48

Rebus’s presentation went as well as he could have wished. The team had plenty of questions for him, none of them stupid.

‘Bright kids,’ he commented afterwards to Clarke.

‘It’s how they make them these days.’

They had checked out of the hotel, driven to the guest house near the battlefield at Culloden, and inspected their rooms. There was no evening meal, so they’d headed into town and stopped at the nearest Indian restaurant. Page wasn’t with them; he’d been invited to dine with Dempsey and a few other senior officers. When Clarke’s phone rang, she wasn’t at the table, having gone to visit the toilets. Rebus saw that the call was from Gayfield Square and decided to answer.

‘It’s Rebus,’ he said.

‘Is Siobhan there?’

‘Who wants her?’

‘Dave Ormiston — I’m the one whose desk you were given.’

‘She’ll be back in a minute. Is it anything I can help with?’

‘Thomas Robertson has rejoined the land of the living.’

‘Oh?’

‘Aberdeen sent us the message. He’s in hospital there.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘From what I can tell, he took a bit of a pasting from person or persons unknown.’

‘Local police involved?’

‘They found him next to some rubbish bins down by the docks. Unconscious, but with ID in his pocket. Credit cards and cash untouched, so not an obvious mugging.’

‘He’s going to be okay, though?’

‘Sounds like.’

Rebus took out a pen and reached across the table for a paper napkin. ‘What’s the name of the hospital?’ he asked. ‘Plus, a name and contact number for someone in Aberdeen CID, if you have them.’

Ormiston gave him what he had, then asked how things were going in Inverness.

‘Things are fine,’ Rebus said.

‘I saw you on the news — holding open the door for Frank Hammell.’

‘Common courtesy.’

‘Did you speak to him at all?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘No reason.’ Ormiston made a sound as though he were clearing his throat.

‘People usually have reasons for asking questions,’ Rebus persisted.

‘Not this time. You’ll let Siobhan know about Thomas Robertson?’

‘Of course,’ Rebus said.

By the time Clarke returned, her phone was off and had been returned to its original position next to her glass of water. She was yawning, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Minute my head hits that pillow,’ she told him.

‘I know what you mean,’ Rebus pretended to agree. ‘Reckon we should be getting back?’

She nodded, and signalled for their waiter to bring the bill. ‘This is my shout, by the way,’ she said. ‘I can always claim it on expenses — and besides, I’m not the pensioner here. .’

Having returned to the guest house, Rebus stayed in his room long enough to give his phone a bit of a charge and check the quickest route to Aberdeen. The A96 seemed to be the answer. It was a trip of a hundred miles, though, which caused him to hesitate. On the other hand, as soon as he was well enough, there was nothing to stop Robertson doing a runner. Tonight might be Rebus’s only chance. As he crept down the stairs and out of the three-storey house, he wondered how he was going to break the news to the sleeping Saab.

It was well after eleven when he reached Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. He hadn’t been to the city in years and didn’t recognise any landmarks along the route. Oil was Aberdeen’s core business, and the industrial units he passed all seemed to be oil-related. He got lost a couple of times before chancing on a sign that pointed him towards the hospital. He parked in the area reserved for ambulances and headed inside. The reception area was claustrophobic, and whoever manufactured beige paint had made a killing here. The bleary-eyed front desk sent him to the lifts, and he emerged a couple of floors up, pushing open the doors to the ward and explaining to the only duty nurse around that he was a police officer and needed to talk to a patient called Robertson. There were eight beds, seven of them filled. One man was awake, plugged into headphones and with a book held in front of him. The others all seemed to be asleep, one of them snoring loudly. There was a light over Thomas Robertson’s bed, and Rebus switched it on, illuminating the pulpy face. Eyes blackened; chin gashed and sporting thick black stitches. The nose — presumably broken — had been strapped. There was a folder at the foot of the bed, and Rebus opened it. One broken toe, two broken fingers, one cracked rib, a tooth missing, damage to the kidneys. .

‘Someone did a job on you, Tommy,’ Rebus said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. There was a jug of water on the cabinet next to the bed, and he poured himself a glass, gulping it down. His head was throbbing from the drive, palms tingling after so long at the steering wheel. He opened the cabinet and reached in for Robertson’s wallet. Credit cards and driving licence, plus forty pounds in cash.

No mugging, just as Ormiston had said. Rebus replaced the wallet. Handkerchief, small change, belt, watch — this last with its face smashed. He closed the cabinet again and leaned forward, so his mouth was inches from Robertson’s ear.

‘Tommy?’ he said. ‘Remember me?’ He reached out a finger and pressed it against the sleeping man’s temple. Robertson’s eyes fluttered and he gave a low moan. ‘Tommy,’ Rebus repeated. ‘Time to wake up.’

