by Ian Rankin
The prison officer, Petrie, was standing outside, shuffling his feet. His eyes couldn’t meet Rebus’s.
‘You’re an absolute disgrace,’ Rebus told him, walking away.
While he was in Glasgow, Rebus could have talked to the boy’s mother, only the boy’s mother was in Edinburgh giving an official ID to the top half of her dead son’s face. Dr Curt would be sure she never saw the bottom half. As he’d said to Rebus, if Billy had been a ventriloquist’s dummy, he’d never have worked again.
‘You’re a sick man, doctor,’ John Rebus had said.
He drove back to Edinburgh weary and trembling. Cafferty had that effect on him. He’d never thought he’d have to see the man again, at least not until both of them were of pensionable age. Cafferty had sent him a postcard the day he’d arrived in Barlinnie. But Siobhan Clarke had intercepted it and asked if he wanted to see it.
‘Tear it up,’ Rebus had told her. He still didn’t know what the message had been.
Siobhan Clarke was still in the Murder Room when he got back.
‘You’re working hard,’ he told her.
‘It’s a wonderful thing, overtime. Besides, we’re a bit short of hands.’
‘You’ve heard then?’
‘Yes, congratulations.’
‘What?’
‘SCS, it’s like a lateral promotion, isn’t it?’
‘It’s only temporary, like a run of good games to Hibs. Where’s Brian?’
‘Out at Cunningham’s digs, talking to Murdock and Millie again.’
‘Was Mrs Cunningham up to questioning?’
‘Just barely.’
‘Who talked to her?’
‘I did, the Chief Inspector’s idea.’
‘Then for once Lauderdale’s had a good idea. Did you ask her about religion?’
‘You mean all that Orange stuff in Billy’s room? Yes, I asked. She just shrugged like it was nothing special.’
‘It is nothing special. There are hundreds of people with the same flag, the same music-tapes. Christ, I’ve seen them.’
And this was the truth. He’d seen them at close quarters, not just as a kid, hearing the Sash sung by drunks on their way home, but more recently. He’d been visiting his brother in Fife, just over a month ago, the weekend before July 12th. There’d been an Orange march in Cowdenbeath. The pub they were in seemed to be hosting a crowd of the marchers in the dance hall upstairs. Sounds of drums, especially the huge drum they called the lambeg, and flutes and penny whistles, bad choruses repeated time and again. They’d gone upstairs to investigate, just as the thing was winding down. God Save the Queen was being destroyed on a dozen cheap flutes.
And some of the kids singing along, sweaty brows and shirts open, some of them had their arms raised, hands straight out in front of them. A Nazi-style salute.
‘Nothing else?’ he asked. Clarke shook her head. ‘She didn’t know about the tattoo?’
‘She thinks he must have done it in the last year or so.’
‘Well, that’s interesting in itself. It means we’re not dealing with some ancient gang or old flame. SaS was something recent in his life. What about Nemo?’
‘It didn’t mean anything to her.’
‘I’ve just been talking to Cafferty, SaS meant something to him. Let’s pull his records, see if they tell us anything.’
‘Now?’
‘We can make a start. By the way, remember that card he sent me?’ Clarke nodded. ‘What was on it?’
‘It was a picture of a pig in its sty.’
‘And the message?’
‘There wasn’t any message,’ she said.
On the way back to Patience’s he dropped into the video store and rented a couple of movies. It was the only video store nearby that he hadn’t turned over at one time or another with vice or Trading Standards, looking for porn and splatter and various bootleg tapes. The owner was a middle-aged fatherly type, happy to tell you that some comedy was particularly good or some adventure film might prove a bit strong for ‘the ladies’. He hadn’t commented on Rebus’s selections: Terminator 2 and All About Eve. But Patience had a comment.
‘Great,’ she said, meaning the opposite.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You hate old movies and I hate violence.’
Rebus looked at the Schwarzenegger. ‘It’s not even an 18. And who says I don’t like old films?’
