised his glass to her, then to his lips.

‘So what can I do for you?’

He put down the glass. ‘Just some background. You used to work MisPers, didn’t you?’

‘For my sins, yes.’

‘What did you do exactly?’

‘Collect, collate, stick them all into filing cabinets and computer memories. A bit of liaison, punting our MisPers to other forces and receiving theirs in return. Lots of meetings with the various charities...’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Lots of meetings with families, too, trying to help them understand what had happened.’

‘Job satisfaction?’

‘Up there with sewing mailbags. Why the interest?’

‘I’ve got a missing person.’

‘How old?’

‘He’s nineteen. Still lives at home; his parents are worried.’

She was shaking her head. ‘Needle in a haystack.’

‘I know.’

‘Did he leave a note?’

‘No, and they say he’d no reason to leave.’

‘Sometimes there aren’t reasons, not any that would make sense to the family.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘Here’s the checklist.’ She counted fingers as she spoke. ‘Bank accounts, building society, anything like that. You’re looking for withdrawals.’

‘Done.’

‘Check with hostels. Local, plus the usual cities — anything between Aberdeen and London. Some of them have charities who deal with the homeless and runaways: Centrepoint in London, for example. Get a description out. Then there’s the National Missing Persons Bureau in London. Fax any details to them. You might ask the Sally Army to keep their eyes open too. Soup kitchens, night shelters, you never know who’ll turn up.’

Rebus was jotting in his notebook. He looked up, watched her shrug.

‘That’s about it.’

‘Is it a big problem?’

She smiled. ‘Thing is, it’s not a problem at all, not unless you’re the one who’s lost somebody. A lot of them turn up, some don’t. Last estimate I saw said there could be as many as a quarter of a million MisPers out there. People who’ve just dropped out, changed their identity, or been dumped by the so-called “caring” services.’

‘Care in the community?’

She gave her bitter smile again, drank some of her drink, checked her watch.

‘I can see Shiellion must have come as a welcome break.’

She snorted. ‘Oh yes, like a camping trip. Abuse cases are always a breeze.’ She turned thoughtful. ‘I had a double rapist a few weeks back, he ended up walking. Crown cocked it up, prosecuted it as a summary case.’

‘Maximum sentence three months?’

She nodded. ‘He wasn’t up for rape this time, just indecent exposure. The Sheriff was furious. By the time remand was taken into account, the bastard had under two weeks to serve, so the Sheriff put him back on the streets.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Psych report said he’d do it again. Probation and community service, with a bit of counselling thrown in. And he’ll do it again.’

He’ll do it again. Rebus was thinking of Darren Rough, but of Cary Oakes too. He checked his own watch. Soon Oakes would be touching down at Turnhouse. Soon he’d be a problem...

‘Sorry I can’t be more help about your MisPer,’ she said, beginning to stand. ‘Is it someone you know?’

‘Son of some friends.’ She was nodding. ‘How did you know?’

‘No offence, John, but you probably wouldn’t be bothering otherwise.’ She lifted up her briefcase. ‘He’s one out of quarter of a million. Who’s got the time?’

12

There were reporters waiting inside the terminal building. Most carried mobile phones with which they kept in touch with the office. Photographers chatted to each other about lenses and film speeds and the impact digital cameras would eventually have. There were three TV crews: Scottish, BBC and Edinburgh Live. Everyone seemed to know everyone else; they were all pretty relaxed, maybe even looking a bit tired by the wait.

The flight was subject to a twenty-minute delay.

Rebus knew the reason why. The reason was that the Met officers at Heathrow had taken their time transferring Cary Oakes. Oakes had spent over an hour in Heathrow. He’d visited the toilet, had a drink in one of the bars, bought a newspaper and a couple of magazines, and taken a telephone call.

The telephone call had intrigued Rebus.

‘He was paged,’ the Farmer had informed him. ‘Someone got a call through to him.’

‘Who would that be?’

The Farmer had shaken his head.

Now Oakes was bound for Edinburgh. Detectives had accompanied him on to the flight, then had left again, keeping their eyes on the plane right up until it left London air space. Then they’d called their colleagues at Lothian and Borders HQ.

‘He’s all yours,’ was the message.

The ACC (Crime) was putting the Farmer in charge. The Farmer didn’t usually stray from his office: he was happy to delegate; trusted his team. But tonight... tonight was a bit special. So he was seated alongside Rebus in the squad car. DC Siobhan Clarke sat in the back. It was a marked car: they wanted Oakes to know about it. Rebus had been out to recce the scene, reporting back with news of the journos.

‘Anyone we know?’ Clarke asked.

‘Usual faces,’ Rebus said, accepting another piece of chewing gum from her. This was the bargain they’d made: he wouldn’t smoke so long as she bought the gum. His reconnaissance had been an excuse for a ciggie.

The dashboard clock said the plane would be touching down any minute. They heard it before they saw it: a dull whine, lights flashing in the dark sky. They had one window down, stopping the car from steaming up.

‘Could be the one,’ the Farmer stated.

‘Could be.’

Siobhan Clarke had all the paperwork beside her; she’d been doing her reading on Cary Dennis Oakes. She wasn’t sure that they were serving any purpose here other than curiosity. Still, she was curious.

‘Shouldn’t take long,’ she said.

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Rebus said, opening his door again. He was digging in his pocket for a cigarette as he made towards the terminal doors.

He circumvented the huddle of pressmen and made for a No Entry sign. Showing his ID, he made his way towards the arrivals hall. He’d already had a word, and Customs and Immigration were waiting for him. He knew what happened with international transfers: there were no checks at Heathrow. Often, there were no checks at Edinburgh either: it depended on staff rotas; the cutbacks had bitten hard. But there’d be the full panoply of checks tonight. Rebus watched as the passengers from the Heathrow flight filtered into the terminal and began the wait for baggage. Businessmen mostly, carrying briefcases and newspapers. Half the flight carried hand-luggage only. They made their way briskly through Customs, cars waiting in the car park, families waiting at home.

Then there was the man wearing casual clothes: denims and trainers, red and black check shirt, white baseball cap. He carried a sports holdall. It didn’t look particularly full. Rebus nodded to the Customs officer, who stepped out and stopped the man, bringing him over to the counter.

‘Passport, please,’ the Immigration officer said.

The man dug into his shirt-breast pocket and produced a new-looking passport. It had been applied for over a month back, when the Americans had known they’d be freeing him. The Immigration officer flipped through it, finding little but empty pages.

‘Where are you travelling from, sir?’

Cary Oakes’s eyes were on the man in the background, the man who’d arranged all this.

‘United States,’ he said. His voice was an odd mix of transatlantic inflexions.

‘And what were you doing there, sir?’

Oakes smirked. He had the face of a weathered schoolboy, the classroom joker. ‘Passing time,’ he said.

The Customs officer had decanted the contents of his bag on to the counter. Washbag, change of clothes, a couple of razzle mags. A manila folder was full of drawings and photos clipped from magazines. They looked like they’d been pinned to a wall for a long time. There was a good luck card, too, telling him to ‘fly high and straight’ and signed by ‘your buddies on the wing’. Another folder contained trial notes and newspaper court reports. There were two paperback books, one a Bible, the other a dictionary. Both looked well-used.

‘Travel light, that’s my motto,’ Oakes informed them.

The Customs officer looked to Rebus, who nodded, keeping his stare fixed on Oakes. Everything was put back into the bag.

‘This is actually pretty low-key,’ Oakes said. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. Quiet life’s going to suit me for a while.’ He was nodding to himself.

‘Don’t plan on sticking around,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Officer.’ Oakes thrust out a hand. Rebus saw that the back of it was dotted with ink tattoos: initials, crosses, a heart. After a moment, Oakes withdrew the hand, laughing to himself. ‘Not so easy to make new friends, I guess,’ he mused. ‘I’ve lost the old social skills.’

The Customs officer was zipping the holdall. Oakes grabbed its handles.

‘Now, gentlemen, if you’ve had your fun...?’

‘Where are you headed?’ the Immigration man asked.

‘A nice hotel in the city. Hotels for me from now on. They wanted to put me in some palace out in the country, but I said no, I want lights and action. I want some buzz.’ He laughed again.

‘Who’s they?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking.

Oakes just grinned and winked. ‘You’ll find out, partner. Won’t even have to do much detecting.’ He hefted the bag and slung it over his shoulder, whistling as he walked away, joining the throng headed for the exit.

Rebus followed. The reporters outside were getting their photos and footage, even if Oakes had slid the baseball cap down over his face. Questions were hurled at him. And then an overweight man was pushing his way through, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Rebus recognised him: Jim Stevens. He worked for one of the Glasgow tabloids. He grabbed Oakes by the arm and said something into his ear. They shook hands, and then Stevens was in charge, manoeuvring Oakes through the huddle, proprietorial hand on his shoulder.

‘Oh, Jim, for Christ’s sake,’ one of the other reporters cried.

‘No comment,’ Stevens said, the cigarette flapping at one corner of his mouth. ‘But you can read our exclusive serialisation, starting tomorrow.’

And with a final wave, he was through the doors and off. Rebus made for another exit, got into the car beside the Farmer.

‘Looks like he’s made a friend,’ Siobhan Clarke commented, watching Stevens put Oakes’s bag into the boot of a Vauxhall Astra.

‘Jim Stevens,’ Rebus told her. ‘He works out of Glasgow.’

‘And Oakes is now his property?’ she guessed.

‘So it would seem. I think they’re heading into town.’

The Farmer slapped the dashboard. ‘Should have guessed one of the papers would nab him.’

‘They won’t hang on to him forever. Soon as the story’s done...’

‘But till then, they’ve got their lawyers.’ The Farmer turned to Rebus. ‘So we can’t do anything that could be construed as harassment.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ Rebus said, starting the engine. He turned to the Farmer. ‘So do we head home now?’

The Farmer nodded. ‘Just as soon as we’ve tailed them. Let Stevens know the score.’

‘There’s a cop car after us,’ Cary Oakes warned.

Jim Stevens reached for the cigarette lighter. ‘I know.’

‘Welcoming committee at the airport, too.’

‘He’s called Rebus.’

‘Who is?’

‘Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’ve had a few run-ins with him. What did he say to you?’

Oakes shrugged. ‘Just stood there trying to look mean. Guys I met in prison, they’d have given him a nervous breakdown.’

Stevens smiled. ‘Save it till the recorder’s running.’

Oakes had the passenger-side window open all the way, angling his head into the fierce cold air.

‘Does smoking bother you?’ Stevens said.

‘No.’ Oakes moved his head to and fro, as if under a hair dryer. ‘Clever of you to have me paged at Heathrow.’

‘I wanted to be the first to make you an offer.’

‘Ten grand, right?’

‘I think we can manage ten.’

‘Exclusive rights?’

‘Got to be, for that price.’

Oakes brought his head back into the car. ‘I’m not sure how good I’ll be.’

‘You’ll be fine. You’re a Scot, aren’t you? We’re born storytellers.’

‘I guess Edinburgh’s changed.’

‘You’ve been away a while.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Do you still know anyone here?’

‘I can think of a couple of names.’ Oakes smiled. ‘Jim Stevens, John Rebus. That’s two, and I’ve only been in the country half an hour.’ Jim Stevens started to laugh. Oakes rolled the window back up, leaned down to switch off the music. Turned in his seat so Stevens had his full attention. ‘So tell me about Rebus. I’d like to get to know him.’

‘Why?’

Oakes’s eyes never left the reporter’s. ‘Someone takes an interest in me,’ he said, ‘I take an interest back.’

‘Does that put me in the frame too?’

‘You never know your luck, Jim. You just never know your luck.’

Stevens had wanted Oakes out of Edinburgh. He’d wanted him in seclusion for as long as it took to do the interviews. But Oakes had told him on the phone: it has to be Edinburgh. It just has to be. So Edinburgh it was; a discreet hotel in a New Town terrace. Stevens had to smile at ‘New Town’: everywhere else in Scotland, it meant the likes of Glenrothes and Livingston, places built from nothing in the fifties and sixties. But in Edinburgh, the New Town dated back to the eighteenth century. That was about as new as the city liked things. The hotel would have been a private residence at one time, spread over four floors. Understated elegance; a quiet street. Oakes took one look at it and decided it wouldn’t do. He didn’t say why, just stood on the steps outside, taking in the air, while Stevens made a couple of frantic calls on his mobile.

‘It would help if I knew what you wanted.’

Oakes just shrugged. ‘I’ll know when I see it.’ He waved a little wave towards where the police car had parked, its lights still on.

‘Right,’ Stevens said at last. ‘Back in the motor.’

They headed down Leith Walk, towards the port of Leith itself.

‘This still a rough part of town?’ Oakes said.

‘It’s changing. New developments, Scottish Office. New restaurants and a couple of hotels.’

‘But it’s still Leith, right?’

Stevens nodded. ‘Still Leith,’ he conceded. But when they hit the waterfront and Oakes saw their hotel, he started nodding straight away.

‘Atmosphere,’ he said, looking out across the docks. There was a container ship tied up there, arc lights on as men worked around it. A couple of pubs, both with restaurants attached. Across the basin was a permanent mooring, a boat which had become a floating nightclub. New flats being built across there too.

‘Scottish Office is just down there,’ Stevens said, pointing.

‘How long do you think they’ll keep this up?’ Oakes asked, watching the police car come to a stop.

‘Not long. If they try it on, I’ll phone our lawyers. I need to call them anyway, get your contract sorted.’

‘Contract.’ Oakes tried out the word. ‘Long time since I’ve had a job.’

‘Just talking into a microphone, posing for a few pictures.’

Oakes turned to him. ‘For ten thou, I’ll do re-enactments for you.’

Some of the colour slid from Stevens’ face. Oakes was watching him intently, measuring the reaction.

‘That probably won’t be necessary,’ Stevens said.

Oakes laughed, liking that ‘probably’.

Inside the hotel, he approved of his room. Stevens couldn’t get one next door, had to settle for down the hall. Stuck the rooms on plastic and said they’d need them for a few days. He found Oakes lying on the bed in his room, shoes still on, holdall on the bed beside him. He’d taken one item from it: a battered Bible. It lay on the bedside table. Nice touch: Stevens would use it in his intro.

‘You a religious man, Jim?’ Oakes asked.

‘Not especially.’

‘Shame on you. Bible’ll teach you a lot of things. I got my first taste in prison. Time was, I’d no time for the Good Book.’

‘Did you go to church?’

Oakes nodded, seeming distracted. ‘We had Sunday service in the jail. I was a regular.’ He looked to Stevens. ‘I’m not a prisoner, right? I mean, I can come and go?’

‘Last thing I want is for you to feel like a prisoner.’

‘Makes two of us.’

‘But there are a few rules, so long as I’m paying your way. If you go out, I want to know. In fact, I’d like to tag along.’

‘Afraid the competition will hook me?’

‘Something like that.’

Oakes turned his head, grinned. ‘Supposing I want a woman? You going to be sitting in the corner while I hump her?’

‘Listening at the door will be fine,’ Stevens said.

Oakes laughed, wriggled on the mattress. ‘Softest bed I ever had. Smells nice too.’ He lay a moment longer, then swung swiftly to his feet. Stevens was surprised at the turn of speed.

‘Come on then,’ Oakes told him.

‘Where?’

‘Out, man. But don’t fret, I’m not going more than fifty yards.’

Stevens followed him outside, but stayed by the hotel, could see where Oakes was headed.

The police car; lights still on; three figures inside. Oakes peered through the windscreen, headed for the driver’s side, tapped on the glass. The one he now knew as Rebus wound down the window.

‘Hey,’ Oakes said by way of greeting, nodding his head to the other two — young woman, and a senior-looking man with a huge scowl on his face. He gestured towards the hotel. ‘Nice place, huh? Any of you ever stay someplace like that?’ They said nothing. He leaned one arm on the roof of the car, the other on the door panel.

‘I was...’ All at once he looked a little shy. ‘Yeah,’ knowing now how to put it, ‘I was real sorry to hear about your daughter. Man, that’s got to be a bitch.’ Looking at Rebus with liquid, soulless eyes. ‘One of the killings they pinned me for, girl would have been about the same age. I mean, same age as your daughter. Sammy, that’s her name, right?’

Rebus pushed open his door so hard, it propelled Oakes back almost to the water’s edge. The other man — Rebus’s boss — was calling out a warning; the young woman was coming out of the car behind Rebus. Rebus himself was up in Cary Oakes’s face. Jim Stevens was sprinting from the hotel.

Oakes had his hands raised high over his head. ‘You touch me, it’s assault.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘Say again?’

‘They didn’t charge you with anybody my daughter’s age.’

Oakes laughed, rubbed his chin. ‘Well, you’ve got something there. Guess that gives you the first round, huh?’

The woman officer was gripping one of Rebus’s arms. Jim Stevens was panting after the short jog. The chief stayed sitting in the car, watching.

Oakes bent a little to peer in. ‘Too important for all this, huh? Or no stomach for it? Your call, man.’

Stevens grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Come on.’

Oakes shrugged free. ‘Nobody touches me, that’s rule one.’ But he allowed himself to be steered back across the road towards the hotel. Stevens turned round, found Rebus staring at him hard, knowing who’d told Oakes about him, about his family.

Oakes started laughing, laughed all the way to the hotel’s glass doors. He stood on the inside, looking out.

‘That Rebus,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s not exactly what you’d call a slow burner, now is he?’

Back at Patience’s flat in Oxford Terrace, Rebus poured himself a whisky and added water from a bottle in the fridge. She came through from the bedroom, eyes slanted in the sudden light, a pale yellow nightdress falling to her ankles.

‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Rebus said.

‘I wanted a drink anyway.’ She took grapefruit juice from the fridge door, poured herself a large glass. ‘Good day?’

Rebus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They took the drinks into the living room, sat together on the sofa. Rebus picked up a copy of The Big Issue: Patience always bought it, but he was the one who read it. Inside, there were fresh appeals for MisPer information. He knew if he turned on the TV and went to Teletext, there was a listing for missing persons. He’d watched it from time to time, scanning a few pages. It was run by the National MisPer Helpline. Janice had said she’d contact them...

‘What about you?’ he asked.

Patience tucked her feet beneath her. ‘Same old story. Sometimes, I almost think a robot could do the work. Same symptoms, same prescriptions. Tonsils, measles, dizzy spells...’

‘Maybe we could go away.’ She looked at him. ‘Just for a weekend.’

‘We tried it, remember? You got bored.’

‘Ach, that was the country.’

‘So which romantic interlude did you have in mind? Dundee? Falkirk? Kirkcaldy?’

He got up for a refill, asked her if she wanted one. She shook her head, her eyes on his empty glass.

‘Second one today,’ he said, making for the kitchen.

‘What’s brought this on anyway?’ She was following him.

‘What?’

‘The sudden notion of a holiday.’

He glanced towards her. ‘I went to see Sammy yesterday. She said she speaks to you more than I do.’

‘A bit of an exaggeration...’

‘That’s what I said. But she has a point all the same.’

‘Oh?’

He poured less water into the glass this time. And maybe a drop more whisky too. ‘I mean, I know I can be... distracted. I know I’m a pretty lousy proposition.’ He closed the fridge, turned to her and shrugged. ‘That’s about it, really.’

Kept his eyes on the glass as he spoke, wondering why it was that as he said the words, a holiday snap of Janice Mee flashed across his mind.

‘I keep thinking you’ll come back,’ Patience said. He looked at her. She tapped her own head. ‘From wherever it is you’ve gone.’

‘I’m right here.’

She shook her head. ‘No you’re not. You’re not really here at all.’ She turned away, walked back through to the living room.

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, folded 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.’

When the food arrived, Stevens, who’d been knocking back orange juice and trying to steel himself for toast, took one look at the plate and made his excuses. He drifted outside, lit a cigarette. There was a cold breeze blowing in from the docks. Just through the dock gates, he could see the Scot FM building. Turning his head, he saw the cop in the car watching him. He didn’t recognise the face. Through the dining room window, Oakes was tucking in with exaggerated relish, teasing the detective. Smiling, Stevens walked around to the car park, examined the executive motors: Beamers, Rover 600s, an Audi. Noticed something on the windscreen of his own car. At first he took it for a piece of rubbish, gusted there. Then thought maybe it was a flyer for a carpet sale or antique show. But when he unfolded it, he knew who it was from. Two words:

DROP HIM.

Stevens tucked the note in his pocket, headed back to the hotel. Oakes had finished breakfast and was sitting on one of the sofas in reception, flicking through a newspaper: one of the broadsheets.

‘I’m hurt,’ he said. ‘After that scrum at the airport...’

‘Try the tabloids,’ Stevens said, sitting down opposite him. ‘Plenty of coverage there. I think my favourite is “Killer Cary Comes Home”.’

‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ Oakes tossed the paper aside. ‘So when do we get down to work?’

‘Let’s say fifteen minutes in your room?’

‘Fine by me. Before that, though, I’ve another favour to ask.’

‘What?’

‘Someone I want to find. His name’s Archibald.’

‘Plenty of those around.’

‘That’s his surname. First name, Alan.’

‘Alan Archibald? Should I know him?’

Oakes shook his head.

‘Care to tell me who he is?’

‘He was a policeman — maybe still is. Got to be getting on a bit, though.’

‘And?’

Oakes shrugged. ‘For now, that’s all you need. If you’re a good boy, I’ll maybe tell you the story.’

‘For what we’re paying you, we want all the stories.’

‘Just find him, Jim. You’ll make me happy.’

Stevens studied his charge, wondering just who was pulling the strings. He knew it should be him. But all the same...

‘I can make a couple of calls,’ he conceded.

‘That’s my boy.’ Oakes got to his feet. ‘Fifteen minutes in my room. Bring all the papers with you. I like being the day’s news.’

And with that he set off towards the stairs.

14

It was Jamie’s job to fetch milk, papers and breakfast rolls from the shop. He’d turned it into an art, skimming cash by lying about the prices. His mum complained, knew they could be found cheaper elsewhere, but ‘elsewhere’ wasn’t walking distance for Jamie. She didn’t like him straying too far. That was fine: whenever he wanted to wander the city, he had Billy Boy to say he’d been round at his house.

Jamie thought he was pretty smart.

He stopped outside the shop for a cigarette. He didn’t buy them there — it was against the law and the Paki owner wouldn’t let him. Instead, he had a deal with an older kid at school, who supplied packets of twenty in exchange for scud mags. Jamie got the mags from under Cal’s bed. There were so many of them, Cal never seemed to notice. Even in freezing weather, Jamie liked his smoke outside the shop. Early-rise kids on their way to school would stare at him. Friends would sometimes join him. He got noticed.

