by Ian Rankin
‘So what’s his story?’
‘Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’
‘And the drop-off?’
‘Says he can’t remember.’ Claverhouse paused. ‘Eh, John . . .?’
‘What?’
‘One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’
His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. ‘AIDS test?’
‘They just wondered.’
Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he said.
‘Maybe we should pull the surveillance,’ Claverhouse said, ‘leave them to get on with it.’
‘And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’
Claverhouse snorted. ‘Is this sort of thing Big Ger’s style?’
‘Very much so,’ Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.
‘But not that nightclub stabbing?’
‘No.’
Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’
Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell’s.
Claverhouse didn’t seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’
Rebus started screwing the top back on.
‘Not having one?’
‘I’m on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.
‘Since when?’
‘The summer.’
‘So why carry a bottle around?’
Rebus looked at it. ‘Because that’s not what it is.’
Claverhouse looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it?’
‘A bomb.’ Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. ‘A little suicide bomb.’
They walked back to A&E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.
‘They’ve had to sedate him,’ she said. ‘He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’ She pointed to marks on the floor – airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.
‘Do we have a name?’
‘He’s not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’
‘Or a machete,’ Claverhouse added. ‘Something like that.’
Clarke stared at him. ‘I smell whisky.’
Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.
‘Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.
‘Just one observation.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I like the t-shirt.’
Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He’d called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.
‘White, no sugar.’
Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He’d have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.
‘You know, John,’ Claverhouse said, ‘there’s no point you hanging around.’
Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn’t recognise.
‘You know Telford’s gang,’ Rebus said. ‘Didn’t you recognise the face?’
Claverhouse shrugged. ‘I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘If it’s Danny, a name’s about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’
Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.
‘It’s Danny Simpson,’ she confirmed. ‘I just got another look, now the blood’s been cleaned off.’ She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. ‘Where’s the sugar?’
‘You’re sweet enough already,’ Claverhouse told her.
‘Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.
‘Wrong place, wrong time?’ Claverhouse suggested.
‘Plus he’s pretty low down the pecking order,’ Clarke added, ‘making it a gentle hint.’
Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.
‘Like I say, John,’ Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, ‘any time you want to head off . . .’
Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. ‘Am I in the way or something?’
‘It’s not that. But your job’s liaison – period. I know the way you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even over-attached. Look at Candice. I’m just saying . . .’
‘You’re saying, don’t butt in?’ Colour rose to Rebus’s cheeks: Look at Candice.
‘I’m saying it’s our case, not yours. That’s all.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t get it.’
Clarke stepped in. ‘John, I think all he means is –’
‘Whoah! It’s okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’
Claverhouse sighed, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. ‘John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’
‘And?’
Claverhouse stared at him. ‘Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’
‘He asked me to go,’ Rebus lied.
Claverhouse held up his hands. ‘Fact is, as you’ve just said, he asked you and you went.’ Claverhouse shrugged.
‘Are you saying I’m in his pocket?’ Rebus’s voice had risen.
‘Boys, boys,’ Clarke said.
The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.
‘Good evening.’
Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kiss-curl looped down between his eyebrows.
‘Anyone got change of a pound?’
They looked in their pockets, couldn’t find enough coins.
‘Never mind.’ Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.
‘You’re police officers,’ he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. ‘I don’t think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’
‘And you’re a lawyer,’ Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’
‘I’m Daniel Simpson’s legal advisor.’
‘Which adds up to the same thing.’
‘I believe Daniel’s just been admitted.’ The man blew on his tea, sipped it.
‘Who told you he was here?’
‘Again, I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Detective . . .?’
‘DI Rebus.’
The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. ‘Charles Groal.’ He glanced at Rebus’s t-shirt. ‘Is that what you call “plain clothes”, Inspector?’
Claverhouse and Clarke introduced themselves in turn. Groal made great show of handing out business cards.
‘I take it,’ he said, ‘you’re loitering here in the hope of interviewing my client?�
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‘That’s right,’ Claverhouse said.
‘Might I ask why, DS Claverhouse? Or should I address that question to your superior?’
‘He’s not my –’ Claverhouse caught Rebus’s look.
Groal raised an eyebrow. ‘Not your superior? And yet he manifestly is, being an Inspector to your Sergeant.’ He looked towards the ceiling, tapped a finger against his cup. ‘You’re not strictly colleagues,’ he said at last, bringing his gaze back down to focus on Claverhouse.
