by Ian Rankin
Lorna Grieve accepted the compliment; Rebus stayed quiet.
‘And if I’d known there were honeys like you in Edinburgh,’ she told Gordon, ‘I wouldn’t have moved out to the sticks. And I certainly wouldn’t have married a grim old beast like Hugh Cordover.’
‘Don’t knock High Chord,’ Gordon said. ‘I saw Obscura supporting Barclay James Harvest at the Usher Hall.’
‘Were you still at school?’
Gordon considered the question. ‘I think I was fourteen.’
Lorna Grieve looked at Rebus. ‘We’re dinosaurs,’ she informed him.
‘We were dinosaurs when Gordon here was just primordial soup,’ he agreed.
But she wasn’t at all like a dinosaur. Her clothes were colourful and flowing, her hair immaculate, and her make-up striking. Surrounded by men in work suits, she was a butterfly in the company of fluttering grey moths.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Drinking.’
‘Did you drive in?’
‘The band gave me a lift.’ She peered at him. ‘I didn’t just come here to see you, you know.’
‘No?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She brushed invisible flecks from her scarlet jacket. Beneath was an orange silk blouse, and on her legs faded denims, frayed where they touched her ankles. Black suede moccasins on her feet. No jewellery anywhere.
Not even a wedding ring.
‘I like new things, that’s all,’ she was explaining. ‘And currently my life is so dreary’, looking at her surroundings, ‘that this counts as new.’
‘Poor you.’
Her glance was arch and wry at the same time. Gordon shuffled his feet and said he’d see her upstairs. She nodded unconvincingly.
‘Have you been drinking all day?’ he asked.
‘Jealous?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve been there often enough.’ He turned so he was facing her. ‘How does the Ox measure up?’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’s very you,’ she said.
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ She studied him. ‘There’s a darkness in you.’
‘Probably all the beer.’
‘I’m serious. We all come from darkness, you have to remember that, and we sleep during the night to escape the fact. I’ll bet you have trouble sleeping at night, don’t you?’ He didn’t say anything. Her face grew less animated. ‘We’ll all return to darkness one day, when the sun burns out.’ A sudden smile lit her eyes. ‘“Though my soul may set in darkness, It will rise in perfect light.”’
‘A poem?’ he guessed.
She nodded. ‘I forget the rest.’
The door creaked open. Two expectant faces: Grant Hood and Ellen Wylie. Hood looked ready for a drink, but he wasn’t coming in. Wylie spotted Rebus, motioned for him to step outside.
‘Back in a minute,’ he told Lorna Grieve, touching her arm before squeezing his way past the other drinkers. The night air was fresh after the pub fug. Rebus took in several deep gulps.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ Wylie said.
‘You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a good reason.’ He slipped his hands into his pockets. There was ice in the gutters now. The narrow street was badly lit. Cars were parked down one side, windscreens rimed with frost. Sudden clouds in the air when the three detectives spoke.
‘We went to see Jack Kirkwall,’ Hood explained.
‘And?’
‘You two know each other?’ Wylie asked.
‘A case few years back.’
Hood and Wylie exchanged a look. ‘You tell him,’ Hood said. So Wylie told the story, and at the end Rebus was thoughtful.
‘He’s flattering me,’ he said at last.
‘He said you’d tell us about Mr Big,’ she repeated.
Rebus nodded. ‘That’s what some in CID called him. Not very original.’
Hood: ‘But the name fitted?’
Rebus nodded, moved aside to let a couple into the bar. The singer had started up again: he could hear her through the back room’s closed window.
My mind returns, she sang, to things I should have left behind.
‘His name was Callan, first name Bryce.’
‘I thought Big Ger Cafferty ran Edinburgh?’
Rebus nodded. ‘But only after Callan retired, moved to the Costa del Sol or somewhere. He’s never been away, though.’
Wylie: ‘How do you mean?’
‘You still hear stories, how a piece of Cafferty’s action heads out to Spain. Bryce Callan’s almost grown . . .’ He sought the word. More lyrics from the back room:
My mind returns, to things best left unsaid.