A neighbour once told his mum, and she’d tried whacking him, but he was super-fast and dodged beneath her arm, spinning out of the door, laughing at her curses. One time she’d really gone for him had been when the school had sent the letter home. He’d been skiving, whole weeks at a time. His mum had belted him purple and sent him crying to his room, face red with shame at his own tears.

He’d probably go to school some time today. Cal was good at forging letters. He’d been doing it so long, the school thought his signature was their mum’s, and when she’d signed some note about going on a school trip, the headmaster had quizzed Jamie about its origins. He’d even picked up the phone to talk to Jamie’s mum, which had made Jamie smile: they didn’t have a telephone in the flat. About two dozen ashtrays, most of them from holidays or nicked from pubs, but no telephone. Cal had a mobile, and that’s what they used in emergencies — when Cal was in a mood to let them.

That was the problem with Cal. He could be great... and then he could lose the rag. Boom: like a bottle exploding against a wall. Or he’d get all quiet and lock himself in his room and refuse to write notes to the school. Jamie would go out and get him something, maybe nick it from a shop: peace offerings for some wrong he hadn’t done. On good days, Cal would rub knuckles hard against Jamie’s head, tell him he was the peacemaker: Jamie liked the sound of that. Cal would say he was the United Nations, sustaining an uneasy truce. He got stuff like that from the papers: ‘United Nations’; ‘uneasy truce’. Jamie asked him once: ‘If nations are supposed to be united, how come we want to split away?’

‘How do you mean, pal?’

‘Split from England.’

Cal had folded the newspaper on his lap, flicked ash into an ashtray on the arm of his chair. ‘Because we don’t like the English.’

‘How no?’

‘Because they’re English.’ An edge to Cal’s voice, telling Jamie to back off.

‘We’ve got cousins in England, haven’t we? We don’t hate them, do we, Cal?’

‘Look...’

‘And fighting the Germans, we fought with the English, didn’t we?’

‘Look, Jamie, we want to run our own country, OK? That’s all it is. Scotland’s a country, isn’t it?’ He’d waited for Jamie’s nod. ‘Then who should be in charge of it? London or Edinburgh?’

‘Edinburgh, Cal.’

‘Right then.’ Picking up the paper: discussion adjourned.

Jamie had a lot more questions, but never seemed to get answers. His mum was useless: ‘Don’t talk to me about politics,’ she’d say. Or ‘Don’t talk to me about religion.’ Or anything, really. As if she’d done all the hard thinking in her life, found satisfactory answers, and wasn’t about to start over again for his benefit.

‘That’s why you’ve got teachers,’ she’d say.

Which was fair enough, but at school Jamie had a rep to maintain. He was Cal Brady’s brother. He couldn’t go asking the teachers questions. They’d begin to wonder about him. Cal had told him a long time ago: ‘With school, Jamie, it’s definitely “us” and “them”, know what I mean? A battlefield, pal, take no prisoners, understood?’

And Jamie had nodded, understanding nothing.

As he stood at the shop, tapping the toe of one shoe against a rubbish bin, along came Billy Horman. Jamie straightened a bit.

‘All right, Billy Boy?’

‘No’ bad. Got a fag?’

Jamie handed over one of his precious cigarettes.

‘See the football last night?’

Jamie shook his head, sniffed. ‘Not bothered,’ he said.

‘Hearts, ya beauties.’ The way Billy looked at him as he said this, seeking approval or something, Jamie knew Billy had heard it from someone else, maybe his mum’s boyfriend, and wasn’t sure about it.

‘They’re doing OK,’ Jamie conceded as Billy mimed a blazing shot at goal.

‘You going home?’ Billy asked.

Jamie tapped the paper and rolls, held under one of his arms.

‘Wait a minute, I’ll come with you.’ Billy marched into the shop, came out again with milk and a carton of marge. ‘Mum went spare this morning. Her new man got in from the pub and had about ten slices of toast.’ He tossed the marge and caught it. ‘Finished the tub.’

Jamie didn’t say anything. He was thinking about fathers, how it was funny neither Billy nor he had one. Jamie wondered where his was, which story about him to believe.

‘Who was that you were with yesterday?’ he asked as they began walking.

‘Eh?’

‘Bottom of St Mary’s Street. An uncle or somebody?’

‘Aye, that’s it. My Uncle Bill.’

But Billy Boy was lying. His ears always went red when he lied...

Back at the flat, Jamie took the paper into Cal’s bedroom.

‘About fucking time, wee man.’ Cal lying in bed, portable telly on. The room smelled stale. Jamie sometimes tried to hold his breath. Cal had a mug of tea on the floor beside his ashtray.

‘Switch the channel, will you?’

The TV was on a chest of drawers at the bottom of the bed. It didn’t have a remote. Cal had just brought it home one night, said he won it in a bet at the pub. There was a little square beside the panel of buttons. It said ‘Remote Sensor’. So Jamie knew there should be a remote with it. He had to jump over a pile of Cal’s clothes on the floor to get to the TV. Pressed the button for Channel 4. You got some dolls on the breakfast show — Cal had taught him the word: dolls.

Jamie leapt back over the clothes and fled the room, letting out a huge exhalation in the hallway. Twenty-five seconds: not even near his record for breath-holding. His mum was buttering rolls at the kitchen table. She handed him one. He got himself a mug of milk and sat down. He’d told his mum that because of cutbacks, his school didn’t start till half past nine. Either she’d believed him, or hadn’t been up to arguing. She looked tired, his mum, looked like she needed a treat. But he knew looks could deceive: she could go from tired to mental in two seconds flat. He’d seen her do it with one of the old hoors from upstairs who’d come to complain about the noise. Pure mental. Same thing with the old guy who’d complained of the ball landing in his garden.

‘Next time I’ll put a garden fork through it, so help me.’

‘Do that,’ Jamie’s mum had said, ‘and I’ll take your fucking fork and stick it through your balls.’ Right up close to him, growing huge as he seemed to shrink.

Jamie had a lot of respect for his mum. Last time she’d clipped him, it had been because he’d tried calling her Van. Cal called her Van, but that was all right because he was grown up, same as she was. Jamie couldn’t wait to grow up.

With a mug of tea in her hand, his mum went through her morning ritual: trying to remember where she’d put her cigarettes.

‘Maybe Cal’s got them,’ Jamie suggested.

‘Finish what’s in your mouth before you speak.’ She yelled towards Cal’s room, got a yelled denial back. In the living room, she pulled cushions off the sofa and chair, kicked the pile of car and music magazines sitting on the floor. Found half a packet on top of the hi-fi. The top of the flip-pack was missing. Cal used them for his ‘special roll-ups’. His mum pulled out a cigarette, but most of it was missing too. She sighed heavily, stuck it in her mouth anyway and lit it with the lighter she found inside the packet.

She didn’t have any pockets, so put the cigarettes on the arm of her chair. She was wearing silver-grey shell-suit bottoms with a purple zip-up jogging top. The top was old, the lettering on its back — SPORTING NATION — cracked and peeling. Jamie wondered if Sporting Nation meant Scotland.

Roll and milk finished, he slid off his chair. He had plans for today: Princes Street maybe, or a bus out to The Gyle. On his own, or with anyone he could round up. Problem with The Gyle was, it was in the middle of nowhere. There was a games arcade on Lothian Road, he liked it there, but there were other regulars who were better than him at the games, and even if he didn’t want to play against them, they’d stand and watch him on his machine, then tell him what mistakes he was making and say they could do better with their wrists in plaster.

Just as well, he knew he should tell them, because the way you’re going, your whole body’s going to end up in plaster. But he never did: most of them were bigger than him. And they didn’t know Cal, so he was no use as a threat. Which was why Jamie didn’t go in there so much any more...

Cal’s bedroom door flew open and he stalked into the kitchen. He had his jeans on, but had forgotten to zip them up or buckle his belt. No shoes or socks, no T-shirt. He had nicks and bruises on his chest and arms. You could see the muscles moving beneath his skin. He flung the paper on to the table and slapped a hand down on it.

‘Look at this,’ he hissed, face pink with anger. ‘Just take a look at this.’

Jamie looked: double-page story. SEX OFFENDER WITH PLAYGROUND VIEW. There were photos. One showed a block of flats, an arrow pointing to one of the storeys. The other showed a patch of tarmac and a couple of kids playing.

‘That’s here,’ he said, amazed. He’d never seen Greenfield in the papers before, never seen photos of the place. His mum came over.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Fucking pervert living right under our noses,’ Cal spat. ‘Nobody told us.’ He stabbed the paper. ‘Says so right here. Nobody bothered to tell us.’

Van studied the story. ‘There’s no picture of him.’

‘No, but they as good as point at the bastard’s door.’

She remembered something. ‘Cops came round the other day. I thought they were looking for you.’

‘What did they want?’

‘Just the one of them. Asked if I knew somebody called...’ She squeezed shut her eyes. ‘Darren something-or-other.’

‘Darren Rough,’ Jamie said. Cal stared at him.

‘You know him?’

Jamie didn’t know what answer would please Cal. He shrugged. ‘Seen him around the place.’

‘How do you know his name?’ Eyes burning into him.

‘He... I don’t know.’

‘He what?’ Cal was facing him now, fists bunched. ‘Which flat’s he in?’ Jamie started to tell him, but Cal snatched the neck of his shirt. ‘Better still, show me.’

But as they walked along the landing to Darren Rough’s flat, they saw that others had the same idea. A group of seven or eight residents stood outside Rough’s door. Most of them had the morning paper with them, rolled up and brandished like a weapon. Cal was disappointed they weren’t the first.

‘Is he no’ in?’

‘No’ answering anyway.’

Cal kicked at the door, saw from the looks around him that they were impressed. Stood back and shouldered the door, kicked it again. Two locks: Yale and mortice. No way to see inside: letterbox was blocked up; a sheet pinned across the window. Everyone was talking about it.

‘Wake up, ya bastardin’ pervert!’ Cal Brady shouted at the window. ‘Come and meet your fan club!’ There were smiles around him.

‘Maybe he works shifts,’ someone offered. Cal couldn’t think of a smart remark to make back. He thumped on the window instead, then went back to kicking the door. A few more residents arrived, but more began to drift away. Soon there were just a couple of kids, plus Cal and Jamie.

‘Jamie,’ Cal said, ‘go get me a spray can. Try under my bed.’

Jamie already knew there were a couple of cans under there. ‘Blue or black?’ he asked, before he realised what he’d done.

But Cal didn’t notice. He was busy staring at the door. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. Jamie went off to fetch the can. His mum was outside, arms folded, talking with a couple of women from the landing. Jamie trotted past them.

‘Well?’ his mum said.

‘Nobody’s in.’

She turned back to her friends. ‘Could be anywhere. Scum like that, there’s no telling.’

‘What we need’s a petition,’ one of the women said.

‘Aye, get the council to rehouse him.’

‘Think they’ll listen to us?’ Van said. ‘Direct action, that’s what we want. Our problem, we deal with it, never mind what anyone else says.’

‘People’s Republic of Greenfield,’ another woman offered.

‘I’m serious, Michele,’ Van said, ‘deadly serious.’ Behind her, Jamie disappeared into the flat.

15

‘Mum and me, we seemed to move around a lot in the early days.’

Cary Oakes was in a chair by his bedroom window, feet up on the table in front of him. Jim Stevens sat on a corner of the bed, holding the tape recorder at arm’s length.

‘Places? Dates?’

Oakes looked at him. ‘I don’t remember the names of towns, people we stayed with. When you’re a kid, that sort of thing doesn’t matter, does it? I had my own life, my own little fantasy world. I’d be a soldier or a fighter pilot. Scotland would be full of aliens, and I’d be out to get them, a vigilante sort of scenario.’ He gazed out of the window. ‘Because we moved so much, I never really made any friends. Not close friends.’ He saw that Stevens was about to interrupt. ‘Again, I can’t give any names. I remember coming to Edinburgh, though.’ He paused, stretched to rub his thumb across the toe of one shoe, removing a trace of dirt. ‘Yes, Edinburgh sticks in my mind. We stayed with family. My aunt and her husband. Don’t remember which part of town they lived in. There was a park nearby. I went there a lot. Maybe we could get a picture of me there.’

Stevens nodded. ‘If you can remember where it is.’

Oakes smiled. ‘Any park would do, wouldn’t it? We’d just pretend. That’s what I did in that park. It was my universe. Mine. I could do whatever the hell I liked there. I was God.’

‘So what did you do?’ Stevens was thinking: this is easy, fluid. Oakes was either a born storyteller or else... or else he’d been rehearsing. But something had jarred, something about family: my aunt and her husband. A strange way of putting it.

‘What did I do? I played games, same as every other kid. I had an imagination, I’ll tell you that. When you’re a kid, nobody minds if you run around shooting up the world, know what I’m saying? In your head, you can kill whole populations. I’ll bet there isn’t one damned person on this planet hasn’t thought about murdering someone at some time. I’ll bet you have.’

‘I’ll show you my collection of voodoo dolls.’

Oakes smiled. ‘My mum, she did her best for me.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure of that.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died, man.’ His eyes bored into the reporter’s. ‘But then everybody dies.’

‘You played these games by yourself?’

Oakes shook his head. ‘The other kids got to know me. I joined a gang, rose through the ranks.’

‘See much action?’

Oakes shrugged. ‘There were a few fights. Mostly we just played football and glowered at strangers. Offed a few of the neighbourhood cats too.’

‘How?’

‘Sprayed them with lighter fluid, torched them.’ Oakes’s eyes fixed on Stevens. ‘Typical start to your basic serial killer. I read about it in jail. Loner who torches animals.’

‘But you weren’t alone, you were with your gang.’

Oakes smiled again. ‘But I was the one with the lighter, Jim. And that made all the difference.’

When they took a break, Stevens returned to his own room. Two sachets of coffee into a cup of boiling water. He’d been wakened at four that morning by the telephone. His boss had worked a miracle, and Stevens found himself speaking to a Seattle journalist who’d followed the Oakes case all the way along. The journalist, Matt Lewin, confirmed that Oakes had attended regular Sunday services in the Walla Walla penitentiary.

‘A lot of them do, doesn’t mean they’ve seen the light.’

Now Stevens lay back on the bed and sipped his coffee. He wanted to track down Oakes’s teenage gang. It would be good background, another insight into Cary Oakes. If they ran the story, maybe someone from the gang would read it and come forward. Then Stevens could interview them for the book. He’d asked Matt Lewin if any American publishers would be interested.

‘Not when he’s not one of ours. We like home-grown product. Besides, Jim, serial killers went out of fashion a while back.’

Stevens was hoping for a fashion revival. The book deal would be his gold watch, a little retirement gift to himself. He knew he should do some research, try to check the stories Oakes had been telling. But he felt so tired, and his boss had told him: get the story first, confirm it later. He finished his coffee and reached for a cigarette. Swung his legs off the bed.

Showtime.

Janice Mee took a break, ate at the restaurant at the top of John Lewis’s. From one window, the view was of Calton Hill. They’d climbed it with Damon one day, back when he was seven or eight. She had photos of the trip in one of her albums: Calton Hill, the Castle, Museum of Childhood... There were dozens of albums. She kept them in the bottom of the wardrobe. She’d taken them out recently, brought the whole lot downstairs so she could go through them, reviving memories of holiday camps and days at the seaside, birthday parties and sports days. From one of the restaurant’s other windows, she had a good view of the Fife coastline. She couldn’t see as far inland as her home town. There were times in the course of her life when she’d contemplated a move: south to Edinburgh, north to Dundee. But there was something comfortable about the place where you were born, where your family and friends were. Her parents and grandparents had been born in Fife, the history of the place inextricably linked to her own. Her mother had been a little girl at the time of the General Strike, but remembered them putting up barricades around Lochgelly. Her father had clung to a lamp-post to watch Johnny Thomson’s funeral. The way a family stretched back in time could be measured. But that sense of history misled you into thinking the future would be the same. As Janice was finding out, the thread of continuity could be snapped at any point along the way.

She ate the roll, filled with prawn mayonnaise, without any pleasure or sense of taste. She knew she’d drunk her coffee only because the cup was empty. One pale prawn sat on the rim of the plate, where it had fallen from the roll. She left it where it was and got up from the table.

Outside the St James’ Centre she crossed Princes Street and headed for Waverley Station. A line of taxi cabs snaked from the underground concourse back up on to Waverley Bridge. The drivers sat behind their wheels, some reading or eating or listening to their radios. Others staring into space or sharing news with fellow drivers. She started at the back of the queue and worked her way forwards. John Rebus had given her some names. One of them was Henry Wilson. The drivers all seemed to know him, called him ‘The Lumberjack’. They put out a call to him. Meantime, she showed them her pictures of Damon and explained that he’d been picked up on George Street.

‘Anyone with him, love?’ one driver asked.

‘A woman... short blonde hair.’

The driver shook his head. ‘I’ve a good memory for blondes,’ he said, handing back the flyer.

The problem was, a couple of trains had just arrived — London and Glasgow. The taxis were moving faster than she could, heading down to where their passengers waited. She looked back up the slope. More taxis were joining the back of the queue. She couldn’t tell who she’d talked to and who was new. Engines were starting, fumes getting into her lungs. Cars sounding their horns as they moved past her, heading down into the station, wondering what she was doing on the roadway when there was a pavement the other side. Day-trippers looked at her, too. They knew she’d never get a taxi here, knew the system: you queued at the rank.

Her mouth felt sour and gritty. The coffee had been strong: she could feel her heart pounding. And then another car sounded its horn.

‘All right, all right,’ she said, passing down the line to the next taxi, which was already moving off. The car-horn sounded again: right behind her. She turned on it, glowering, saw it was another black cab, window open. Nobody in the back, just the driver, leaning towards her. Short black hair, long black beard, green tartan shirt.

‘Lumberjack?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘That’s what they call me.’

She smiled. ‘John Rebus gave me your name.’ Cars were held up behind him. One flashed its lights.

‘You better get in,’ he said. ‘Before they have my licence off me for obstruction.’

Janice Mee got in.

The taxi went down into the station, and took the exit ramp back up, then turned right and crossed the traffic, settling at the back of the queue of cabs. Henry Wilson pulled on the handbrake and turned in his seat.

‘So what does the Inspector want this time?’

And Janice Mee told him.

It had to be serious: instead of summoning him, the Farmer had come looking for Rebus, who was out in the car park having a cigarette and thinking about Janice Playfair aged fifteen...

‘Is it the surveillance?’ Rebus asked, thinking maybe something had happened.

‘No, it bloody well isn’t.’ The Farmer stuck his hands in his pockets: he meant business.

‘What have I done this time?’

‘The press have got hold of Darren Rough. One paper printed the story this morning, the rest are busy catching up. My secretary’s fielded so many calls, she doesn’t know if she’s in St Leonard’s or St Pancras.’

‘How did they get the story?’ Rebus asked, ditching his cigarette.

The Farmer narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s what Rough’s social worker wants to know. He’s ready to make a formal complaint.’

Rebus rubbed at his nose. ‘He thinks I did it?’

‘John, I know bloody well you did it.’

‘With respect, sir—’

‘John, just shut up, will you? The reporter you spoke to, first thing he did when you’d put the phone down was hit 1471. He got the number you were calling from.’

‘And?’

‘And it was The Maltings.’ Public house: almost directly across the street from St Leonard’s. ‘But better than that, our intrepid reporter asked the punter who answered about the person who’d last used the phone. Want me to read you the description?’

‘Male, white, middle-aged?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Could be a thousand blokes.’

‘Could be. Which hasn’t stopped Rough’s social worker thinking it’s you.’

Rebus looked out towards Salisbury Crags. ‘I’m glad somebody shopped him.’ He paused. ‘If that was what it was going to take.’

‘Take to do what? To run him out of town? To get a mob baying for his blood? John, I’d hate to see what you’d do to Ince and Marshall.’

Ince and Marshall: the Shiellion accused.

‘You wouldn’t have to watch,’ Rebus said. He squared up to his boss. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Steer clear of Rough, that’s number one. Stay on the Oakes surveillance, at least that way you’ll keep out of trouble for six hours at a stretch. And give Jane Barbour a bell.’ He handed Rebus a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

‘Barbour? What does she want?’

‘No idea. Probably something to do with Shiellion House.’

Rebus stared at the phone number. ‘Probably,’ he said.

The Farmer left him to it, and instead of going back into the station, Rebus walked down the lane towards the main road, checked for traffic and walked briskly across. Stepped into The Maltings. It was quiet most daytimes. When he’d made the call, there’d only been one other drinker in the place. A minute after opening time, the same man was alone at the bar with a half-pint and a whisky in front of him.

‘Alexander,’ Rebus said, ‘a word with you, please.’ He pulled the drinker by his arm towards the gents’ toilets: didn’t want the barmaid listening in.

‘Christ, man, what is it?’ The drinker’s name was Alexander Jessup. He didn’t like Alex or Alec or Sandy or Eck: it had to be Alexander. He’d run his own business at one time: a printer’s. Did headed paper, account books, raffle tickets and the like. Sold it on and was quietly drinking the proceeds away. As a man about town, he heard things, but never gave Rebus much that proved useful. He did like to talk though; he’d talk to anyone who’d listen.

‘Any reporters been after you?’ Rebus asked.

Jessup looked at him with rheumy eyes, like those of an old dog. He shook his head. His face was a mess of puffiness and burst capillaries.

‘You spoke to one on the phone,’ Rebus reminded him.

‘Was he a reporter?’ Jessup looked stung. ‘He never said.’

‘You gave him my description.’

‘I might’ve done.’ He thought about it, nodded, then held up a finger. ‘But no names, you know me, John. I never gave him your name.’

Rebus kept his voice low. ‘If anyone comes looking, keep the description as vague as you can, understood? You never saw the guy on the phone before, he’s not a regular.’ He waited for the message to sink in. Jessup gave him an enormous wink.

‘Message received.’

‘And understood?’

‘And understood,’ Jessup confirmed. ‘I didn’t get you into trouble, did I?’ Dying to know. ‘You know I’d never do something like that.’

Rebus patted his shoulder. ‘I know, Alexander. Just remember who brings you your breakfast when they’ve put you in the cells for the night.’

‘Right enough, John.’ Jessup gave an ‘OK’ sign with his hand. ‘Sorry if I got you into any bother.’

Rebus pulled open the door. ‘Here, let me buy you one, eh?’

‘Only if you’ll take one back.’

‘It’s tempting,’ Rebus said, as they headed for the bar. ‘I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ Janice Mee asked.