‘What’s your favourite black and white movie?’
‘There are hundreds of them.’
‘Name me five. No, three, and don’t say I’m not fair.’
He stared at her. They were standing a few feet apart in the living room, Rebus with the videos still in his hands, Patience with her arms folded, her back erect. He knew she could probably smell the whisky on his breath, even keeping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose. It was so quiet, he could hear the cat washing itself somewhere behind the sofa.
‘What are we fighting about?’ he asked.
She was ready for this. ‘We’re fighting about consideration, as usual. To wit, your lack of any.’
‘Ben Hur.’
‘Colour.’
‘Well, that courtroom one then, with James Stewart.’ She nodded. ‘And that other one, with Orson Welles and the mandolin.’
‘It was a zither.’
‘Shite,’ said John Rebus, throwing down the videos and making for the front door.
Millie Docherty waited until Murdock had been asleep for a good hour. She spent the hour thinking about the questions the police had asked both of them, and thinking further back to good days and bad days in her life. She spoke Murdock’s name. His breathing remained regular. Only then did she slip out of bed and walk barefoot to Billy’s bedroom door, touching the door with her fingertips. Christ, to think he wasn’t there, would never be there again. She tried to control her breathing, fast in, slow out. Otherwise she might hyperventilate. Panic attacks, they called them. For years she’d suffered them not knowing she was not alone. There were lots of people out there like her. Billy had been one of them.
She turned the doorknob and slipped into his room. His mother had been round earlier on, hardly in a state to cope with any of it. There had been a policewoman with her, the same one who’d come to the flat that first time. Billy’s mum had looked at his room, but then shook her head.
‘I can’t do this. Another time.’
‘If you like,’ Millie had offered, ‘I can bag everything up for you. All you’d have to do is have his things collected.’ The policewoman had nodded her gratitude at that. Well, it was the least . . . She felt the tears coming and sat down on his narrow bed. Funny how a bed so narrow could be made wide enough for two, if the two were close. She did the breathing exercises again. Fast in, slow out, but those words, her instructions to herself, reminded her of other things, other times. Fast in, slow out.
‘I’ve got this self-help book,’ Billy had said. ‘It’s in my room.’ He’d gone to find it for her, and she’d followed him into his room. Such a tidy room. ‘Here it is,’ he’d said, turning towards her quickly, not realising how close behind him she was.
‘What’s all this Red Hand stuff?’ she’d asked, looking past him at his walls. He’d waited till her eyes returned to his, then he’d kissed her, tongue rubbing at her teeth till she opened her mouth to him.
‘Billy,’ she said now, her hands filling themselves with his bedcover. She stayed that way for a few minutes, part of her mind staying alert, listening for sounds from the room she shared with Murdock. Then she moved across the bed to where the Hearts pennant was pinned to the wall. She pushed it aside with a finger.
Underneath, taped flat against the wall, was a computer disk. She’d left it here, half hoping the police would find it when they searched the room. But they’d been hopeless. And watching them search, she’d become suddenly afraid for herself, and had started to hope they wouldn’t find it. Now, she got her fingernails under it and unpeeled it, looking at the disk. Well, it w
as hers now, wasn’t it? They might kill her for it, but she could never let it go. It was part of her memory of him. She rubbed her thumb across the label. The streetlight coming through the unwashed window wasn’t quite enough for her to read by, but she knew what the label said anyway.
It was just those three letters, SaS.
Dark, dark, dark.
Rebus recalled that line at least. If Patience had asked him to quote from a poem instead of giving her movie titles, he’d have been all right. He was standing at a window of St Leonard’s, taking a break from his deskful of work, all the paperwork on Morris Gerald Cafferty.
Dark, dark, dark.
She was trying to civilise him. Not that she’d admit it. What she said instead was that it would be nice if they liked the same things. It would give them things to talk about. So she gave him books of poetry, and played classical music at him, bought them tickets for ballet and modern dance. Rebus had been there before, other times, other women. Asking for something more, for commitment beyond the commitment.
