by Ian Rankin
‘Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ The man striding up the ramp wore the same uniform as Mr Bad Teeth from the airport multi-storey, but was a different breed altogether – ex-forces, maybe, and still able to take on a route march. Beefy arms, fists clenched, jaw jutting. The hair had been shaved from the skull and one ear had a chunk missing from it.
‘Early for a meeting,’ Rebus lied. ‘Just killing time.’ He made show of checking his watch.
‘Like fuck you are,’ the man spat.
‘Okay then,’ Rebus bristled. ‘You tell me – what am I doing?’
‘Whatever it is, you’re not staying.’ The man clamped a hand around Rebus’s forearm.
‘That could be classed as assault, pal.’
‘Oh aye? How about this?’ A fist crunched into Rebus’s stomach, and he felt his knees buckle. The same hand was digging in his coat, then his jacket’s inside pocket, tugging free the warrant card and flapping it open.
‘Detective Sergeant, eh? DS Rebus? Okay, I’ve got your name now, pal. And if you report any of this, we’ll be having another wee chat. So think about that.’
As the wallet was pushed back into Rebus’s pocket, he found enough strength to take a swing at his assailant. The man blocked it without too much effort, using his elbow, while his grip on Rebus’s other arm tightened still further. Then he let go and took a step back.
‘Any time you like, Grandad,’ he said.
‘I could have a squad car here in two minutes.’
‘I believe you – but remember what I said. Won’t just be out to wind you next time.’
Rebus flashed back to interview rooms down the years, the softening-up of suspects, the ‘accidental’ trips and falls. And now here he was, on the receiving end. He considered his options and found them wanting. Yes, he could call it in, and the scrapper in front of him would be arrested, questioned, cautioned – but to what end? He had learned something, and that was almost worth the short-lived pain and the residual embarrassment. Time was he would have gone blow-for-blow with the man.
Time was.
‘I’ll be back,’ was what he ended up saying.
‘Best bring a Terminator with you,’ his attacker said with a lopsided grin, watching as Rebus trudged back to the Saab. ‘Got your licence plate now too,’ the man added. ‘Means I can have your address any time I like.’
Rebus held one hand to his stomach as he drove, removing it only when he needed to change gear, which was often – all those bloody roundabouts again. He stopped at a fast-food place and got some fizzy orange. His mouth was dry, heart pounding. When his phone rang, he thought about ignoring it, but saw James Page’s name on the screen.
‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus answered.
‘Where from?’
‘Another errand.’
‘For Siobhan Clarke? Maybe I should ask her to confirm that.’
‘Up to you.’ Rebus slurped the ice-cold juice through a straw.
‘I’ve just spoken to Professor Quant about our floater. Bringing in Professor Thomas seems to have been useful. I think we’ve got a suspicious death here, and maybe even a murder.’
‘Murder? Not from what I saw at the second autopsy.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Look, I can see what you’re doing – everyone around you seems to be heading a big case, so you want one too. But the Procurator Fiscal’s office will laugh you back to Gayfield Square if you go to them with this. There’s no evidence to back you up.’
‘There are bruises.’
‘I’ve got a few of those myself. Doubt very much I’ll die from them.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Tickety-boo.’
‘And you’re really on your way here?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So what do you think we do about the floater?’
‘For starters, maybe stop using that word. Then you set up a trawl of missing persons, going back as many years as necessary. He was white-skinned, fair-haired. We know his height and build. An appeal is a good idea – get his description out there.’
‘Right.’
‘Christine Esson’s the expert – she’ll know where to start.’
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Any time, boss.’
‘How long till you get here? Twenty minutes? Half an hour?’
‘Soon as I can – scout’s honour.’
‘But we both know you were never a scout.’
‘You’ve rumbled me,’ Rebus confessed. Then: ‘Forgive me for saying, but you sound a bit cheerier.’
‘News from on high: no plans to scrap Gayfield Square.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Aye, me too. But doubtless you’ll do something to sour my mood before long.’
‘I dare say.’ Rebus ended the call and gave his stomach another rub. He had one slight detour to make before Gayfield Square. And some big questions that needed answering.
Great King Street was lined with cars, except for a stretch of single yellow line at the end. Rebus parked and placed the POLICE sign on the dashboard. He was close by Drummond Place, with its central splodge of green space, protected by high railings and available only to keyholders. He walked back along the street until he was outside the door he wanted, pressing the buzzer for the flat marked TRAYNOR/BELL.
‘Yes?’
The crackly voice belonged to Forbes McCuskey.
‘It’s DS Rebus. I need a word.’
‘There’s nothing for you here.’
‘Let me in or I swear I’ll kick down the door.’
There was silence. Then a buzzing as the door was unlocked. Rebus pushed it open and managed the stairs fine. The blood was rushing in his ears by the time he reached the top, but he hadn’t had to pause for breath. The door was closed, so he thumped on it. His hand came away stained pink. Looking again, he saw that paint had been thrown at the door, then wiped off. Whoever had cleaned it had tried to be thorough, but the stone floor beneath Rebus’s feet was stained too. The door was eventually opened, Forbes McCuskey standing there.
