10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (399 page)

‘He’d been quiet all evening,’ Katherine Margolies went on. ‘Once or twice I caught him looking at Hannah, and I could see how scared he was.’ She rubbed the palm of either hand over her eyes, looked up to the ceiling, demanding something more from it than the comfort of cornice and chandelier. The noise that escaped from her throat was like something from a caged animal.

‘On the way home, he stopped the car and ran. I went after him, and he was just standing there. At first, I didn’t realise he was at the very edge of the Crags. He must have heard me. Next thing, he’d vanished. It was like a stunt, something a stage magician would do. Then I realised what it was. He’d jumped. I felt . . . well, I don’t know what I felt. Numb, betrayed, shocked.’ She shook her head, unsure even now what her feelings were towards the man who had killed himself rather than give in to his most feral craving. ‘I walked back to the car. Hannah was asking where her daddy was. I said he’d gone for a walk. I drove us home. I didn’t go down to help him. I didn’t do anything. Christ knows why.’ Now she ran her hands through her hair.

Rebus got up, pushed open a door. It led into a formal dining room. Decanters on a polished sideboard. He sniffed one, poured a large glass of whisky. Took it through to the hall and handed it to Katherine Margolies. Went back to fetch another for himself. He saw the sequence now: Jane Barbour telling Jim that Rough was coming back to town; Jim dusting off the case, becoming intrigued by the third man. Knowing his father had been working in children’s homes. Wanting to know, quizzing Darren Rough, his world collapsing in on him . . .

‘You know,’ his widow was saying, ‘Jim wasn’t scared of dying. He said there was a coachman.’

‘Coachman?’

‘He took you to wherever it was you went when you died.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you know that story?’

Rebus nodded. ‘An old Edinburgh ghost story, that’s all it is.’

‘You don’t believe in ghosts then?’

‘I wouldn’t say that necessarily.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Jim,’ he said. When he looked around, there wasn’t a ghost to be seen.

A week later, Rebus received a phone call from Brian Mee.

‘What’s up, Brian?’ Rebus already guessing from the tone of voice.

‘Ah, shite, John, she’s left me.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Brian.’

‘Are you?’ There was a hint of disbelief in the laugh that followed.

‘I really am, I’m sorry.’

‘She told you, though?’

‘In a roundabout sort of way.’ Rebus paused. ‘So do you know where she is?’

‘Cut the crap, John. She’s at your flat.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. She’s biding with you.’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’

‘She doesn’t know anybody else over there.’

‘There are bed and breakfasts, rooms to rent . . .’

‘You’re not putting her up?’

‘You’ve got my word for it.’

There was a long silence on the line. ‘Christ, man, I’m sorry. I’m off my head with worry here.’

‘Only to be expected, Brian.’

‘Think it’s worth my while coming to look for her?’

Rebus exhaled. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think she used to love me.’

‘But not any more?’

‘She wouldn’t have left otherwise.’

‘True enough.’

‘Even if she finds Damon, I don’t think she’s coming back.’

‘Give her some time, Brian.’

‘Aye, sure.’ Brian Mee sniffed. ‘Know something? I used to like it that folk called me Barney. I know how I got the name, you know.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t?’

‘Oh aye, but I know all the same. Barney Rubble. Because folk thought I was like him. Somebody said it to me once, not just “Barney” but “Barney Rubble”.’

Rebus smiled. ‘But you liked the name anyway?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said I liked that I had a nickname. It was a sort of identity, wasn’t it? And that’s better than nothing.’

Rebus’s smile stretched. He was seeing Barney Mee, the tough little battler, wading in to save Mitch. The years separating the present from that long-ago event seemed to fall away. It was as if the two could live side by side, the past a ghostly presence forever of the here and now. Nothing lost; nothing forgotten; redemption always a possibility.

But if that was true, how could he explain that Dr Margolies would never see a court of law, his crimes known only to the few? And how to explain that the Procurator Fiscal seemed able to prosecute Cary Oakes only for the attempted murder of Alan Archibald? All the forensic evidence connecting him to Jim Stevens could be explained away: fingerprints and fibres in Stevens’ car – Oakes had ridden in it before. Hell, three police officers had watched him being driven away from the airport in it. The Stevens file would be kept open, but no one would be investigating. Everyone knew who’d done it. But short of a confession, there was nothing they could do.

