Dead Souls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I wouldn’t have known him,’ Rebus admitted.

  ‘They don’t like talking to him. He’s always on about how long Alec’s been gone.’

  It was true that the Playfairs and Mrs Mee sat stony-faced as they listened to Chisholm. Rebus got up to get a round in. He felt numb, remembering the scene which had greeted him in the cemetery, Oakes letting him know he was one step ahead, making it personal. Rebus saw it as another part of the test, knew Oakes was trying to break him. Rebus was more determined than ever not to let that happen.

  Janice’s mum was drinking Bacardi Breezes, watermelon flavour. Rebus doubted she’d ever seen a watermelon in her life. He saw Helen Cousins standing in the doorway with a couple of friends, went up to say hello.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked.

  He shook his head, and she just shrugged, like she’d already given up on Damon. So much for the big romance. She was holding a bottle of Hooch, lemon flavour. All these sugary drinks, perfect for Scotland: a sweet tooth and a kick. Through in the saloon, he’d noticed they kept the bottles of mixers—lemonade and Irn Bru—on the bar, to be used freely by the punters. Not many pubs did that any more. Another thing: cheap beer. A lesson in economics: where you had a depressed area, you had to make your beer affordable. He’d spotted Heather Cranston through in the bar, seated on a stool, eyes drooping as some man talked into her ear and rested his hand on the back of her neck.

  Helen handed her bottle to one of her friends, said she was off to the loo. Rebus hung around. The two girls were staring at him, wondering who he was.

  ‘She must be taking it hard,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ the one chewing gum asked, face creasing into puzzlement.

  ‘Damon disappearing.’

  The girl shrugged.

  ‘More embarrassed than anything,’ her friend commented. ‘Doesn’t do much for your morale, does it, your boyfriend doing a runner?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m John, by the way.’

  ‘Corinne,’ the gum-chewer said. She had long black hair crimped with curling-tongs. Her pal was called Jacky and was tiny with dyed platinum hair.

  ‘So what do you think of Damon?’ he asked. He meant about Damon disappearing, but they didn’t take it that way.

  ‘Ach, he’s all right,’ Jacky said.

  ‘Just all right?’

  ‘Well, you know,’ Corinne said. ‘Damon’s heart’s in the right place, but he’s a bit thick. A bit slow, like.’

  Rebus nodded, as if this were his impression too. But the way Damon’s family had spoken of him, he’d been more of a genius in waiting. Rebus realised suddenly just how superficial his own portrait of Damon was. So far, he’d heard only one side of the story.

  ‘Helen likes him, though?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘They’re engaged.’

  It happens, doesn’t it?’ Jacky said. ‘I’ve got girlfriends who got engaged just so they could throw a party.’ She looked at her pal for support, then leaned towards Rebus to utter a confidentiality. ‘They used to have some mega arguments.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Jealousy, I suppose.’ She waited till Corinne had nodded confirmation. ‘She’d see him notice someone, or he’d say she’d been letting some guy chat her up. Just the usual.’ She looked at him. ‘You think he’s gone off with someone?’ Rebus saw behind her eyeliner to a sharp intelligence.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said.

  But Corinne was shaking her head. ‘He wouldn’t have had the guts.’

  Looking along the corridor, Rebus saw that Helen hadn’t made it to the toilets. She was chatting to some guy, her back to the wall, hands behind her. Rebus asked Corinne and Jacky what they were drinking. Two Bacardi-Cokes. He added them to the shopping list.

  When he got back to his table, Janice was taking the floor. She sang ‘Baker Street’ with real emotion, eyes closed, knowing the words by heart. Brian watched her, his face giving away little. He probably didn’t realise he spent the whole song tearing a beer-mat into tinier and tinier pieces, piling them on the table before sweeping them on to the floor as the number finished.

  Rebus stepped outside, took deep gulps of the crisp night air. He was sticking to whisky, heavily watered. There were shouts in the distance, football chants. UVF spray-painted on the side wall of the pub. A man was urinating there. Afterwards, he reeled towards Rebus, asked if he could borrow a cigarette. Rebus gave him one, lit it.