‘Mythical?’ Wylie suggested.
He nodded, stared at the window of the barber’s shop across the lane. ‘Because we never put him away, I suppose.’
‘How would Dean Coghill have fallen foul of him?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Protection maybe. There’s a lot can go wrong on a building site, and those projects . . . even then they’d be worth thousands. A few days lost could mean everything.’
Hood was nodding. ‘So we need to find Coghill.’
‘Always supposing he’ll speak to us,’ Wylie warned.
‘Let me do some checking on Bryce Callan,’ Rebus said.
The past is here now, insistent, carved from darkness,
So please beware, take care now where you tread . . .
‘Meantime,’ he went on, ‘you better try to get hold of Coghill’s employee files. We need to know who was working on the site.’
‘And if any of them disappeared,’ Hood added.
‘I’m assuming you’ve made a start on MisPer records.’
Wylie and Hood shared a look, said nothing.
‘It’s shit work,’ Rebus acknowledged, ‘but it’s got to be done. Two of you on it, takes half the time.’
Wylie: ‘Can we limit the search to late ’78, first three months of ’79?’
‘To start with, yes.’ He looked towards the pub. ‘Buy the pair of you a drink?’
Wylie was quick to shake her head. ‘I think we’ll head for the Cambridge, bit quieter there.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘In there’, nodding towards the door of the Ox, ‘looks too much like the broom cupboard we’re having to work out of.’
‘I’d heard,’ Rebus said. Wylie’s look was accusatory.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘the woman in there . . .’ Wylie looked down at her feet. ‘Was it who I thought it was?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Just a coincidence,’ he said.
‘Of course.’ She nodded slowly, began to move off. She still hadn’t made eye contact. Hood made to catch up with her. Rebus pushed open the door a crack but waited. Wylie and Hood with their heads together, Hood asking who the woman had been. If the story got around St Leonard’s, Rebus would know who’d started it.
And that would be the end of the Time Team.
He woke at 4 a.m. The bedside lamp was still on. The duvet had been kicked to the foot of the bed. The sound of an engine turning over outside. He stumbled to the window, just in time to see a dark shape disappearing into the back of a taxi. He weaved naked into the living room, reaching for handholds, his balance shot. She’d left him a gift: a four-track demo by the Robinson Crusoes. It was titled Shipwrecked Heart. Made sense, band having the name they did. ‘Final Reproof’ was the last song on it. He stuck it on the hi-fi, listened for a minute or two with the volume down low. Empty bottle and two tumblers on the floor by the sofa. There was still half an inch of whisky in one of them. He sniffed it, took it into the kitchen. Poured it down the sink and filled the glass with cold water, gulped it down. Then another, and another after that. No way he was getting away from this one without a hangover, but he’d do his best. Three paracetamol tablets and more water, then another glassful to take through to the bathroom with him. She’d showered: there was a wet towel hanging from the rail. Showered first, then called the taxi. Ha
d he woken her with his snoring? Had she ever been asleep? He ran a bath, looked at himself in the shaving mirror. Slack skin covered his face, looking for somewhere else to go. He bent down, dry-retched into the sink, almost bringing the tablets back up. How much had they drunk? He couldn’t begin to count. Had they come back here straight from the Ox? He didn’t think so. Back in the bedroom, he searched his pockets for clues. Nothing. But the fifty quid he’d gone out with had been reduced to pennies.
‘Dear Christ.’ He squeezed shut his eyes. His neck felt stiff; so did his back. In front of the bathroom mirror again he stared into his eyes. ‘Did we do it?’ he asked himself. The answer came back: definitely maybe. Screwed shut his eyes again. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, John, what have you done?’
Answer: slept with Lorna Grieve. Twenty years ago, he’d have been doing cartwheels. But then twenty years ago, she hadn’t been part of a murder inquiry.
He turned off the taps, eased himself into the water and slid down, knees bent, so that his whole head went under. Maybe, he thought, if I just lie here like this it’ll all go away. His first mistake on booze had been over thirty years before, outside a school dance.
A bloody long apprenticeship, he thought, coming up for air. Whatever happened now, he felt tied to the Grieves, one more thread of their history.
