Knots And Crosses (20 page)

‘Eat this. I’ve been on to HQ. We’ve to be there in two hours’ time. They’ve already started running a check on Reeve’s name. We should find him.’

‘I hope so, Gill. Oh God, I hope so.’

They hugged. She suggested that they lie on the couch. They did so, tight in a warming embrace. Rebus couldn’t help wondering whether his dark night had been an exorcism of sorts, whether the past would still haunt him sexually. He hoped not. Certainly, it was neither the time nor the place to try it out.

Gordon, my friend, what did I do to you?

Stevens was a patient man. The two policemen had been firm with him. No one could see Detective Sergeant Rebus for the moment. Stevens had returned to the newspaper office, worked on a report for the paper’s three-a.m. print-run, and then had driven back to Rebus’s flat. There were still lights on up there, but also there were two new gorillas by the door of the tenement. Stevens parked across the street and lit another cigarette. It was tying together nicely. The two threads were becoming one. The murders and the drug-pushing were involved in some way, and Rebus was the key by the look of things. What were his brother and he talking about at this hour? A contingency plan perhaps. God, he would have given anything to be a fly on the living-room wall just now. Anything. He knew reporters in Fleet Street who went in for sophisticated surveillance techniques – bugs, high-powered microphones, telephone-taps – and he wondered if it might not be worthwhile to invest in some of that equipment himself.

He formulated new theories in his head, theories with hundreds of permutations. If Edinburgh’s drug-racketeers had gone into the abduction-and-murder business to put the frights on some poor bastards, then things were taking a very grim turn indeed, and he, Jim Stevens, would have to be even more careful in future. Yet Big Podeen had known nothing. Say, then, that a new gang had broken into the game, bringing
with it new rules. That would make for a gang-war, Glasgow-style. But things, surely, were not done that way today. Maybe.

In this way, Stevens kept himself awake and alert, scribbling his thoughts into a notebook. His radio was on, and he listened to the half-hourly news reports. A policeman’s daughter was the new victim of Edinburgh’s child-murderer. In the most recent abduction, a man was killed, strangled in the house of the child’s mother. And so on. Stevens went on formulating, went on speculating.

It had not yet been revealed that
all
the murders were linked to Rebus. The police were not about to make that public, not even to Jim Stevens.

At seven-thirty, Stevens managed to bribe a passing newspaper-boy into bringing him rolls and milk from a nearby shop. He washed the dry, powdery rolls down with the icy milk. The heating was on in his car, but he felt chilled to the marrow. He needed a shower, a shave, and some sleep. Not necessarily in that order. But he was too close to let this go now. He had the tenacity – some would call it madness, fanaticism – of every good reporter. He had watched other hacks arriving in the night and being sent away again. One or two had seen him sitting in his car and had come across for a chat and to sniff out any leads. He had hidden away his notebook then, feigning disinterest, telling them that he would be going home shortly. Lies, damned lies.

That was part of the business.

And now, finally, they were emerging from the building. A few cameras and microphones were there, of course, but nothing too tasteless, no pushing and shoving and harassing. For one thing, this was a grieving father; for another, he was a policeman. Nobody was about to harass him.

Stevens watched as Gill and Rebus were allowed to
disappear into the back of an idling Rover police-car. He studied their faces. Rebus looked washed-out. That was only to be expected. But, behind that, lay a grimness of look, something about the way his mouth made a straight line. That bothered Stevens a little. It was as if the man were about to enter a war. Bloody hell. And then there was Gill Templer. She looked rough, rougher even than Rebus. Her eyes were red, but here too there was something a little out of the ordinary. Something was not quite as it should be. Any respecting reporter could see that, if he knew what he was looking for. Stevens gnawed at himself. He needed to know more. It was like a drug, his story. He needed bigger and bigger injections of it. He was a bit startled, too, to find himself admitting that the reason he needed these injections was not for the sake of his job, but for his own curiosity. Rebus intrigued him. Gill Templer, of course, interested him.

And Michael Rebus …

Michael Rebus had not appeared from the flat. The circus was leaving now, the Rover turning right out of the quiet Marchmont street, but the gorillas remained. New gorillas. Stevens lit a cigarette. It might be worth a try at that. He walked back to his car and locked it. Then, taking a walk round the block, formed another plan.