  ‘Cheers, Jimmy,’ the drunk said. Then he studied Rebus’s face. ‘I knew your father,’ he said, walking away before Rebus could quiz him further.

  Rebus stood there. This wasn’t where he belonged, he knew that now. The past was a place you could visit, but it didn’t do to linger there. He’d drunk too much to drive, but first thing … first thing he would head back. Cary Oakes wasn’t here. He’d visited only long enough to leave a message. Rebus felt sorry for Janice and Brian, the way things had gone for them. But right now they were the least important of his many problems. He’d allowed his perspective to skew, and Oakes had made far too much capital from that.

  Back indoors, no one tried to press the microphone on him. By now they all knew who he was, knew about the act of desecration. Stories passed quickly through a town the size of Cardenden. What else was history made up of?

  34

  It was still dark when he awoke. He dressed, folded the blankets, left a note on the dining table. Then headed out to his car, drove through the quiet streets and quieter countryside, hitting dual carriageway and giving the Saab’s engine a proper work-out as he sped south towards Edinburgh.

  He found a space round the corner from Oxford Terrace and walked back to Patience’s flat. It was still too dark to see the door; he ran his fingers over it, found the lock and keyed it open. The hall was in darkness too. He walked on tiptoe, headed for the kitchen, poured water into the kettle. When he turned round, Patience was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she said, tiredness failing to dampen her irritation.

  ‘Fife.’

  ‘You didn’t call.’

  ‘I told you I was going.’

  ‘I tried your mobile.’

  He switched the kettle on. ‘I had it turned off.’ He saw pain suddenly crease her face. Took her by the arms. ‘What is it, Patience?’

  She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. She sniffed them back, took him by the hand into the hallway, where she switched on the light. He saw marks on the floor, a trail of them leading to the front door.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Paint,’ she said. ‘It was dark, I didn’t see I was treading it in. I’ve tried cleaning it off.’

  A white snail’s trail of footprints … Rebus thought of the white tracks leading to his father’s grave. He stared at her, then went to the front door and opened it. Behind him, she reached for the light-switch, illuminating the patio. Rebus saw the paint. Words daubed in foot-long letters on the paving-stones. He angled his head to read them.

  YOUR COP LOVER KILLED DARREN

  The whole message underlined.

  ‘Christ,’ he gasped.

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ Her voice trembled. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all weekend!’

  ‘I was … When did it happen?’ He was walking around the message.

  ‘Friday night. I came home late, went to bed. About three, I woke up with a headache. Went to get some water, put the hall light on …’ She was pulling back her hair with her hands, her face stretching, tightening. ‘I saw the paint, came out here, and …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Patience.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Oakes again. All the time Rebus had been in Fife, Oakes had been right here, making his next move. He didn’t just know about Janice, he knew about Patience too. And had told Rebus as much, telling him it was lucky he knew a doctor.

  He’d telegraphed the move, and Rebus hadn
’t read it. ‘You’re lying,’ Patience said. ‘You know damned well. It’s him, isn’t it?’

  Rebus tried putting his arms round her, but she shrugged him off.

  ‘I called St Leonard’s,’ she said. ‘They sent someone round. Two kids in uniform. In the morning, Siobhan turned up.’ She smiled. ‘She took me out for breakfast. I think she knew I hadn’t been to sleep. It made me realise how vulnerable this place is. Garden at the back: anyone could scale the wall, get in through the conservatory. Or break down the front door: who’s going to notice?’ She looked at him. ‘Who am I going to call?’