He didn’t like it. He enjoyed the basic, the feral. Cafferty had once accused him of liking cruelty, of being attracted to it; his natural right as a Celt. And hadn’t Rebus accused Peter Cave of the same thing? It was coming back to him, pain on pain, crawling back along his tubes from some place deep within him.
His time in Northern Ireland.
He’d been there early in the history of ‘the Troubles’, 1969, just as it was all boiling over; so early that he hadn’t really known what was going on, what the score was; none of them had, not on any side. The people were pleased to see them at first, Catholic and Protestant, offering food and drink and a genuine welcome. Then later the drinks were laced with weedkiller, and the welcome might be leading you into a ‘honey trap’. The crunching in the sponge cake might only be hard seeds from the raspberry jam. Then again, it might be powdered glass.
Bottles flying through the dark, lit by an arc of flame. Petrol spinning and dripping from the rag wick. And when it fell on a littered road, it spread in an instant pool of hate. Nothing personal about it, it was just for a cause, a troubled cause, that was all.
And later still it was to defend the rackets which had grown up around that aged cause. The protection schemes, black taxis, gun-running, all the businesses which had spread so very far away from the ideal, creating their own pool.
He’d seen bullet wounds and shrapnel blasts and gashes left by hurled bricks, he’d tasted mortality and the flaws in both his character and his body. When not on duty, they used to hang around the barracks, knocking back whisky and playing cards. Maybe that was why whisky reminded him he was still alive, where other drinks couldn’t.
There was shame too: a retaliatory strike against a drinking club which had gotten out of hand. He’d done nothing to stop it. He’d swung his baton and even his SLR with the rest of them. Yet in the middle of the commotion, the sound of a rifle being cocked was enough to bring silence and stillness . . .
He still kept an interest in events across the water. Part of his life had been left behind there. Something about his tour of duty there had made him apply to join the Special Air Service. He went back to his desk and lifted the glass of whisky.
Dark, dark, dark. The sky quiet save for the occasional drunken yell.
No one would ever know who called the police.
No one except the man himself and the police themselves. He’d given his name and address, and had made his complaint about the noise.
‘And do you want us to come and see you afterwards, sir, after we’ve investigated?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ The phone went dead on the desk officer, who smiled. It was very seldom necessary. A visit from the police meant you were involved. He wrote on a pad then passed the note along to the Communications Room. The call went out at ten to one.
When the Rover patrol car got to the community centre, it was clear that things were winding down. The officers debated heading off again, but since they were here . . . Certainly there had been a party, a function of some kind. But as the two uniformed officers walked in through the open doors, only a dozen or so stragglers were left. The floor was a mess of bottles and cigarette butts, probably a few roaches in there too if they cared to look.
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Nobody,’ came the sharp response.
There were flushing sounds from the toilets. Evidence being destroyed, perhaps.
‘We’ve received complaints about the noise.’
‘No noise here.’
The patrolman nodded. On a makeshift stage a ghetto-blaster had been hooked up to a guitar amplifier, a large Marshall job with separate amp and speaker-bin. Probably a hundred watts, none of it built for subtlety. The amplifier was still on, emitting an audible buzz. ‘This thing belongs out at the Exhibition Centre.’
‘Simple Minds let us borrow it.’
‘Whose is it really though?’
‘Where’s your search warrant?’
The officer smiled again. He could see that his partner was itching for trouble, but though neither of them had a welter of experience, they weren’t stupid either. They knew where they were, they knew the odds. So he stood there smiling, legs apart, arms by his side, not looking for aggro.
He seemed to be having a dialogue with one of the group, a guy with a denim jacket and no shirt underneath. He was wearing black square-toed biker boots with straps and a round silver buckle. The officer had always liked that style, had even considered buying himself a pair, just for the weekends.
Then maybe he’d start saving for the bike to go with them.