‘DS Claverhouse and myself are attached to the Scottish Crime Squad,’ Clarke said.
‘And Inspector Rebus isn’t,’ Groal observed. ‘Fascinating.’
‘I’m at St Leonard’s.’
‘Then this is quite rightly part of your division. But as for the Crime Squad . . .’
‘We just want to know what happened,’ Rebus went on.
‘A fall of some kind, wasn’t it? How is he, by the way?’
‘Nice of you to show concern,’ Claverhouse muttered.
‘He’s unconscious,’ Clarke said.
‘And likely to be in an operating theatre fairly soon. Or will they want to X-ray him first? I’m not very up on the procedures.’
‘You could always ask a nurse,’ Claverhouse said.
‘DS Claverhouse, I detect a certain hostility.’
‘Just his normal tone,’ Rebus said. ‘Look, you’re here to make sure Danny Simpson keeps his trap shut. We’re here to listen to whatever bunch of shite the two of you eventually concoct for our delectation. I think that’s a pretty fair summary, don’t you?’
Groal cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘I’ve heard about you, Inspector. Occasionally stories can become exaggerated but not, I’m pleased to say, in your case.’
‘He’s a living legend,’ Clarke offered. Rebus snorted and headed back into A&E.
There was a woolly-suit in there, seated on a chair, his cap on his lap and a paperback book resting on the cap. Rebus had seen him half an hour before. The constable was sitting outside a room with its door closed tight. Quiet voices came from the other side. The woolly-suit was called Redpath and he worked out of St Leonard’s. He’d been in the force a bit under a year. Graduate recruit. They called him ‘The Professor’. He was tall and spotty and had a shy look about him. He closed the book as Rebus approached, but kept a finger in his page.
‘Science fiction,’ he explained. ‘Always thought I’d grow out of it.’
‘There are a lot of things we don’t grow out of, son. What’s it about?’
‘The usual: threats to the stability of the time continuum, parallel universes.’ Redpath looked up. ‘What do you think of parallel universes, sir?’
Rebus nodded towards the door. ‘Who’s in there?’
‘Hit and run.’
‘Bad?’ The Professor shrugged. ‘Where did it happen?’
‘Top of Minto Street.’
‘Did you get the car?’
Redpath shook his head. ‘Waiting to see if she can tell us anything. What about you, sir?’
‘Similar story, son. Parallel universe, you could call it.’
Siobhan Clarke appeared, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded a greeting towards Redpath, who stood up: a courtesy which gained him a sly smile.
‘Telford doesn’t want Danny talking,’ she said to Rebus.
‘Obviously.’
‘And meantime he’ll want to even the score.’
‘Definitely.’
She caught Rebus’s eyes. ‘I thought he was a bit out of order back there.’ Meaning Claverhouse, but not wanting to name names in front of a uniform.
Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks.’ Meaning: you did right not to say as much at the time. Claverhouse and Clarke were partners now. It wouldn’t do for her to upset him.
A door slid open and a doctor appeared. She was young, and looked exhausted. Behind her in the room, Rebus could see a bed, a figure on the bed, staff milling around the various machines. Then the door slid closed.
‘We’re going to do a brain scan,’ the doctor was telling Redpath. ‘Have you contacted her family?’
‘I don’t have a name.’
‘Her effects are inside.’ The doctor slid open the door again and walked in. There was clothing folded on a chair, a bag beneath it. As the doctor pulled out the bag, Rebus saw something. A flat white cardboard box.
A white cardboard pizza box. Clothes: black denims, black bra, red satin shirt. A black duffel-coat.
‘John?’
And black shoes with two-inch heels, square-toed, new-looking except for the scuff marks, like they’d been dragged along the road.
He was in the room now. They had a mask over her face, feeding her oxygen. Her forehead was cut and bruised, the hair pushed away from it. Her fingers were blistered, the palms scraped raw. The bed she lay on wasn’t really a bed but a wide steel trolley.
‘Excuse me, sir, you shouldn’t be in here.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s this gentleman –’
‘John? John, what is it?’
Her earrings had been removed. Three tiny pin-pricks, one of them redder than its neighbours. The face above the sheet: puffy blackened eyes, a broken nose, abrasions on both cheeks. Split lip, a graze on the chin, eyelids which didn’t even flutter. He saw a hit and run victim. And beneath it all, he saw his daughter.