Rebus didn’t reply straight away; he was too busy looking around his living room. Janice laughed.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t help myself.’

The place had been tidied: newspapers and magazines now took up space on the bottom bookshelf. Books which had been scattered across the floor were on the second and third shelves up. Mugs and plates had vanished into the kitchen, takeaway wrappers and beer cans deposited in the bin. Even the ashtray had been cleaned. Rebus picked it up.

‘I think that’s the first time I’ve been able to make out what it says.’

It was lifted from a pub, advertising some new beer which hadn’t made the grade.

Janice smiled. ‘It’s something I do when I’m nervous.’

‘You should be nervous round here more often.’

She gave him a punch.

‘Careful,’ he said, ‘last time you tried that, I was out cold for ten minutes.’

‘I bought teabags and milk while I was out,’ she told him, making for the kitchen. ‘Do you want a cup?’

‘Please.’ He followed the trail of her perfume. He hadn’t brought Patience here in over a year; had never entertained many women here. ‘So how did it go?’

‘I liked The Lumberjack.’

‘But was he any help?’

She made herself busy with the kettle. ‘Oh, you know...’

‘Did you get round all the cab ranks?’

‘Your friend said I didn’t need to. He’d do it for me.’

‘Which left you feeling useless again?’

She tried to smile. ‘I thought... I thought coming here I could...’ She bowed her head, voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I’d have been better off staying at home.’

‘Janice.’ He turned her so she was facing him. ‘You’re doing your best.’ Her height, her softness and slenderness. They stood as close together now as they had done when they’d danced at the school leaving party, their last night as a couple. Formal dances: waltzes and military two-steps and the Gay Gordons. She wanting each dance to last; he wanting to take her round the back of the school, to their secret place — the same secret place everyone else used.

‘You’re doing your best,’ he repeated.

‘But it’s not helping. Know what I found myself thinking today? I thought: I’ll kill him for putting me through this.’ Bitter twist of a smile. ‘Then I thought: what if he’s already dead?’

‘He’s not dead,’ Rebus said. ‘Trust me on this. He’s not.’

They took the tea through to the living room, sat at the dining table.

‘What time are you headed back?’ he asked.

‘I thought six. There’s a train around then.’

‘I’ll drive you.’

She shook her head. ‘Even a country girl like me knows what the traffic’s like that time of day. I’d be quicker on the train.’

Which was true. ‘I’ll run you to the station then.’ What else had he to do before his shift started, other than try to doze for a while?

She placed her hands around the mug. ‘Why a policeman, Johnny?’

‘Why?’ He tried to form an answer she’d accept. ‘I’d been in the army, didn’t like it, didn’t know what I wanted to do.’

‘It’s not exactly the kind of job you drift into.’

‘For some of us it is. See, I really got into it.’

‘And you’re good at what you do?’

He shrugged. ‘I get results.’

‘Is that not the same thing?’

‘Not exactly. Keeping your head down and your nose clean, being good at the office politics... I fall down there.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘You always said you were going to be a teacher.’

‘I was a teacher... for a while.’

Rebus refrained from saying that his ex-wife had been a teacher too.

‘Then you married Brian?’ he asked instead.

‘The two aren’t connected.’ She looked down into her tea, seemed relieved when the phone rang. Rebus picked it up.

‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’

‘Henry,’ Rebus said for Janice’s benefit, ‘got anything for us?’

‘Might have. Two fares, picked up on George Street. Driver remembered the blonde. Distinctive face, he said. Kind of hard. Cold eyes. He thought maybe she was a pro.’

‘Where did he take them?’ Rebus looking at Janice, who had stood up, still clutching the mug.

‘Down to Leith, dropped them by The Shore.’

Leith: where the city’s working girls plied their trade. The Shore: where Cary Oakes’s hotel was.

‘Did he see where they went?’

‘The lad wasn’t a big tipper. My mate got straight back on the road. Someone had tried flagging him down on Bernard Street. Not many places they could have been going. That time of night, the pubs would be on last orders if they weren’t already shut. There are flats down there, though.’

Rebus agreed. Flats... and the hotel.

‘Unless they were going to that boat,’ Wilson said.

‘What boat?’

“The one that’s tied up down there.’ Yes: Rebus had seen it, looked like a semi-permanent mooring. ‘They use it for parties,’ Wilson was saying. ‘Not that I’ve ever been to one...’

He dropped Janice off at Waverley’s concourse. They’d arranged to meet the next afternoon, go look at the boat.

‘May be something or nothing,’ Rebus had felt obliged to warn her.

‘I’ll settle for that,’ she’d said.

As she made to leave the car, she hesitated, then leaned towards him and planted a kiss on his cheek.

‘What, no tongues?’ he said, smiling. She made to thump his arm, thought better of it. ‘Say hello to Brian from me.’

‘I will. If he’s not out with his pals.’ Something in her tone made Rebus want to pursue the subject, but she was out of the car, closing the door. She waved, blew him a kiss, turned and walked towards her platform with the look of a woman who knows she’s being watched. Rebus realised he had one hand on his door handle.

‘Forget it,’ he told himself. Instead, he picked up his mobile, told Patience’s machine that he was on night shift and was headed back to his own flat for a bit of kip.

But first, a pit-stop at the Oxford Bar: whisky with plenty of water. Just the one: responsible car-driver. He caught up on the gossip, adding little to the conversation. George Klasser chastised him for a lapse of faith.

‘You’re becoming an irregular regular, John.’

‘I always was, Doc.’

Further along the bar, a rugby argument was developing, drawing other drinkers in. Everyone had an opinion, everyone but Rebus himself. He stared at a print on the wall: portrait of Robert Burns. There was another on the far wall: Burns meeting a young Walter Scott. It looked like a fairly awkward affair, the artist working with benefit of hindsight. It was as if Burns knew the child before him was destined to outsell him, knew the runt would get a knighthood, build Abbotsford and cosy up to the King.

It was a great thing, hindsight.

He looked into his glass and saw the leavers’ dance. Saw a gangly kid called Johnny leading his girlfriend out of the hall, out the school doors and down the steps. Making like it was a game, but tugging her hard by both hands. Both of them pretending it was all right, because that was part of the whole ritual. And back in the hall, Johnny’s pal Mitch — best friends; always sticking up for one another — not realising he was being stalked by three boys who’d become his enemies. Boys who knew this might be their last chance for revenge. Revenge for what? They probably didn’t know themselves. Maybe for some ugly feeling that life had already short-changed them; that people like Mitch were going to succeed where they’d taste only failure.

Three against one.

While Johnny Rebus played out another fate entirely.

Rebus finished his drink, drove home. Sank into his chair, a double malt in his fist. Listened to Tommy Smith, The Sound of Love. Pondered whether or not you really could hear love.

Fell asleep in the orange sodium glow of the streetlights.

As close to being at peace as he got.

It had taken them a while to find a church with an unlocked door.

‘No one has any trust these days,’ Cary Oakes had said, ‘not even God.’

They’d walked through Leith and up the Walk to Pilrig. It was a Catholic church, nobody around but them. Cool and dark inside. There were plenty of windows, but the church was surrounded on three sides by tenement buildings. Time was, as Stevens recalled, you weren’t allowed to build anything higher than a church. Oakes was sitting in a pew near the front, head bowed. He didn’t look exactly peaceful or contemplative: his neck and shoulders were tensed, his breathing fast and shallow. Stevens wasn’t comfortable. The door might not have been locked, but he felt like a trespasser. A Catholic church, too: he didn’t think he’d been in one of those his whole life. Didn’t look much different from the Presbyterian model: no smell of incense. Confession boxes, but he’d seen those before in films. One of them, the curtain was open. He glanced in, trying not to think that it looked like a Photo-Me booth. He tried to take soundless steps; didn’t want a priest appearing, having to explain what they were doing there.

Oakes’s request: ‘I’d like to go to church.’

Stevens: ‘Can’t it wait till Sunday?’

But Oakes’s eyes had told him it was no joking matter. So they’d headed off on foot, the surveillance car following at a crawl, drawing attention to itself and to them.

‘They want to play it that way,’ Oakes had said, ‘that’s fine by me.’

Ten, fifteen minutes passed. Stevens wondered if maybe Oakes had nodded off. He walked down the aisle, stopped beside him. Oakes looked up.

‘A couple more minutes, Jim.’ Oakes motioned with his head. ‘Take a break, if you like.’

Stevens didn’t need telling twice. Stepped outside for a cigarette. Cop car parked at the end of the street, driver watching him. He’d just got one lit when the thought struck him: you’re a reporter on a story. You should be in there, trying to find an angle, running phrases through your head. Oakes in church: it could open one of the book chapters. So he nipped the cigarette, slipped it back into the packet. Pushed open the door and went inside.

There was no sign of Oakes in any of the pews. Sound of running water. Stevens peered into the gloom, eyes adjusting slowly. A shape over by the confessional. Oakes standing there, looking over his shoulder towards Stevens, body arched as he urinated through the curtain. Oakes grinned, winked. Finished his business and zipped himself up. He was walking back up the aisle, back to where Stevens stood, face failing to disguise his shock. Oakes pointed up towards the ceiling.

‘Got to remind Him just who’s boss, Jim.’ He moved past Stevens and out into daylight. Stevens stood there a moment longer. Pissing into the confessional: a message to God, or to the reporter himself? Stevens turned and left the church, wondering how the hell his world had come to this.

16

A young DS called Roy Frazer was the fourth member of the surveillance team. He’d arrived at St Leonard’s the previous month, a rare recruit from F Division, based in Livingston. Edinburgh city cops knew the Livingston operation as ‘F Troop’. They’d had a few digs at Frazer, but he’d been able — or at least willing — to take them. The Farmer had chosen Frazer for the team. The Farmer thought Frazer was a bit special.

Rebus sat beside him in the Rover, listening to his report.

‘Only real highlight,’ Frazer was saying, ‘that restaurant next to the pub back there, they took pity on me, brought me out a meal.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Rebus looked back towards the pub in question. Just past closing time, and drinkers were taking their grudging leave.

‘Carrot soup, then some chicken thing in puff pastry. Wasn’t bad at all.’

Rebus looked down at the carrier bag he’d brought with him: flask of strong coffee; two filled rolls (corned beef and beetroot); chocolate and crisps; some tapes and his Walkman; an evening paper and a couple of books.

‘Brought it out on a tray, came back half an hour later with some coffee and mints.’

‘You want to be careful, son,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘No such thing as a free dinner. Once you start taking bribes...’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I mean, it might have been the done thing in Livingston, but you’re not in the sticks now.’

Frazer saw at last that he was joking, produced a grin which was two parts relief to one part humour. He was strong-looking, played rugby for the police team. Cropped black hair, square-jawed. When he’d arrived at St Leonard’s, he’d sported a thick moustache, but had shaved it off for some reason. The skin beneath still looked pink and delicate. Rebus knew he came from farming stock — somewhere between West Calder and the A70. His father still farmed there. Something he had in common with The Farmer, whose family had worked the land around Stonehaven. Another thing the two men shared: regular church-going. Rebus, too, went to churches, but seldom on a Sunday. He liked them empty except for his thoughts.

‘Have you got the log?’ Rebus asked. Frazer produced the A4-sized notebook. Bill Pryde had taken over from Siobhan Clarke at 6 a.m., recorded that Oakes and Stevens had stayed in the hotel until eleven. Up till then, they hadn’t come downstairs — he’d checked with the front desk. Morning coffee for two had been ordered for Oakes’s room. Pryde’s interpretation: they were working. A cab had arrived at eleven, and both men had come out of the hotel. Stevens had handed a large envelope to the cabbie, who’d driven off again. Pryde’s guess: tape of first interview, heading for the newspaper office.

With the taxi gone, Stevens and Oakes had walked into Leith Docks, Pryde following on foot. They looked like they were killing time, taking a breather. Then it was back to the hotel. Siobhan Clarke took over at noon: Rebus had persuaded her to change shifts with him. Not that it had been difficult: ‘I like my own bed at night,’ she’d admitted.

The afternoon had gone much as the morning: the two men ensconced in the hotel; taxi taking delivery of an envelope; the two men taking a break. Except this time they’d headed into town, stopping at a church in Pilrig. Rebus looked at Frazer.

‘A church?’

Frazer just shrugged. After the church, they’d headed to the top of the Walk and John Lewis’s, where they shopped for clothes for Oakes. New shoes, too. Stevens put everything on his plastic. Then they’d hit a couple of pubs: the Café Royal, Guildford Arms. Clarke had stayed outside: ‘Didn’t know whether to go in or not. It’s not as if they didn’t know I was there.’

Back to the hotel, Oakes giving her a wave as she pulled up outside.

Relieved by Frazer at 6 p.m. The two men, Stevens and Oakes, had walked to one of the new restaurants built facing the Scottish Office. One wall was all glass, affording them a view of Frazer as he kicked his heels outside. Apart from his own surprise dinner — not mentioned in the notebook — that was about it.

‘Would I be right in thinking this is a complete waste of time?’ Frazer stated when Rebus had finished reading.

‘Depends on your parameters,’ Rebus said. He’d lifted the line from a training course at Tulliallan.

‘Well, they’re obviously here for the duration, aren’t they?’

‘We just want Oakes to know.’

‘Yes, but surely the time to let him know is when he’s left to his own devices. Once he’s found himself a place to live, and all the media stuff’s finished.’

Frazer had a point. Rebus conceded as much with a slow nod of his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘tell the Chief Super.’

‘That’s just what I did.’ Rebus looked at him, waiting for more. ‘He turned up about nine o’clock, wanting to know how things were going.’

‘And you told him?’

Frazer nodded; Rebus laughed.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said to give it a few more days.’

‘You know they think Oakes might kill again?’

‘Only person within range at the moment is that reporter. Anything happened to him, I’d be heartbroken.’

Rebus burst out laughing again. ‘Know something, Roy? You’re going to be all right.’

‘The power of prayer, sir.’

Rebus had been in the car by himself for an hour, cold seeping inside his three pairs of socks, when he saw someone push open the door of the hotel and step outside. The hotel bar was still open, wouldn’t close till the last guest had had enough. Stevens wore his tie loose around his neck, top two shirt buttons open. He was blowing cigarette smoke up into the sky, shuffling his feet to keep his balance. Been there, done that, Rebus thought. Eventually, Stevens focused on the police car, seemed to find it amusing. Chuckled to himself, bending forward at the waist, shaking his head slowly. Came walking towards the car. Rebus got out, waited for him.

‘So we meet at last, Moriarty,’ Stevens said. Rebus folded his arms, leaned against the car.

‘How’s the baby-sitting?’

Stevens puffed out his cheeks. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m having trouble getting a handle on him.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘All that time behind bars — no pun intended — you’d think he might want to celebrate.’

‘I’m guessing he doesn’t drink.’

‘Your guess is correct. Says drink contaminates his mind, makes him feel dangerous.’ A humourless laugh.

‘How much longer?’ Rebus could smell the whisky on Stevens’ breath. Give him a minute or two, he’d place the brand.

‘Couple more days. It’s good stuff, wait till you read it.’

‘Know what the Yanks told us? They said he’ll kill again.’

‘Really?’

‘Has he said anything?’

Stevens nodded. ‘Gave me a list of his next victims. Nice tie-in with the story.’ Stevens grinned lopsidedly, saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Sorry, sorry. Not in very good taste. I’ve got a publisher interested, did I tell you? Coming back to me tomorrow or the day after with an offer.’

‘How can you do it?’ Rebus asked quietly.

Stevens got his balance back. ‘Do what?’

‘Do what you do.’

‘Sounds like a Motown line.’ He sniffed, coughed. ‘It’s an interesting story, Rebus. That’s what he means to me: a story. What does he mean to you?’ He awaited a response, didn’t get one, wagged a finger. ‘That note you left me: “Drop him”. Think I’d suddenly see the light, hand him over to somebody else, some other paper? No chance, pal. This isn’t the Damascus Road.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘And my boy’s not the only ex-offender in the news, is he? I see someone outed a paedophile. Word is, it was a cop.’ He tutted, wagged his finger again. ‘Any comment to make, Inspector?’

‘Go fuck yourself, Stevens.’

‘Ah, now there’s another thing. Guy’s been in the nick fourteen years, and here we are in Leith, Edinburgh’s knocking-shop, and he’s not interested. Can you credit that?’

‘Maybe he’s got other things on his mind.’

‘Wouldn’t bother me if he preferred chickens, just so long as he gets me a book deal.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Look at us, eh? You out here, me in that big hotel. Makes you think.’

‘Go to bed, Stevens. You need all the beauty sleep you can get.’

Stevens turned away, remembered something and turned back. ‘OK for a wee photo-shoot tomorrow night? Photographer’s coming anyway, and I thought it’d make a nice sidebar: cop who’ll never sleep while killer’s at large.’

Rebus said nothing, waited till the reporter had turned away again. ‘What did he want in the church?’ The question stopped Stevens cold. Rebus repeated it. Stevens half-turned towards him, shook his head slowly, then walked back across the road. There was something tired in the walk now, something Rebus couldn’t interpret. He reached into the car for his cigarettes, lit one. Closed the driver’s door and walked fifty yards to the end of the road, then across the bridge to the other side of the basin, where a boat was moored. There was a sign telling patrons to respect the neighbours and keep the noise down late at night. But the boat wasn’t being used tonight, no private party or celebration. Nearby, they were building more ‘New York loft-style apartments’ for young professionals, part of Leith’s revival. Rebus crossed back to the pub, but it was closed now. The bar staff would probably be inside, enjoying a drink as they replayed the evening’s highlights. Rebus walked back to the car.

An hour later, a taxi pulled up outside the hotel. His first thought: another tape for the newspaper. But someone was in the taxi. They paid the driver, got out. Rebus checked his watch. Two fifteen. One of the guests who’d been out on the town. He took a nip from his quarter-bottle, slipped the headphones back on to his ears. String Driven Thing: ‘Another Night in This Old City’.

That’s all it ever was...

Forty minutes later, the man from the taxi exited the hotel. He waved back to the night porter. Window down, Rebus heard him say, ‘Good night.’ He stood outside, glanced at his watch, looked up and down the street. Looking for a taxi, Rebus thought. Who would be visiting a hotel this time of night? Who would he be visiting?

The man’s gaze fell on the police car. Rebus wound the window down further, flicked ash on to the roadway. The man was making his way towards the car. Rebus opened his door, got out.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ The man held out his hand. Rebus gave him a once-over. Late fifties, well-dressed. Didn’t look the type to pull a stunt, but you could never be sure. The man read his thoughts, smiled.

‘I don’t blame you. Middle of the night, stranger wants to make friends, already knows your name...’

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘A while back. You’ve got a good memory. My name’s Archibald. Alan Archibald.’

Rebus nodded, finally shook Archibald’s hand. ‘You had a posting at Great London Road.’

‘For a couple of months, yes. Before I retired, I was based at Fettes, pushing paper around a desk.’

Alan Archibald: tall, cropped salt-and-pepper hair. A face full of strong features, a body resisting the ageing process.

‘I heard you’d retired.’

Archibald shrugged. ‘Twenty years in, I thought it was time.’ His look said: what about you? Rebus’s mouth twitched.

‘It’s warmer in the car. I can’t offer you a lift, but I could probably...’

‘I know,’ Alan Archibald was saying. ‘Cary Oakes told me.’

‘He what?’

Archibald nodded towards the car. ‘I’ll take you up on your offer, though. I’m not used to night shifts these days.’

So they got into the car, Archibald tucking his black woollen overcoat around him. Rebus ran the engine, stuck the heating on, offered Archibald a cigarette.

‘I don’t, thanks all the same. But don’t let me stop you.’

‘You’d need heavy artillery to stop me,’ Rebus said, lighting another for himself. ‘So what’s the story with Oakes?’

Archibald touched his fingers to the dashboard. ‘He called me, told me where he was.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘He knows all about you.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s the point.’

‘Yes, he knows that too. But he knew you were on the late shift.’

‘Not difficult. He can see me from his bedroom window.’ Rebus pointed towards it. ‘Or maybe his minder told him.’

‘The journalist? I didn’t meet him.’

‘Probably in bed.’

‘Yes, I had to ring up to Oakes’s bedroom. He wasn’t sleeping, though, told me it’s jet-lag.’

‘How did he get your number?’

‘It’s unlisted.’ Archibald paused. ‘I’m guessing the journalist pulled a few strings.’

Rebus inhaled smoke, let it pour down his nostrils. ‘So what’s the story?’

‘My guess is, Oakes wants to play some game.’

Rebus looked at his passenger. ‘What sort of game?’

‘The sort that gets me out of bed at one in the morning. That’s when he phoned, said we had to meet now or never at all.’

‘What about?’

‘The murder.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Murder singular?’

‘Not one of the ones he committed in the States. This happened right here in Edinburgh. More specifically, out at Hillend.’

Hillend: at the northern tip of the Pentland Hills — hence the name. Known locally for its artificial ski-slope. From the bypass, you could see the lights at night. Suddenly, Rebus remembered the case. An outcrop of rocks, a woman’s body. Young woman: student at a teacher-training college. Rebus had helped with the initial search. The search had taken him from Hillend to Swanston Cottages, an extraordinary cluster of homes, seemingly untouched by modernity. All at once he’d wanted to buy a place there, but it had been too isolated for his wife — and outwith their means anyway.

‘This was fifteen years ago?’ Rebus said.

Archibald shook his head. He’d slipped his hands into his pockets, was staring at the windscreen. ‘Seventeen years,’ he told Rebus. ‘Seventeen years this month. Her name was Deirdre Campbell.’

‘Were you on the case?’

Archibald shook his head again. ‘Wasn’t possible at the time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Never found the killer.’

‘She was strangled?’

‘Beaten about the head, then strangled.’

Rebus remembered Oakes’s modus operandi. Again, it was as if Archibald could read his mind.

‘Similar,’ he said.

‘Was Oakes here at the time?’

‘It was just before he left for the States.’

Rebus gave a low whistle. ‘He’s owned up?’

Archibald shifted in his seat. ‘Not exactly. When he was arrested in the States, I followed his trial, noticed similarities. I went out there to interview him.’

‘And?’

‘And he played his little games. Hints, smiles and half-truths and stories. He led me a merry little dance.’

‘I thought you weren’t on the case?’

‘I wasn’t. Not officially.’

‘I don’t get it.’

Archibald examined his fingertips. ‘All these years he’s been inside, we’ve played his games. Because I know I can wear him down. He doesn’t know how persistent I can be.’

‘And now he phones you in the middle of the night?’

