by Ian Rankin
'I don't.'
'Or something to eat?'
'Ditto.'
'I said you should look at people who work for him. I didn't mean like this.'
'Don't tell me how to do my job!'
'Just don't go into that pub, okay? I've half an idea where you are, I'll come down there.'
'There's no need.'
'Try and stop me.'
'Look, this is my--' But Linford's caller had gone.
He cursed silently, tried calling Rebus back. 'I'm sorry.' said the recording, 'but the phone you have called may be switched off...'
Linford cursed again.
Did he want Rebus here, sharing his inquiry, sticking his nose in? Meddling? Soon as he arrived, he'd be told where he could go.
The pub door rattled open. All the time Hutton had been inside - one hour and twenty minutes - no one else had gone in or come out. But now here he was, emerging, bathed in light from the open door. And there was another man with him. They stood chatting in the doorway, Linford, parked across the road and down a ways, peering at this new figure. He ticked off the Holyrood description in his mind, came up with a close match.
Denims, dark bomber jacket, white trainers. Black cropped hair. Big round eyes and a permanent-looking scowl.
Hutton punched the man's shoulder. The man didn't seem too happy about what was being said. He put out a hand for Hutton to shake, but Hutton wasn't having any of it. Went and unlocked his Ferrari, started the engine and headed off. The man looked like he was going to turn back into the pub. Linford had a new scenario now: in he walks with Rebus as back-up, takes the man in for questioning. Not a bad day's work.
But the man was just shouting his goodbyes to someone. Then he headed off on foot. Linford didn't think twice, slid from his car, made to lock it, then remembered the little squeak of acknowledgement which the alarm made. Left it unlocked.
Forgot to take his mobile.
The man seemed drunk, weaving slightly, arms hanging loose. He went into another pub, came out again scant minutes later, stood by the doorway lighting a cigarette. Then back on his travels, stopping to talk to someone he seemed to know, then slowing as he fished a mobile phone out of his jacket and took a call. Linford patted his own pockets, realised the mobile was back in his car. He'd no idea where they were, tried memorising the few street names on show. Another pub: three minutes and out again. A short cut down a lane. Linford waited till the suspect had turned left out of the lane before entering it himself, sprinting to the other end. A housing scheme now, high fences and curtained windows, sounds of TVs and kids playing. Dark passageways smelling faintly of urine. Graffiti: Easy, Provos, Hibs. More walkways, the man pausing now, knocking at a door. Linford sticking to the shadows. The door opened and the man stepped quickly inside.
Linford didn't think it was a last stop. No keys, so probably not his home. He checked the time again, but had left his notebook back in the car, lying on the seat with the mobile. The BMW unlocked. He gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around at the concrete maze. Could he find his way back to the pub? Would his pride and joy be there if he did?
But Rebus was on his way, wasn't he? He'd work out what had happened, keep guard till Linford came back. He took a couple of steps further back into the darkness, plunged his hands into his pockets. Bloody freezing.
When the blow came, it came silently and from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Jayne had gone and done it this time. She wasn't at her mum's. The old crone told him: 'Just said to tell you she was going to a friend's, and don't bother asking which one because she said it was better I didn't know.' She had her arms folded, filling the doorway of her semi-detached.
'Well, thanks for helping me save my marriage,' Jerry replied, heading back down the garden path. Her dog was sitting by the gate. Nice little thing, name of Eric. Jerry gave it a kick up its arse and opened the gate. He was laughing as Jayne's mum swore at him above Eric's yelps and howls.
Back at the flat, he went on another recce, see if she'd left any clues for him to find. No note, and at least half her clothes had gone. She hadn't been in a temper. Evidence of this: one of his boxes of 45s was sitting on the floor, a pair of scissors next to it, but she hadn't touched the records. Maybe a peace offering of sorts? Couple of things knocked off shelves, but put that down to her being in a hurry. He looked in the fridge: cheese, marge, milk. No beer. Nothing to drink in any of the cupboards either. He emptied his pockets on to the couch. Three quid and some change. Christ almighty, and when was the next giro due? Best part of a week away, was it? Friday night, and all he had was three quid. He searched drawers and down the back of the couch and under the bed. A grand total haul of a further eighty pence.