  He made again to put his arms around her. This time she allowed it, but he could feel resistance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘If I’d known … if there’d been any way …’ Friday night he’d switched off his mobile. Now he asked himself why. To conserve the battery? It was what he’d told himself back then, but maybe he’d been trying to block Fife off from everything else in his life; so busy thinking about Janice, he’d ignored Oakes’s more obvious move. He kissed Patience’s hair. Skewed perspectives, not thinking straight. Oakes was winning every fucking round. The bond Rebus felt with Janice was undeniable, but was all about failed chances. In the here and now, Patience was his lover. Patience was the one he was holding and kissing.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he told her. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’

  She pulled away from him, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. ‘Something funny’s happened to your voice. You’ve gone all Fife.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll make us some tea. You go back to bed. If you need me, you know where I’ll be.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Ben the scullery, hen.’

  ‘It’s got to be Oakes,’ he said.

  He’d called Siobhan to thank her. Patience had told him to ask her to lunch. So now, with the sun overhead, they were seated at the table in the conservatory. The Sunday papers lay unread in a pile in the corner. They ate Scotch broth, cooked ham and salad. A couple of bottles of wine had taken a pasting.

  ‘Know what she did last night?’ Patience had said—meaning Siobhan; talking to Rebus. ‘Phoned to check I was all right. Said if I wasn’t, I could sleep round at her place.’ A lazy half-drunken smile, and she got up to make the coffee. It was then that Rebus voiced his suspicions to Siobhan.

  ‘Evidence?’ she replied, before finishing her wine: just the two glasses—she was driving.

  ‘Gut feeling. He’s been watching my flat. He knows I was the last person to see Rough alive. He took Janice out, and now it’s Patience’s turn.’

  ‘What has he got against you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it could have been any one of us; just so happens I got the short straw.’

  ‘From what you say, he’s more calculating than that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rebus pushed a cherry tomato around the bed of lettuce on his plate. ‘Patience said something a while back. She said it all could be some kind of tactic to keep us from seeing what he’s really up to.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  Rebus sighed. ‘I wish to God I knew.’ He studied the salad again. ‘Remember when you could only get one kind of lettuce? One kind of tomato?’

  ‘I’m too young.’

  Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do you think she’ll be OK?’ Meaning Patience.

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘I should have been here.’

  ‘She said you were in Fife. What were you doing there?’

  ‘Living in the past,’ he said, finally stabbing the tomato with his fork.

  He spent the rest of the day with Patience. They took a walk in the Botanic Gardens, then dropped in on Sammy. Patience hadn’t gone to see her on Saturday—had phoned to say something had come up, not elaborating. She had a lie prepared for their visit, briefed Rebus so he’d back her up. Another walk: this time with Sammy in the wheelchair. Rebus still felt awkward, going out with her in public. She teased him about it.

  ‘Ashamed to be seen with a cripple?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  But he had no answer for her. What was it? He didn’t know himself. Maybe it was other people, the way they stared. He wanted to say: she’s going to get better, she won’t be in this thing forever. He wanted to explain how it had happened and how well she’d taken it. He wanted to tell them she was normal.

  With Sammy in a wheelchair … it was like she was a toddler again, and he felt himself watching for bumps and dips in the pavement, for awkward kerbs and safe crossing-places. He was insistent they wait for the green man, even when there was no traffic in sight.

  ‘Dad,’ she would say, ‘what are the odds of me getting hit again?’

  ‘Don’t forget, the bookies had us odds-on for Culloden.’ And she would laugh.

  Her boyfriend Ned was with them, but Sammy insisted on pushing herself, leaning back to do wheelies and show her mastery of the vehicle. Ned laughed with her, walked alongside with hands in pockets. Patience slipped her hand into Rebus’s.

  A Sunday outing: that’s what it was.

  And afterwards, back at the flat there were cream cakes and mugs of Darjeeling, football highlights on the TV with the sound turned down. Sammy talking to Patience about her latest exercise regime. Ned talking to Rebus. Rebus not listening, his eyes half-turned to the window, wondering if Cary Oakes was out there …

  That evening, he told Patience he had to go home. ‘Couple of things I need. I’ll be back later.’ He kissed her. ‘You all right here, or do you want to come with me?’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ she said.

  So Rebus got into his car and drove. Not to Arden Street but down to Leith. He walked into the hotel and asked to speak to Cary Oakes. Reception tried his room: no answer.