‘And feeds me more stories.’ A half-smile. ‘But he doesn’t seem to realise, the gameboard has changed. He’s in Scotland now. My rules.’ A pause. ‘I’ve asked him to come out to Hillend with me.’

Rebus stared at Archibald. ‘The man’s a killer. Psych reports say he’ll do it again.’

‘He kills the weak. I’m not weak.’

Rebus wondered about that. ‘Maybe he’s switched games,’ he said.

Archibald shook his head. He looked like a man obsessed. Jesus, Rebus could write the book on that one: cases which grabbed you and wouldn’t let go; unsolveds which stayed with you all the long sleepless nights. You sifted through them time and again, examining the grains of sand, seeking anomalies...

‘I still don’t get it,’ Rebus said. ‘You weren’t on the original case... how come you’re...’

Then he remembered. It should have come to him sooner. The story had gone around at the time, had been passed between the searchers on the hillside.

‘Oh shit,’ Rebus said. ‘She was your niece...’

17

It had been easy, finding an unoccupied room in the hotel. Simplicity itself to pick the door lock. So it was that Cary Oakes sat in darkness at the window, a window unwatched by Detective Inspector John Rebus. He had to smile: the watcher had become the watched, without realising it.

There was an A-Z on his lap. He’d told Stevens he needed it so he could reacquaint himself with his city. Earlier, Stevens had let slip that Rebus used to live in Arden Street, and maybe still did. Arden Street in Marchmont. Page 15, square 6G. Alan Archibald lived in Corstorphine, or had done when he’d written to Oakes in prison. All those letters, he’d never once let the prisoner know his phone number. It had taken Oakes less than a day to discover it. Strength in knowledge; always surprise your opponent — that’s how games were played.

Oakes watched the two men talking in the car. He felt a certain pride, almost like running a dating agency. He’d brought the two of them together; he felt sure they’d get along. They sat there for an hour, even sharing a hot drink from a flask. Then a patrol car turned up — Rebus must have radioed for it. Wasn’t that thoughtful: a free ride home for the retired detective. Archibald had aged well, maybe out of spite. Oakes knew he didn’t look as fresh as the day he’d been incarcerated. Flesh sagged from his face, and there was a dead look to his eyes, despite the regular vitamins and exercise regime.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, felt a fold of banknotes there. He’d been drinking at the bar, spinning a line to some business types, Stevens his quiet partner. Stevens had given up eventually, left them to it. Oakes had learned many trades during his time inside. Lock-picking was one; pocket-picking another. He’d left the credit cards alone: that was the sort of thing that could be traced, get him in trouble. He let cash alone be his guide. He knew Stevens wanted him to be dependent on the paper, knew that was why Stevens was holding back payment. Well, for now he needed Stevens, but that would change. And meantime, he had work to do.

And the money would be his means.

He left the room and made his way down the stairs to the first-floor landing. At the end was a window which opened on to a line of lock-up garages. Eight-foot drop to the roof of the nearest garage. He crouched on the windowledge, waited for the taxi to come. Heard its engine as it rolled towards the hotel. He’d given the name and room number of one of his drinking companions. He listened for the moment when the taxi would pass Rebus’s car, the moment when the detective would be least likely to hear anything, then dropped through the darkness on to the roof, sliding down and on to solid tarmac. Not even pausing for breath or to dust himself off, immediately jogging towards the wall which would take him into the lane, the lane which would take him away from the hotel.

With any luck, he’d pick up a taxi. There’d be one coming along in a minute, its driver disgruntled and seeking a fare...

Four in the morning, Darren Rough reckoned it would be safe. Everyone would be asleep. He counted himself lucky: out late the night before this, picking up an early edition of his paper on the way home, seeing his story twisted there. He’d been in the flat, Radio Two playing quietly so as not to disturb the neighbours: they had kids, kids needed sleep, everyone knew that. Radio barely audible, tea and toast, sitting by the gas fire.

Then coming upon those pages. Reading just the first couple of paragraphs, enough to make him screw the paper up, pace the floor, start hyperventilating. He breathed into a paper bag until the attack passed. Felt weak, crawling into the bathroom on hands and knees. Splashed water from the toilet on to his face and neck. Hauled himself up on to the pan, sat there for a while, head bowed under its massive weight. When he got back the use of his legs, he uncrumpled the paper, spread it out on the floor. Read the story through.

So it starts again, he thought to himself.

Knew he had to get out before morning. Spent the rest of the night walking the streets, bones cold and aching with tiredness. A café first thing for breakfast. His social worker didn’t get into the office till nine, said he’d talk to a solicitor, see what grounds they had for a complaint. Said everything would be fine.

‘We just have to ride it out.’

Easy words from a warm office; warm family probably waiting at home too. The car his social worker drove was an estate; kids’ football boots in the back. Family man, doing his nine-to-five.

The rest of that day, Darren kept his distance from Greenfield. Walked as far as the Botanics, pretended to be interested in the plants. Kept warm in the hothouses: did about a dozen circuits. Back into town, Princes Street Gardens: he managed an hour’s kip on a bench, until a policeman told him to move on. His plight was remarked on by a group of travellers. They offered him cigarettes and strong lager. He stayed with them for an hour, but didn’t like them: too scruffy; not his kind of people at all.

Art galleries; churches: there was a lot that was free in Edinburgh. By evening, he reckoned he could write his own guidebook. Ate in a fast-food restaurant, taking as long as he could over the meal. Then a pub on Broughton Street. Waiting for a day to pass... it made you realise why people needed goals, needed work. He liked a structure to his day. Liked not to feel hunted.

After closing time, he’d met some more travellers, listened to more of their stories. Then had made his way carefully back towards Greenfield, turning away three times before finally confronting his own fear and overcoming it. Goal achieved.

He crept up the stairwell, expecting at every turn to find a waiting face, a knife-blade. Nothing. Just shadows. Along the landing, past closed doors, sleeping windows. His key sounded like a wood-saw as he slipped it into the lock. Then he noticed his hands were sticky. Stood back, noticed for the first time that his door was smeared with mud... No, not mud: excrement. He could smell it on the back of his hand, his knuckles, fingers. And beneath the shit, something in black paint, some writing. He crouched, wiped his hands on the concrete flooring, looked up at the message.

MONSTER YOU DIE.

The word DIE was underlined twice, just so he wouldn’t miss it.

This was the park.

It hadn’t changed. They’d installed some swings and a roundabout, but the roundabout was gone, leaving only a metal stump. The swings were thick rubber tyres. Tarmac underfoot, playing field off to the left. Trees had been planted, but looked stunted. His aunt’s house... you could see a thin vertical slice of the park from the upstairs bathroom window, peering between two blocks of terraced housing. The house was still there, in darkness, curtains closed. He’d shared a bedroom with his mother at the back of the house, with a view down on to a small neglected garden, the hut which had become his refuge.

There hadn’t been much refuge in the park. The local gang hung out there, and Cary was never allowed to join. He was an ‘incomer’, an ‘outsider’, the two terms sounding like opposites. He stayed on the periphery, clinging to the park railings, until one of them, fed up of cursing him, would come over to administer a kicking.

And he’d take it. Because it was better than nothing.

The one time he’d stalked a cat, squirting lighter fluid on it, watching the tail catch fire... there’d been no one there to see him. Police had questioned the gang, but no one had bothered with Cary Oakes. No one had bothered to ask ‘the runt’.

He stood by the fence now. Half of it was missing. Middle of the night, no one was about. No cars passed. No one to see him as his hands worked at the rusted railings, turning them in their sockets.

Then a sound: drunken laughter. Three of them, young, wandering, not bothered who heard them, whose sleep they might be disturbing. The teenage Cary had lain awake late into the night, hearing above his mother’s breathing the sounds of revellers as they headed home, some singing songs about King Billy and the Sash.

Three of them, not worried about waking anyone because they ruled this place. They ran in the local gang. They were all that mattered.

They were on the other side of the road, but saw Oakes, saw him looking at them.

‘What you staring at?’

No answer. They started a conversation among themselves, didn’t seem to be stopping.

‘One of them paedophiles.’

‘Always hang out in parks.’

‘Or maybe a poof like.’

‘This time of night, just standing there...’

Now they’d stopped. Turning back, crossing the road. Three of them.

Excellent odds.

‘Hiy, pal, what you up to, eh?’

‘Thinking about things,’ Oakes said quietly, one hand still working at the railing. The three youths looked at each other. They’d spent the night in town, pubbing and clubbing. Booze and some drugs maybe. A mix to up the aggression and confidence. While they were still considering what to do with this stranger, and which one of them should take the lead, Oakes hauled the steel rail up out of the fence and swung it. Caught the first one across the nose, which burst open like a flower in one of those speeded-up film jobs. Hands went to face as the young man screeched and dropped to his knees. As the rail finished one arc, Oakes swung it back again, pendulum-style, caught number two on the ear. Number three swung a kick, but the rail whacked against his shin, then swung upwards to smash into his mouth, breaking teeth. Oakes dropped the weapon. Broken Nose he felled with a kick to the throat. Eardrum he smashed with his fist. Shin and Teeth was limping away, but Oakes walked after him, tripped him, then sent a flurry of kicks to his head.

He stood up straight afterwards, got his breathing under control. Looked around at the houses he remembered so well. No one had moved from bed. No one had seen him in his moment of victory. He wiped the toes of his shoes against the prone figure’s shirt, examined them to make sure they hadn’t been scuffed in the fight. Walked over to Eardrum and pulled him up by the hair. Another squeal. Oakes put his lips close to the ear that wasn’t bleeding.

‘This is my place now, understood? Anyone fucks with me gets tenfold back.’

‘We didn’t—’

Oakes pressed his thumb hard against the bleeding ear.

‘None of you would ever listen.’ He was looking towards the gap in the terrace, where his aunt’s house stood. He threw the youth’s head hard against the ground. Patted it once, then turned to walk away.

At twenty past six, Rebus crept into Patience’s flat on Oxford Terrace, armed with bread still warm from the oven, fresh milk and newspaper. He made himself a mug of tea and sat in the kitchen, reading the sports pages. At six forty-five he put the radio on, just as the central heating was kicking in. Made a fresh pot of tea, poured out a glass of orange juice for Patience. Sliced the bread and got a tray ready. Took it into the bedroom. Patience peered at him with one eye.

‘What’s this?’

‘Breakfast in bed.’

She sat up, arranged the pillows behind her. He laid the tray on her lap.

‘Have I forgotten some anniversary?’

He pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. ‘I just didn’t want you oversleeping.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because as soon as you get up, I’m into that bed and asleep.’

He dodged the butter-knife as she swiped it at him. They were both laughing as he started to unbutton his shirt.

Jim Stevens went down to breakfast, expecting to find Cary Oakes halfway through another fry-up. But there was no sign of him. He asked at reception, but nobody had seen him. He called up to Oakes’s room: no answer. He went up and banged on the door: ditto.

He was back in reception, ready to demand a duplicate key, when Cary Oakes came walking in through the hotel door.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Stevens asked, feeling almost dizzy with relief.

‘No caffeine for you this morning, Jim,’ Oakes said. ‘Look at you, you’ve got the shakes already.’

‘I asked where you’d been.’

‘Got up early. Guess I’m still on US time. Walked down by the docks.’

‘Nobody here saw you leave.’

Oakes looked over towards the reception desk, then back to Stevens. ‘Is there a problem? I’m here now, aren’t I?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Isn’t that what counts?’ He placed a hand on Stevens’ shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’ Started leading them towards the dining room. ‘Have I got some great stuff for you this morning. Your editor’s going to offer to blow you when he reads it...’

‘Just another day at the office then,’ Stevens said, wiping sweat from his brow.

18

The businessman who owned the Clipper Night-Ship asked Rebus if he wanted to make him an offer.

‘I’m serious. I’d be happy to make a loss, only no one wants to buy her.’

He explained that the Clipper had brought him little but headaches. Licensing hassles, complaints from local residents, a council investigation, police visits...

‘All that so punters can have a piss-up on a boat. I could run a pub with less grief and bigger takings.’

‘So why don’t you?’

‘I used to: the Apple Tree in Morningside. But at that time it seemed like every pub had to have a gimmick. God knows what it’s all about with Irish pubs: whoever came up with the notion they’re any better than Scottish ones? Then there’s the other theme pubs — Sherlock Holmes or Jekyll and Hyde, or pubs for Australians and South Africans.’ He shook his head. ‘I took one look at the Clipper and thought I was on a winner. Maybe I am, only sometimes it seems like a lot of hard work and sweet FA to show for it.’

They were seated in the offices of PJP: Preston-James Promotions. Rebus and Janice Mee were one side of the desk, Billy Preston the other side. Rebus didn’t think Preston would appreciate being informed that his namesake used to play keyboards for the Beatles and the Stones.

Billy Preston was in his mid-thirties, immaculately turned out in a grey collarless suit with a metallic shine to it. You got the feeling nothing would stick to him, a regular Teflon Man. His head was shaved, but his long square chin sported a Frank Zappa beard. The offices of PJP took up two rooms on the first floor of a building halfway down Canongate. Below was a shop specialising in antiquarian maps.

‘We’d move,’ Preston had told them, ‘find somewhere bigger, somewhere with parking, only my partner says to hold fire.’

‘Why?’ Rebus had asked.

‘The Parliament.’ Preston had pointed out of the window. ‘Two hundred yards that way. Property around here is rocketing. We’d be mugs to sell.’ He kept playing with his computer mouse, running it over its mat, clicking and double-clicking. It annoyed Rebus, who couldn’t see the screen. ‘Now if they’d chosen Leith instead of Holyrood...’ Preston rolled his eyes.

‘The Clipper wouldn’t be causing you this grief?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Bingo. We’d have bided our time, waited for the MPs and their staff, all on healthy salaries and looking to spend.’

‘The Clipper’s like a private club?’ Janice asked.

‘Not exactly. She’s for hire. If you guarantee me a minimum of forty punters on a week day, sixty at weekends, she’s yours gratis, so long as they’re drinking at the ship’s bar. You pay for the disco, that’s it.’

‘You say a minimum of forty. What’s the maximum?’

‘Public Safety regulations stipulate seventy-five.’

‘But forty guarantees you a profit?’

‘Just barely,’ Preston said. ‘I’ve got staff, overheads, power...’

‘So some nights you don’t open?’

‘It comes in waves, if you’ll pardon the pun. We’ve had good times. Now we’re in...’

‘The doldrums?’ Rebus offered.

Preston snorted, reached into a drawer for a ledger book. ‘So what date is it you’re interested in?’

Janice told him. She had both hands cupped around a mug of coffee. It had been tepid and stewed on delivery. Rebus wondered at the qualifications of the tall blonde secretary in the outer office. Paperwork all over the floor, unopened mail... If Preston wasn’t helpful, Rebus could foresee a phone call to the VAT inspectors.

But in fact he flicked quickly through the ledger. ‘Found this here when we moved in,’ he explained. ‘Thought I’d try to find a use for it.’ He looked up. ‘You know, a continuity kind of thing.’

His finger found the date, ran along the line.

‘Booking that night, private party. Fancy dress.’ He looked up at Janice. ‘Sure your son was headed for the Clipper?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Whose party was it?’ Rebus asked. He was already out of his chair. Preston, eyes on the ledger, didn’t seem to notice Rebus coming around the side of the desk. Rebus’s first impulse: look at the screen. A game of patience, sitting waiting for the player to start.

‘Amanda Petrie,’ Preston said. ‘I was there that night. I remember it. There was a theme... pirates or something.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No, it was Treasure Island. Some arsehole turned up dressed as a parrot. By the end of the night, he was as sick as one.’ He looked at Janice. ‘Can I see those photos again?’

She handed them over: Damon and the blonde from the security cameras; then Damon in a holiday snap.

‘They weren’t in fancy dress?’ Preston asked.

Janice shook her head.

Preston’s hands were busy with the ledger and the photos. Rebus, leaning over to examine the ledger, found that his elbow had nudged the mouse up the screen, to where it could close the game. Slight pressure on the mouse, and the screen changed. From a game of patience to the image of a woman on all fours. The photo had been taken from behind, the model turning her head to pout at the photographer. She was wearing white stockings and suspenders, nothing else. The pout was exaggerated. On the floor nearby, an empty champagne bottle. Rebus looked up to the windowsill, where an empty champagne bottle sat.

‘But is she any good at shorthand?’ Rebus said. Preston saw what he was looking at, switched the screen off. Rebus took the opportunity to lift the heavy ledger from the desk, walk back around to his chair with it.

‘So you were there that night?’ he asked.

Preston looked flustered. ‘Keeping an eye on things.’

‘And you didn’t see either Damon or the blonde?’

‘I don’t remember seeing them.’

Rebus glanced up. ‘Not quite the same thing, is it?’

‘Look, Inspector, I’m trying to help...’

‘Amanda Petrie,’ Rebus said. Then he saw her address, recognised it. He looked up at Preston again.

‘The judge’s daughter?’

Preston was nodding. ‘Ama Petrie.’

‘Ama Petrie,’ Rebus echoed. He turned to Janice, saw the question in her eyes. ‘Edinburgh’s original wild child.’ Back to Preston: ‘I see you didn’t charge her for the boat.’

‘Ama always brings a good crowd.’

‘She uses the Clipper a lot?’

‘Maybe once a month, usually fancy dress of some kind.’

‘Does everyone play along?’

Preston saw what he was getting at. ‘Not all the time.’

‘So this night, there’d have been guests in normal clothes?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘And they wouldn’t have been quite as eye-catching as pirates and parrots?’

‘Agreed.’

‘So it’s possible...?’

‘It’s possible,’ Preston said with a sigh. ‘Look, what do you want me to say? Want me to lie and say I saw them there?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Best person to talk to is Ama herself.’

‘Yes,’ Rebus said thoughtfully. Thinking of Amanda Petrie, her reputation. Thinking too of her father, Lord Justice Petrie.

‘She runs with a pretty fast bunch,’ Preston said.

Rebus nodded. ‘Pretty rich too.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘The kind of customers you could do with more of.’

Preston glared at him. ‘I wouldn’t lie for her. Besides, I’m not sure the old ticker could cope with more than one Ama. Takes an age to clean up after her — more expense for me. And I always seem to get the bulk of complaints after Ama’s parties. God knows, they’re loud enough when they arrive...’

‘Anything out of the ordinary that night?’

Preston stared at Rebus. ‘Inspector, this was Ama Petrie. With her, there is no “ordinary”.’

Rebus was copying her phone number from the ledger into his notebook. His eyes ran down other bookings, saw nothing to interest him.

‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Preston.’ A final glance towards the computer. ‘We’ll let you get back to your game.’

Outside, Janice turned to him. ‘I get the feeling I missed something back there.’

Rebus shrugged, shook his head. The car was parked on a sideroad. Drizzle was being blown into their faces as they walked.

‘Ama Petrie,’ Rebus said, keeping his head bowed. ‘She doesn’t fit my picture of Damon.’

‘The mystery blonde,’ Janice stated.

‘Friend of hers, you reckon?’

‘Let’s ask Ms Petrie.’

Rebus tried the number from his cellphone: got an answering machine, and didn’t leave a message. Janice looked at him.

‘Sometimes it helps not to give too much advance warning,’ he explained.

‘Gives people time to concoct a story?’

He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

She was still looking at him. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’

‘I used to be.’ He thought of Alan Archibald: all those years on the force, all that persistence, pursuing Deirdre Campbell’s killer... It might be a kind of madness, but you had to admire it. It was what Rebus liked about cops. Only thing was, most of them weren’t like that at all...

‘Back to Arden Street,’ he told Janice. There were calls she still had to make; his flat was still her base.

‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘Things to do, people to see.’

She took his hand, squeezed it. ‘Thanks, John.’ Then reached up to touch his face. ‘You look tired.’ Rebus removed her fingers from his cheek, held them to his mouth, kissed them. Reached down with his free hand to turn the ignition.

The first instalment of Cary Oakes’s ‘Lifer Story’ was perfunctory: a couple of paragraphs about his return to Scotland, a couple more about his incarceration, and then early biography. Rebus noted that place-names were kept to a minimum. Oakes’s explanation: ‘I don’t want anywhere getting a bad rep just because Cary Oakes once spent a wet winter there.’

Thoughtful of him.

Several times, revelations were hinted at — teasers to keep the audience coming back for more — but on the whole it looked like whatever the paper had paid Oakes, they’d got themselves a pig in a poke. Rebus doubted Stevens’ editor would be chuffed. There were photos: Oakes at the airport; Oakes on his release from the penitentiary; Oakes as a baby. A small photo too of ‘reporter James Stevens’, alongside his byline. Rebus noted that the photographs took up more space than the actual story. Looked like the reporter would be struggling to get a book’s worth.

He folded the paper and looked out of his car window. He was parked at the gateway to a Do-It-Yourself superstore, one of those thinly disguised warehouses which, cheaply and quickly built, seemed to surround the city. There were only four cars in the capacious car park. He didn’t know this part of the city well: Brunstane. Just to the west was The Jewel, with its mandatory shopping centre; to the east stood Jewel and Esk College. The message Jane Barbour had left for him at the office had been perfunctory: time and place, telling him to meet her. Rebus lit another cigarette, wondering if she was ever coming. Then a car pulled up alongside him, sounded its horn, and proceeded into the car park. Rebus started his engine and followed.

DI Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured Ford Mondeo. She was getting out as Rebus parked alongside her. She reached back into the car for an A4 envelope.

‘Nice car,’ Rebus said.

‘Thanks for coming.’

Rebus closed the car door for her. ‘What’s up? Run out of rawl-plugs?’

‘Have you been here before?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

The wind blew her hair across her face. ‘Come on,’ she said, all businesslike, verging on the hostile.

He let himself be led round the side of the building. This was where staff parked their cars and bikes. There were two fire-exit doors, painted a green as drab as the grey of the corrugated walls. The back of the warehouse was a waste and delivery area. Skips spilled out flattened cardboard boxes. A dozen terracotta pots waited to be taken inside and displayed for sale. A low brick wall surrounded the area.

‘Is this where you mug me?’ Rebus asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.

‘Why have you got it in for Darren Rough?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Just tell me.’

He tried for eye contact, but she wasn’t playing. ‘Because of what he is, what he was doing at the zoo. Because he slandered a fellow officer. Because of...’

‘Shiellion?’ she guessed, her eyes meeting his at last. ‘You couldn’t touch Ince and Marshall, but suddenly there was someone you could replace them with.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

Barbour reached into the envelope, lifted out a black and white photograph. It looked old, showed a three-storey Georgian house. A family posed in front of it, proud of their new motor car. The car was a 1920s model.