‘Excuse me, sir. Do you live here?’

‘Of course I live here! What’s all this about, eh? I need to get to my bed.’

‘Had a heavy night, sir?’

The bleary-eyed man shook three brown paper-bags at the policeman. The bags each contained six rolls.

‘I’m a baker. Shift-work. Now if you’ll …’

‘And your name, sir?’

Making to pass the man, Stevens had just had time enough to make out a few of the names on the door-buzzer.

‘Laidlaw,’ he said. ‘Jim Laidlaw.’

The policeman checked this against a list of names in his hand.

‘All right, sir. Sorry to have bothered you.’

‘What’s all this about?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough, sir. Good night now.’

There was one more obstacle, and Stevens knew that for all his cunning, if the door was locked then the door was locked, and his game was up. He made a plausible push at the heavy door and felt it give. They had not locked it. His patron saint was smiling on him today.

In the tenement hallway, he ditched the rolls and thought of another ploy. He climbed the two flights of stairs to Rebus’s door. The tenement seemed to smell exclusively of cats’-piss. At Rebus’s door he paused, catching his breath. Partly, he was out of condition, but partly, also, he was excited. He had not felt anything like this on a story for years. It felt good. He decided that he could get away with anything on a day like this. He pushed the doorbell relentlessly.

The door was opened at last by a yawning, puffy-faced Michael Rebus. So at last they were face to face. Stevens flashed a card at Michael. The card identified James Stevens as a member of an Edinburgh snooker club.

‘Detective Inspector Stevens, sir. Sorry to get you out of bed.’ He put the card away. ‘Your brother told us that you’d probably still be asleep, but I thought I’d come up anyway. May I come in? Just a few questions, sir. Won’t keep you too long.’

The two policemen, their feet numb despite thermal socks and the fact that it was the beginning of summer, shuffled one foot and then the other, hoping for a reprieve. The talk was all of the abduction and the fact that a Chief Inspector’s son had been murdered. The main door opened behind them.

‘You lot still here? The wife told me there was bobbies at the door, but I didnae believe her. Yon wis last night though. What’s the matter?’

This was an old man, still in his slippers but with a thick, winter overcoat on. He was half-shaven only, and his bottom false-teeth had been lost or forgotten about. He was attaching a cap to his bald head as he sidled out of the door.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, sir. You’ll be told soon enough, I’m sure.’

‘Oh aye, well then. I’m just away to fetch the paper and the milk. We usually have toast for breakfast, but some bugger’s gone and left about twa dozen new rolls in the lobby. Well, if they’re no’ wanted, they’re aye welcome in my house.’

He chuckled, showing the raw red of his bottom gum.

‘Can I get you twa anything at the shop?’

But the two policemen were staring at one another, alarmed, speechless.

‘Get up there,’ one said, finally, to the other. Then: ‘And your name, sir?’

The old man preened himself; an old trooper.

‘Jock Laidlaw,’ he said, ‘at your service.’

Stevens was drinking, thankfully, the black coffee. The first hot thing he’d had in ages. He was seated in the living-room, his eyes everywhere.

‘I’m glad you woke me,’ Michael Rebus was saying. ‘I’ve got to get back home.’

I’ll bet you have, thought Stevens. I’ll bet you have. Rebus looked altogether more relaxed than he had foreseen. Relaxed, rested, easy with his conscience. Curiouser and curiouser.

‘Just a few questions, Mister Rebus, as I said.’

Michael Rebus sat down, crossing his legs, sipping his own coffee.

‘Yes?’

Stevens produced his notebook.

‘Your brother has had a very great shock.’

‘Yes.’

‘But he’ll be all right you think?’

‘Yes.’

Stevens pretended to write in his book.

‘Did he have a good night, by the way? Did he sleep all right?’

‘Well, none of us got much sleep. I’m not sure John slept at all.’ Michael’s eyebrows were gathering. ‘Look, what is all this?’

‘Just routine, Mister Rebus. You understand. We need all the details from everyone involved if we’re going to crack this case.’

‘But it’s cracked, isn’t it?’

Stevens’ heart jumped.

‘Is it?’ he heard himself say.

‘Well, don’t you know?’

‘Yes, of course, but we have to get
all
the details –’

‘From everyone concerned. Yes, so you said. Look, can I see your identification again? Just to be on the safe side.’