Robertson did so with a jolt, which quickly turned into a wince of pain, his whole body seeming to spasm.

‘Evening,’ Rebus said by way of greeting.

It took Robertson a few moments to get his bearings. He licked dry lips before fixing his puffy eyes on his visitor.

‘Who are you?’ he asked in a dry croak.

Rebus refilled the glass with water and held it to Robertson’s lips so he could sip.

‘The cop shop in Perth,’ Rebus reminded him. ‘I was the one standing by the wall.’ He placed the glass back on the cabinet.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve just got a couple of questions about Frank Hammell.’

‘Who?’

Rebus described Hammell and waited. Robertson blinked and tried to shake his head.

‘No?’ Rebus said. ‘So maybe he’s telling the truth for once when he says he doesn’t know you either. Thing is, though, somebody did this.’

‘I was jumped, that’s all there is to it.’ There was a lot of sibilance when he spoke, the air whistling through the freshly made gap where a tooth used to be.

‘Jumped?’

‘Some wee bastards.’

‘Wee bastards who didn’t bother taking any of your stuff? And this happened down by the docks?’

‘Docks?’

‘Where do you think you are, Tommy?’ Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘You don’t know, do you? They lifted you from behind the pub in Pitlochry and took you somewhere. Kept you there until they were sure you had nothing to do with Annette McKie — that’s a bit of news for you, by the way: they’ve found her body in some woods up past Inverness. Four other bodies next to her. So you’re off our list of contenders. Might explain why you’re here rather than in a shallow grave somewhere.’

Rebus saw that he’d hit a chord. Robertson’s eyes were suddenly fearful.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Robertson said, trying to shake his head. ‘I keep telling you — I got jumped.’

‘And which city did you get jumped in, Tommy? No, you were brought here and dumped here.’ Rebus paused. ‘Anyway, Hammell’s probably finished with you now. But as a wee insurance policy, you need to tell me it was him.’

‘How many times do I have to say it? I’ve never heard of the guy.’

The nurse was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked in a stage whisper.

‘I need to sleep,’ Robertson told her.

‘Of course you do.’

‘Am I due another painkiller?’

‘In two hours.’

‘If I had it now, maybe I’d sleep through till morning.’

The nurse had placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘You have to be leaving now, before you wake the other patients.’

‘Five more minutes.’

But she was shaking her head.

‘Off you go,’ Robertson said.

‘I can come back tomorrow.’

‘Come back as often as you like. I’ll tell you the exact same thing you heard tonight.’ Robertson focused his attention on the nurse. ‘It isn’t right I’m being grilled like this. Not when I’m in so much pain. .’

‘I’ve driven a long way to see you, you little shite-bag.’

‘You’re leaving right now,’ the nurse said, tightening her grip on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Or I’ll have you forcibly removed.’

Rebus debated whether it was worth standing his ground. Instead, he got to his feet.

‘I’ll see you around,’ he told Robertson, pressing down on the back of the man’s hand, the hand with the two strapped fingers. Robertson let out a wail loud enough to silence the snorer and wake the other patients.

‘He might be needing that medication early after all,’ Rebus informed the nurse, before making for the lifts.

That night, in a hotel room provided and paid for by Northern Constabulary, Darryl Christie sat at a desk with his laptop plugged in and his phone charging. He had already spoken to his mother and brothers, plus a neighbour who was keeping an eye on all three of them. Afterwards, he had called his father, telling him about the identification without bothering to add that Frank Hammell had also been present. Eventually it was the turn of Morris Gerald Cafferty.

‘How are you holding up?’ Cafferty asked.

‘Never mind that. This blows a hole in your notion that it has anything to do with Frank.’

‘Granted.’

‘So why am I even talking to you?’

‘Because whatever happens, you’re still a kid with ambition.’

‘I’m not a “kid”. And all that stuff you told me about Frank’s enemies — what made you think I wouldn’t rank you among them?’

‘Abduction’s not my style, Darryl. Nobody innocent ever gets hurt.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Other people might disagree, but I like to think I have standards.’

‘I’m not sure that squares with some of the stories about you.’

‘Stories told by Hammell, no doubt.’

‘Not just Frank, though. Lots of disappearances; lots of the wrong people ending up behind bars. .’

‘These are changed days, Darryl.’

‘Exactly my point. You belong in the history books, Cafferty.’

‘Easy, son. .’

‘I’m not your son — I’m not your son and I’m not a kid!’

‘Whatever you say, Darryl. I know you’re under a lot of strain and all.’

‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’

Christie ended the call and ignored the phone when Cafferty tried ringing back. He busied himself with his laptop, slotting home the memory stick, Cafferty’s words echoing in his head.

Nobody innocent ever gets hurt. .

Tell that to Thomas Robertson.

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