by Ian Rankin
He resigns himself to it. Must it be? Yes, it must be. But there was still the problem of logistics.
'It's all been taken care of,' says the voice. 'We did try phoning you last night, but you were never there. Catch the first available shuttle from Heathrow. We'll have a car meet you and bring you into Glasgow. The prosecution reckons he'll call you about half past three, so there's time enough. With any luck, you can be back in London by tonight.'
'Gee, thanks,' says Rebus, voice so thick with irony the words hardly escape into the air.
'You're welcome,' says the voice.
He found that the Piccadilly Line went to Heathrow, and Piccadilly Circus tube was right outside the hotel. So things started well enough, though the tube ride itself was slow and stifling. At Heathrow, he picked up his ticket and had just enough time for a dash into the Skyshop. He picked, up a Glasgow Herald, then saw the row of tabloids on another shelf: SECRET LIFE OF GAY WOLFMAN; SICK KILLER 'NEEDS HELP' SAY POLICE; CATCH THIS MADMAN
Cath Farraday had done well. He bought a copy of all three papers as well as the Herald and made for the Departure Lounge. Now that his mind was working, he saw all around him people reading the same headlines and the stories below them. But would the Wolfman see the stories? And if so, would he or she make some kind of move? Hell, the whole thing might be about to crack open, and here he was heading four hundred miles north. Damn the judicial system, the judges and advocates and solicitors and all. The Cafferty case had probably been brought forward so that it would not interfere with a golf game or a school sports day. Some spoilt child's involvement with an egg-and-spoon race might be behind this whole breathless journey. Rebus tried to calm down, sucking in gulps of air and releasing them slowly. He didn't like flying as it was. Never since his days in the SAS, when they had dropped him from a helicopter. Jesus! That was no way to calm yourself.
'Will passengers for British Airways Super Shuttle flight
The voice was cool and precise, triggering a mass movement. People rose to their feet, checked their baggage and made for the gate just mentioned. Which gate? He'd missed the announcement. Was it his flight?' Maybe he should phone ahead so they would have the car waiting. He hated flying. That was why he had come down by train on Sunday. Sunday? And today was Wednesday. It felt like over. a week had passed. In fact, he'd been in London only two full days.
Boarding. Oh, Christ. Where was his ticket? He'd no luggage, nothing to worry about there. The newspapers wriggled beneath his arm, — trying to break free and fall in a mess on the floor. He pushed them back together again, squeezing them tightly with his elbow. He had to calm down, had, to think about. Cafferty, had to get everything straight in his mind, so that the defence could find no chink in his story. Keep to the facts, forget about the Wolfman, forget about Lisa, Rhona, Sammy, Kenny, Tommy Watkiss, George Flight … Flight! He hadn't notified Flight. They would wonder where he was. He'd have to phone when he landed. He should phone now, but then he might miss the shuttle. Forget it. Concentrate on Cafferty. They would have his notes ready for him: when he arrived, so he could go through them before he entered the witness box. There were only the two witnesses, weren't there? The frightened publican, whom they had more or less coerced into giving evidence and Rebus himself. He had to be strong, confident and believable. He caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror as he made for the Departure Gate. He looked like he'd spent a night on the tiles. The memory of the night made him smile. Everything would be all right.
He should phone Lisa, too, just to say … what? Thank you, he supposed. Up the ramp now, the narrow doorway in front of him, flanked by smiling steward and stewardess.
'Good morning, sir.'
'Good morning.' He saw they were standing by a stack of complimentary newspapers. Christ, he could have saved himself a few bawbees.
The aisle was narrow too. He had to squeeze past businessmen who were stuffing coats, briefcases and bags into the luggage lockers above their seats. He found his own window seat and fell into it, wrestling with the seatbelt and securing it. Outside, the groundcrew were still working. A plane took off smoothly in the distance, the dull roar perceptible even from here. A plump middle-aged woman sat beside him, spread her newspaper out so that half of it fell onto Rebus's right leg, and began to read. She had offered no greeting, no acknowledgment of his existence.
FYT, madam, he thought to himself, still staring out of the window. But then she gave a loud 'tsk', prompting him to turn towards her. She was staring at him through thick-lensed spectacles, staring and at the same time rapping a finger against the newspaper.