‘Do we need a search warrant?’ he said. ‘We’re called to a disturbance, doors wide open, no one barring our entry. Besides, this is a community centre. There are rules and regulations. Licences need to be applied for and granted. Do you have a licence for this . . . soirée?’
‘Swaah-ray?’ the youth said to his pals. ‘Fuckin’ listen to that! Swaaah-rrray!’ And he came sashaying over towards the two uniforms, like he was doing some old-fashioned dance step. He turned behind and between them. ‘Is that a dirty word? Something I’m not supposed to understand? This isn’t your territory, you know. This is the Gar-B, and we’re having our own wee festival, since nobody bothered inviting us to the other one. You’re not in the real world now. You better be careful.’
The first officer could smell alcohol, like something from a chemistry lab or a surgery: gin, vodka, white rum.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘there has to be someone running the show, and it isn’t you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a short-arsed wee prick.’
There was stillness in the hall. The other officer had spoken, and now his partner swallowed, trying not to look at him, keeping all his concentration on the denim jacket. Denim jacket was considering, a finger to his lips, tapping them.
‘Mmm,’ he said at last, nodding. ‘Interesting.’ He started moving back towards the group. He seemed to be wiggling his bum as he moved. Then he stooped forward, pretending to tie a shoe-lace, and let rip with a loud fart. He straightened up as his gang enjoyed the joke, their laughter subsiding only when denim jacket spoke again.
‘Well, sirs,’ he said, ‘we’re just packing everything away.’ He faked a yawn. ‘It’s well past our bedtimes and we’d like to go home. If you don’t mind.’ He opened his arms wide to them, even bowed a little.
‘I’d like to –’
‘That’ll be fine.’ The first officer touched his partner’s arm and turned away towards the doors. They were going to get out. And when they got out, he was going to have words with his partner, no doubt about that.
‘Right then, lads,’ said denim jacket, ‘let’s get this place tidy. We’ll need to put this somewhere for a start.’
The constables were near the door when, without warning, the ghetto-blaster caught both of them a glancing blow to the back of their skulls.
9
Rebus heard
about it on the morning news. The radio came on at six twenty-five and there it was. It brought him out of bed and into his clothes. Patience was still trying to rouse herself as he placed a mug of tea on the bedside table and a kiss on her hot cheek.
‘Ace in the Hole and Casablanca,’ he said. Then he was out of the door and into his car.
At Drylaw police station, the day shift hadn’t come on yet, which meant that he heard it from the horses’ mouths, so to speak. Not a big station, Drylaw had requested reinforcements from all around, as what had started as an assault on two officers had turned into a miniature riot. Cars had been attacked, house windows smashed. One local shop had been ram-raided, with consequent looting (if the owner was to be believed). Five officers were injured, including the two men who had been coshed with a hi-fi machine. Those two constables had escaped the Gar-B by the skin of their arses.
‘It was like Northern bloody Ireland,’ one veteran said. Or Brixton, thought Rebus, or Newcastle, or Toxteth . . .
The TV news had it on now, and police heavy-handedness was being discussed. Peter Cave was being interviewed outside the youth club, saying that his had been the party’s organising hand.
‘But I had to leave early. I thought I had flu coming on or something.’ To prove it, he blew his nose.
‘At breakfast-time, too,’ complained someone beside Rebus.
‘I know,’ Cave went on, ‘that I bear a certain amount of responsibility for what happened.’
‘That’s big of him.’
Rebus smiled, thinking: we police invented irony, we live by its rules.
‘But,’ said Cave, ‘there are still questions which need answering. The police seem to think they can rule by threat rather than law. I’ve talked to a dozen people who were in the club last night, and they’ve told me the same thing.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
‘Namely, that the two police officers involved made threats and menacing actions.’
The interviewer waited for Cave to finish. Then: ‘And what do you say, Mr Cave, to local people who claim the youth club is merely a sort of hang-out, a gang headquarters for juveniles on the estate?’