by Ian Rankin
McAllister nodded, walking away from her. But Siobhan was on her feet, following him, her voice rising.
“It had the St. Leonard’s address on it, didn’t it, Rod? And when you saw my name, you knew who I was, didn’t you? Because Marty had mentioned me . . . or maybe it was Rachel. You remember that Mogwai album, Rod, the one before Rock Action?”
McAllister had lifted the hatch so he could move behind the bar. He slammed it shut after him. The barmaid was staring at him. Siobhan lifted the hatch.
“Hoi, staff only,” Susie said. But Siobhan wasn’t listening, was hardly aware that Rebus had risen from his chair and was approaching the bar. She grabbed McAllister by the sleeve of his jacket. He tried to shake her off, but she turned him to face her.
“Remember what it was called, Rod? It was Come On Die Young. C.O.D.Y., Rod. Same letters as on your second note.”
“Get the fuck off me!” he yelled.
“Whatever it is between you,” Susie was saying, “take it outside.”
“It’s a serious offense, Rod, sending threats like that.”
“Let go of me, you bitch!” He jerked his arm free, then swung it, catching her on the side of her face. She crashed into the shelves, sending bottles flying. Rebus had reached over the bar and grabbed McAllister by his hair, pulling his head down until it connected hard with the slop tray. McAllister’s arms were thrashing, his voice a wordless bellow, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.
“Any cuffs?” he asked Siobhan. She stumbled from behind the bar, glass crunching underfoot, ran to her bag, emptying its contents onto the table until she found the handcuffs. McAllister caught her a couple of good ones to the shins with the heels of his cowboy boots, but she squeezed the cuffs tight, knowing they’d hold. She moved away from him, feeling dizzy, not knowing if it was a concussion, adrenaline, or the fumes from half a dozen smashed liquor bottles.
“Call it in,” Rebus hissed, still not letting go of his prisoner. “A night in the cells won’t do this bastard any harm at all.”
“Here, you can’t do that,” Susie complained. “Who’s going to cover his shift?”
“Not our problem, love,” Rebus told her, offering what he hoped might be taken for an apologetic smile.
They’d taken McAllister to St. Leonard’s, booked him into the only empty cell left. Rebus had asked Siobhan if they’d be charging him formally. She’d shrugged.
“I doubt he’ll be sending any more notes.” One side of her face was still raw from where he’d connected, but it didn’t look like it would bruise.
In the car park, they went their separate ways. Siobhan’s parting words: “What about that diamond?” Rebus waving to her as he drove off.
He made for Arden Street, ignoring the ringing of his mobile: Siobhan, wanting to put that question to him again. He couldn’t find a parking space, decided he was too hyped-up anyway for a quiet night at home. So he kept driving, cruising the city’s south side until he found himself in Gracemount, back at the bus shelter where he’d confronted the Lost Boys what seemed like half a lifetime ago. Had it really only been Wednesday night? The shelter was deserted now. Rebus parked curbside anyway, let his window down an inch and smoked a cigarette. He didn’t know what he’d do with Rab Fisher if he found him, knew he wanted a few answers about Andy Callis’s death. The episode in the bar had given him a taste. He looked at his hands. They were still tingling from contact with McAllister, but it wasn’t altogether an unpleasant feeling.
Buses came but didn’t linger: no one was getting on or off. Rebus started the ignition and headed into the mazy housing projects, covering every possible route, sometimes finishing in a cul-de-sac and having to back out. There were kids playing a game of football in the near-dark on a stunted patch of parkland. Others skateboarding towards an underpass. This was their territory, their time of day. He could ask about the Lost Boys but knew that these kids learned the rules young. They wouldn’t rat out the local gang, not when their chief aspiration in life was probably membership of the same. Rebus parked again outside a low-rise block, smoked another cigarette. He’d need to find a shop soon, somewhere he could stock up. Or head for a pub, where one of the drinkers would doubtless sell him a job lot cheap, no questions asked. He checked the radio to see if anything bearable was being broadcast, but all he could find were rap and dance. There was a tape in the player, but it was Rory Gallagher, Jinx, and he wasn’t in the mood. Seemed to remember one of the tracks was called “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Not much of a defense these days, but plenty of others had come along in Old Nick’s place. No such thing as an inexplicable crime, not now that there were scientists and psychologists who’d talk about genes and abuse, brain damage and peer pressure. Always a reason . . . always, it seemed, an excuse.