There was the sound of a key prodding at the front door.

Christ, thought Stevens, they’re back already.

‘Listen,’ he said through his teeth, ‘we know all about your little drugs-racket. Now tell us who’s behind it or else we’ll put you behind bars for a hundred years, sonny!’

Michael’s face went light-blue, then grey. His mouth seemed ready to drop open with a word, the one word Stevens needed.

But then one of the gorillas was in the room, propelling Stevens out of his chair.

‘I’ve not finished my coffee yet!’ he protested.

‘You’re lucky I don’t break your flaming neck, pal,’ replied the policeman.

Michael Rebus stood up, too, but he was saying nothing.

‘A name!’ cried Stevens. ‘Just give me the name! This’ll be spread right across the front pages, my friend, if you don’t co-operate! Give me the name!’

He kept up his cries all the way down the stairwell. Right down to the last step.

‘All right, I’m going,’ he said eventually, breaking free of the heavy grip on his arm. ‘I’m going. You were a bit slack there, boys, weren’t you? I’ll keep it quiet this time, but next time you better be ready. Okay?’

‘Get to fuck out of here,’ said one gorilla.

Stevens got to fuck. He slid into his car, feeling more frustrated and more curious than ever. God, he’d been close. But what did the hypnotist mean by that? The case was cracked. Was it? If so, he wanted to be there with the first details. He was not used to being so far behind in the game. Usually, games were played by his rules. No, he was not used to this, and he did not like it at all.

He loved it.

But, if the case was cracked, then time was tight. And if you could not get what you wanted from one brother, then go to the other. He thought he knew where John Rebus would be. His intuition ran high today. He felt inspired.

‘Well, John, this all seems quite fantastical, but I’m sure it’s a possibility. Certainly, it’s the best lead we’ve got, though I find it hard to conceive of a man with so much hate that he would murder four innocent girls just to give you the clues as to his ultimate victim.’

Chief Superintendent Wallace looked from Rebus to Gill Templer and back again. To Rebus’s left sat Anderson. Wallace’s hands lay like dead fish on his desk, a pen in front of him. The room was large and uncluttered, a self-assured oasis. Here, problems were always solved, decisions were made – always correctly.

‘The problem now is finding him. If we make this thing public, then that might scare him off, endangering your daughter’s life in the process. On the other hand, a public appeal would be by far the quickest way of finding him.’

‘You can’t possibly …!’ It was Gill Templer who, in that quiet room, was on the verge of exploding, but Wallace silenced her with a wave of his hand.

‘I am merely thinking aloud at this stage, Inspector Templer, merely casting stones into a pond.’

Anderson sat like a corpse, his eyes to the floor. He was on leave now officially and in mourning, but he had insisted on keeping in touch with the case and Superintendent Wallace had acquiesced.

‘Of course, John,’ Wallace was saying, ‘it’s impossible for you to remain on the case.’

Rebus rose to his feet.

‘Sit down, John, please.’ The Super’s eyes were hard and honest, the eyes of a real copper, one of the old school. Rebus sat down again. ‘Now I know how you must feel, believe it or believe it not. But there’s too much at stake here. Too much for all of us. You’re far too involved to be of any objective use, and the public would cry out about vigilante tactics. You must see that.’

‘All I see is that without me Reeve will stop at nothing. It’s me he wants.’

‘Exactly. And wouldn’t we be stupid to hand you over to him on a plate? We’ll do everything we can, as much as you could do. Leave it to us.’

‘The Army won’t tell you anything, you know.’

‘They’ll have to.’ Wallace began to toy with his pen, as though it were there for that very purpose. ‘Ultimately, they’ve got the same boss we have. They’ll be made to tell.’

Rebus shook his head.

‘They’re a law unto themselves. The SAS is hardly even a part of the Army. If they don’t want to tell you, then believe me, they won’t tell you a bloody thing.’ Rebus’s hand came down onto the desk. ‘Not a bloody thing.’

‘John.’ Gill’s hand squeezed his shoulder, asking him to be calm. She herself looked like a fury, but she knew when to keep quiet and let looks alone transmit her anger and her displeasure. For Rebus, however, it was actions that counted. He’d been sitting outside reality for way too long.