'Nobody's safe these days,' she said, as Rebus examined the news story and saw that it was some fanciful piece about the Wolfman. 'Nobody, I won't let my daughter out these nights. A nine o'clock curfew I told her, until they catch him. Even then you can never be sure. I mean, he could be anybody.'
Her look told Rebus that he, too, was not beyond suspicion. He smiled reassuringly:
'I wasn't going to go,' she went on, 'but Frank — that's my husband he said it was all booked so I should.' 'Visiting Glasgow, are you?'
'Not exactly visiting. My son lives there. He's an accountant in the oil industry. He paid for my ticket, so I could, see; how he's getting on. I worry about him, what with being so far away and everything: I mean, it's a rough place Glasgow, isn't it? You read about it in the papers. Anything could happen up there.'
Yes, thought Rebus, his smile fixed, so unlike London, There was a sound like an electronic doorbell, and the Fasten Seatbelts sign came on, next to where the No Smoking sign was already lit. Jesus,' Rebus could kill for a cigarette. Was he in Smoking or No Smoking? He couldn't make out, and couldn't remember which he'd plumped for at the ticket desk. Was smoking allowed on airplanes these days anyway? If God had meant man to smoke at 20,000 feet, wouldn't he have given us all longer necks? The woman next to him looked to have no neck' at all. Pity the poor serial killer who tried cutting his way through that throat.
That was a terrible thing to think, God, please forgive me. As penance, he began to concentrate on the woman's conversation, right up until take-off, when even she was forced, to stop talking for a moment or two. Rebus, taking advantage of the situation, tucked his newspapers into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, leaned his head against the back of his own seat, and promptly fell asleep.
George Flight tried Rebus's hotel again from the, Old Bailey, only to be told that Rebus had 'left in a hurry' earlier in the morning after asking how best to get to Heathrow.
'Looks like he's done a runner,' DC Lamb: commented: 'Frightened off by our consummate professionalism, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Leave off, Lamb,' growled Flight. 'Mind you, it is a bit mysterious. Why would he leave without saying anything?'
'Because he's a Jock, with all due respect, sir. He was probably worried you were going to drop a bill into his lap.'
Flight smiled obligingly, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Last night Rebus had been seeing that psychologist, Dr Frazer, and now he was in a hurry to leave London. What had happened? Flight's nose twitched. He liked a good honest mystery.
He was in court to have a quiet word with Malcolm Chambers. Chambers was: prosecuting counsel in a case involving one of Flight's snouts. The snout had been incredibly stupid, had been caught red-handed. Flight had told the man there was little he could do, but he would do what he could. The snout had given him a lot of very useful tips in the past year, helping put a few fairly nasty individuals behind bars. Flight guessed he owed the man a helping hand. So he would talk to Chambers, not to influence the prosecutor — that was unthinkable, naturally but to fill in some details on the snout's useful contribution to police work and to society, a contribution which would come to a sad end should Chambers push for the maximum sentence.
Et cetera:
Dirty job, but someone had to do it and besides, Flight was proud of his network of informers. The idea of that network suddenly splintering was … well,
best not to consider it. He wasn't looking forward to going to Chambers, begging bowl in hand. Especially not after the farce involving Tommy Watkiss. Watkiss was back out on the street, probably telling the story in pubs up and down the East End to a laughing chorus of hangers-on. All about how the arresting constable had said, 'Hello, Tommy, what's going on here?' Flight doubted Chambers would ever forget it, or let Flight forget it. What the hell, best get the begging over and done' with.
'Hello there.' It was a female voice, close behind him. He turned to face the cat like eyes and bright red lips, of Cath Farraday.
'Hello, Cath, what are you doing here?'
She explained that she was at the Old Bailey to meet with the influential crime reporter from one of the more upmarket dailies.
'He's halfway through- covering a fraud case,' she explained, 'and never strays too far from the courtroom.'
Flight nodded, feeling awkward in her presence. From the corner of his eye he could see that Lamb was enjoying his discomfort, so he tried to be brave and steeled himself to meet the full force of her gaze.
'I saw the pieces you placed in today's' press,' he said.