  ‘Maybe he’s in the bar,’ the woman said.

  But Cary Oakes was not in the bar—Jim Stevens was. ‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said. Rebus shook his head, noticed Stevens was on large G and Ts.

  ‘Where’s your boy?’

  Stevens just shrugged.

  ‘I thought you’d want to keep tabs on him,’ Rebus said, trying to control his anger.

  ‘I do, believe me. But he’s a slippery little bugger.’

  ‘How much more can you milk out of him?’

  Stevens smiled, shaking his head. ‘Something strange and wonderful has happened. You know me, Rebus, I’m what they call a seasoned hack, meaning I’m tough and I’m relentless and I don’t take shit.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I think he’s been giving me shit.’ Stevens shrugged. ‘It’s not bad stuff, don’t get me wrong. But where’s the corroboration?’

  ‘Since when has that stopped you?’

  Stevens bowed his head, acknowledging the point. ‘For my own satisfaction,’ he added, ‘I’d like to know. And along the way, dear old Cary seems to have managed to weasel almost as many stories out of me as I’ve had from him.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve always been known for your reticence.’

  ‘I don’t mind telling stories … bit of repartee at the bar. But Oakes … I don’t know. It’s not the stories themselves that interest him so much as what they say about the people involved.’ He picked up his drink. There were three empty glasses beside it. He’d decanted all the lemon slices into the most recent arrival. ‘That probably makes no sense. I don’t care: I’m off duty.’

  ‘So are you finished with him?’

  Stevens smacked his lips. ‘I’d say we’re getting there. The question is: is he finished with me?’

  Rebus took out a cigarette and lit it, offered one to the reporter. ‘He’s been tailing me. people I know.’

  What for?’

  ‘Maybe he wants another story for you.’ Rebus moved closer. ‘Listen, off the record, just two old bastards talking …’

  Stevens blinked away some of the alcohol. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has he said anything about Deirdre Cam
pbell?’ Stevens couldn’t place the name. ‘Alan Archibald’s niece.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ An exaggerated nod, face dipping towards the gin glass, then a frown of concentration. ‘He did say something about clear-up rates. Said that’s what happened when they pinned you for something: they tried to tidy away a few unsolveds by sweeping them into your case-file.’

  Rebus had eased himself on to a stool. ‘He didn’t mention specifics?’

  ‘You think there’s something I’ve missed?’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘You’ve said it yourself: you think he’s using you.’

  ‘By putting clues in his story that I’m not going to get? Give me a bit of credit.’

  ‘He likes games,’ Rebus hissed. ‘That’s all we are to him.’

  ‘Not me, pal. I’m his sugar daddy.’

  ‘Sugar daddies get cheated on.’

  ‘John … ’ Stevens sat up straight, took a reviving lungful of air. ‘This story’s put me back on the map. I got to him first. Me, washed-up old Jim Stevens, gold-watch contestant. Even if he buggered off tonight, I’d have the best part of a book’s-worth.’ He nodded to himself, eyes on the glass he was picking up. Rebus found himself not believing the reporter. ‘See, when I make a toast these days,’ Stevens went on, raising his glass, ‘it’s only ever to Number One. As far as I’m concerned, pal, the rest of you can go straight to hell, no Just Visiting and no Free Parking.’ He drank, drained the glass dry.

  He was ordering another as Rebus made for the door.

  35

  When Rebus left Patience’s next morning, she was out on the patio, discussing with two workmen how best to clean the paint off the flagstones. As he walked into St Leonard’s and made for the CID suite, he could feel that something had happened. There was activity around him and the air felt charged. Siobhan Clarke was first with the news.

  ‘Joanna Horman’s lover.’ She handed Rebus a report. ‘He’s dirty.’

  Rebus glanced down the sheet. The lover’s name was Ray Heggie. He’d done time for housebreaking and assorted acts of drunken violence. He was ten years older than Joanna. He’d been living with her for six weeks.