And the bills, staring at him from the noticeboard in the kitchen: gas, electric, council tax. Plus, somewhere, the rent and telephone. Phone bill had only come in that morning, Jerry asking Jayne why she had to spend three hours a week on the blower to her mum who only lived round the corner?
He went back through to the living room, dug out 'Stranded' by The Saints. B-side was even faster - 'No Time'. Jerry had all the time in the world; thing was, he felt utterly stranded.
The Stranglers next, 'Grip', and he wondered if he would strangle Jayne for putting him through this.
'Get a grip,' he told himself.
Made a cup of tea and tried working out his options, but his mind wasn't up to thinking. So he slumped back on to the sofa. At least he could play his music now, any time he liked. She'd taken her tapes with her - Eurythmics, Celine Dion, Phil Collins. Good riddance, the lot of them. He went along three doors to Tofu's pad and asked if he had any blow. Tofu offered to sell him a quarter.
'I just need enough for a joint. I'll give it back.'
'What? After you've smoked it?'
'I mean I'll owe you it.'
'Yeah, you will. Like you still owe me for last Wednesday.'
'Come on, Tofu, just one measly hit.'
'Sorry, pal, no more tick from Tofu.'
Jerry jabbed a ringer at him. 'I'll remember this. Don't think I won't.'
'Aye, sure thing, Jer.' Tofu closed the door. Jerry heard the chain rattle back across it.
Inside the flat again. Feeling itchy now, wanting some action. Where were your friends when you needed them? Nic... he could phone Nic, Tap him for a loan if nothing else. Christ, with the stuff Jerry knew, he had Nic over a barrel. Make the loan more of a weekly retainer. He checked the clock on the video. Gone five. Would Nic be at work, or maybe at home? He tried both numbers: no luck. Maybe he was out on the pull, a few drinks in the wine bar with some of the short skirts from the office. No place in that picture for his old comrade-in-arms. The only thing Jerry was useful for was as a punchbag, somebody to make Nic look good because he looked bad.
A stooge, plain and simple. They were all laughing at him: Jayne, her mum, Nic. Even the woman at the DSS. And Tofu... he could almost hear that bastard's laughter, sitting snug in his padlocked flat with his bags of grass and nuggets of hash, bit of music on the hi-fi and money in his pocket. Jerry picked up the coins one by one from around him on the couch and tossed them at the blank TV screen.
Until the doorbell rang. Jayne, had to be! Okay, he had to pull himself together, act casual. Maybe be a bit huffy with her, but grown-up about it. Things happened sometimes, and it was down to those involved to... More ringing. Hang on, she'd have her keys, wouldn't she? And now the banging of a fist on the door. Who did they owe money to? Were they taking away the TV? The video? There was precious little else.
He stood in the hallway, holding his breath.
'I can see you, you tosser!'
A pair of eyes at the letter box. Nic's voice. Jerry started moving forward.
'Nic, man, I was just trying to get you.'
He unsnibbed the door and it flew inwards, driving him backwards and on to his arse. He was pulling himself upright when Nic gave him another push that sent him sprawling. Then the door s
lammed shut.
'Bad move, Jerry, really, really bad move.'
'What're you talking about? What've I done this time?'
Nic was sweating profusely. His eyes were darker and colder than ever before, and his voice was like a chisel.
'I never should've told you,' he hissed.
Jerry was back up on his feet. He slid along the wall and into the living room. 'Told me what?'
'That Barry wanted me out.'
'What?' This wasn't making sense to Jerry; he was panicking that it was his fault, that it would make sense if only he'd concentrate.
'It wasn't enough to grass me to the pigs---'
'Whoah, hold on--'
'No, you hold on, Jerry. Because when I'm finished with you...'
'I didn't do anything!'
'Grassed me up and told them where I work.'
'I never!'
'They've been talking to Barry about me! There was one sitting in the car park this afternoon! He'd been there for hours, sitting in my space! Now why else would he be there, eh?'
Jerry was shaking. 'Loads of reasons.'
Nic shook his head. 'No, Jer, just the one. And you're so fucking stupid you think I won't take you with me.'
'Christ's sake, man.'