‘Let’s stick to our strongest suit,’ the fiscal depute had said. This meant discarding the attack on Rebus, too, even though the taxi driver had been willing to testify.

‘Too many possible arguments for the defence,’ the
fiscal depute had said. Rebus tried not to take it personally. He knew prosecution was a game all to itself, where the best player might lose, the cheat prosper. He knew it was the job of the police to investigate and present the facts. It was the job of lawyers like Richie Cordover to then twist everything around until they could persuade juries and witnesses that Celtic fans sang ‘The Sash’ and Cowdenbeath was an ideal holiday location.

‘Hey, John?’ Brian Mee was saying.

‘Yes, Barney?’

Brian laughed at that. ‘What about coming through some weekend, just you and me, eh? Double-act at the karaoke, and see if we can dust off some chat-up lines.’

‘Sounds tempting, Barney. I’ll give you a bell some time.’ Both men knowing he wouldn’t.

‘Right then, that’s you on a promise.’

‘Cheers, Barney.’

‘Bye, John. It was good to catch up with you . . .’

Another paedophile had been released from prison, this time in Glasgow. GAP had organised a bus and headed off for Renfrew, where he was rumoured to be holed up. Some of the younger males in the company had gone for a night on the town, which had ended with a full-scale battle raging through the streets.

It was hoped, at least in some quarters, that the resulting negative publicity would sound the organisation’s death knell. But Van Brady was still giving interviews and getting her picture in the papers, still applying to the Lottery for funding. Journalists liked that she talked almost exclusively in sound-bites, even if half of them had to be toned down for publication.

There was a memorial service for Jim Stevens. Rebus went along. He suspected that in his day Stevens had probably fallen out with at least three-quarters of the mourners. But there were eulogies and sombre faces, and Rebus couldn’t help feeling that Jim wouldn’t have
wanted it that way. Afterwards, he held a little wake of his own in the Oxford Bar’s back room with three or four of the loudest, rudest, and funniest hacks around. They drank till well after midnight, their laughter almost drowning out the music from the ceilidh band in the corner.

Rebus stumbled down the road to Oxford Terrace, dumped his clothes in the washing basket and had a shower.

‘You still reek,’ Patience told him as he climbed into bed.

‘I’m keeping up traditions,’ Rebus said. ‘Edinburgh’s not called “Auld Reekie” for nothing.’

He thought it curious that Cal Brady should want to speak to him. Cal was out on bail, awaiting trial for various offences against the person on the night of the Renfrew stramash. The morning phone call was so unexpected, Rebus walked out of the station without telling anyone where he was going. They met up on Radical Road. Cal had wanted somewhere not too far from home, but not a cop-shop, somewhere they could talk without anyone hearing.

The wind was flying, stinging Rebus’s ears. There were occasional blasts of sunshine as the fast-moving clouds broke, only to blot out the sun again moments later. Cal Brady had deep bruises beneath both eyes, and a burst lip. His left hand sported a bandage and he seemed to limp ever so slightly as he walked.

‘Bad one, was it?’ Rebus asked.

‘Those weegies . . .’ Cal shook his head.

‘I thought it was Renfrew?’

‘Renfrew, Glasgow . . . all the same, man. Mad bastards, each and every one. Their idea of a square go is to rip your face off with their teeth.’ He shivered, pulled his denim jacket tighter around him.

‘You could button it up,’ Rebus told him.

‘Eh?’

‘The jacket . . . if you’re cold.’

‘Aye, but it looks stupid when you do that. Levi jackets are only cool when they’re open.’ Rebus had no answer to that. ‘I hear you got a bit of a scrape yourself.’

Rebus looked at his arm. No sling now, just a taped compress. Another week or so, the stitches would dissolve. ‘What did you want to see me for, Cal?’

‘These fucking charges.’

‘What about them?’

‘I’ll probably end up going down, record I’ve got.’

‘So?’

‘So, I could do without it.’ He twitched a shoulder. ‘Gonny help me out?’

‘You mean put in a good word?’

‘Aye.’

Rebus stuck his hands in his pockets, as if relaxing. In truth, he’d been on his guard ever since arriving at the meeting-point five minutes before Brady: on the lookout for traps or a possible ambush. Lessons learned from Cary Oakes. ‘Why should I do that?’ he asked.

‘Look, I’m no fucking snitch, right?’