‘They knocked it down six years ago,’ Barbour explained. ‘It was either that or wait for it to disintegrate of its own accord.’

‘Nice-looking house.’

‘The patriarch there,’ Barbour said, tapping the man with one foot on the car’s running-board, ‘he went bankrupt. Mr Callstone, he was called. Worked in jute or something. The family home had to be sold. Church of Scotland snapped it up. But part of the deal was, they had to retain the family’s name. So it stayed Callstone House.’

She waited for him to get the name. ‘Children’s home,’ he said at last, watching her nod.

‘Ramsay Marshall worked there, prior to his transfer to Shiellion. He already knew Harold Ince before the move.’ She handed him more photos.

Rebus looked through them. Callstone House as a children’s home, run by the Church of Scotland. Kids grouped outside the same front door, kids photographed inside, seated at long tables, looking hungry. Dormitory beds. Some photos of stern-looking staff. Rebus’s mind was working now. ‘Darren Rough spent some time at Callstone...’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘During Ramsay Marshall’s reign?’

She nodded again.

‘You...’ he said, suddenly getting it. ‘It was you that wanted Darren Rough back here.’

‘That’s right.’

‘For the trial?’

She nodded. ‘Arranged a flat for him, wanted him amenable. Worked on him for weeks.’

‘He was abused?’ Rebus frowned. ‘He’s not on the list.’

‘The Procurator Fiscal didn’t think he’d make a good witness.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Criminal record. Couldn’t risk cross-examination.’

‘That’s right.’

Rebus handed back the photographs. He knew where this was leading now. ‘So what happened to him?’

She busied herself putting the photos back in their envelope. ‘One night, Marshall went into the dorm. Darren wasn’t asleep. Marshall said they were going on a drive. He took Darren to Shiellion.’

‘Proving that Marshall and Ince were already in cahoots?’

‘That’s how it looks. The two of them and a third man took turns.’

‘Christ.’ Rebus stared at the warehouse, imagining it as a children’s home, a supposed refuge. He wondered what Mr Callstone’s ghost would be making of it. ‘Who was the third man?’

Barbour shrugged. ‘They had Darren in a blindfold.’

‘How come?’

‘The thing is, John, I made certain promises to him.’

‘To a convicted paedophile,’ Rebus felt bound to add.

‘Ever heard of environment working on character?’

‘The abused becoming the abuser? You think that’s a reasonable excuse?’

‘I think it’s a reason.’ She was calmer now. ‘Professor Calder in Glasgow, he has this test. It shows how likely it is someone will reoffend. Darren came out low-risk. All his time inside, he went to the meetings, kept the therapy going.’

Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘How come he’s not registered?’ He’d checked: forty-nine sex offenders registered with police in Edinburgh; Rough wasn’t among them.

‘That was part of the deal. He’s terrified they’ll get him.’

‘“They”?’

‘Ince and Marshall. I know they’re locked up, but he still has nightmares about them.’ She waited for him to say something, but Rebus was thoughtful. ‘What’s happening down at Greenfield,’ she pressed on, ‘it’s not right. Is that your answer: hound them, chase them out? They’ll end up somewhere, John. We need to deal with them, not hand them to the mob.’

Rebus looked down at his shoes. As ever, they needed a clean. ‘Did Rough tell you?’

She shook her head. ‘When I saw the paper, I tried to find him. Then I spoke to his social worker. Andy Davies is pretty sure it was you.’

‘You believe him?’

She shrugged. They were walking back towards their cars. ‘So what do you want?’ Rebus asked. ‘An apology?’

‘I just want you to understand.’

‘Well, thanks for the therapy. I think I’m ready to be released back into the community.’

‘I’m glad you can make a joke of it,’ she said coldly.

He turned to her. ‘Rough comes back to Edinburgh, and Jim Margolies, the cop he accused of beating him up, decides to take a walk from Salisbury Crags. I think there might be a connection. That’s why I’m interested in...’ He saw her face change at Jim Margolies’ name. ‘What?’ he asked. She shook her head. Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘You spoke to Jim, didn’t you? Had the same conversation we’ve just had?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I was bringing Darren back to Edinburgh. He was reluctant, wanted to know if DI Margolies was still around.’

‘So you met with Jim, explained it all?’

‘I wanted to know there’d be no... conflict, I suppose.’

‘So Margolies knew Rough was coming back?’ Rebus was thoughtful. A mobile phone sounded: hers. She lifted it from her pocket, listened for a moment.

‘I’ll head straight there,’ she said, terminating the call. Then to Rebus: ‘You’d better come too.’

He looked at her. ‘What is it?’

She opened her car door. ‘Ugly scenes in Greenfield. Looks like Darren’s finally gone home.’

19

There was a mob on the landing outside Darren Rough’s flat, and the only thing standing between them and it was PC Tom Jackson. Van Brady was at the front of the queue, brandishing a crowbar. Other women crowded behind her. A local TV crew jockeyed for position. A news photographer was snapping a cluster of kids holding up a banner. The banner was homemade: half a bedsheet and black spray-paint. The message read: SAVE US FROM THE BEAST.

‘Lovely,’ Jane Barbour said.

People in the other blocks were watching from their windows, or had opened them to shout encouragement. Rebus saw that paint had been daubed on the door of the flat. Eggs and grease had been smeared on the window. The crowd was baying for blood, and more people seemed to be joining in all the time.

Rebus thought: What in God’s name have I done?

Tom Jackson glanced in Rebus’s direction. His face was red, lines of sweat trickling from both temples. Jane Barbour was pushing her way to the front.

‘What’s going on here?’ she shouted.

‘Just bring the bastard out here,’ Van Brady yelled back. ‘We’ll bloody well lynch him!’

There were cries of agreement — ‘String him up!’; ‘Hanging’s too good!’ Barbour held up both hands, appealing for quiet. She saw that most of the protestors were wearing white sticky labels on their jackets and jumpers. Plain labels on which had been written three letters — GAP.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Greenfield Against Perverts,’ Van Brady told her.

Rebus saw a kid handing the labels out. Recognised him as Jamie Brady, Van’s youngest.

‘Since when was it your job to stick up for sick bastards like him?’ one woman asked.

‘Everybody’s got certain rights,’ Barbour replied.

‘Even sickos?’

‘Darren Rough served his sentence,’ Barbour went on. ‘He’s now on a rehab programme.’ She saw the film crew getting close, whispered something to Tom Jackson. He pushed his way to the camera, held a hand in front of it.

‘We want answers,’ Van Brady was shouting. ‘Why was he put here? Who knew about it? Why weren’t we told?’

‘And we want him out!’ a male voice called. A newcomer, the sea of bodies parting to let him through. A young man, chiselled face, bare-armed. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Van Brady, ignoring Barbour and directing his comments towards the film crew.

‘This is our community here, not the police’s.’ Applause and cheers. ‘If they can’t deal with scum,’ jerking his thumb back towards Rough’s front door, ‘no problem — we’ll deal with it ourselves. We’ve always been tidy that way in Greenfield.’

More cheers; nods of agreement.

One protestor: ‘You said it, Cal.’

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 ‘no 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 cross 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.

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.

‘I did have a party that night,’ she agreed. ‘Not that I remember it too well. Bit too much to drink, too many people... as per. Word gets around, I do get the occasional gatecrasher. I don’t mind, so long as they’re interesting, but the boat’s owner goes on about overcrowding. He’s always asking me if I know this or that person, did I invite them?’ She drained her second glass of orange. ‘Christ knows why I bother.’

‘Why do you bother?’

A smirk. ‘Because it’s fun, I suppose. And because while I’m doing it, I’m somebody.’ She thought about this, shrugged the thought aside as if it were the wrong jacket. ‘You’re sure he was coming to my party?’

‘It’s the last time he was seen,’ Janice confirmed.

Rebus got out the photographs: Damon; Damon and the mystery blonde. As Ama studied them, he asked casually if she’d ever been to Gaitano’s.

‘Do people call it Guiser’s?’ He nodded confirmation. ‘Yes, once or twice. Lots of sweaty job-creation-schemers and dole-fiddlers. Off their faces on happy-hour cocktails, dropping E in the lavs.’ She smiled. ‘Not my scene, I’m afraid.’ She handed back the photos. ‘Sorry, don’t mean a thing to me.’

‘Not even the woman?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Looks a bit tarty.’

‘It couldn’t be someone you know?’

‘Inspector.’ A throaty laugh. ‘That’s hardly narrowing things down. I know everybody.’

‘But you don’t know my son,’ Janice said grimly.

‘No,’ Ama said, face making a show of contrition. ‘I’m very much afraid I don’t.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘I’d better get back. They’ll have started the judging.’

Rebus and Janice followed her, stood in the doorway as the prizes were handed out. Hannah was runner-up. As the winner was announced, and went forward to receive a sparkling tiara, everyone clapped and cheered. Everyone except Ama Petrie, who bounced on her toes, booing at the top of her voice as she gave an enthusiastic thumbs-down to the little girl With voluminous black hair, shimmering with glitter.

Katherine Margolies tried to stop Ama making a scene, but to Rebus’s eyes she didn’t try very hard...

‘Where the hell have you been?’

Stevens found Cary Oakes in the bar, where he was drinking orange juice and talking to the staff.

‘Walking, thinking.’ Oakes looked at him. ‘Want to make sure I don’t forget anything.’

Stevens picked up Oakes’s glass. ‘Then don’t forget this: that’s my juice you’re drinking, my money paying for it. We’ve lost a whole session.’

‘I’ll make it up to you.’ Oakes blew Stevens a kiss, grinned and winked at the barman. Turned back to Stevens. ‘Look at you, man, all trembling and sweating. A cardiac arrest’s having your name paged as we speak. You got to slow down, Jim. Go with the flow.’

‘My editor wants better copy.’

‘You could give him Kennedy’s assassin, he’d say he wanted better copy. You and I know, Jim, the best stuff has to wait for the book, right? The book’s what’s going to make us rich.’

‘If I find a publisher.’

‘It’ll happen, trust me. Now sit down here beside me and let me buy you one. Hell, I don’t mind putting my hand in my pocket for a friend.’ He wrapped an arm around Stevens’ shoulders. ‘You’re with Cary now, Jim. You’re part of my exclusive circle. Nothing bad’s going to happen.’ Oakes made eye contact, held it. ‘You can depend on that,’ he said. ‘Cross my heart.’

‘Just drop me off at Haymarket,’ Janice said. They were back in the car, heading into town.

‘You sure? I could drive you—’

She was shaking her head.

‘Look, Janice, a trail like this... we’re bound to run into dead ends. Maybe a lot of them. It’s something you’ll have to accept.’

She shook her head. ‘I was thinking of all those kids... wondering what they’ll be like when they grow up. If I’d had a daughter...’ She shook her head again.

‘It was pretty ghastly,’ Rebus agreed.

She looked at him. ‘Did you think so? I thought so too, at first. But then I kept looking... and they all looked so beautiful.’ She took out a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes.

‘I think I’d better drive you home,’ he said.

‘No, I don’t want that.’ She paused, put a hand on his arm. ‘I just mean... I don’t want to put you... Oh Christ, I don’t know what I want any more.’

‘You want Damon back.’

‘Yes, I want that.’

‘What else?’

She seemed to consider the question. But in the end she made no answer, just turned to him again and smiled, eyes shiny from crying.

‘In a funny way, it’s like you’ve never been away,’ she told him.

He nodded. ‘Just the thirty-odd years. What’s that between friends?’

They shared the laughter; he touched the back of her hand with his fingers. Parked outside Haymarket station, they sat in silence for a while. Then she opened the door, got out. Smiled one last time and walked away.

Rebus sat for another minute or two, imagining himself running down to the platform, seeking her amongst the crowds... Like in a film. Real life was never like that. In films, there was nothing you couldn’t do; in the real world... in the real world it always got messy.

He went back to Oxford Terrace. Patience wasn’t home. They’d passed beyond the stage of leaving notes. He soaked in a bath for half an hour, drifting off to sleep, startling himself awake as his chin dipped beneath the water. He saw the headline: dog-tired cop in bathtime tragedy. One for Jim Stevens to relish.

He lay on the sofa, put some music on. Pete Hammill: ‘Two or Three Spectres’. He knew they were there, his ghosts, settling around him, getting comfortable. More comfortable than he could ever be. Patience, Sammy, Janice... A point was coming, between Patience and him. A crisis point maybe, but then they’d been there before. But was there some point coming between Janice and him too? Something very different...? He picked up a book, covered his eyes with it.

Slept.

21

Ama Petrie wasn’t the only one who’d thought the mystery blonde looked ‘tarty’ or a bit like a pro. On his way down to The Shore that evening, Rebus decided on a slight detour.

A few of the working girls still plied their trade dockside. Most of the city’s prostitutes worked in licensed premises masquerading as saunas, but a few still took risks by walking the streets. Sometimes it was because they were desperate or unemployable — which meant they had an obvious drug habit — while others just liked to do their own thing, despite the dangers. Over in Glasgow, there were fewer saunas and more girls on the street. Result: seven murders in as many years.

Rebus’s thinking: street girls worked Leith; the blonde looked ‘tarty’; the taxi had brought her and Damon to Leith. It was another possibility. Say they hadn’t been making for the Clipper. Say they’d been heading for her room.

Her room, or maybe a hotel...

There were only three women out this evening on Coburg Street, but he knew one of them. Stopped the car and called her over. She got into the passenger seat, bringing waves of perfume with her.

‘Long time no see,’ she said. Her name was Fern. Punters assumed it was made up, but Rebus knew from her records that she’d been born Fern Bogot. He knew too that she worked the streets because she liked to be her own boss. In saunas, the proprietor was always taking a cut. She had her regulars; didn’t often go with strangers. Mature gentlemen preferred. She found them less aggressive.

Her mane of red hair was a wig, though it looked natural enough. Rebus put the car into gear and signalled to move off. She took her punters to some waste ground in Granton. If Rebus stuck around, he wasn’t a punter, and that made everyone uneasy. Looking in his rearview, he saw one of the remaining women peering at the car, then turning to scrawl something on a wall.

‘What’s she doing?’ he asked.

Fern turned back. ‘Good old Lesley,’ she said. ‘She’s taking your registration. That way, if my body turns up, there’s something for the cops to go on. We call it our insurance policy. Can’t be too careful these days.’

Rebus nodded agreement, drove them around the streets, asking his questions. She studied the photographs in detail, but was forced to shake her head.

‘Nobody like that works down here.’

‘What about the lad?’

‘Sorry.’ She handed the photos back. Rebus exchanged them for one of Janice’s flyers.

‘Just in case,’ he said.

When he dropped her back at her patch, he got out of the car and went to look at the wall. Sure enough, there were rows of car registration numbers scrawled there, most of them in various shadings of lipstick, some worn away by the elements. His own was at the bottom of the last column. He looked up the column, started to frown. At the top was a number he thought he recognised. Where did he know it from...?

Suddenly it dawned on him: he’d seen it in a file at Leith police station. Leith: where Jim Margolies had been stationed. It was mentioned in the file on Jim’s suicide.

It was the registration number of his car.

‘What is it?’ Fern asked.

Rebus tapped the wall. ‘This one. Belongs to a guy called Jim. A cop.’

She frowned in concentration, then shrugged. ‘Not one of mine,’ she said. ‘But it’s orange lipstick.’

‘So?’

‘Lesley has a code, her way of telling who’s gone in which car.’

‘And who does orange lipstick mean?’

She was shaking her head. ‘Not a who so much as a what. Orange means whoever it was, he liked them young...’

Roy Frazer wasn’t the only one waiting for Rebus down at The Shore. Sitting in the car alongside him was the Farmer.

‘Checking up on us, sir?’ said Rebus, getting into the back seat. As he got in, Frazer got out, closing the door after him.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ the Farmer said. ‘I’ve spent half the day trying to find you.’ He handed Rebus the day’s surveillance notes. ‘First entry,’ he snapped.

Rebus looked. Bill Pryde recorded himself taking over from Rebus at 0600. His next entry: ‘Cary Oakes entered hotel at 0745.’

‘Which means,’ the Farmer said, ‘he left the hotel at some point, and one of you missed him.’

‘I saw his bedroom light go off,’ Rebus said.

‘That’s right, you did. It’s in the log.’

‘Which means he sneaked out on my shift?’ Rebus’s fingernails dug into his palms.

‘Or during the first hour of Bill Pryde’s.’

‘Either’s possible. We’re only covering the front of the building. Plenty of access points at the rear.’

The Farmer turned to face him. ‘Access isn’t our problem, John. Our problem is that he seems to be able to leave whenever he likes.’

‘Yes, sir. But a single-officer surveillance...’

‘Is no bloody use at all if we’re not keeping tabs on him.’

‘I thought the point was to needle him, let him know we can make things difficult.’

‘And does it look to you like we’re succeeding, Inspector?’

‘No, sir,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Thing is, if he’s got a way of getting out undetected, why not go back the same way?’

‘Because the doors at the back can only be opened from within.’

‘That’s one possibility, sir.’

‘And the other?’

‘He’s playing with us, having a little joke at our expense. He wants us to know what he’s been doing.’

‘And what has he been doing, all the time he’s been out roaming?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. Why don’t we ask him?’

When Frazer and the Farmer had left, Rebus decided to follow his own advice. He found Cary Oakes in the bar: no sign of Jim Stevens. Oakes was sitting on a stool, chatting with the two barmen. There were a few other drinkers scattered round the tables, business types, discussing deals even in their cups.

Oakes waved for Rebus to join him, asked him what he was drinking.

‘Whisky,’ Rebus said. ‘A malt.’

‘Take your pick, Mr Stevens is paying.’ Oakes allowed himself a little chuckle, chin tucked into his neck. He looked like he’d had a few, but Rebus saw he was drinking cola. ‘What about something to chase it down?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘And I pay for my own,’ he said.

There was plenty of choice behind the bar. Rebus decided on something fiery: Laphroaig, with a splash of water to damp the flames. Cary Oakes tried signing for the drink, but Rebus was insistent.

‘Your good health then,’ Oakes said, lifting his own glass.

‘You like playing games, don’t you?’ Rebus asked.

‘Not much else to do in jail. I taught myself chess.’

‘I don’t mean board games.’

‘What then?’ Oakes’ eyes were heavy-lidded.

‘Well, you’re playing a game right now.’

‘Am I?’

‘Bar-room raconteur. A couple too many, telling stories to anyone who’ll listen.’ He nodded towards the barmen, who’d moved to the far end to wash glasses. ‘Just another piece of play-acting.’

‘You could go on TV with this stuff. No, I mean it. You’re so shrewd. Guess you have to be in your profession.’

‘Is Jim Stevens falling for it?’

‘For what?’

‘The stories you’re telling him. How much of the truth are you giving him?’

Oakes narrowed his eyes. ‘How much truth do you think he can take? If I went into details, think his newspaper would publish them?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘People can only take so much truth, John.’ He leaned towards Rebus. ‘Want me to tell you about it, John? Want me to tell you how many I really did kill?’

‘Tell me about Deirdre Campbell.’

Oakes sat back, took a sip of his drink. ‘Alan Archibald thinks I killed her.’

‘And did you?’ Rebus tried to keep the question casual. Lifted his glass to his lips.

‘Does it matter?’ Oakes smiled. ‘It matters to Alan, doesn’t it? Why else would he have come running when I called?’

‘He wants the truth — all of it.’

‘Maybe you’re right. And what do you want, John? What brought you running in here? Shall I tell you?’ He made himself comfortable on the stool. ‘The morning shift saw me coming back. I wasn’t sure he was awake: arms folded, head over on one shoulder. I thought he’d nodded off.’ He tutted. ‘I’m not sure his heart’s in it. The job, I mean, police work. He looks the type who’s coasting to retirement.’

Which just about summed up Bill Pryde; not that Rebus was about to admit it.

‘I think you have problems with your job, too, but not in the same way.’

‘Taught yourself psychology along with the chess?’

‘When there were no new books to read, I started reading people.’

‘You killed Deirdre Campbell, didn’t you?’

Oakes put a finger to his lips. Then: ‘Did you kill Gordon Reeve?’

Gordon Reeve: another ghost; a case from years back... Jim Stevens had been shooting his mouth off.

‘Tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘do you trade with Stevens? You tell him a story, he has to tell you one?’

‘I’m just interested in you.’

‘Then you’ll know I killed Gordon Reeve.’

‘Did you mean to?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure about that? You stabbed a drug-dealer... he died.’

‘Self-defence.’

‘Yes, but did you want him dead?’

‘Let’s talk about you, Oakes. What made you pick Deirdre Campbell?’

Oakes gave another wry smile. Rebus wanted to rip his lips from his face. ‘See, John? See how easy it is to play the game? Stories, that’s all they are. Way back in the past, things we’d like to think we can forget.’ He slipped off the stool. ‘I’m going to my room now. A nice hot bath, I think, then maybe one of the in-room movies. I might call down for a sandwich later. Would you like something sent out to the car?’

‘I don’t know, what’s the menu like?’

‘No menu, you just order what you like.’

‘Then I’ll have your head on a plate, no garnish required.’

Cary Oakes was laughing as he left the bar.

There was someone in the car.

Rebus started forward, saw they were in the passenger seat. As he got close, he saw it was Alan Archibald. Rebus opened the driver’s-side door and got in.

‘Car wasn’t locked,’ Archibald said.

‘No.’

‘Didn’t think you’d mind.’

Rebus shrugged, lit a cigarette.

‘Have you been talking to him?’ Archibald needed no confirmation. ‘What did he say?’

‘He’s playing a game with you, Alan. That’s all it is to him.’

‘He told you that?’

‘He didn’t need to. It’s what he does. Stevens, you, me... we’re how he gets his kicks.’

‘You’re wrong there, John. I’ve seen how he gets his kicks.’ He leaned down to the floor, brought out a green folder. ‘Thought you might like something to read.’

Alan Archibald’s file on Cary Dennis Oakes.

Cary Oakes had travelled to the USA on a tourist visa. His biography prior to this time was sketchy: a father who’d died when he was young; a mother who’d had psychological problems. Cary had been born in Nairn, where his father had worked as a green-keeper at one of the local golf courses, and his mother as a maid at a hotel in the town. Rebus knew Nairn as a windswept coastal resort, the kind of destination that had lost out as cheap foreign holidays had prospered.