Nic had brought something from his pocket. A knife. A bloody great carving knife! And Jerry noticed that he was wearing gloves, too.
'I swear to God, man.'
'Shut up.'
'Why would I do that, Nic? Think for a minute!'
'Your bottle's gone. I can see you shaking from here.' Nic laughed. 'I knew you were weak, but not this bad.'
'Look, man, Jayne's gone and I--'
'Jayne's the last thing you have to worry about.' There were thumps on the ceiling. Nic glanced up. 'Shut it!'
Jerry saw a half-chance, dived through the doorway and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes. He plunged a hand in, pulled out forks, teaspoons. Nic was on him. Jerry chucked the lot at him. He was screaming now.
'Call the police! You upstairs, get on to the cops!'
Nic swung with the knife, caught Jerry on his right hand. Now a current of blood flowed down his wrist, mixing with the dishwater. Jerry cried out in pain, lashed out with a foot, caught Nic smack on the kneecap. Nic lunged again, and Jerry pushed past him, back into the living room. Tripped and fell. Fell over the box of 4 scattering them. Nic was coming, his feet grinding one of the records into the floor.
'Bastard,' he was saying. 'You won't be saying a word against me.'
'Nic, man, you've lost it!'
'It wasn't enough, Cat leaving me, you had to rub my nose in it. Well, pal, it's you that's the rapist here. I just drove the van. That's what I'll tell them.' There was a sick grin on his face. 'We got into a fight, it was self-defence. That's what I'll say. See, I'm the one with the brains here. Jerry-fucking-nobody. The job, the mortgage, the car. And I'm the one they'll believe.' He raised the knife, and Jerry lunged. Nic sort of wheezed, and froze for a second, mouth agape, then angling his chin to stare down at where the scissors protruded from his chest.
'What were you saying about brains, man?' Jerry said, rising to his feet as Nic slumped face forwards on to the floor.
He sat back down on the couch, Nic's body twitching once or twice and then falling still. Jerry ran his hands through his hair. He examined his cut. It was a deep wound, and about three inches long. Hospital job. stitches. He knelt down, searched Nic's pockets and came up with the keys to the Cosworth. Nic had never let him drive it, never once offered.
Now, at last, he had a choice. Sit here and wait it out? Get his story straight for the cops? Self-defence was the truth of it. Maybe the neighbours would tell what they'd heard. But the cops... the cops knew Nic was the rapist. And they also knew there were two men involved.
Stood to reason it was him: Nic's pal from way back, the underachiever, Nic's killer. They'd get witnesses who'd identify him from the nightclubs. Maybe there were clues in the van.
Not such a difficult choice then, in the end. He tossed the keys, caught them, and headed out of the flat. Left the door wide open. Pigs would only kick it in otherwise. He wondered if Nic would have thought of that.
Rebus was renewing his old acquaintance with the rougher end of the Leith pub scene. Not for him the charming, rejuvenated taverns of The Shore or the gleaming Victorian hostelries to be found on Great Junction Street and Bernard Street. For the nameless howffs, the spit 'n' sawdusts, you had to look slightly further afield, charting streets which few Scottish Office brogues from the HO down the road ever trod. He had drawn up a shortlist of four - drew a blank with the first two. But at the third, saw Linford's BMW parked eighty yards away, under a busted street light: smart enough to park where he wouldn't easily be spotted. Then again, every second street light was busted.
Rebus tucked his Saab behind the BMW. He flashed his lights: no response. Got out of his car and lit a cigarette. That's all he was: a local lighting a cigarette. But his eyes were busy. The street was quiet. There was light in the high windows of Bellman's Bar - its name from years back. What it was called now was anybody's guess. Probably nobody who drank there knew, or cared.
He walked past the BMW, glancing inside. Something on the passenger seat: mobile phone. Linford couldn't be far. Taking that piss maybe, the one he'd said he wouldn't need. Rebus smiled and shook his head, then saw that the BMW's doors weren't locked. He tried the driver's side. By the interior light he could see Linford's notebook. He reached for it, started reading, but the light went off. So he slipped into the driver's seat, closed the door, and flipped the light back on again. Meticulous in every detail, but that didn't count for anything if you were spotted. Rebus went back outside, inspected the few parked cars. They were ageing and ordinary, the kind that passed each MOT with a backhander to a friendly mechanic. He wouldn't place Barry Hutton as the owner of any of them. Yet Hutton had driven here. Did that mean he'd left?