Rebus nodded agreement, as seemed to be expected.

‘But I hear things.’ He paused. ‘Try not to, but sometimes I can’t help it.’

‘Such as?’

‘So you’ll put a word in?’

Rebus stopped walking. He seemed to be admiring the vista. ‘I could tell them you’re one of mine. I could make you sound important.’

‘But I wouldn’t
be
your grass, right? That’s the crux.’

Rebus nodded. ‘But you’ve got something to trade?’

Cal looked around, as if even here he might be overheard. When he lowered his voice, Rebus had to move close to him to hear what he was saying over the noise of the wind.

‘You know I work for Mr Mackenzie?’

‘You’re his enforcer.’

Brady prickled at that. ‘Sometimes he’s owed money. Happens to a lot of businesses.’

‘Sure.’

‘I make sure his debtors know the risks they’re taking.’

Rebus smiled. ‘A nice way of putting it.’

Brady looked around again. ‘Petrie,’ he said, like this would explain everything.

‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘Nicky Petrie owed Charmer money, got beaten up in lieu of a final reminder.’

But Brady was shaking his head. ‘It was his sister owed the money.’

‘Ama?’ Brady nodded. ‘So why thump Nicky?’

Brady snorted. ‘She’s a cold, hard bitch. Maybe you haven’t noticed. But she likes her little brother. She
loves
little Nicky . . .’

‘So you were sending the message to her?’ Rebus thought about it, remembered something Ama had said to him at the beauty contest:
Who do I owe money to?
‘Why didn’t she get the money from her father?’

‘Story is, she wouldn’t ask him for the time of day, and he wouldn’t give it to her if he’d a watch on either arm.’

‘I still don’t know what this has to do with me.’

‘That flat of theirs.’

‘What about it?’

‘
She
lives there. The blonde you were looking for.’

Rebus stared at Brady. ‘She’s in that flat?’ Brady was nodding. ‘What’s her name?’

‘I think it’s Nicola.’

‘How do you know all this?’

Brady shrugged. ‘They can’t help talking, that little gang.’

Rebus thought of the scene on the boat . . . the way the drunk had been about to say something until warned off by Ama Petrie . . .

‘They know about this Nicola?’

‘They
all
know.’

Which meant they’d all lied to Rebus . . . including the brother and sister, Nicky and Ama.

‘Is she Nicky’s girlfriend?’

Brady shrugged again.

‘Or Ama’s maybe?’

‘I don’t get involved,’ Brady said, waving his hand as though to cut the discussion dead.

‘How about you, Cal? Still living with Joanna?’

‘Nothing to do with you.’

‘How’s Billy Boy? Don’t you think he’d be better off with his dad?’

‘That’s not what Joanna wants.’

‘Has anyone asked Billy what
he
wants?’

Brady’s voice rose. ‘He’s just a kid. How’s he supposed to know what’s best for him?’

‘I bet when you were his age you knew what you wanted.’

‘Maybe,’ Brady conceded after a moment’s thought. ‘But I’ll give you odds-on I didn’t get it.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe I’m
still
not getting it. Know what I think about that?’

‘What?’

‘Just watch.’

And Rebus did watch, as Cal Brady unzipped his fly, took out his penis, and began to urinate off the edge of Radical Road. Standing well back from the performance, it seemed to Rebus that he was pissing on Holyrood and Greenfield and St Leonard’s, pissing in a giant arc over the whole city.

And if Rebus had been able, at that exact moment he might have joined him.

Returning to St Leonard’s with Siobhan Clarke after a call-out, Rebus made a detour to the New Town. Clarke knew better than to ask why: he’d tell her in his own good time and not before.

It was late afternoon, and he sat kerbside, indicators flashing, wondering about Nicky Petrie. To pay a visit, or not to pay a visit? Would the girlfriend be there? Would Petrie string together another series of lies and half-truths? Clarke was about to open her mouth to say something when she saw his hands tighten on the steering-wheel.

A woman was coming down the steps from Petrie’s building. Rebus saw for the first time that a taxi was waiting. She stepped into it. He’d caught only a glimpse of her: tall, willowy. A blonde pageboy cut. Black dress and tights beneath a billowing black wool coat. Rebus switched off the indicators, made to follow the cab, started explaining the situation to Clarke.

‘Where do you think she’s going?’