So why had Andy Callis died?
And why had Lee Herdman walked into that classroom?
Rebus smoked his cigarette in silence, took the diamond out and looked at it, pocketed it at a sound from outside: one kid wheeling another past in a supermarket cart. They both stared at him, as if he were the oddity here, and maybe he was. A couple of minutes later, they were back again. Rebus rolled his window all the way down.
“Looking for something, mister?” The cart-pusher was nine, maybe ten, head shaven, cheekbones prominent.
“Supposed to be meeting Rab Fisher.” Rebus pretended to look at his watch. “Bastard hasn’t shown up.”
The boys were wary, but not as wary as they would become in a year or two.
“Seen him earlier,” the cart passenger said. Rebus decided to skip the grammar lesson.
“I owe him some cash,” he explained instead. “Thought he’d be here.” Making a show now of looking all around, as though Fisher might suddenly appear.
“We could get it to him,” the cart-pusher said.
Rebus smiling. “Do I look like my head zips up the back?”
“Up to you.” The kid offering a shrug.
“Try two streets that way.” His passenger pointing ahead and right. “We’ll race you.”
Rebus turned the ignition again. Didn’t want to race. He’d be conspicuous enough without a shopping cart rattling along at his side. “Bet you could find me some ciggies,” he said, picking a five-pound note from his pocket. “Cheap as you like, and the change is all yours.”
The note was plucked from his hand. “What’s with the gloves, mister?”
“No fingerprints,” Rebus said with a wink, pushing the accelerator.
But nothing was happening two streets away. He came to a junction and looked left and right, saw another car parked by the curb, a huddle of figures leaning down into it. Rebus paused at the Yield, thinking the car was being broken into. Then he realized: they were talking to the driver. Four of them. Just the one head visible inside the car. Looked like the Lost Boys, Rab Fisher doing all the talking. The car’s engine was a low growl, even in neutral. Souped up, or missing its exhaust pipe. Rebus suspected the former. The car had been worked on: big brake light in its back window, spoiler attached to the trunk. The driver was wearing a baseball cap. Rebus wanted him to be a victim, mugged or threatened . . . something that would give Rebus the excuse to go storming in. But that wasn’t the scenario here. He could hear laughter, got the feeling some anecdote was being shared.
One of the gang looked in his direction, and he realized he’d been sitting too long at the empty intersection. He turned on to the new road, parked with his back to the other car, fifty yards farther along. Pretended to be looking up at the block of flats . . . just a visitor, here to pick up a pal. Two impatient blasts of his horn to complete the effect, the Lost Boys giving him a moment’s notice before dismissing him. Rebus put his phone to his ear, as if making a call to his missing friend . . .
And watched in his rearview.
Watched Rab Fisher gesticulating, animating his story, the driver someone he was keen to impress. Rebus could hear music, a rumble of bass, the driver’s radio tuned to one of the stations Rebus
had rejected. He was wondering how long he could carry on the pretense. And what if the cart twosome really did bring him some cigarettes?
But now Fisher was straightening up, backing away from the car door, which was opening, the driver getting out.
And Rebus saw who it was: Evil Bob. Bob with his own car, acting big and tough, shoulders rolling as he walked around to the trunk, unlocking it. There was something inside he wanted them all to see, the gang forming a tight semicircle, blocking Rebus’s view.
Evil Bob . . . Peacock’s sidekick. But not acting the sidekick now, because though he might not be the brightest light on the Christmas tree, he was higher up that tree than a bauble like Fisher.
Not acting . . .
Rebus was remembering something from the interview room at St. Leonard’s, the day the lowlifes were being grilled. Bob, muttering about never having seen a panto, sounding disappointed. Bob, the big kid, hardly a grown-up at all. Which was why Peacock kept him around, treating him almost as a pet, a pet who did tricks for him.