And if Lorna put the story around, he’d be history, too.
Part Two
Fitful
and
Dark
16
Jerry had this morning routine, soon as Jayne had gone off to work. Tea, toast and the paper, and then into the living room to play a few records. Old stuff, punk 45s from his teens. Really set him up for the day. There might be thumps from upstairs, but he’d flick the Vs at the ceiling and dance on regardless. He had a few favourites – Generation X, ‘Your Generation’; Klark Kent, ‘Don’t Care’; Spizzenergi, ‘Where’s Captain Kirk?’ Their picture sleeves were dog-eared, and the vinyl was scratched to hell – too many lendings and parties. He still remembered gate-crashing a Ramones gig at the uni: October ’78. The Spizz single was May ’79: date of purchase scrawled on the back of the sleeve. He was like that back then. He’d time all his singles, make notes. A top five every week – best things he’d heard, not necessarily bought. The Virgin on Frederick Street had been shoplifting heaven for a while. Hadn’t been so easy at Bruce’s. The guy who ran Bruce’s had gone on to manage Simple Minds. Jerry’d seen them when they’d been called Johnny and the Self Abusers.
It all used to matter, to mean something. Weekends, the adrenaline could make you dizzy.
These days, dancing did that for him. He fell on to the sofa. Three records and he was knackered. Rolled himself a joint and switched on the TV, knowing there’d be nothing worth watching. Jayne was working a double shift, wouldn’t be home till nine, maybe ten. That gave him twelve hours to wash the dishes. Some days he itched to be working again, sitting in an office maybe with suit and tie on, making decisions and fielding phone calls. Nic said he had a secretary. A secretary. Who’d have thought it? He remembered the pair of them at school, kicking a football across the cul-de-sac, pogoing to punk in their bedrooms. Well, Jerry’s bedroom mostly. Nic’s mum had been funny about visitors; always a frown on her face when she opened her door and saw Jerry standing there. Dead now though, the old cow. Her living room had smelt of the Hamlet cigars Nic’s dad smoked. He was the only person Jerry knew who didn’t smoke cigarettes, had to be a cigar. Jerry, TV remote busy in his hand, chuckled now at the thought. Cigars! Who did the old sod think he was? Nic’s dad had worn ties and cardigans . . . Jerry’s dad had worn a vest most of the time, and a trouser-belt that came off whenever there was justice to dispense. But Jerry’s mum, she’d been a treasure: no way he’d have swapped his parents for Nic’s.
‘No bloody way,’ he said out loud.
He switched off the TV. The joint was down to the hot bit near the roach. He took a last draw and went to flush it down the bog. Not that he was worried about the pigs; it was Jayne didn’t like him doing the wacky bac. Way Jerry looked at it, the wacko kept him sane. Government should put the stuff on the National Health, way it kept the likes of him from going off the rails.
He went to the bathroom to have a shave: little treat for Jayne when she came home. Still humming ‘Captain Kirk’. Brilliant record, one of the best. He was thinking about Nic, how the two of them had become pals. You could never tell, could you, people you’d end up liking. They’d been in the same class since age five, but it was only when they went up to secondary that they started hanging around together, listening to Alex Harvey and Status Quo, trying to work out which lyrics were about sex. Nic had written a poem, hundreds of lines long, all about an orgy. Jerry had reminded him about it recently, and they’d had a good laugh. That was what it was about, at the end of the day: having a laugh.
He realised he was staring into the bathroom mirror; foam on his face and the razor in his hand. He had bags and lines under his eyes. It was catching up with him. Jayne kept talking about kids and ticking clocks; he kept telling her he’d think about it. Fact was, he didn’t fancy himself as a dad, and Nic kept talking about how it ruined a relationship. Guys in the office who hadn’t had sex since their nipper was born – months, sometimes years. And the mothers letting themselves go, gravity working against them. Nic would wrinkle his nose in disgust.
‘Not a pretty outlook, is it?’ Nic would say.
And Jerry would be bound to agree.
