by Ian Rankin
‘It’s about Darren Rough.’
‘Ah . . .’ Ince leaned back on his chair. ‘Poor Darren. They had him down on the list of witnesses, but didn’t use him. I’d have liked to see him again.’
‘Not possible. Someone murdered him.’
‘What? Before the trial?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘During it. I’ve been trying to find a motive, only now I think I was looking in all the wrong places.’ He rested a hand on the desk, leaned down over Ince. ‘I had a look at the charge sheets, the evidence. Just you and Marshall; none of the other victims mention a third abuser. Was it just that one night? Someone who tried it just the once . . .?’ Rebus sat back down in his seat. He’d finished the cigarette at last; lit himself another from its stub, chain-smoking now. ‘I found Darren at the zoo. Found out where he lived. It leaked to the newspapers. This third man . . . he knew you weren’t going to mention him in court. I don’t know why, but I can guess. But the one thing he was scared of was Darren. Which was fine – as far as he knew, Darren Rough was well out of things. Then suddenly he reads that Darren’s here, and he can guess why: Darren’s helping with Shiellion. There’s half a chance he saw something or heard something, maybe without knowing it. There’s half a chance our third man’s picture might end up in the paper after the trial, and Darren will recognise it.
‘Suddenly there’s danger. So he has to strike.’ Rebus blew a thin column of smoke at Ince. ‘We both know who I’m talking about. But for my own satisfaction, I’d be happier to hear a name.’
“That’s why Darren died?’
Rebus nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘But you’ve no proof?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘And I’m unlikely to find it. With you or without you.’
‘I’d like a mug of coffee,’ Harold Ince said. ‘Milk, two sugars. If you order it, it might come sans saliva.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘Anything to eat?’
‘I’m partial to a chicken korma curry. Nan bread, no rice. Sag aloo as a side dish.’
‘I can phone out for it.’
‘Again, I’d prefer it unadulterated.’ There was confidence in Ince’s voice now. He’d made a decision.
‘And meantime we’ll talk?’ Rebus asked.
‘For your own peace of mind, Inspector . . . yes, we’ll talk.’
49
Rebus sat in the darkness of his living room, sipping from a glass of whisky and water. The street outside was night-time quiet, interrupted by the occasional dull crunching sound of car tyres passing over the setts. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, maybe a couple of hours. He’d put a CD on, but hadn’t bothered getting up to change it. It had been on the repeat function for three or four plays. ‘Stray Cat Blues’ had never felt so sordid. It affected him more than the literate and well-mannered ‘Sympathy for the Devil’, which had an air of desperation to it. There was no desperation in ‘Stray Cat Blues’, just the certainty of underage sex . . .
When the phone rang, he was slow to answer. It was Siobhan, relaying a message. Patience’s flat had been broken into.
‘Did they get anyone?’
‘No. A couple of uniforms are still there. They’re waiting for someone who can deal with the alarm . . .’
Rebus called St Leonard’s, and a patrol car arrived to take him to Oxford Terrace. The driver could smell whisky on Rebus’s breath.
‘Been out partying, sir?’
‘Your basic party animal, that’s me.’ Rebus’s tone ensured no more questions came from the front of the car.
The alarm was still ringing. Rebus went down the steps and pushed open the front door. The two uniforms were in the kitchen, far away from the noise. They’d made themselves tea, and were searching the cupboards for biscuits.
‘Milk, no sugar,’ Rebus told them. Then he went back into the hall and used his key to disable the alarm. One of the uniforms handed him a mug.
‘Thank God for that. It was driving us mental.’
Rebus was at the front door, examining it.
‘Clean job,’ the uniform said. ‘Looks like they had a key.’
‘More likely he picked it.’ Rebus went back into the hall. ‘But he couldn’t pick the alarm box . . .’ He walked from room to room.
‘Anything missing, sir?’
‘Yes, son: some hot water from the kettle, two tea-bags and a spot of milk.’
‘Maybe the alarm scared him off.’
‘If he picked one lock, why not another?’ Rebus thought he knew the answer: because the very fact the alarm was set had told the intruder something.
Told him no one was home.