And now Rebus had another face in his mind, another scene. James Bell’s mother, The Wind in the Willows . . .
Never too old . . . Wagging her finger at him. Never too old . . .
He gave a final, apparently despairing look out of his side window, then drove off, revving hard as if annoyed by his pal’s no-show. Turned at the next junction and then slowed again, pulled in and made a call on his mobile. Scribbled down the number he was given, made a second call. Then did a circuit, no sign of the cart or his money, not that he was expecting either. Ended up at another Yield, a hundred yards in front of Bob’s car. Waited. Saw the trunk being slammed shut, the Lost Boys making their way back to the sidewalk, Bob getting behind the steering wheel. He had an air horn, it played “Dixie” as he dropped the hand brake, tires squealing, sending up wisps of smoke. He was heading for fifty as he passed Rebus, “Dixie” blaring again. Rebus started to follow.
He felt calm, purposeful. Decided it was time for the last cigarette in the pack. And maybe even a few minutes of Rory Gallagher, too. Remembered seeing Rory in the seventies, Usher Hall, the place filled with tartan shirts, faded denims. Rory playing “Sinner Boy,” “I’m Movin’ On” . . . Rebus had one sinner boy in his sights, hopeful of snaring two more.
Rebus eventually got what he was hoping for. Having chanced his luck at a couple of amber traffic lights, Bob was forced to stop for a red. Rebus drove up behind him, then passed and stopped, blocking the road. Opened the driver’s door and got out as “Dixie” sounded its warning. Bob looked angry, came out of the car ready for trouble. Rebus had his hands up in surrender.
“Evening, Bo-bo,” he said. “Remember me?”
Bob knew him now all right. “The name’s Bob,” he stated.
“Right you are.” The lights had turned green. Rebus waved for the cars behind to come around them.
“What’s this all about?” Bob was asking. Rebus was inspecting the car, a prospective buyer’s once-over. “I’ve no’ done nothing.”
Rebus had reached the trunk. He tapped it with his knuckles. “Care to give me a quick tour of the exhibit?”
Bob’s jaw jutted. “Got a search warrant?”
“Think somebody like me bothers with the niceties?” The baseball cap was shading Bob’s face. Rebus bent at the knees so he was looking up into it. “Think again.” He paused. “But as it happens . . .” He straightened. “All I want is for the pair of us to go somewhere.”
“I’ve no’ done nothing,” the young man repeated.
“No need to fret . . . the cells are jam-packed at St. Leonard’s as it is.”
“So where are we going?”
“My treat.” Rebus nodded towards his Saab. “I’m going to park curbside. You pull in behind and wait for me. Got that? And I don’t want to see you with your mobile in your hand.”
“I’ve no’ —”
“Understood,” Rebus interrupted. “But you’re about to do something . . . and you’ll like it, I promise you.” He held up a finger, then retreated to his car. Evil Bob parked behind him, good as gold, and waited while Rebus got into the passenger seat, telling him he could drive.
“Drive where, though?”
“Toad Hall,” Rebus said, pointing towards the road ahead.
22
They’d missed the first half of the show, but their tickets for the second half were waiting at the Traverse box office. The audience comprised families, a busload of pensioners, and what looked like at least one school trip, the children wearing identical pale-blue jumpers. Rebus and Bob took their seats at the back of the auditorium.
“It’s not a panto,” Rebus told him, “but it’s the next best thing.” The lights were just going down for the second half. Rebus knew he’d read The Wind in the Willows as a kid, but couldn’t remember the story. Not that Bob seemed to mind. His caginess soon melted away as the lights illuminated the scenery and the actors bounded onstage. Toad was in jail as proceedings opened.
“Framed, no doubt,” Rebus whispered, but Bob wasn’t listening. He clapped and booed with the kids and by the climax—weasels put to flight by Toad and his allies—was on his feet, bellowing his support. He looked down at the still-seated Rebus and a huge grin spread across his face.
“Like I say,” Rebus offered as the houselights went up and kids began pouring out of the auditorium, “not quite pantomime, but you get the idea.”