She folded her arms. 'I can't say I'm optimistic about their chances of success.'
'Do the reporters know we're spinning them a yarn?'
'One or two were a bit suspicious, but they've got a lot of hungry readers out there starving for want of another Wolfman story.' She unfolded her arms and reached into her shoulder-bag. 'Ergo, they've got a lot, of hungry editors, too. I think they'll take any tidbit we throw them.' She had brought a pack of cigarettes from her bag, and, without offering them out, lit one, dropped the pack back into her bag and snapped the bag shut.
'Well, let's hope something comes of it.'
'You said this was all Inspector- Rebus's idea?'
'That's right.'
'Then I'm doubtful. Having met him, I wouldn't, say psychology was his strong point.'
'No?'' Flight sounded surprised.
'He doesn't have a strong point,' broke in Lamb.
'I wouldn't go that far,' said Flight protectively. But Lamb merely gave that insolent grin of his. Flight’s was part embarrassed, part-furious. He knew exactly what Lamb's grin was saying: don't think we don't know why you're sticking so close to him, why you two are so chummy.
Cath had smiled at Lamb's interruption, but when she spoke her words were directed at Flight: she did not deign to consort with the lower ranks. 'Is Rebus still around?'
Flight shrugged. 'I wish I knew, Cath. I've heard he was last seen heading off towards Heathrow, but he didn't take any luggage with him.'
'Oh well.' She didn't sound disappointed. Flight suddenly shot a hand into the air, waving. Malcolm Chambers acknowledged the signal and came towards them, walking as though no effort whatsoever was involved.
Flight felt the need for introductions. 'Mr Chambers, this is Inspector Cath Farraday; She's the Press Liaison Officer on Wolfman.'
'Ah,' said Chambers, taking her hand momentarily in his. 'The woman responsible for this morning's lurid headlines?'
'Yes,' said Cath. Her voice had taken on a new, soft, feminine edge, an edge Flight couldn't recall having heard before. 'Sorry if they spoiled your breakfast.'
The impossible happened: Chambers's face cracked into a smile. Flight hadn't seen him smile outside of the courtroom in several years. This really was a morning for surprises. 'They did not spoil my breakfast,' Chambers was saying, 'I found them highly entertaining.' He turned to Flight, indicating by this that Cath was dismissed. 'Inspector Flight, I can give you ten minutes, then I'm due in court. Or would you prefer to meet for lunch??
'Ten minutes should suffice.'
'Excellent. Then come with me.' He glanced towards Lamb, who was still feeling slightly snubbed by Cath. 'And. bring your young man with you if you must.'
Then he was gone, striding on noisy leather soles across the floor of the concourse. Flight winked at Cath, then followed, Lamb silent and furious behind him. Cath grinned, enjoying. Lamb's discomfort and the performance Chambers had just put on. She'd heard of him, of course. His courtroom speeches were reckoned to be just about the most persuasive going, and he had even collected what could only be described as 'groupies': people who would attend a trial, no matter how convoluted or boring, just to hear his closing remarks. Her own, little coterie of news reporters seemed bland by comparison.
So Rebus had scuttled off home, had he?' Good luck to him.
'Excuse me.' A short blurred figure stood before her. She narrowed her eyes until they were the merest slits and peered at a middle-aged woman in a black cloak. The woman was smiling. 'You're not on the jury for court eight by any chance?' Cath Farraday smiled and shook her head. 'Oh well,' sighed the usher, moving off again.
There was such a thing in law as a hung jury, but there were also ushers who would happily see some individual jurors, the rogue jurors, hung. Cath turned on her pointed heels and went off to fulfil her appointment. She wondered if Jim Stevens would remember he was meeting her? He was a good journalist, but his memory was like a sieve at times and seemed especially bad now he was to be a father.