Did that mean Linford had missed him?
Suddenly, this began to seem like the best-case scenario. Rebus started to think of others, not half as appealing. He walked back to the Saab and called in, got St Leonard's to check any activity in Leith. They got back to him pronto: quiet night so far. He sat there, smoking three or four cigarettes, killing the packet. Then he walked over to Bellman's and pushed open the door.
Smoky inside. No music or TV. Just half a dozen men, all standing at the bar, all staring at him. No Barry Hutton; no Linford. Rebus was taking coins from his pocket as he approached.
'Cigarette machine?' he asked.
'Havenae got one.' The man behind the bar was practising a scowl. Rebus blinked sleepily.
'Any packs behind the bar?'
'Naw.'
. He turned to look at the drinkers. 'Any of you guys sell me some?'
'A pound each,' came the lightning response. Rebus snorted.
'That's criminal,' he said.
'Then fuck off and buy them somewhere else.'
Rebus took his time studying the faces, then the bar's blunt decor: three tables, a linoleum floor the colour of ox blood, wood panelling on the walls. Pictures of yesteryear's page three girls. A dartboard gathering cobwebs. He couldn't see any toilets. There were only four optics behind the bar, and two taps: lager or export.
'Must do a roaring trade,' he commented.
'I didn't know you'd booked a floor show tonight. Shug,' one drinker said to the barman.
'The floor's where he'll end up,' the barman said.
'Easy, boys, easy.' Rebus held up his hands in appeasement, started backing away. 'I'll be sure to tell Barry that this is what you call hospitality.'
They weren't falling for it, stayed silent until Shug the barman spoke. 'Barry who?' he said.
Rebus shrugged, turned and walked out.
It was another five minutes before he got the call. Derek Linford: already on his way to the Infirmary.
Rebus paced the corridor: didn't like hospitals; liked this one less than mo
st. This was where they'd brought Sammy after the hit and run.
At just after eleven, Ormiston appeared. Police officer attacked, Fettes and Crime Squad always took an interest.
'How is he?' Rebus asked. He wasn't alone: Siobhan was seated with a can of Fanta, looking shell-shocked. More officers had looked in - including the Farmer and Linford's boss from Fettes, the latter pointedly ignoring Rebus and Siobhan.
'Not good,' Ormiston said, searching in his pockets for change for the coffee machine. Siobhan asked him what he needed, handed over some coins.
'Did he say what happened?'
'Doctors didn't want him talking.'
'But did he tell you?'
Ormiston straightened up, plastic cup in hand. 'He got whacked from the back, and a few kicks for good measure. Best part of a broken jaw, I'd say.'
'So he probably wasn't in a chatty mood,' Siobhan said, looking at Rebus.
'They've pumped him full of drugs anyway,' Ormiston said, blowing on the liquid in his cup and eyeing it speculatively. 'Is this coffee or soup, would you say?'
Siobhan shrugged.
'He did write something down,' Ormiston said at last. 'Bugger seemed keen enough about that.'
'What did it say?' Siobhan asked.
Ormiston glanced towards Rebus. 'I might be paraphrasing, but it was along the lines of: Rebus knew I was there.'
'What?' Rebus's face was like stone. Ormiston repeated the words for him.
Siobhan looked from one man to the other. 'Meaning what?'
'Meaning,' Rebus said, slumping into a chair, 'he thinks I did it. Nobody else knew where he was.'
'But it had to be whoever he was following,' Siobhan argued. 'Stands to reason.'
'Not Derek Linford's reason.' Rebus looked up at her. 'I phoned him, said I was on my way down. Could be I set him up, grassed him to whoever was in the bar. Or could be I was the one who whacked him.' He looked to Ormiston for confirmation. 'That how you see it, Ormie?'
Ormiston said nothing.
'But why would you...?' Siobhan's question trailed off as she saw the answer. Rebus nodded, letting her know she was right. Revenge... jealousy... because of what Linford had done to Siobhan.