‘I’m collecting for the UVF,’ Rebus said, holding up his palm.
‘Jessica says this is intimidation. She says I should phone a lawyer.’
‘Want to borrow my mobile?’ Rebus held it out towards the young man. ‘I don’t care what the hell you do, Forbes. And I can appreciate you’re scared.’ He indicated the paint marks on the floor. ‘You’ve had a visitor. I think maybe they went to your home too. Expected to find you rather than your dad.’ He paused. ‘Can I come in?’
‘We don’t want you here.’
‘Maybe not, but I think you need me. How else are you going to be rid of Alice’s Uncle Rory?’
‘Christ . . .’
The utterance came from a doorway beyond.
‘Hello there, Alice,’ Rebus said, though he couldn’t see her. ‘You’ve managed to make it up with Forbes and Jessica, then? I suppose you had to – the three of you have to stick together, too much to lose otherwise.’ Then, to Forbes McCuskey: ‘I’ve just been visiting the multi-storey in Livingston. You took Jessica there for a look. I’m guessing it must have been Alice who let it slip, maybe one night after a party – a couple of drinks or a toke too many. Alice’s scary uncle and some car he’d told her about. Something in its boot? A crowbar would be needed if someone wanted to know what it was.’ Rebus paused, his eyes fixed on those of the student. ‘Am I getting warm, son?’
‘Tell him to go away!’ A different voice, louder, almost hysterical: Jessica Traynor.
‘The gang’s all here,’ Rebus said with a smile. ‘Crisis meeting sort of thing? How come Alice can’t just go have a word with Uncle Rory?’
‘It’s too late for that!’ Alice Bell cried out. Rebus tried shuffling into the hall, but McCuskey was determined to block him.
‘Come back when you’ve got a warrant,’ he said, a determined look on his face.
‘Might be too late by then, Forbes. You saw what happene
d to your dad.’
‘We don’t know what happened!’
‘We can take an educated guess, though,’ Rebus argued. ‘And you three are more educated than me, so I’m guessing you’ve come to a few conclusions.’ He paused again. ‘And they’re scaring the shit out of you even as I stand here. Oh, and by the way, Alice? Nice touch, putting me on the trail of Forbes’s dealer. I’m guessing that was to stop me focusing on the crash, and for a while it actually worked.’
Forbes turned away from Rebus towards Bell. ‘You told him?’
‘I had to!’
Rebus heard the main door downstairs open and close – a neighbour, returning home, their feet sounding like sandpaper against the stone steps.
‘You need me,’ he persisted. The young man’s resolve was crumbling, his whole world in imminent danger of collapse. ‘You need to tell me what happened.’
‘Just go,’ McCuskey said, with something like resignation.
‘Who else is going to be there for you, Forbes?’ Rebus stretched out his arms to reinforce the point.
‘Well there’s always me.’
This time the voice came from behind Rebus. He turned just as Owen Traynor reached the landing. Jessica emerged limping from the flat, brushing Rebus aside and throwing herself into her father’s embrace. He ran his hand down her hair, eyes on Rebus.
‘You can bugger off now,’ he said. ‘I need a quiet word with my daughter and her friends.’
‘You can’t get involved in this,’ Rebus warned him.
‘Involved in what?’ Traynor made show of widening his eyes.
‘This isn’t your fight.’
Traynor, draping an arm around Jessica’s shoulders, began to steer her past Rebus into the flat.
‘We’ll be fine now, thank you, Officer,’ Traynor said. ‘Shut the door, Forbes, there’s a good lad.’
McCuskey had the good grace to look apologetic as he obeyed the Englishman’s command. Rebus shook his head slowly, steadily, until Forbes McCuskey disappeared from view. The click of the Yale lock echoed around the stairwell. He cursed under his breath, then took out a handkerchief and began rubbing the paint from his hand.
Christine Esson was busy at her desk when Rebus reached Gayfield Square.
‘MisPers,’ she informed him when he took a look over her shoulder at her computer screen. ‘Lots and lots of them – so thanks for that.’
‘Don’t blame me if you’re the IT wizard around here.’
‘Judging by the autopsy photos, it’s an archaeologist we need.’
‘Maybe put out a call for tombs that have been raided lately.’ Rebus patted her shoulder before settling himself at his own desk. He had checked the damage to his stomach, studying it with the help of the mirror in the toilets. The bruise was already forming, but he doubted any real harm had been done, other than to his pride. From what he’d seen of the cars in the multi-storey, none had been attacked by a crowbar. Just the one then – the one since removed from the scene. Drugs, he was thinking. They were the obvious answer. Could Forbes McCuskey have lifted them? Spotted on CCTV, the guard waking up and bellowing a warning over one of the loudspeakers. McCuskey and Jessica Traynor getting the hell out of there. But the barrier would have stopped them. And the machine only accepted credit cards. Meaning Rory Bell would have their faces and the licence plate from the CCTV, plus the card details. Easy enough to trace them. Especially if Forbes McCuskey’s card was registered to his parents’ home address . . .