After school, Jerry had assumed they’d get jobs in the same place, maybe a factory or something. But Nic had dropped a bombshell: he was staying on an extra year, doing his Highers. It hadn’t stopped them seeing one another, but there were all these books in Nic’s room now – stuff Jerry couldn’t make head or tail of. And after that there was Napier for three years, and more books, essays to hand in. They saw one another some weekends, but almost never through the week – maybe Friday night for a disco or a gig. Iggy Pop . . . Gang of Four . . . the Stones at the Playhouse. Nic hardly ever introduced Jerry to his student pals, unless they met them at a gig. Once or twice they ended up in the pub. Jerry had chatted up one of the girls, then Nic had grabbed him.
‘What would Jayne say?’
Because he was seeing Jayne by then. They worked in the same factory: semiconductors. Jerry drove the fork-lift, got really good with it. He’d show off, do circuits around the women. They’d laugh, say he was daft, he’d get someone killed. Then Jayne came along and that was that.
Fifteen years they’d been married. Fifteen years and no kids. How could she expect them to have kids now, with him on the dole? His only letter this morning: dole people wanted him in for an interview. He knew what that meant. They wanted to know what he was doing to find himself a job. Answer: sweet FA. And now Jayne was at him again, ‘The clock’s ticking, Jerry.’ A double meaning there: her body clock, plus the threat that she might walk out if she didn’t get what she wanted. She’d done it before, packed her bags and off to her mum’s three streets away. Be as well bloody living there anyway . . .
He’d go mad if he stayed in the flat. He wiped the foam from his face and put his shirt back on, grabbed his jacket and was out. Walked the streets, looking for people to talk to, then into the bookies for half an hour, warming himself by the heater, pretending to study form. They knew him in there: highly unlikely he’d place a bet, but he sometimes did, always losing. When the lunchtime paper came in, he took a look. Page three, there was a story about a sexual assault. He read it closely. Nineteen-year-old student, grabbed in the Commonwealth Pool car park. Jerry flung the paper down and headed out to find a phone box.
He had Nic’s office number in his pocket, called him there sometimes when he was bored, holding the receiver to the stereo so Nic could hear some song they used to dance to. He got the receptionist and asked for Mr Hughes.
‘Nic, man, it’s Jerry.’
‘Hiya, pal. What can I do you for?’
‘Just saw the
paper. There was a student attacked last night.’
‘The world’s a terrible place.’
‘Tell me it wasn’t you.’
A nervous laugh. ‘That’s a sick kind of joke, Jerry.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Where are you? Got any mates listening in?’
The way he said it made Jerry stop. Nic was telling him something, telling him someone could be listening in – maybe the receptionist.
‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Nic said.
‘Listen, man, I’m sorry—’ But the phone was dead.
Jerry was shaking when he left the phone box. Jogged all the way home, fixed another joint. Put the TV on and sat there, trying to get his heartbeat down. Safer here; wasn’t anything could touch him here. This was the only place to be.
Until Jayne got home.
Siobhan Clarke had asked Register House to run a search for Chris Mackie’s birth certificate. She’d also begun asking around about Mackie, concentrating on Grassmarket and the Cowgate, but spreading out to take in the Meadows, Princes Street and Hunter Square.
But this Thursday morning she sat in a doctor’s waiting room, surrounded by pale and sickly sufferers, until her name was called and she could put aside the women’s magazine with its alien articles on cookery, clothes and kids.
Where, she wondered, was the magazine for her, one that concentrated on Hibs FC, hashed relationships and homicide?
Dr Talbot was in his mid-fifties and wore a weary smile below his half-moon glasses. He already had Chris Mackie’s medical records laid out on his desk, but checked that Clarke’s own paperwork – death certificate; authorisation – was in order before beckoning for her to move her chair in towards the desk.
It took her a couple of minutes to substantiate that the records only went back as far as 1980. When Mackie had registered with the surgery, he’d given a previous address in London and had stated that his records were held by a Dr Mason in Crouch End. But a letter from Dr Talbot to Dr Mason’s address had been returned ‘No Such Street’.
‘You didn’t pursue this?’ Clarke asked.