And he wanted someone to be home – Rebus or Patience – that was the whole point of the exercise. Cary Oakes hadn’t broken in with the intention of stealing anything. He’d had other plans altogether . . .
When they left, Rebus reset the alarm and made sure the mortice lock was engaged as well as the Yale.
In the trade, it was known as shutting the stable door.
He got the patrol car to take him home by way of Sammy’s. Not that he went into her flat – he just wanted to see everything was OK. She wouldn’t be on her own; Ned would be sleeping beside her. Not that Ned would give Oakes many problems . . .
‘Do me a favour, will you?’ Rebus asked the driver. ‘Arrange for a car to come past here once an hour until morning.’
‘Will do, sir. You think he’ll try it again?’
Rebus didn’t even know if Oakes knew Sammy’s address. He didn’t know if Stevens had known it. He used the car’s two-way to talk to the nursing home.
‘Quiet as the grave here,’ he was told.
Then he tried the hospital, got one of the night staff, who assured him there was someone with Mr Archibald and, yes, they were wide awake. From her description, Rebus guessed it was still Bobby Hogan.
Everyone was safe. Everyone was covered.
The patrol car dropped him off, and he climbed the stairs to his flat. Unlocking the door, he thought he heard a sound on the stairwell below him. He peered over the banister, but couldn’t see anything. Mrs Cochrane’s tabby probably, rattling the cat-flap as it went in or out.
He closed the door after him, didn’t bother with the light in the hallway. He knew it well enough in the dark. Switched the light on in the kitchen and boiled the kettle. His head was thick from the whisky. He made tea, took it through to the living room. Too late for music, really. He walked over to the window and stood there, blowing on the tea.
Saw a shape move. On the pavement across the road. The outline of a man. He cupped his hands to the window, put his face between them, trying to block out the light from the streetlamp.
It was Cary Oakes. He was swaying slightly, like he could hear music. And he had a huge smile on his face. Rebus turned from the window, looked for his phone. Couldn’t see it anywhere. He kicked books across the floor. Where the hell was it?
His mobile then: where was that? He’d forgotten to take it with him; probably in a coat pocket. He went to the hall cupboard: no sign of it. Kitchen? No. Bedroom? Not there either.
Cursing, he ran back to the window to check if Oakes had gone. No, he was still there, only now he had his hands raised, as though in surrender. Then Rebus saw he was holding two small dark objects. He knew what they were.
His cordless phone and his mobile.
‘Bastard!’ Rebus roared. Oakes had been in the flat; picked the stairwell Yale and the front door.
‘Bastard,’ Rebus hissed. He ran to the door, yanked it open. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the main door creaking open. Had it been locked? If so, Oakes had dealt with it quickly.
Suddenly Oakes was there at the foot of the stairwell, backlit by a single bulb on the wall. All the walls were painted a weak-custard yellow, making his face seem jaundiced. His teeth were bared, mouth open to expose his tongue. He dropped the phones on the stone floor, reached into his waistband.
‘Remember this?’
He was holding the knife. Purposefully, eyes on Rebus, he started climbing the steps, his feet making the sound of sandpaper on wood.
Rebus turned and ran.
‘Where you going, Rebus?’ He was laughing, not worried about keeping his voice down. The neighbours were students and old-age pensioners: he probably fancied his luck against the whole lot of them.
Mrs Cochrane had a telephone. Rebus thumped on her door as he passed, knowing it to be a futile gesture. She was stone deaf. The students on his landing: would they have a phone? Would they even be home? He ran in through his own door, shut it after him. The Yale clicked, but he knew it would take more than that to keep Oakes out. He slid the chain across, knew a good kick would probably smash it and the Yale both. Where was the key for the mortice? It was usually in its lock. He looked on the floor, then realised Oakes must have taken it. He’d studied the locks, known the mortice would keep him out . . . Rebus put his eye to the spy-hole. Oakes’s face appeared from nowhere. Rebus could hear what he was saying.
‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me in.’
Lines from The Shining.
Rebus went into the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer. He found a twelve-inch-long Sabatier with a riveted black handle. He didn’t think it had ever been used. He ran his thumb over its blade and cut himself.
It would do.