And he screamed.
Clarke and Redpath had to drag him out, helped by Claverhouse who’d heard the noise.
‘Leave the door open! I’ll kill you if you close that door!’
They tried to sit him down. Redpath rescued his book from the chair. Rebus tore it from him and threw it down the hall.
‘How could you read a fucking book?’ he spat. ‘That’s Sammy in there! And you’re out here reading a book!’
Clarke’s cup of coffee had been kicked over, the floor slippy, Redpath going down as Rebus pushed at him.
‘Can you jam that door open?’ Claverhouse was asking the doctor. ‘And what about a sedative?’
Rebus was clawing his hands through his hair, bawling dry-eyed, his voice hoarse and uncomprehending. Staring down at himself, he saw the ludicrous t-shirt and knew that’s what he’d take away from this night: the image of an Iron Maiden t-shirt and its grinning bright-eyed demon. He hauled off his jacket and started tearing at the shirt.
She was behind that door, he thought, and I was out here chatting as casual as you like. She’d been in there all the time he’d been here. Two things clicked: a hit and run; the car speeding away from Flint Street.
He grabbed at Redpath. ‘Top of Minto Street. You’re sure?’
‘What?’
‘Sammy . . . top of Minto Street?’
Redpath nodded. Clarke knew straight away what Rebus was thinking.
‘I don’t think so, John. They were headed the opposite way.’
‘Could have doubled back.’
Claverhouse had caught some of the exchange. ‘I just got off the phone. The guys who did Danny Simpson, we picked up the car. White Escort abandoned in Argyle Place.’
Rebus looked at Redpath. ‘White Escort?’
Redpath was shaking his head. ‘Witnesses say dark-coloured.’
Rebus turned to the wall, stood there with his palms pressed to it. Staring at the paintwork, it was like he could see inside the paint.
Claverhouse put a hand on his shoulder. ‘John, I’m sure she’s going to be fine. The doctor’s gone to fetch you a couple of tablets, but meantime what about one of these?’
Claverhouse with Rebus’s jacket folded in the crook of his arm, the quarter-bottle in his hand.
The little suicide bomb.
He took the bottle from Claverhouse. Unscrewed its top, his eyes on the open doorway. Lifted the bottle to his lips.
Drank.
Book Two
‘In the Hanging Garden/No one sleeps’
A seaside holiday: caravan park, long walks and sandcastles. He sat in a deck-
chair, trying to read. Cold wind blowing, despite the sun. Rhona rubbed suntan lotion on Sammy, said you couldn’t be too careful. Told him to keep an eye open, she was going back to the caravan for her book. Sammy was burying her father’s feet in the sand.
He was trying to read, but thinking about work. Every day of the holiday, he sneaked off to a phone-box and called the station. They kept telling him to go and enjoy himself, forget about everything. He was halfway through a spy thriller. The plot had already lost him.
Rhona was doing her best. She’d wanted somewhere foreign, a bit of glamour and heat to go with the sunshine. Finances, however, were on his side. So here they were on the Fife coast, where he’d first met her. Was he hoping for something? Some memory rekindled? He’d come here with his own parents, played with Mickey, met other kids, then lost them again at the end of the fortnight.
He tried the spy novel again, but case-work got in the way. And then a shadow fell over him.
‘Where is she?’
‘What?’ He looked down. His feet were buried in sand, but Sammy wasn’t there. How long had she been gone? He stood up, scanned the seashore. A few tentative bathers, going in no further than their knees.
‘Christ, John, where is she?’
He turned round, looked at the sand dunes in the distance.
‘The dunes . . .?’
They warned her. There were hollows in the dunes where the sand was eroding. Small dens had been created – a magnet for kids. Only they were prone to collapse. Earlier in the season, a ten-year-old boy had been dug out by frantic parents. He hadn’t quite choked on the sand . . .
They were running now. The dunes, the grass, no sign of her.
‘Sammy!’
‘Maybe she went into the water.’
‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on her!’
‘I’m sorry. I . . .’
‘Sammy!’
A small shape in one of the dens. Hopping on its hands and knees. Rhona reached in, pulled her out, hugged her.
‘Sweetie, we told you not to!’
‘I was a rabbit.’
Rebus looked at the fragile roof: sand meshed with the roots of plants and grasses. Punched it with a fist. The roof collapsed. Rhona was looking at him.
End of holiday.
3