When Oakes’s father had died following a stroke, the mother had experienced a breakdown. Her employers had let her go, and she’d headed south with her son, finally stopping in Edinburgh, where she had a half-sister. They’d never been particularly close, but there was no one else, no other family, so mother and son had been squeezed into a room in the house in Gilmerton. Soon afterwards, Cary had started running away. His school had notified his mother that his attendance was irregular at best. There were nights and weekends when he just didn’t bother going home at all. His mother was beyond caring, and her half-sister preferred him out of the house anyway, since her husband had taken a furious dislike to the boy.

Where did the money come from for his trip to the States? Alan Archibald had done some digging, uncovering a series of muggings and break-ins in Edinburgh, unsolved, but tailing off at about the time Cary Oakes made his trip. The mystery of his niece’s murder made for a file in itself. Archibald had interviewed Oakes’s mother and half-sister (both now deceased) and the husband (still alive; living alone in sheltered accommodation in East Craigs). They hadn’t remembered anything specific about the night of the murder, couldn’t even be sure that Cary had been near the house that day or the next.

Deirdre Campbell had been out dancing in town, ending up at a club on the corner of Rose Street — not a hundred yards from where Gaitano’s was now sited. She’d been picked by one particular man, had danced the last four or five dances with him. She’d introduced him to her friends. She had exams coming up, shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The club was for over-twenty-ones only, and Deirdre had been underage. The owner had got into trouble afterwards. His defence: ‘If she hadn’t come in here, they’d have let her in someplace else.’ Which was true: make-up, choice of clothes and hairstyle could add half a dozen years to a teenage girl. After the club, the group had headed out to Lothian Road, trying hard not to let the night die. A pizza restaurant, and then taxis. Deirdre had said she’d walk. She lived in Dalry, it would only take her twenty minutes.

Police questioned the young man who’d been with her, the one she’d danced with. He’d asked if he could see her home, but she’d shaken her head. He lived way out at Comiston, so had accepted a ride in one of the taxis. Deirdre had started walking home.

Only to end up murdered on a hillside. Clothing interfered with, but no sign of rape or assault. A blow to the head, then strangulation.

Three days later, Cary Oakes had been heading out of Scotland, taking with him a rucksack and sports holdall. None of his family knew what he was up to. First they’d heard was when he’d been arrested, over two months later.

They hadn’t bothered contacting police, registering him as missing.

‘He was old enough to make his mind up what he wanted to do,’ his uncle had told Alan Archibald. ‘We knew he’d taken some clothes and stuff, figured he’d just took off.’

Archibald had used police reports and trial evidence to piece together Cary Oakes’s American travels. From New York he’d taken a bus cross-country. At his trial, Oakes stated that he did this ‘because it’s what all the pioneers did: headed west’. He spent a week in Chicago, just crisscrossing the city on foot and by means of public transport. Then, hitching rides west, he stopped at Minneapolis, where he decided he needed more money and tried his hand at mugging. A couple of minor successes, and one major setback: picked on a woman with Mace in her coat pocket and a lethal left hook. He left Minneapolis with a swollen left eye and the right bloodshot and stinging. He ate at truck stops along I-94, passing through Fargo and Billings, making it as far as Spokane before his need for dollars became desperate. He broke into a couple of houses, tried pawning his meagre findings. The brokers knew swag when they saw it, offered him a few dollars, then, when he bad-mouthed them, called his description in to the police.

He’d taken to sleeping rough, finding like-minded individuals. Joined a little shoplifting gang. With his ‘funny accent’, he’d keep the staff busy and interested while the others went about their work undetected. Already, he was boasting that he was on the run, that he’d ‘offed’ someone back in Scotland. No details, the assertion taken for bravado. Everyone on the street hid behind a shield of lies and fantasies. They’d all tasted the good life; all fallen from a state of grace.

In Spokane, he’d murdered Dorothy Anne Wreiss, a forty-two-year-old divorcee who taught kindergarten three days a week. She lived in a sprawling suburban tract. It was thought Oakes had spotted her at the mall, followed her home or trawled the neighbourhood until he’d spotted her station wagon parked in the drive.

She was found in her kitchen, groceries still in their bags on the breakfast bar. Her two cats had curled up on her back and were sleeping. She’d been beaten with a rock, then strangled with a dishtowel. Her purse had been emptied, as had the jewellery box in her bedroom. Next day, Oakes had tried pawning her watch. At the trial, he’d say it had been gifted to him by one of his drifter friends, the one called Otis. But no one who’d known him had known anyone called Otis.

He ran towards Seattle, stayed there over a week. There was one unsolved they’d tried pinning on him: man found unconscious in the car park of the King Dome. He’d been beaten around the head, his car stolen. Died in hospital of his injuries. The car turned up in Ballard, as did Cary Oakes. By now, the police forces of several states were interested in the ‘Scottish drifter’. A couple of serious assaults in Chicago; a known homosexual found dead in his car in the La Grange district of the city. A woman attacked and left for dead in a mall on the outskirts of Bloomington, Minneapolis. The death of a seventy-eight-year-old following a break-in at her home in Tacoma, Washington. Sometimes, police had physical descriptions of someone at or near the scene; sometimes all they had was an MO. No useful fingerprints, no positive IDs of Cary Oakes.

The final killing: another homosexual, Willis Chadaran, age sixty. The attack had taken place in the master bedroom of his home in Bellevue. A heavy statuette, which Chadaran had won for his editing work on a documentary film back in 1982, was the weapon. He’d been beaten senseless with it, then finished off with the belt from his red silk yakuta. Cary Oakes’s fingerprints were found on the headboard. When arrested and presented with the fingerprint match-up, he admitted he’d been to Chadaran’s home, but denied killing him. Detectives had asked how his prints had ended up on the headboard. Oakes said he’d sneaked into the room looking for stuff to steal, maybe he’d touched it then.

He was finally arrested at Pike Place Market. Traders had complained that he’d looked ready to swipe something. Police had asked for his ID. He’d offered his passport, with its invalid tourist visa, then made a run for it. They’d caught him, taken him in, and someone had connected him to various descriptions which had been coming in from all across the country.

At the trial, the prosecution’s summing-up had been succinct.

‘This is a man for whom brutal murder has become a way of life, a commonplace. If he needs something, wants something, covets something... he kills for it. He sees us all as potential victims. We’re not fellow humans to him; he’s ceased to think of us in those terms, the terms by which we co-ordinate and validate our society, terms without which we cannot call ourselves civilised. His soul has shrivelled to the size of a walnut, maybe not even that big. Cary Oakes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, has stepped outside our society, our laws, our civilisation, and he must pay the price.’

The price being two life sentences.

Rebus put down the file. ‘Lots of circumstantial evidence,’ he mused.

‘It all adds up though. More than enough to make a case.’

Rebus nodded agreement. ‘But I can see where he found his loopholes.’ He tapped the folder, thought of the summing-up. ‘Wonder how big a soul usually is...’ He turned to Archibald. ‘He plays games.’

‘I know that. The version Jim Stevens’ paper is printing... Oakes is spinning them a line.’

‘He told me one of his victims was the same age as my daughter. Nobody in here fits with that.’

Alan Archibald shrugged. ‘Your daughter’s mid-twenties, Deirdre was eighteen.’ He paused. ‘Maybe there are others we don’t know about.’

Yes, thought Rebus, and maybe it had been just another lie. ‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Keep at him.’

‘Play along with him?’

‘I don’t see it that way.’

‘I know you don’t; that’s what worries me.’

‘She wasn’t your niece.’

Rebus looked into Alan Archibald’s eyes; saw courage and grit, the vital energies which had stayed with him all his working years, not about to be jettisoned now.

‘How can I help?’

‘What makes you think I want any help?’

‘Because you came back tonight. Not to talk to him, but to see me.’

Alan Archibald smiled. ‘I know a bit about you, John. I know we’re not so very different.’

‘So how can I help?’

‘Help me make him come to Hillend.’

‘What good do you think it would do?’

‘He ran from the crime, John. Ran as far as he could from the memory of it. Take him back there, back to his first killing... I think it would bring it all back: the terror, the uncertainty. I think he’d start to unravel.’

‘Is that what we want?’ Rebus thinking: He’ll kill again...

‘It’s what I want. I just need to know if I’ll have your help.’

Rebus rubbed his hands over the steering-wheel. ‘I’ll need to think.’

‘Well, don’t be too long about it. I get the feeling maybe you need this as much as I do.’

Rebus looked at him.

‘We can’t always live by faith alone,’ Archibald went on. ‘Now and then, there has to be something more.’

22

After a further hour of conversation, Archibald left, saying he’d find himself a taxi. He’d talked about his niece, his memories of her, the way her murder had affected the family.

‘We disintegrated,’ he’d said. ‘So slowly, I don’t think anybody noticed. I think we felt guilty whenever we met, like we were to blame. Because when we got together, there was only one possible subject, one thing on our minds, and we didn’t want that.’

He’d talked too about his work on the case: weeks spent in police archives; months spent piecing together Cary Oakes’s history; trips to the US.

‘It must all have cost a lot,’ Rebus had said.

‘Worth every penny, John.’

Rebus hadn’t added that money wasn’t his point. He knew all about obsession, knew how it could rob you of everything. He’d been given a jigsaw one year as a Christmas present, back when Sammy was just a kid. He’d cleared a table and started work on it, found he worked late into the night, even though he knew the picture he was making — knew because it was right there on the box. Only he tried not to look at it, wanting to complete the puzzle without any help.

And one piece was missing. He’d asked Rhona, questioned Sammy: had she taken it? Rhona told him maybe it wasn’t in the box to start with, but he couldn’t accept that. He’d stripped the sofa and chairs, pulled up the carpet, gone over the room inch by inch, then the rest of the flat — just in case Sammy had put it somewhere. Never found it. Even years later, he would find himself wondering if maybe it had slipped between the floorboards, or under the skirting-board...

Police work could affect you like that, if you let it. Unsolved cases; questions that niggled; people you knew were the culprits but couldn’t incriminate... He’d had more than his fair share of those. But eventually he let them go, even if it meant drinking them into oblivion. Alan Archibald didn’t look capable of putting Cary Oakes behind him. Rebus got the feeling that even if Oakes were proved innocent, Archibald would go on believing in his guilt. It was in the nature of obsession.

Alone with his thoughts, Rebus reached into his pocket for the quarter-bottle, drained it dry.

Proved innocent... He thought of Darren Rough, shaking with fear, holed up in his locked toilet. All because Social Work had put him in a flat above a kids’ playground. And because John Rebus had placed on Rough’s shoulders the sins of others — the sins of men who had themselves abused Rough.

Rebus rubbed at his eyes. It wasn’t unusual for him to feel a weight of guilt. He carried Jack Morton’s death with him. But something had changed. In the old days, he wouldn’t have given much thought to Darren Rough. He’d have told himself Rough deserved what he got, for being what he so evidently was. But go back further... back to the cop he had once been, so long ago now, and he wouldn’t have taken Rough’s story to the tabloids. Maybe Mairie Henderson was right: something’s gone bad inside you.

He admired Alan Archibald’s persistence, but wondered what would happen if he were proved wrong. Would he still pursue Cary Oakes? Would he take things further than mere pursuit...? Rebus stared out at the night sky.

It’s all pretty tricky down here, isn’t it, Big Man?

He wondered what point the surveillance was serving. Oakes seemed to be turning it to his own advantage, coming and going as he pleased, letting them know he could do it. So that all their efforts seemed so much waste. He closed his eyes, listened to the occasional message on the police radio, his thoughts turning to Damon Mee. The boat looked like another dead end. Damon had walked out of the world, given his life the slip. Thoughts of Damon took him to Janice, and from there to his schooldays, when everything had just started to get complicated in his life.

Alec Chisholm had disappeared one day; never found.

Rebus had gone to the school leaving dance, with something he wanted to tell Mitch.

Then Janice had knocked him cold, a gang had descended on Mitch, and suddenly Rebus’s whole life was decided...

A noise brought him out of his reverie. He thought it had come from the back of the hotel. He decided to investigate. The car park and service entrance in darkness, but he swept his torch around. Looked up at the hotel windows. You could tell the corridors: lights still burned in those windows. One of the windows was open, curtains flapping. Rebus moved his torch in a downward arc, its beam landing on the roof of a lock-up garage, one of a row of three. They were separated from the hotel property by a wall. Rebus pulled himself up and over it. A narrow alley, puddles and rubbish underfoot. No sign of life, but footprints in the mud. He followed the path. It led him around the back of a factory unit and tenement, then up on to the busy thoroughfare of Bernard Street, where late-night cars and taxis idled at traffic lights. Where drunks stumbled their way home. One man was doing an elaborate dance and providing his own musical accompaniment. The woman with him thought he was hilarious. Can: ‘Tango Whiskyman’.

There was no sign of Cary Oakes, no sign at all, but Rebus got the feeling he was out there. He retraced his steps, stopped at a rubbish skip parked next to one of the service doors, took the empty bottle from his pocket and tossed it in.

Felt his head jerk forward as a blow hit him from behind. Searing pain, his eyes screwing shut. He raised a hand, half-turned. A second blow laid him out cold.

It was pitch black, and when he moved there was a dull steel echo.

And a smell.

He was lying on something soft. Voices above him, then blinding light.

‘Dear oh dear.’

Second voice, amused: ‘Sleeping it off, sir?’

Rebus shielded his eyes, peered up at sheer walls. Two heads bobbing over the rim. He pulled his knees up, slithered as he tried to stand. His hands were tingling. His head pulsed with pain.

He was... he knew where he was. In a rubbish skip, the one behind the hotel. Wet cardboard boxes beneath him, and Christ knew what else. Hands were helping him to his feet.

‘Come on then, sir. Let’s...’ The voice died as the torch found his face again. Two uniforms, probably from Leith cop shop. And one of them had recognised him.

‘DI Rebus?’

Rebus: dishevelled, whisky on his breath, being helped from a skip. Supposedly on surveillance. He knew how it must look.

‘Christ, sir, what happened to you?’

‘Get that torch out of my face, son.’ Their faces were shadows to him, no way to tell if he knew them. He asked the time, worked out that he’d been unconscious only ten or fifteen minutes.

‘Call from a public box on Bernard Street,’ one of the uniforms was explaining. ‘Said there was a fight going on at the back of the hotel.’

Rebus examined the back of his head: no blood on his palm. Hands still tingling. He rubbed at the fingers. They hurt when he worked them. Lifted them into the torchlight. One of the uniforms whistled.

The knuckles were grazed, bruised. A couple of the joints seemed to be swelling.

‘Gave him a sore one, whoever he was,’ the uniform said.

Rebus studied the scrapes. Like he’d been punching concrete. ‘I didn’t hit anyone,’ he said. The uniforms shared a glance.

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I suppose it’s asking too much to tell you to keep this to yourselves.’

‘We won’t breathe a word, sir.’

An outright lie; it didn’t do to beg favours from uniforms.

‘Anything else we can do, sir?’

Rebus started to shake his head, felt a wave of nausea as the pain slammed in. Steadied himself with a hand on the skip.

‘My car’s round the corner,’ he said, voice brittle.

‘You’ll want a shower when you get home.’

‘Thank you, Sherlock.’

‘Only trying to help,’ the uniform muttered.

Rebus walked slowly around the building. The receptionist looked ready to call security until Rebus produced ID and asked her to buzz Oakes’s room. There was no reply.

‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

Rebus was looking in his wallet. His cards were there, but the cash had gone.

‘Any idea where Mr Oakes is?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t see him leave.’

Rebus thanked her and walked over to a sofa, fell down on to it. A little later, he asked for aspirin. When she brought them, she had to shake his shoulder to wake him up.

He headed for Patience’s: sod the surveillance. Oakes wasn’t in his room. He was out on the streets. Rebus needed clean clothes, a shower, and more painkillers. As he stumbled through the door, Patience came into the hall, blinking her eyes sleepily. He held up both hands to pacify her.

‘It’s not what you think,’ he said.

She came forward, held his hands, looking at the swelling.

‘Explain,’ she said. So Rebus did just that.

He lay in the bath, a cold compress on the back of his skull. Patience had rigged it up from a sandwich bag, some ice cubes, and a bandage. She was treating his hands with antiseptic cream, having cleaned them and established nothing was broken.

‘This man Oakes,’ she said, ‘I’m still not sure why he’d do it.’

Rebus adjusted the ice-pack. ‘To humiliate me. He made sure I’d be found by uniforms, out cold in a rubbish skip.’

‘Yes?’ She dabbed on more ointment.

‘Knuckles bruised like I’d been fighting. And whoever I’d fought had whipped me. Found like that at the back of the hotel, there’s only one real candidate. By morning, it’ll be round every station in the city.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘To show me he can. Why else?’ He tried not to flinch as she rubbed cream into a cut.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe to distract you.’

He looked at her. ‘From what?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re the detective here.’ She examined her handiwork. ‘I need to wrap your hands.’

‘So long as I can still drive.’

‘John...’ Knowing he’d pay no attention.

‘Patience, if I go round with hands looking like a mummy’s, he’s won this round.’

‘Not if you refuse to play.’

He saw the depth of concern in her eyes, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. Saw Janice doing the self-same thing to him, and withdrew his hand guiltily.

‘Hurts, does it?’ Patience asked, misreading the gesture. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Later, he sat on the sofa with a mug of weak tea. He’d washed down two more painkillers, prescription-strength. His soiled clothes had been bundled into a black bin-liner, ready for a trip to the cleaner’s. Such a shame, he thought, that his soiled thoughts couldn’t be steam-pressed so easily.

When his mobile phone sounded, he stared at it hard. It lay on the coffee table in front of him, alongside his keys and small change. Patience was standing in the doorway as he finally picked the phone up. There was a little smile on her lips, but no humour in her eyes. She’d known all along he would answer it.

Cal Brady came home from Guiser’s feeling pretty good. The buzz lasted all of ten seconds. As he flopped on to his bed, he remembered about the pervert. His mum was in her bedroom with some bloke; walls were so thin they’d have been as well having it off in front of him. All the flats were like that, so that things you wanted done in secrecy you had to do quietly. He put his ear to one wall, then another: his mum and her bloke; a couple of television stations — Jamie was still awake, watching the box in the living room, and the portable was on in Van’s room, a weak attempt to mask other sounds. He put his ear to the floor. He could still hear all of it, plus the people below’s movements, coughs and conversations. He’d gone to the doctor a while back, asked if maybe he had ears that were more sensitive than the norm.

‘I keep hearing things I don’t want to.’

When he’d explained that he lived in one of the high-rises in Greenfield, the doctor had suggested a personal stereo.

But it was the same on the street: he overheard snippets of conversation, stuff the talkers didn’t think he could hear. Sometimes he thought it was getting worse, thought he could hear people’s hearts beating, the quick flow of blood around their bodies. He thought he could hear their thoughts. Like at Guiser’s, when girls looked at him and he smiled back. They were thinking: he might not look much, but he’s with Archie Frost, so he must be important in some way. They’d think: if I dance with him, let him buy me a drink, I’ll be closer to the power.

Which was why he seldom did anything, just stayed by the bar, affecting a cool poise and saying nothing. But listening, always listening.

Always hearing things... Things about Charmer, things about the clients — Ama Petrie, her brother and the rest. His own version of the power.

It had been quiet in the club tonight. If it hadn’t been for a busload from Tranent, the place would have been dead. They hadn’t looked too impressed: nobody to dance with but themselves. Archie doubted they’d be back. Archie was already looking for other work: plenty more clubs in the city. Cal hadn’t started looking though. Cal believed in loyalty.

‘I know Charmer’s trying to collect on some debts,’ Archie had said, ‘but the problem is, he’s got debts of his own. Only a matter of time before people come calling...’

Cal had straightened his back, as if to say: fine by me.

He wanted to think things through, get them straight in his head, which was why he’d come into his bedroom rather than sitting up with Jamie. But even before he’d reached that sanctuary, his thoughts had turned to Darren Rough. The hall was half-full of placards. They sat against the wall, still smelling of fresh paint. Cardboard boxes had been cut up flat, messages written on their blank sides. DESTROY ALL MONSTERS; KEEP AWAY FROM OUR KIDS; LET’S PLAY HANG THE PERV.

Destroy all monsters, Cal was thinking, lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette. He got up abruptly, thumped on the far wall.

‘Will you fucking well shut up, the pair of you!’

Silence, then muffled laughter. For a moment, Cal was ready to burst in on them, but he knew what his mum would do to him. And besides, last thing he wanted was to see her like that.

Destroy all monsters.

The doorbell. Who the fuck at this time of night...? Cal went to see. Recognised the woman. She looked agitated, rubbing her hands like she was doing the washing-up.

‘You haven’t seen our Billy, have you?’ She was Joanna Horman, Billy’s mum. Billy was one of Jamie’s pals. Cal called for him and Jamie came out of the living room.

‘Have you seen Billy Boy?’ Cal asked. Jamie shook his head. He had a packet of crisps in his hand. Cal turned back to Joanna Horman. Some of his friends reckoned she looked all right. Right now, though, she looked a mess.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘He went out to play about seven, I haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he’d gone to his gran’s, but when I checked she hadn’t clapped eyes on him.’

‘I’m just in. Hold on a minute.’ He went and banged on Van’s door: as good an excuse as any to break things up in there. ‘Hiy, Maw, has Billy Horman been round here the night?’

Noises from within. Joanna Horman was leaning against the door, looking ready to fall down. Not a bad body, Cal decided. Bit squishy, but he didn’t like them all skin and bones. His mother’s bedroom door opened. Van was wearing her dress, arranging it over her. Nothing on underneath, he’d bet. She closed the door quickly behind her; no way to tell who else was in the room.

‘Something the matter, Joanna?’ Pushing past Cal, ignoring him altogether.

‘It’s wee Billy, Van. He’s disappeared.’

‘Aw, Christ. Come into the living room.’

‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Where have you looked?’

Cal followed the two women into the living room.

‘Everywhere. I think maybe it’s time I called the police.’

Van snorted. ‘Oh aye, they’d be round here like a shot. Only thing those buggers are interested in is protecting perverts...’ Her voice died away; for the first time, she looked at her son. They knew one another so well, no words were needed.

‘Joanna, pet,’ Van said quietly, ‘you stay there. I’m going to round up the troops. If your Billy’s anywhere on the estate, we’ll find him, don’t you worry.’

Within half an hour, Van Brady had the search parties organised. People were going from door to door, asking questions, getting new volunteers. Jamie had been sent to bed, but wasn’t asleep, and Joanna Horman was in the living room with a tumbler of rum and Coke. Cal had offered to keep an eye on her. She was on the sofa, and he was in the chair. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Wasn’t normally this tongue-tied. He found himself aroused by her grief, the way it softened her. But he felt ashamed to be so affected by her, and his brain was spinning the way it did when he’d drunk too much or taken some speed.