Rebus had come up against knife attackers before. But he’d been able to reason with most of them. The others, he’d been able to deal with . . . But that was then and this was altogether different. Back out in the hall, he decided to take the fight to Oakes. With the carving-knife in his fist, he slid the chain off, threw open the door. He was expecting an immediate attack, but none came. He craned his neck, couldn’t see Oakes on the landing.
‘Piggy going walkies.’
Oakes’s voice: halfway down to the first landing. Rebus was out of the door, not hurrying, trying to keep calm. Eyes boring into Oakes’s, peripheral vision fixed on Oakes’s knife.
‘Ooh, that is a big one,’ Oakes mocked. He was moving backwards down the stairs, seeming sure of himself. ‘Let’s take it outside, Rebus. Let’s give it some air.’
He turned and jogged out of the tenement. Rebus thought for a moment. His telephones were lying there. He should pick up his mobile and call in, get officers here pronto. Then he thought of Alan Archibald and Patience and Janice . . . and of his parents’ grave. Of Jim Stevens. Time to end it. He had to keep Oakes in his sight, couldn’t let him slip away again.
He reached down, pocketed the mobile, and headed for the door.
Oakes was standing on the pavement, nodding.
‘That’s right. Just the two of us.’
He started walking. Rebus followed. The pace was brisk, without either man ever breaking into a jog. Oakes kept his head angled back towards his pursuer. He looked pleased that things were turning out this way. Rebus couldn’t see the logic, but he was wary. So far, Oakes had done nothing without good reason. Bouncing around Rebus’s head, the words Finish it! This is the last round . . .
‘Good for the arteries, an early-morning constitutional. Helps make up for the Scottish diet. I looked in your fridge, man. I had more food in my fucking cell back in Walla Walla. Whisky by the chair in the lounge, though: I have to give you credit for that.’ He laughed. ‘What are you, Sam Spade or something?’
Rebus said nothing. Oakes was a lot younger than him, and fitter too. Last thing Rebus wanted was to tire himself out yapping.
They were crossing Marchmont Road, heading along Sciennes and past the Sick Kids Hospital. Rebus cursed himself for living in such a quiet area. The pubs had all emptied; the chip shops were closed. There were no clubs, not so much as a massage parlour. Then, on the other side of the road: two young men walking home, knees just locking and no more – the end of a good night’s drinking. One of them was demolishing a kebab. They looked at the strange pursuit. Oakes’s knife was in his pocket, but Rebus brandished his.
‘Call the police!’ he called out.
Oakes just laughed, as if his buddy was drunk and joking, waving his rubber dagger around.
One man grinned; the other, the one with kebab sauce on his chin, stared, still chewing.
‘I’m not joking!’ Rebus shouted, not caring who he woke up. ‘Call the cops!’
He couldn’t stop to show them ID, couldn’t risk letting Oakes out of his sight: there were too many potential victims out there. And he couldn’t take his eyes off Oakes for a second.
So they kept moving, leaving the two young men far behind.
‘By the time they get home,’ Oakes said, ‘they’ll have forgotten the whole thing. It’ll be drinks from the fridge and Jerry Springer on TV. That’s how it is these days, Rebus. Nobody gives a shit.’
‘Nobody but me.’
‘Nobody but you. Ever wondered why that is?’
Rebus shook his head. He didn’t mind Oakes talking: while Oakes was talking, he was using up energy.
‘You never think about it? It’s because you’re a fucking dinosaur, man. Everyone knows it – you, your bosses, the people you work with. Probably even your doctor friend. What’s with her: she likes to screw prehistoric things?’ Oakes laughed again. ‘In case you’re wondering, I kept fit in the pen. I can bench-press your ass. I can keep this pace up all day and night. How about you? You look about as fit as something extinct.’
‘Sometimes all you need is attitude.’
They were cutting through narrow passageways now, coming out on Causewayside.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Nearly there, Rebus. Wouldn’t want to tire you out . . . what’s the Scots word again: puggle?’ He laughed. There were cars on Causewayside. Rebus made sure they saw him holding the knife. Maybe they’d stop at a phone box or flag down a patrol car. But he knew the odds weren’t good – not many patrol cars round here. Probably no foot patrols either. They’d drive home, and then maybe they’d phone to report it.