“And this is all because of what I said that day?” With the play over, some of Bob’s mistrust was returning.
Rebus shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t see you as a natural-born weasel.”
Out in the foyer, Bob stopped, looking all around him, as though reluctant to leave.
“You can always come back,” Rebus told him. “Doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”
Bob nodded slowly, and allowed Rebus to lead him into the busy street. He already had his car keys out, but Rebus was rubbing his gloved hands together.
“A bag of chips?” he suggested. “Just to round the evening off . . .”
“I’m buying,” Bob was quick to stress. “You stumped up for the seats.”
“Well, in that case,” Rebus said, “I’m bumping my order to a fish supper.”
The chip shop was quiet: pubs hadn’t started emptying yet. They carried the warm, wrapped packages back to the car and got in, windows steaming up as they sat and ate. Bob gave a sudden, open-mouthed chuckle.
“Toad was an arse, wasn’t he?”
“Reminded me of your pal Peacock actually,” Rebus said. He’d removed his gloves so they wouldn’t get greasy, knew Bob wouldn’t see his hands in the dark. They’d bought cans of juice. Bob slurped from his, not saying anything. So Rebus tried again.
“I saw you earlier with Rab Fisher. What do you make of him?”
Bob chewed thoughtfully. “Rab’s okay.”
Rebus nodded. “Peacock thinks so, too, doesn’t he?”
“How would I know?”
“You mean he hasn’t said?”
Bob concentrated on his food, and Rebus knew he’d found the chink he was looking for. “Oh, aye,” he went on, “Rab’s rising in Peacock’s estimation all the time. Ask me, he’s just been lucky. See that time we busted him for the replica gun? Case got tossed, and that makes it look like Rab outwitted us.” Rebus shook his head, trying not to let thoughts of Andy Callis cloud his concentration. “But he didn’t, he just got lucky. When you’re lucky like that, though, people start to look up to you . . . They reckon you’re more sussed than others.” Rebus paused to let this sink in. “But I’ll tell you something, Bob, whether the guns are real or not isn’t the issue. The replicas look too good, no way for us to tell they’re not real. And that means sooner or later a kid’s going to get himself killed. And his blood’ll be on your hands.”
Bob had been licking ketchup from his fingers. He froze at the thought. Rebus took a deep breath and gave a sigh, leaning back against the headrest. “Way things are headed,”
he added lightly, “Rab and Peacock are just going to get closer and closer . . .”
“Rab’s okay,” Bob repeated, but the words had a new hollowness to them.
“Good as gold, Rab is,” Rebus conceded. “He buy whatever you were selling?”
Bob gave him a look, and Rebus relented. “Okay, okay, none of my business. Let’s pretend you don’t have a gun or something wrapped in a blanket in your trunk.”
Bob’s face tightened.
“I mean it, son.” Rebus laying some stress on the son, wondering what sort of father Bob had known. “No good reason why you should open up to me.” He picked out another chip, dropped it into his mouth. Gave a satisfied grin. “Is there anything better than a good fish supper?”
“Cracking chips.”
“Almost like homemade.”
Bob nodded. “Peacock makes the best chips I know, crispy at the edges.”
“Peacock does a bit of cooking, eh?”
“Last time, we had to go before he’d finished . . .”
Rebus stared ahead as the young man crammed home more chips. He picked up his can and held it, just for something to do. His heart was pounding, felt like it was squeezing itself into his windpipe. He cleared his throat. “Marty’s kitchen, was it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. Bob nodded, scouring the corners of the carton for crumbs of batter. “I thought they’d fallen out over Rachel?”
“Yeah, but when Peacock got the phone call —” Bob stopped chewing, horror filling his eyes, realizing suddenly that this wasn’t just another chat with a pal.
“What phone call?” Rebus asked, allowing the chill to creep into his voice.
Bob was shaking his head. Rebus pushed open his door, snatched the keys from the ignition. Out of the car, scattering chips on the road, around to the back, opening the trunk.
Bob was next to him. “You can’t! You said . . . ! You bloody said . . . !”
Rebus pushing aside the spare tire, revealing the gun, not wrapped in anything. A Walther PPK.