He got up, opened the door to Jamie’s room.

‘Get up, you, and keep an eye on Billy’s mum. I’ve got to go out.’

Then he opened the main door and stalked down the hallway. Down the stairwell and out into the night. There were some lock-ups across the way. He had the key to one of them. He was keeping some stuff there. Jerry Langham’s lock-up it was, but Jerry was serving three-to-five in Saughton, another six months before he’d have even a whiff of roly-paroley. He kept his car in the lock-up. It was a 1970s Merc with rusty sills and a custard-yellow paint job, but Jerry loved it.

‘I don’t keep my missus under lock and key, but no way am I letting any bastard near my Merc.’

This was by way of a warning: use the lock-up, keep an eye on the motor, but never think of touching it. Not that Cal had heeded the advice. He unlocked the car sometimes and sat in it, pretending to be driving. And he’d opened the boot once, too, so he knew what was inside.

He unlocked it now, lifted out the jerrycan and gave it a shake. He was sure there’d been more than that; it was barely half-full now. Evaporation or something. He supposed petrol could do that. On a stack of shelves he found some oily rags. Stuffed them into his pockets and he was ready.

Back to the block of flats, taking the steps two at a time. He had a purpose now, jerrycan making quiet sloshing sounds. Close your eyes, you could almost be at the seaside. Crept along to Darren Rough’s flat. Fresh lengths of board across his window. The kids had already been busy with their aerosols. GAP had made the flat their first stop tonight: no answer, nobody home. Cal opened the mouth of the can, held it high so the petrol trickled out of it, running it the length of the boarded window, then across the door. Took a ball of rag from his pocket and doused it in petrol. Stuffed it into the narrow gap between board and wall. Then another and another. Chucked the empty can over the balcony, then cursed to himself: there’d be prints on it. And besides, Jerry might want it. He’d go retrieve it in a minute.

Took out his cigarette lighter, the one Jamie had given him for Christmas. Jamie... he was doing this for Jamie and his pals, for all the kids. Jamie was bright. Didn’t like school, but then who did? Didn’t make him thick. He could go places, do things with his life: a couple of times when drunk, Cal had tried to tell him as much. He got the feeling it hadn’t come out right, had come out like he was envious. Maybe he was, just a little. A kid like Jamie, the world was his oyster. Cal looked at the lighter. Another thing about his wee brother: he had shoplifting down to an art.

23

When Rebus got to Greenfield, half the estate was out watching the fire, or what was left of it.

Rebus knew one of the firemen, guy called Eddie Dickson. Dickson nodded a greeting. He was in full uniform, standing guard by his engine.

‘If I move, they’ll be in about it.’ Meaning the local kids; meaning they’d strip it of anything they could find. ‘We got bottled coming in.’

‘Who by?’

Dickson shrugged. ‘Came flying out of the dark. I get the feeling we weren’t wanted.’

Uniforms from St Leonard’s were trying to get the spectators to go back to bed.

‘Any casualties?’

Dickson shrugged again. ‘You mean from the bottles?’

Rebus stared at him. ‘I mean in there.’ Pointing towards Darren Rough’s flat.

‘Place was empty when we got here.’

‘Door open?’

Dickson shook his head. ‘Had to kick in what was left of it. Grudge thing, is it?’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘When do I get the time, John?’

‘Paedophile.’

Dickson nodded. ‘Remember it now. Frying’s too good for them, eh?’

Rebus left him to his guard duty, headed for Cragside Court. The uniform in the lobby told him not to bother with the lifts.

‘One’s buggered, the other’s a toilet.’

Rebus would have taken the stairs anyway. Nothing left of the boards across Rough’s window but a few charred scraps clinging to their screws. The door had been torched, too. DC Grant Hood was standing in the hallway of the flat. Rebus toed open the toilet door: nobody home.

‘Your pal,’ Hood said. He was young, bright. Followed Glasgow Rangers with a passion, but nobody was perfect.

‘Wasn’t me,’ Rebus commented. ‘But thanks for the call.’

Hood shrugged. ‘Thought you might be interested.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s bandaged hands. ‘Had an accident yourself?’

Rebus ignored the question. ‘No chance this was an accident, I suppose?’

‘Bits of rag hanging from the windowframe. Petrol spilt on the walkway...’

‘No sign of the occupier?’

Hood shook his head. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Look around, Grant. It’s the Wild West out here. Any one of them’s capable.’ Rebus had walked back through what remained of the door, was leaning over the balcony. ‘But if it was me, I’d be asking Van Brady and her eldest son.’

Hood jotted the names down. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Rough will be coming back.’

‘No,’ Rebus said. Which had been the point all along. But now that they’d come to that point, Rebus wondered why he felt so lousy inside... Jane Barbour’s words came back to him: low chance of reoffending... abused as a child himself... need to give him a chance.

Then he saw Cal Brady, down amongst the thinning crowd. He was fully clothed, looked like he hadn’t yet been to bed. Rebus went back downstairs. Cal was handing out GAP stickers to anyone who didn’t have one. Women with coats thrown over their nighties were getting them. Cal placed each one on its recipient with exaggerated gentleness, causing some of the women — not exactly coy maidens — to blush.

‘All right, Cal?’ Rebus said. Cal looked round at him, peeled off a sticker and slapped it on Rebus’s jacket.

‘I hope you’re with us, Inspector.’

Rebus started removing the sticker. Cal put out a hand to stop him, and Rebus caught it, lifted it to his nose. Cal pulled away quickly, but not quickly enough.

‘Soap and water’s usually a good idea,’ Rebus told him.

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘You stink of petrol.’

‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

‘I’m not one to prejudge, Cal—’

‘Not what I hear.’

‘But in your case I’ll definitely make an exception.’ Thinking: who had Cal been talking to? Who’d been telling him about Rebus? ‘DC Hood’s going to want to ask you some questions. Be nice to him.’

‘Fuck the lot of you.’

‘Think your dick’s long enough?’ Said with a smile.

Cal stared him out; then broke off and laughed. ‘You’re a clown. Go home to your circus.’

‘What do you think you are, Cal? The ringmaster?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘No, son, you’ll do tricks for whoever’s cracking the whip.’ Rebus turned away. ‘Whether it’s your mum or Charmer Mackenzie.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You work for him, don’t you?’

‘What’s it to do with you?’

Rebus just shrugged and went back to his car. He’d parked it right next to the fire engine: didn’t want to find it up on bricks.

‘Hey, John,’ Eddie Dickson said, ‘won’t it be perfect?’

‘What?’

‘When they build the Parliament.’ He swept an arm before him. ‘Right next door to all this.’

Rebus looked up, saw the dark form of Salisbury Crags. Once more he felt like he was in a canyon of some kind, sheer walls affording no escape. Your fingers would be raw and bleeding from trying.

Either that or stained with four-star.

Hood came running up as Rebus was flexing his hands. ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’

‘Be a miracle if we didn’t.’

‘There’s a kid missing. They weren’t even going to tell us.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It’s UDI,’ he said. Hood looked puzzled. ‘A Unilateral Declaration of Independence, son. So who spilt the beans?’

‘I went to Van Brady’s flat. Door was open, young woman in the lounge.’ He checked his notebook. ‘Name’s Joanna Horman. Kid’s name is Billy.’

Rebus remembered his first visit to Greenfield, Van Brady leaning out of her window: I saw you, Billy Horman! He couldn’t remember much about the kid, only that he’d been playing with Jamie Brady.

‘Now we know why they torched the flat,’ Hood went on.

‘A brilliant deduction, Grant. Maybe we better go talk to the lady in question.’

‘The kid’s mum?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Van Brady.’

Having opened negotiations with Van Brady, her kitchen providing an unpromising table for such a high-powered summit, Rebus called for reinforcements. They’d organise more search parties, police and residents working together.

‘This is your patch,’ Rebus had conceded, washing down more pills with a mug of cheap chicory coffee. ‘You know the place better than any of us: any hidey-holes, gang huts, anywhere he might stop the night. If his mum gives us a list of his school pals, we can contact their parents, see if he’s maybe staying with one of them. There are things we can do best, and things you can do.’ He’d kept his voice level, and maintained eye-contact throughout. There were eight bodies in the kitchen, and more in the hallway and living room.

‘What about the pervert?’ Van Brady had asked.

‘We’ll find him, don’t worry. But right now, I think we should concentrate on Billy, don’t you?’

‘What if he’s the one who’s got Billy?’

‘Let’s wait and see, eh? First thing is to get the search going again. We’re not going to find anyone sitting here.’

Meeting over, Rebus had sought out Grant Hood.

‘This is yours, Grant,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’

Hood nodded. ‘Sorry I got you involved.’

‘Don’t be. But keep yourself straight: wake up DI Barbour and let her know the score.’

‘What happens if they find him first?’ Meaning Darren Rough rather than the kid.

‘Then he’s dead,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

He drove out of Greenfield, wondering at what point Darren Rough had vacated his flat. Wondering where the young man would go. Holyrood Park: once, centuries back, it had been sanctuary for convicts. As long as you didn’t cross the boundary, you were on Crown Estate and couldn’t be touched by the law. Debtors would flee there, live there for years, existing on charity, fish from the lochs and wild rabbits. When their debts were finally paid or written off, they’d cross the boundary, step back into society. The park had provided them with an illusion of freedom; in reality, they’d merely been in an open prison.

Holyrood Park: a road wound its way around the base of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat. There were car parks near the lochs, popular with families and dog-owners during the day. At night, couples drove there for sex. The Royal Parks Police made irregular patrols. There had been talk of their disbanding, of the park falling within Lothian and Borders jurisdiction. It hadn’t happened yet.

Rebus made three circuits of the park. Driving slowly, not really interested in the few parked cars he passed. Then, by St Margaret’s Loch, just as he was readying to exit at Royal Park Terrace, he thought he caught shadow play at the edge of his vision. Decided to stop the car. Maybe just the headache and the pills, tricking his vision. He kept the engine running, wound down the window and lit a cigarette. Foxes, maybe even badgers... he could have been mistaken. There were all kinds of shadows in the city.

But then a face appeared at the open window.

‘Any chance of a ciggie?’

‘No problem.’ Rebus averted his face as he searched his pockets.

‘Eh... look, I’m not sure...’ A clearing of the throat. ‘I mean, you’re not looking for company, are you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ Now Rebus looked up. ‘Get in, Darren.’

Shock hit Darren Rough’s face as he recognised Rebus. His face was blackened. He coughed again, doubling over.

‘Smoke inhalation,’ Rebus observed. ‘You left it pretty late getting out.’

Rough wiped his mouth. The sleeves of his green raincoat were singed where he’d held them in front of his face.

‘I thought they’d be waiting for me outside. I kept listening for a fire engine.’

‘Somebody called one eventually.’

He snorted. ‘Probably afraid it would spread to their flat.’

‘Nobody was waiting outside?’

Rough shook his head. No, Rebus thought, because they’d all been out searching for Billy Horman. Cal Brady had torched the flat alone, and hadn’t stuck around to be spotted.

It had started to rain; sudden gobbets which bounced off Rough’s shoulders. He lifted his face to the sky, opened his scorched mouth to the drops.

‘You better get in,’ Rebus told him.

He angled his head, stared at Rebus. ‘What am I charged with?’

‘A kid’s gone missing.’

Rough lowered his eyes. Said something like ‘I see’, but so quietly Rebus didn’t catch it. ‘They think I...?’ He stopped. ‘Of course they think I did it. In their shoes, I’d think the same.’

‘But it wasn’t you?’

Rough shook his head. ‘I don’t do that any more. That’s not me.’ He was getting soaked.

‘Get in,’ Rebus repeated. Rough got into the passenger seat. ‘But you still think about it,’ Rebus said, watching for a response.

Rough stared at the windscreen, his eyes glinting. ‘I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t.’

‘So what’s changed?’

Rough turned to him. ‘Are you charging me?’

‘No charge,’ Rebus said, putting the car into gear. ‘Tonight, you ride for free.’

24

Rebus took Darren Rough to St Leonard’s.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Call it protective custody. I just want to make your answers on the missing kid official.’

They sat in an interview room with the recording machine running and a uniform on the door, drinking watery tea and with the rest of the station practically empty. All the spare bodies were down at Greenfield, looking for Billy Horman.

‘So you don’t know anything about a missing child?’ Rebus asked. Because there was no one around to tell him not to, he’d lit himself a cigarette. Rough didn’t want one, but then changed his mind.

‘Cancer’s probably the least of my problems right now,’ he surmised. Then he told Rebus that all he knew was what he’d heard from the detective himself.

‘But the locals warned you off, and you stayed put. There must have been a reason.’

‘Nowhere else to go. I’m a marked man.’ Glancing up. ‘Thanks to you.’ Rebus stood up. Rough flinched, but all Rebus did was lean against the wall, so he was facing the video camera. Not that it mattered: the camera wasn’t on.

‘You’re a marked man because of what you are, Mr Rough.’

‘I’m a paedophile, Inspector. I suppose I’ll always be one. But I have ceased to be a practising paedophile.’ A shrug. ‘Society’s going to have to get used to it.’

‘I don’t think your neighbours would agree.’

Rough allowed himself a condemned man’s smile. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘What about friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘Others who share your interests.’ Rebus flicked ash on to the carpet; the cleaners would be in before morning. ‘Had any of them round to the flat?’

Rough was shaking his head.

‘Sure about that, Mr Rough?’

‘Nobody knew I was there till the papers splashed me across a double-page spread.’

‘But afterwards... nobody from the old days got in touch?’

Rough didn’t answer. He was staring into space, still thinking of newspapers. ‘Ince and Marshall... I see the stories about them. Where they are... in the cells... do they get to see the news?’

‘Sometimes,’ Rebus admitted.

‘So they’ll know about me?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re on remand in Saughton Prison.’ He paused. ‘You were going to testify against them.’

‘I wanted to.’ He stared into space again, his face tightening with memories. Rebus knew the story: the abused became abusers themselves. He’d always found it easy to discard. Not every victim turned abuser.

‘That time they took you to Shiellion...’ Rebus began.

‘Marshall took me. Ince told him to.’ His voice was trembling. ‘Didn’t pick on me specially or anything — could have been any one of us. Only I think I was the quietest, the least likely to do anything about it. Marshall was right under Ince’s thumb at that time, loved the way Ince ordered him about. I saw a photo of Ince, he hasn’t changed. Marshall’s got a lot tougher-looking, like he’s grown an extra skin.’

‘And the third man?’

‘I told you, could have been anybody.’

‘But he was already there, waiting at Shiellion when you arrived.’

‘Yes.’

‘So probably a friend of Ince, rather than Marshall.’

‘They took it in turns.’ Rough’s hands were holding the edge of the desk. ‘Afterwards, I tried telling people, but nobody would listen. It was: “You mustn’t say that”; “Don’t tell such stories.” Like it was all my fault. I’d touched up a neighbour’s kid, so I deserved everything I got... Even worse, some of them thought I was lying, and I never lied... never.’ He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on his hands. He muttered something that might have been ‘Bastards.’ And then he started to cry.

Rebus knew he had choices. Phone Social Work and have them take Rough somewhere. Put him in a cell. Or drop him off somewhere... anywhere. But when he tried the Social Work emergency number, no one answered. They’d be out on a call. The recorded message told him to keep trying the number every ten minutes or so. It told him not to panic.

There were empty cells in the station, but Rebus knew word would get out, and when it came time to release Darren Rough, there’d be a crowd waiting. So he lit another cigarette and went back to the interview room.

‘Right,’ he said, opening the door, ‘you’re coming with me.’

‘Nice room,’ Darren Rough said. He looked around, examining the high cornicing. ‘Big,’ he added, nodding to himself. He was trying to be pleasant, make conversation. He was wondering what Rebus was going to do with him, here in Rebus’s own flat.

Rebus handed over a mug of tea and told him to sit down. He offered Rough another cigarette, the offer refused this time. Rough was sitting on the sofa. Rebus wanted to tell him to move on to one of the dining chairs. It was as if Rough could contaminate everything he touched.

‘Your social worker better find you something in the morning,’ Rebus said. ‘Something far from Edinburgh.’

Rough looked at him. His eyes were dark-ringed, his hair needing a wash. The green raincoat was draped over the back of the sofa. He wore a check suit-jacket with jeans and baseball boots, white nylon shirt. He looked like he’d won a ninety-second dash through an Oxfam shop.

‘Keep moving, eh?’

‘A moving target’s harder to hit,’ Rebus told him.

Rough smiled tiredly. ‘I see you’ve been hitting a target yourself.’

Rebus flexed his fingers again, trying to stop them seizing up.

Rough sipped his tea. ‘He did beat me up, you know.’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend.’

‘Jim Margolies?’

Rough nodded. ‘All of a sudden he got this look in his eyes. Next thing the fists were flying.’ He shook his head. ‘When he killed himself, I read the obituaries. They all said he was a “fine officer”, a “loving father”. Attended church regularly.’ A half-smile. ‘When he laid into me, he must have been demonstrating muscular Christianity.’

‘Careful what you say,’

‘Yes, he was your friend, you worked with him. But I wonder if you knew him.’

He didn’t say as much, but Rebus was beginning to wonder the same thing. Orange lipstick, meaning he liked them young. He’d asked Fern how young. Nothing illegal, she’d told him.

‘Why do you think he died?’ Rebus asked.

‘How should I know?’

‘When the two of you talked... how did he seem?’

Rough was thoughtful. ‘Not angry with me or anything. Just wanting to know about Shiellion. How often I’d been... you know. And who by.’ He glanced towards Rebus. ‘Some people get a kick that way, listening to stories.’

‘You think that’s why he was asking?’

‘Why are you asking all these questions, Inspector? Outing me to the papers, then coming to the rescue. I think maybe that’s how you get your kicks, fucking with people’s heads.’

Rebus thought of Cary Oakes and his games. ‘I think you had something to do with Jim Margolies’ death,’ he said. ‘Whether you know it or not.’

They sat in silence after that, until Rough asked if there was anything he could eat. Rebus went through to the kitchen, stared at one of the cupboard doors, wanting to punch it. But his knuckles wouldn’t thank him for that. He looked at them. He knew what Oakes had done, rubbed them hard over the floor of the car park, maybe bunched them into fists and driven them into the steel skip. Twisted little bastard that he was. And Patience wondered if it was all a blind, some way of diverting Rebus from some other scheme. His head seemed full of diversions. How could he trust what Rough was telling him? He didn’t see Rough as a schemer; too weak. But Jim Margolies... had he been playing some game?

And had it killed him?

Rebus opened the cupboard door, called out that he could do beans on toast. Rough said that would be fine. There was no marge for the toast, but Rebus reckoned the tomato sauce would soften it up. He emptied the beans into a pot, stuck the bread under the grill, and went to sort out the sleeping accommodation.

Not his own room; definitely not his own room. He opened the door to what had been the guest room, and — long before that — Sammy’s room. Her single bed was still there; posters on the walls; teenage girls’ annuals on a bookshelf. One of the last people to use the room had been Jack Morton. No way was Darren Rough sleeping there.

Rebus opened the wardrobe, found an old blanket and pillow, took them through to the living room.

‘You can have the sofa,’ he said.

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Rough was standing at the window. Rebus crossed over to him. A couple of kids lived across the street, but their shutters were closed, no peep-show available.

‘It’s so quiet here,’ Rough said. ‘In Greenfield, there always seems to be a row going on. Either that or a party, and most of the parties turn into a row.’

‘But you’re a good neighbour, eh?’ Rebus said. ‘Quiet, keep yourself to yourself?’

‘I try to.’

‘What about when the kids are noisy: don’t you want to do something about them?’

Rough closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to the glass. ‘I won’t make any excuses,’ he whispered.

‘And no apologies either?’

Another smile, eyes still shut. ‘I can apologise until the cows come home. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel.’ He opened his eyes, turned to Rebus. ‘But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?’

Rebus stared at him. ‘The toast’s burning,’ he said, turning away.

At five o’clock, with Rough hidden under the blanket on the sofa, Rebus telephoned Bill Pryde.

‘Sorry to wake you, Bill.’

‘The alarm was about to go off anyway. What’s up?’

‘The surveillance car.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s not at The Shore.’ He explained where it was.

‘Christ, John, what about Oakes?’

‘He comes and goes as he likes, Bill. The only thing we were doing there was keeping him amused.’

‘You better tell that to the Farmer.’

‘I will.’

‘Meantime, you want me to pick up the car from your flat?’

‘I’ve filled in the log, explained everything.’

‘What about the keys?’

‘Under the front seat, same place the log is. I’ve left it unlocked.’

‘And now you’re about to get your head down?’

‘Something like that.’ He stared at Darren Rough, watching the rise and fall of the blanket. He looked about as dangerous as pastry dough. Rebus cut the connection, tried the station. There was still no sign of Billy Horman. They’d looked everywhere. The search was being called off until daylight. Rebus called the hotel, asked for Cary Oakes’s room: still no answer. He put down the phone, went into his bedroom. Lay on his bed — a mattress on the floor. He’d thought about going back to Patience’s, but didn’t like the thought of Rough being here by himself. He might explore, find Sammy’s room. Pull open drawers, touch things. As soon as feasible, Rebus wanted him out.

You brought him here, a voice in his head seemed to say. You brought him to this. Sticks and crowbars and angry voices. The residents of Greenfield roused to a mob. Cal Brady with his petrol and denials. He worked for Charmer Mackenzie, worked the door at Guiser’s. Damon Mee had left there, got into a taxi with a blonde. Last seen in the vicinity of the Clipper, the night of one of Ama Petrie’s parties. Her father was presiding over Shiellion, where Darren Rough should have given evidence, where Rebus had been steamrollered by Richard Cordover. Lord Justice Petrie... who was related to Katherine Margolies.

Ama, Hannah, Katherine... Sammy, Patience, Janice... The never-ending dance of relationships and criss-crossings which took up so much space in his head. The party that never stopped, the invitations guilt-edged.

Life and death in Edinburgh. And space still left over for a few ghosts, their numbers increasing.

If I’d stuck around Fife, he thought, not joined the army... what would I be thinking now? Who would I be?

The voice in his head again — was it Jack Morton’s? It was never going to happen. This is where you were always headed. He looked around the room for whisky, but he was all cleaned out. Closed his eyes instead. Still that dull pain at the back of his skull. Please, Lord, let my sleep be dreamless.

His first prayer in a while.