And maybe someone from St Leonard’s would come to investigate.
It would be too late. Whatever was being played out, he got the feeling it was coming to its conclusion right now. For some reason, it had to do with . . . no . . . he knew where they were. The far end of Salisbury Place: they were at the junction with Minto Street.
‘It was here, wasn’t it?’ Oakes asked, stopping because Rebus had stopped too. ‘She was crossing the road or something?’
Sammy . . . crossing the road when the driver hit her. Twenty yards down Minto Street.
Rebus stared at Oakes. ‘Why?’
Oakes just shrugged. Rebus was trying to focus again on this moment. This was what counted; he could think about Sammy later. He had to stop letting Oakes play with him.
‘He sent her flying, huh?’ Oakes was saying. He had his hands in his pockets, as if they were just stopping to chat. Rebus couldn’t remember which pocket the knife was in. His own weapon hung from his right hand, useless for the moment. Crossing the road and she . . . she never had a chance.
He realised he hadn’t been here since the day after the collision. He’d been avoiding the place.
And somehow Oakes had known the effect this place would have on him. Rebus blinked a few times, tried clearing his head.
‘You’ve been to check on her, haven’t you?’ Oakes asked.
‘What?’ Rebus narrowed his eyes.
‘You went to your girlfriend’s flat, knew I’d been there. Next thing you did was go to your daughter’s. But you didn’t go in, did you?’
It was like staring into a devil’s eyes. ‘How do you know?’
‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve been there, Rebus. Earlier tonight.’
‘You’re lying.’ Rebus’s voice was dry, his throat acrid. Trying to get you off your guard, same trick worked with Archibald . . .
Oakes just shrugged. They were at the corner. Diagonally across from them, two cars had drawn up s
ide by side at a red light. Taxi on the inside lane; boy racer revving beside him. The taxi driver was watching what looked like a fight about to break out: nothing he hadn’t seen before.
‘You’re lying,’ Rebus repeated. He slipped his free hand into his pocket, brought out the mobile. Used his thumb to press the digits, holding the phone to his face so he could watch it and Oakes at the same time.
‘She didn’t need her legs anyway,’ Oakes was saying. The phone was ringing. ‘There’s no answer, is there?’
Sweat was trickling into Rebus’s eyes. But if he shook his head to clear the drops, Oakes would think he was answering his question.
The phone stopped ringing.
‘Hello?’ Ned Farlowe’s voice.
‘Ned! Is Sammy there? Is she all right?’
‘What? Is that you, John?’
‘Is she all right?’ Knowing the answer; needing to hear it anyway.
‘Of course she’s—’
Oakes flew at him, the knife emerging from his right-hand pocket. Missing Rebus’s chest by centimetres. Rebus stepped back, dropped the phone. He had the longer reach. The taxi driver had his window down.
‘Cut that out, the pair of you!’
‘I’ll cut it out all right,’ Oakes hissed. ‘I’ll dice it and slice it.’ He made another sweep with the knife. Rebus tried to kick it away, almost lost his footing. Oakes laughed at him. ‘You’re no Nureyev, pal.’ A quick thrust took the knife into Rebus’s arm. Rebus felt his nerves go dull: prelude to agony. Finish it.
Rebus took a step forward, feinted with the knife, so that Oakes had to move position. On the edge of the pavement now. Rebus saw the traffic lights behind Oakes were changing. Oakes leaned forward, slashed at his chest. Thin whistling sound as Rebus’s shirt split. Blood warm on his arm, more blood trickling from the fresh wound. Red to red/amber.
To green.
Rebus charged in with his foot up and hit Oakes solid in the chest with his sole. Oakes got in a swipe before he was propelled back into the road, where the boy racer, oblivious to the fight, radio on full-blast and his girl with her arm around him, was showing off his car’s acceleration from a flat start. The car clipped Oakes, sent him flying, breaking his hip and, Rebus hoped, a few more bones to boot. The car screeched to a halt, the young man’s head appeared through the window. He saw knives. He pulled his foot off the clutch and roared off.