Rebus had time to kill in Glasgow. Time to visit the Horseshoe. Bar, or walk through Kelvinside, or even venture down to the Clyde. Time enough to look up an old friend, always supposing he'd had any. Glasgow was changing. Edinburgh; had grown corpulent these past few years, during which time Glasgow had been busy getting fit.. It had a toned, muscular look to it, a confident swagger rather than the drunken stagger which had been its public perception for so long.,
It wasn't all good news. Some of the city's character had seeped' away. The shiny new shops and wine bars, the bright new office blocks, all had a homogenous quality to them. Go to any prosperous city in the world and you would find buildings just like them. A golden hue of uniformity. Not that Rebus was grieving; anything was better than the old swampland Glasgow had been in the 50s, 60s and early 70s. And the people were more or less the same: blunt, yet wonderfully dry in their humour. The pubs, too, had not changed very much, though their clientele might come more expensively and fashionably dressed and the menu might include chilli or lasagne along with the more traditional fare.
Rebus ate two pies in one pub, standing at the bar with his left foot resting on the polished brass rail. He was biding his time. The plane had landed on schedule, the car had been waiting the journey into Glasgow had been fast. He arrived in the city centre at twenty minutes past twelve, and would not be called to give his evidence until around three.
Time to kill
He left the pub and took what he hoped might be a shortcut (though he had no ready destination in mind) down a cobbled lane towards some railway arches, some crumbling warehouse buildings and a rubble-strewn wasteland. There were a lot of people milling about here, and he realised that what he had thought were piles of rubbish lying around on the damp ground were actually articles for sale. He had stumbled upon a flea market, and by the look of the customers it was where the down and outs did their shopping. Dank unclean clothes lay in bundles, thrown — down anywhere. Near them stood the vendors, shuffling their, feet, saying nothing, one or two stoking up a makeshift fire around which others clustered for warmth. The atmosphere was muted. People might cough and hack and wheeze — but they seldom spoke. A few punks, their resplendent mohicans as out of place as a handful of parrots in a cage of sparrows, milled around, not really looking like they meant to buy anything. The locals regarded them with suspicion. Tourists, the collective look said just bloody tourists.
Beneath the arches themselves were narrow aisles lined with stalls and trestle tables. The smell in here was worse, but Rebus was curious. No out-of-town hypermarket could have provided such a range of wares: broken spectacles, old wireless sets (with this. or that knob missing), lamps, hats, tarnished cutlery, purses and wallets, incomplete sets — of dominoes and playing cards. One stall seemed to sell nothing but pieces of used soap, most of them looking as though
they had come from public conveniences. Another sold false teeth. An old man, hands shaking almost uncontrollably, had found a bottom set he liked, but could not find a top set, to match. Rebus wrinkled his face and turned away. The mohicans had opened a game of Cluedo.
'Hey, pal,' they called to the stall-holder, 'there's nae weapons here. Where's the dagger an' the gun an' that?'
The man looked at the open box. 'You could improvise,' he suggested.
Rebus smiled and moved on. London was different to, all this. It felt more, congested, things moved too quickly, there seemed pressure and stress everywhere. Driving a car from A to B, shopping for groceries, going out for the evening, all were turned into immensely tiring activities. Londoners appeared to him to be on very short fuses indeed. Here, the people were stoics. They used their humour as a barrier against everything Londoners had to take on the chin. Different worlds. Different civilisations. Glasgow had been the second, city of the Empire. It had been the first city of Scotland all through the twentieth century.
'Got a fag, mister?'
It was one of the punks. Now, up close, Rebus saw she was a girl. He'd assumed the group had been all male. They all looked so similar.
'No, sorry, I'm trying to give up — '
But she had already started to move away, in search of someone, anyone, who could immediately gratify. He looked at his watch. It was gone two, and it might take him half an hour to get from here to the court. The punks were still arguing about the missing Cluedo pieces..
'I mean, how can you play a game when there's bits missing? Know what I mean, pal? Like, where's Colonel Mustard? An' the board's nearly torn in half, by the way. How much d'ye want for it?'
The argumentative punk was tall and immensely thin, his size and shape accentuated by the black he wore from tip to toe. 'Twa ply o' reek,' Rebus's father would have called him. Was the Wolfman fat or thin? tall or short? young or old? did he have a job? a wife? a husband even? Did someone close to him know the truth, and were they keeping quiet? When would he strike next? And where? Lisa had been unable to answer any of these questions. Maybe Flight was right about psychology. So much of it was guesswork, like a game where some of the pieces are missing and nobody knows the rules. Sometimes you ended up playing a game completely different to the original, 'a game of your own devising.