But now Owen Traynor had entered the picture, and that was a complication. If he did a deal with Bell, the case would cease to exist – along with the evidence. Rebus had to do something. He looked towards Page’s office, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s Mr Happy?’ he asked.
‘Persuading the upper echelons to give him a press conference. He wants the world to get a good look at Tutankhamun.’
‘Any idea how long he’ll be?’
‘I think he went home for a change of shirt – always likes to look his best for the brass.’
Rebus pondered his options. He could take what he had to DCI Ralph at Torphichen. The Pat McCuskey inquiry had drawn nothing but blanks – there was always the chance they’d welcome Rebus with open arms.
On the other hand, what did he have in the way of hard facts? Probably not enough for a search warrant for the car park. Nick Ralph’s first step would be to interview the three students again, and they would almost certainly stick to their original stories. The paint on the door could be explained as a prank. They had placed their trust in Jessica’s father rather than CID.
Rebus couldn’t really blame them.
He needed more before he could go to Torphichen, so he sifted through the paperwork he had on Rory Bell, put it back in order, then fired up his computer and got ready to start a Google search of his own.
It took him an hour to spot what Esson had missed. Missed, or had failed to see as being of importance. Alice Bell’s father had died two years back when his car was hit by a van. The van driver’s name was Jack Redpath. He had been charged with dangerous driving . . . but the case had never reached court. Or rather it had, but he hadn’t. He’d done a runner.
Such was the assumption of the local paper that had covered the case. Just the one mention. Rebus picked up the phone and managed to get through to someone in Central Region, who eventually connected him to an officer who remembered the incident.
‘Guy was divorced, living in a hovel and about to lose his job – maybe even do some time inside. He stuffed what few possessions his wife hadn’t taken into his car and offskied.’
‘You tried tracking him down?’
‘We did what we could.’
‘But he never turned up?’ Rebus scratched the underside of his jaw. ‘Have you got a record of the car he drove? Make and registration?’
‘Bloody hell.’ The officer gave a snort. ‘It’s Indiana Jones you need.’
‘Maybe so, but you’re what I’ve got. It was only two years ago – how hard can it be? Plus a photo or description of Redpath – and whether he was a smoker or not.’ He looked across to where Esson was still busy at her computer, her head resting on one hand, elbow against the surface of her desk. Rebus gave the officer his phone number and e-mail, ended the call, then filled the kettle and switched it on.
‘Just hot water, right?’ he asked. ‘No tea bag or coffee granules?’
‘Right,’ she agreed.
‘Having much luck?’
‘A lot of people seem to go walkabout.’
‘Any short cuts?’
‘There are organisations – they have websites, Facebook and Twitter accounts . . .’ She turned to look at him. ‘You’ve got something?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Keeping it to yourself?’
‘For a little while longer.’
He poured her drink and handed the mug to her, before making tea for himself. But instead of drinking it, he went back to the toilets and stared at himself in the mirror. It made sense, didn’t it? Something kept hidden in a long-stay car park, where no one would ever come looking. A word or clue dropped to Alice Bell, who couldn’t resist telling her friends. They prise open the boot – are spotted – flee the scene. The car has to be moved, maybe got rid of.
Not along with its contents, but separate from them.
Two years since Jack Redpath ran.
Or didn’t run.
Was taken.
His room emptied to make it look like he had scarpered.
Calluses on the hands, the result of manual labour. Redpath, a plasterer by trade.
Rebus splashed water on his face, rubbing it dry with a clump of paper towels.
The forensic anthropologist would know – two years in the boot of a car, what a body would look like after. One thing Rebus was sure of: to get a corpse in a car boot, it needed to be placed almost in a foetal position.
Easily misinterpreted as having been seated . . .
His
phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
It was the officer from Central.
‘Midnight-blue Ford Escort, eight years old. Used to run something sportier but the divorce settlement took care of that.’ The man reeled off the licence plate. Rebus told him to hang on, then went back into the CID suite and grabbed a pen and sheet of paper.
‘Repeat that, will you?’ he said, jotting the details down.
‘Plus I’ve e-mailed you a mug shot,’ the man went on.
‘Wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Rebus said. ‘But was he a smoker?’
‘Ten a day. Do I get to go back to actual real work now?’
‘With my blessing.’
Rebus put his phone next to the computer and opened his e-mail folder. Clicked on the attachment, then called across to Christine Esson. She studied the face, front and side views. Physical details were listed beneath.
‘Height, five-ten,’ Esson intoned. ‘Weight, a hundred and seventy pounds. Grey eyes, fair hair . . .’ She retreated to her desk and returned with the autopsy photos. ‘So who is he?’ she said.