Cary Oakes had been in Arden Street for Rebus’s return, had seen him get out of his car with another man, lead the man into his tenement. He wondered who this stranger was, wondered where Rebus had met him. He’d been standing across the road, hidden in the shadow of a tenement doorway. He had a plastic bag with him, a paperback book inside to give it weight. If anyone saw him, he had his story ready: working shifts, waiting for his lift to turn up. They were late, he’d say.

Only no one saw him. No one entered or left the building. But he saw the lights come on in Rebus’s living room. Saw the stranger approach the window, put his head to it. Saw Rebus over the man’s shoulder, staring down. Oakes stood his ground, felt he hadn’t been spotted. The beauty was, even if Rebus did see him, well, that was all right too. Then Rebus had come out of the tenement, gone to his car to fetch something: a book of some kind. Way he was moving, acting, Oakes hadn’t done too much damage. Rebus took the book upstairs with him, then came back down half an hour later, put it back in the car. When he’d gone back up again, Oakes crossed to where the car was parked, tried the driver’s door. It wasn’t locked. He got in, felt on the floor for where Rebus had put the book. Found it. And the car keys. Smiled to himself. He turned the ignition, powered up the police radio: easy listening while he perused the surveillance notes. Rebus hadn’t put in anything about Alan Archibald. That was interesting.

Fifty minutes later, when the tenement door rattled open, he slid down in his seat, rose up again to watch the stranger walk away from the building. He looked dirty and dishevelled. Some secret little vice of Rebus’s? Oakes didn’t think so. But it intrigued him all the same. He waited till the man had rounded the corner, then started the engine and began to follow...

At six o’clock, Rebus was wakened by the front buzzer. He went to the door, pushed the intercom.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me.’ Bill Pryde, not sounding happy.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘This car I’m supposed to pick up. Just where exactly have you hidden it?’

‘Hang on.’

Rebus walked into the living room, glanced at the sofa. Saw the blanket had been folded neatly; no sign of Darren Rough. Peered out of the window. A space where the car had been. He cursed under his breath. Put his shoes on and headed downstairs.

‘I think someone took it,’ he told Bill Pryde.

‘This isn’t my fuck-up, John.’ Pryde: ticking off the days till retirement.

‘I know,’ Rebus said, unwilling to add that he might know who’d taken it: Darren Rough.

Pryde pointed at his hands. ‘Word’s out you lost the punch-up. How does Oakes look?’

‘That’s not what happened,’ Rebus said.

‘You were found KO’d in a skip, way I heard it.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘You want to walk to work, Bill?’

Pryde shook his head. ‘I want to be ringside for the main bout: you telling the Farmer how you came to lose the car.’

Rebus stared up and down the road again. ‘Better slip a horseshoe into my glove for that one,’ he said, turning back into the tenement.

25

Rebus drove them to St Leonard’s in his Saab and reported the theft, cheering up the day shift who’d just come on. At quarter to nine, he was in the Farmer’s office, explaining the whole thing yet again, including the scrapes on his hands. The Farmer busied himself at his coffee machine all the time Rebus was making his report. It was an espresso-maker with a spout for steamed milk. He hadn’t offered Rebus a cup. When Rebus stopped talking, the Farmer poured the foamy milk into his mug, switched off the machine, and sat behind his desk. Holding the mug in both hands, he looked at Rebus.

‘I always thought surveillance was a fairly simple procedure. Once more, you’ve managed to prove me wrong.’

‘It wasn’t going anywhere, sir.’

‘Unlike the missing car.’

Rebus looked down at the floor.

‘So let me see where we stand,’ the Farmer continued, taking another sip. ‘I tell you to lay off Darren Rough. You go out looking for him. I tell you to keep an eye on a man whom experts say may murder someone. You end up unconscious in a rubbish skip.’ The Farmer’s voice was rising. ‘You find Darren Rough and take him to your flat. He then leaves, taking one of our cars with him, along with the surveillance log. Does that just about cover it?’ His face was growing red with anger.

‘Clear and concise, sir.’

‘Don’t you dare be amused!’ The Farmer slapped a hand down on the desk.

‘I’m anything but, sir.’ Rebus gritted his teeth. ‘But I thought I was doing the right thing at the time.’

‘No, Inspector. As usual, what you were doing was following your own agenda, and to hell with the rest of us. Isn’t that nearer the mark?’

‘With respect, sir—’

‘Don’t give me that. You’ve no respect for me, no respect for the job we’re supposed to be doing here!’

‘Maybe you’re right, sir,’ Rebus said quietly, his head beginning to throb again.

The Farmer looked at him, leaned back in his chair and took another mouthful of coffee. ‘So what are we going to do about that?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I mean, you’re right: I’ve been having doubts about the job for months. Ever since Jack Morton...’

‘Maybe even before then?’ Sounding calmer now.

‘Maybe, sir. More than once, I’ve thought about chucking it.’ He looked at his boss. ‘Make your life a bit easier.’

‘But you haven’t chucked it.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Must be a reason.’

‘Maybe a bit of me still believes, sir. And funnily enough, that part’s been growing.’

‘Oh?’

Alan Archibald; Darren Rough: he hadn’t mentioned Archibald to the Farmer, hadn’t seen the point.

‘I was wrong about Rough, I admit that. Well... I’m not sure I was wrong, to tell you the truth. But I know now why he’s in Edinburgh. I know a bit more about his background.’

‘What are you saying?’ The Farmer narrowed his eyes. ‘You understand him, is that it?’ A smile with an edge of cruelty to it. ‘Compassion? You, John? I didn’t know dinosaurs could evolve.’

‘Either that or the species dies,’ Rebus said, pressing his hands to his knees. How could he explain it, explain what he was learning: that the past shapes the present, that free will is a fantasy, that a force we could call Fate or God controls the paths we take? Janice throwing a punch... young Darren Rough in a car on the way to Shiellion... Alan Archibald and his niece. All seemed connected in some strange and intricate way.

‘You’ll want a full report,’ Rebus said, straightening in his chair.

The Farmer nodded. ‘I was about to pull the surveillance anyway.’ He put down his mug. ‘Do you think Cary Oakes is dangerous?’

‘Definitely. But I think he’s changed.’

‘Changed how?’

‘His spree in the States, it wasn’t planned. There was a lack of deliberation, and it always seemed to be part of some other strategy.’

‘Explain.’

‘He killed because he needed things: money, a car, whatever. But towards the end, I think he was really getting a taste for it. Then he got caught. He’s been all these years in jail, remembering that buzz.’

‘So now he might kill for no other reason than the buzz?’

‘I’m not sure. I think he has some sort of plan, something that involves Edinburgh.’ And Alan Archibald, he might have added. ‘I think he’s getting all sorts of tingly feelings just planning it.’

‘Maybe he’ll put it off indefinitely.’

Rebus smiled. ‘I don’t think so. This is foreplay to him.’

The Farmer seemed embarrassed by the image, relieved when his phone sounded. He picked up the receiver, listened.

‘Good,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll let him know.’

He put down the receiver, looked up at Rebus. ‘The car’s turned up.’

‘Great.’

‘Handily parked, too.’

Rebus asked what the Farmer meant. The answer gave him the shock of his life.

A couple of uniforms were already on the scene when Rebus, the Farmer and Bill Pryde arrived at The Shore. The Rover was sitting in its usual spot, opposite the hotel.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Rebus said for the fifth or sixth time.

‘This isn’t some joke of yours?’ Bill Pryde asked.

The Farmer looked inside. ‘Where’s the log?’

‘It was under the seat, sir.’

The Farmer reached in, pulled out the log and a set of car keys.

‘Did you say anything to Rough about the surveillance?’ he asked. Rebus shook his head. ‘So can we assume Rough did not take the car?’ Rebus shrugged.

‘Looks like it was someone who knew what we were up to,’ Bill Pryde admitted.

‘Or simply read about it in the log,’ Rebus said. ‘Anyone finding the keys would have found the log.’

‘True,’ Pryde conceded.

‘Which might put Rough back in the frame,’ the Farmer said. ‘Thing is, it also means whoever stole the car read the surveillance notes.’

‘Red faces all round, sir,’ Pryde said.

‘More than that if Fettes get to hear about it.’

‘Who’s going to tell them?’

The Farmer had flipped through the notes, coming to Rebus’s final section — or what should have been the final section. He opened the book wide, held it out so Rebus and Pryde could see it.

‘What’s this?’

Rebus looked. Written in big capitals, red felt pen. Someone had added a postscript to Rebus’s thoughts on the case:

NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY. WHERE’S MR ARCHIBALD????

The Farmer was staring at him.

‘Who’s Mr Archibald?’

Pryde was shrugging. ‘Search me.’

But the Farmer had eyes only for John Rebus.

‘Who’s Mr Archibald?’ he repeated, red rising to his cheeks. Rebus said nothing, crossed the street and looked in through the large windows of the restaurant. They were serving late breakfasts, tables half-hidden behind potted plants and hanging baskets. But there, at a window table and enjoying the show, sat Cary Oakes. He waved a fork at Rebus, sat beaming a grin as he lifted a glass of orange juice and toasted him. Rebus made for the hotel door, pushed it open, strode inside. Cooking smells were wafting from the restaurant. A waiter asked if he wanted a table for one. Rebus ignored him, walked straight up to the table where Cary Oakes was seated.

‘Care to join me, Inspector?’

‘Not even if you were coming apart at the seams.’ Rebus pushed his knuckles into Oakes’s face. ‘Remember these?’

‘Looks nasty,’ Oakes said. ‘I’d get a doctor to look at them. Lucky you already know one.’

‘You know where I live,’ Rebus hissed. ‘Jim Stevens told you.’

‘Did he?’ Oakes started cutting up a sausage. Rebus noticed that he sliced it lengthwise first, as though dissecting it.

‘You took the car.’

‘Bit early for riddles.’ Oakes lifted a morsel of meat to his lips. Rebus flung out a hand, sent fork and sausage flying. Then he hoisted Cary Oakes to his feet.

‘What the fuck are you up to?’

‘Shouldn’t that be my line?’ Oakes said, grinning. There was a sudden explosion of light. Rebus half-turned his head. Jim Stevens was behind him. Next to him stood a photographer.

‘Now,’ Stevens was saying, ‘if we could have the two of you shaking hands in the next one.’ He winked at Rebus. ‘Told you I wanted some pictures.’

Rebus dropped Oakes, flew towards the journalist.

‘Inspector!’

The Farmer’s voice. He was in the restaurant doorway, face like fury. ‘A word with you outside, if you don’t mind.’ A voice not to be disobeyed. Rebus stared hard at Jim Stevens, letting him know this wasn’t the end of anything. Then he walked out of the dining room and into reception. The Farmer was after him.

‘I’m still waiting for an answer. Who is Mr Archibald?’

‘A man with a mission,’ Rebus told him. In his mind, he could still see the grin on Oakes’s face. ‘Problem is, he’s not the only one.’

Rebus spent till lunchtime ‘in conference’ with the Farmer. Just before midday, Archibald himself joined them, the Farmer having dispatched a squad car to Corstorphine to pick him up. The two men knew one another of old.

‘Thought you’d have had the gold watch by now,’ Archibald said, shaking the Farmer’s hand. But the Farmer was not to be mollified.

‘Sit down, Alan. For a retired copper, you haven’t half been busy.’

Archibald glanced at Rebus, who was staring at the window-blind.

‘I’m going to nail him, that’s all.’

‘Oh, that’s all, is it?’ The Farmer looked mock-astonished. ‘John tells me you’ve seen the files on Cary Oakes. In fact, you’ve got more gen on him than we have. So you should know who you’re dealing with.’

‘I know what I’m dealing with.’

The Farmer’s gaze went from Archibald to Rebus and back again. ‘It’s bad enough I’m lumbered with this one,’ he said, nodding towards Rebus. ‘Last thing I need is yet another headcase out there trying to take the law into his own hands. You think Oakes killed your niece, show me the evidence.’

‘Come on, man...’

‘Show me the evidence!’

‘I would if I could.’

‘Would you, Alan?’ The Farmer paused. ‘Or would you want to keep it personal, right to the bitter end?’ He turned to Rebus. ‘What about you, John? Were you going to lend a hand burying the body?’

‘If I’d wanted him dead,’ Archibald said, ‘he’d be in the ground by now.’

‘But what if he confesses, Alan? Just you and him, no third party.’ The Farmer shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be enough to go to court with, so what would you do?’

‘It’d be enough,’ Archibald said quietly.

‘For what?’

‘For me. For Deirdre’s memory.’

The Farmer waited, turned to Rebus. ‘Do you buy that? You think Alan here would listen to Oakes’s confession and then just walk away?’

‘I don’t know him well enough to comment.’ Rebus still seemed mesmerised by the window-blind.

‘Two peas in a pod,’ the Farmer said. Rebus glanced at Archibald, who was looking at him. There was a knock at the door. The Farmer barked an order to enter. It was Siobhan Clarke.

‘Come to intercede?’ the Farmer asked.

‘No, sir.’ She seemed unwilling to come in; stood with only her head showing round the door.

‘Well?’

‘Suspicious death, sir. Up on Salisbury Crags.’

‘How suspicious?’

‘First reports say very.’

The Farmer pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is one of those weeks that seem to last a fortnight.’

‘Thing is, sir, from the description, I’d say we have an ID.’

He looked at her, hearing something in her tone. ‘Someone we know?’

Clarke was looking towards Rebus. ‘I’d say so, sir.’

‘This isn’t a parlour game, DC Clarke.’

She cleared her throat. ‘I think it might be Darren Rough.’

26

‘Start any time you’re ready.’

Jim Stevens’ room was beginning to look messy and lived-in, just the way he liked. But they weren’t in Stevens’ room, they were in Oakes’s, and it looked like its occupant hadn’t spent any time there at all. There were two chairs at a small circular table by the window. The complimentary book of matches still sat folded open in its ashtray. Two magazines of interest to visitors to Edinburgh sat beside it, and lying on top of them was the guests’ comment card, yet to be filled in, or even perused.

Most people, Stevens guessed, even people who’d spent a third of their life enjoying the facilities of a foreign country’s prison service, would do what he’d done in his own room: explore it, try out and touch everything, flick through every piece of literature.

But not Cary Oakes, who now cleared his throat.

‘Aren’t you curious about what Rebus wanted?’

Stevens looked at him. ‘I just want this finished.’

‘Lost the old vigour and vim, eh, Jim?’

‘You have that effect on people.’

‘Tracked down any of my old teenage gang?’ Oakes laughed at the look on Stevens’ face. ‘Thought not. Probably scattered to the four winds by now.’

‘Last time we broke off,’ Stevens said coldly, checking the spools were turning, ‘you were crossing America.’

Oakes nodded. ‘I got to a place called, believe it or not, Opportunity, a ratty little truck-stop on the Washington-Idaho border. That’s where I met the trucker, Fat Boy. I never learned his real name; I think even the ID he carried was fake.’

‘What name was on the ID?’

Oakes ignored the question. ‘Fat Boy had these notions about a government conspiracy, told me he kept his home booby-trapped whenever he was working long-distance. He said truckers got a real good view of the world — by which he meant the USA; that’s as far as his world stretched — a real good view from behind the wheel of a truck. He knew a trucker would make a damned good President.

‘So that was Fat Boy. My introduction to him. Opportunity, Washington. Lots of names like that in the States. Lots of Fat Boys, too. We got talking about murder. The radio was on, and every other station had news flashes about unlawful killing. He said the word “unlawful” was a misnomer. There was “wrong” killing and “right” killing, and which was which was down to the individual, not the lawmakers.’

‘And what kind did you do?’

Oakes didn’t like his flow being interrupted. ‘I’m talking about Fat Boy, not me.’

‘How long did you travel with him?’ Stevens was trying to keep the chronology right.

‘Three, four days. We headed south to make a delivery, then back up on to 1-90.’

‘What was he carrying?’

‘Electrical goods. He worked for General Electric. Meant he travelled all over. He said that was good, considering his hobby. His hobby was killing people.’ Oakes looked to Stevens. ‘It was supposed to unnerve me, him saying something like that while we’re travelling fifty-five on an interstate. Maybe if it had, that would have been it: he’d have tried skinning me. But I just looked at him, told him that was interesting.’ A laugh. ‘Mild understatement, right? Someone tells you they’re a serial killer and you say “Mm, that’s interesting.”’

‘But you believed him?’

‘After a while, yes. And I thought: all this stuff he’s telling me, no way is he letting me go. Every time we stopped, I thought he was about to whack me.’

‘You were ready for him?’ Stevens was staring at Oakes, trying to gauge how much of the story was true. Did it relate in some way to the relationship between Oakes and the reporter himself?

‘You know the strange part? I just let myself relax into it. Like, if he was going to kill me, OK, that’s what was going to happen. It was as if I didn’t care; I could have died right then, and it would have been poetic justice or something.’

‘Did he kill anyone while you were on the road?’

‘No.’

‘But he convinced you he wasn’t lying?’

‘You think he was lying, Jim?’

‘When they arrested you, did you tell the police about him?’

‘Why the hell would I do that?’

‘Might have scored you some points.’

‘Truth is, I never thought about it.’

‘But he made you think about killing?’

‘He knew what he was talking about. I mean, you can always tell when someone’s making it up, can’t you?’ Oakes beamed a smile. ‘“Can the world really be like this?” I remember asking myself that as I listened to him. And the answer came back: yes, of course. Why should it be any different?’

‘You’re saying Fat Boy made you feel all right about killing?’

‘Am I?’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘Just telling you my story, Jim. It’s up to you how you read it.’

‘What about in jail, Cary? All that time to yourself, thoughts that you’re thinking...?’

‘Jim, you get no time to yourself. There’s always noise, disruption, routine. You sit there trying to think, they send you for psychiatric evaluation.’ Oakes took a final sip of orange juice. ‘But I see what you’re getting at.’ He examined his empty glass. ‘How’s the background check going, by the way? Spoken to anyone at Walla Walla?’ Turned the empty glass in his hand. ‘Take away the juice and the ice, you’re left with a lethal weapon.’ He pretended to smash the glass against the edge of the table, and then laughed a laugh which sent a shiver right along Jim Stevens’ arms.

Climbing back up Salisbury Crags, Rebus kept his hands in his pockets and his thoughts to himself. He knew what the Farmer was thinking. This morning, Darren Rough had been in Rebus’s flat. As far as they knew, Rebus was the last person to have seen him alive.

And Rebus had been his tormentor, his nemesis. The Farmer wouldn’t make anything of it, but others might: Jane Barbour; Rough’s social worker.

Radical Road was a stony footpath which led around the Crags. You could start near the student residences at Pollock Halls and end up at Holyrood. Along the way, you had the city skyline for company, stretching from the south and west to the city centre and beyond. All spires and crenellations. Manfred Mann: ‘Cubist Town’. With Greenfield almost directly below.

‘You picked him up here, didn’t you?’ the Farmer asked as they walked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘St Margaret’s Loch.’ Which lay around a long curve in the rock and down an impossibly steep bank. ‘Tell you what, though,’ he added. ‘Jim Margolies jumped from up there.’ And he pointed with his finger, way up to where the rock-face ended in something akin to a clifftop. People took their dogs for walks across the plateau, not straying too close to the edge. Edinburgh was prone to sudden, malevolent gusts, any one of which could have you over the side.

The Farmer was breathing hard. ‘You still see a connection between Rough and Jim Margolies?’

‘Now more than ever, sir.’

The body lay a little further along the path, cordoned off by warning tape. A few walkers, wrapped up against the weather, had gathered at the cordon, stretching their necks for a view. A white plastic contraption like a windbreak had been placed around the body, so that only those who needed to see it would. A woman with a black springer spaniel was being interviewed: she’d been the one to find the body. Out walking the dog, a daily ritual which both had looked forward to. From now on, she’d find another route, a long way from Salisbury Crags.

‘Hard to believe they’re putting our Parliament there,’ the Farmer commented, looking down towards Holyrood Road. ‘A real old backwater. Traffic’s going to be a nightmare.’

‘And it’s on our patch.’

‘Not my problem, thank God.’ The Farmer sniffed. ‘I’ll have that gold watch on one hand and a golfing glove on the other.’

They passed through the cordon. The scene-of-crime team was at work, securing the locus and ensuring what they liked to call its ‘purity’. This meant Rebus and the Farmer had to don coveralls and overshoes, so they’d leave no trace elements at the scene.

‘The wind up here will probably have scattered them to the four corners anyway,’ Rebus said. But it was a half-hearted grouch: he knew the worth of scene-of-crime work, knew that science and forensics were his friends. A police doctor had declared the victim deceased. Dr Curt was the usual pathologist, but he was in Miami to give a paper at some convention. His superior, Professor Gates, had stepped in, and was examining the body in situ. He was a large man with thick brown hair slicked back from his forehead. He carried a hand-held tape recorder, talking into it as he moved around. He was forced to jostle for space: a photographer and video cameraman both wanted shots of the corpse.

DS George Silvers came over. He nodded a greeting to his Chief Superintendent, but took it further, so that it turned into something more akin to a ceremonial bow. That was typical of Silvers, whose station nickname was ‘Hi-Ho’. He was in his late thirties, always smartly dressed and coiffed, always on the eye for promotion without the necessary concomitant of hard work. His black hair and deep-set eyes gave him the look of football pundit Alan Hansen.

‘We think we’ve got the murder weapon, sir. A rock with some blood and hair on it.’ He pointed up the path. ‘Forty yards or so that way.’

‘Who found it?’

‘A dog, sir.’ One eye twitching. ‘Licked most of the blood off before we could get to it.’

Professor Gates looked up from his work. ‘So if the lab gets a match,’ he said, ‘and tells you the victim had a lovely shiny coat, you’ll know what the problem is.’

He laughed, and Rebus laughed with him. It was like that at the locus, everyone pretending nothing was out of the ordinary, erecting barriers to separate them from the glaring fact that everything was out of the ordinary.

‘I’m told you might manage an informal ID,’ Gates said. Rebus nodded, took a deep breath and stepped forward. The body was lying where it had fallen, the back of the skull smashed open and caked with blood. The face rested against the jagged path, one leg bent at the knee, the other straight. One arm was trapped beneath the body, the other stretching so the fingers could claw at the cold earth. Rebus could tell from the clothes, but crouched down to study what could be seen of the face. Gates lifted it a little to help. Light had died behind the eyes; the three-day growth of beard would need to be shaved by the undertaker. Rebus nodded.

‘Darren Rough,’ he said, his voice growing thick.

Having taken a break from recording, Jim Stevens sat naked on the edge of his bed, discarded clothes strewn around him, two empty miniatures of whisky on his bedside cabinet. The empty glass was clutched in one hand, and he stared at it and through it, focusing on things the world couldn’t see...