The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) (50 page)

‘You think I’m turning gaga, John?’ Flatley’s eyes bored into Rebus’s.

‘No.’

‘Maybe I am at that.’

‘Maybe you could leave here … try making do with a home help.’

‘My home’s not there any more.’

‘Then you’ve got to make the best of it.’ Rebus hated himself for saying the words. They sounded hollow, clichéd.
Make do … mustn’t grumble …
He felt his old mentor deserved more.

There was sudden movement behind them. An elderly man, stick-thin and with a pale, skeletal face, was shambling in their direction, eyes wide at the sight of the open door.

‘Oh Christ, it’s—’ The rest of the sentence went unfinished as Ken Flatley was barged aside by the old man. He stumbled into the wall, dislodging a framed painting. The frame fell apart as it hit the
parquet floor, Flatley sliding down after it. A care assistant’s head appeared around a doorway.

‘Mr Waters!’ she called. But by this time, Mr Waters was through the door. Rebus, crouching to help Ken Flatley back to his feet, saw the man waddle down the wheelchair ramp outside the entrance to Renshaw House.

‘Mr Waters!’ the woman called again. She was striding down the hall now, drying her hands on the front of her sky-blue uniform. Flatley was nodding that he was all right. Rebus made sure his friend had a good grip on his walking frame, then turned his attention to the fleeing man. Waters was wearing neither shoes nor socks. His upper body was covered only by a white cotton vest, accentuating his thinness. His trousers had slipped down far enough to reveal that he was wearing some sort of incontinence pad beneath.

‘Need a hand?’ Rebus asked the assistant as she passed him.

‘I’ll manage,’ she muttered.

‘She won’t,’ Ken Flatley said, jerking his head to let Rebus know he should follow her. Waters’s gait was that of a walker in the Olympics. He seemed to take what weight he had on the balls of his feet, and his arms were pumping, elbows jutting out to either side. He was heading in a straight line across the lawn, towards an eight-foot stone wall. There was dew on the grass, and the care worker’s rubber soles went from under her. There was a banana-skin inevitability to her slow, graceless fall. She snatched at a wrenched ankle and let out a roar that brought Mr Waters to a halt. He turned, arms dropping to his sides. Rebus leaned down to help the woman up.

‘Any damage?’ he asked her.

‘Just twisted it.’

An arm around her waist, he brought her to her feet. Mr Waters was standing directly in front of them.

‘I can’t remember,’ he said, voice high-pitched, false teeth missing.

‘Remember what?’ the woman asked angrily.

‘Where the body’s buried.’

‘Not that again.’ She gave a loud hiss. ‘There’s nobody dead, Mr Waters,’ she told him, as if explaining something to a stubborn child.

‘She buried the body. I’m not what you think I am.’

‘We know who you are, Mr Waters. Your name’s Lionel.’ She turned to Rebus and rolled her eyes. His fingers were around the bare flesh of her arm. She eased away from him slightly, and he let her go.

‘My treasure’s all gone … The fishing boat … the castle … all gone.’

‘That’s right, Mr Waters, all gone.’ She was talking to the man but her eyes were on Rebus, and she was shaking her head slowly, to let him know this was a regular exchange. ‘Now let’s get you back to the house.’

‘I need to see Colin, to tell him I’m sorry. You believe me, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’

But Waters wasn’t looking at her. Rebus was his focus. The old man’s eyes narrowed, as if trying to place the face. ‘Nobody believes me,’ he stated.

‘You’re a bloody nutcase, Waters!’ The voice was Ken Flatley’s. He was standing in the doorway, while a carer started tidying up the picture frame. ‘About time they sectioned you again!’ A hand patted Flatley’s shoulder, and he turned towards his comforter: Donald Morrison.

Rebus insisted on accompanying the care assistant back to Lionel Waters’s bedroom. As she gave the old man a blue tablet and a glass of water, Rebus looked around. The room was bare. He got the feeling all the furnishings belonged to Renshaw House itself. Waters was seated on a chair by his bedside. A tattered magazine was lying open on the bed, showing a half-finished word puzzle.

‘What’s your name?’ Rebus asked the assistant.

‘Annie.’

‘Sure that ankle’s OK?’

‘I’ll manage.’ She was tucking a tartan travel rug around Waters’s legs.

‘I’d say you’ve probably got a good case for a day or two on the sick.’

‘Maybe so.’

‘But you’ll manage?’

She turned to him. Her eyes were a deep hazel. ‘It’s tough enough working here; one goes sick, that just makes it tougher.’

‘You’re short-staffed?’

‘Lousy wages for back-breaking work … what do you think?’

‘I think I couldn’t do it.’ His eyes shifted over the walls. ‘He didn’t bring much with him, did he?’

Annie turned her attention to Waters. He was mumbling, but his eyes had gone glassy, the lids drooping. ‘Poor sod was in a mental institution before this. Locked away since his twenties. Never really right in the head, according to the family. Eventually they couldn’t cope. He was aggressive, you see.’

‘And he killed someone called Colin?’

She smiled at the mistake. ‘Colin’s his brother. Colin Waters?’ Her eyes were on Rebus’s again.

‘The car dealer?’

‘Biggest on the east coast – isn’t that what the advert says?’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘He comes from a rich family, then. They’re paying for this place?’

‘I suppose so.’ Waters’s eyes had closed now. Annie motioned with her head for Rebus to leave. Out in the corridor, she left the door ajar a few inches. The unconscious figure of Lionel Waters could be seen through the gap.

‘Why did they let him out of the other place?’
The other place
– because Rebus didn’t know what the current term was for a nuthouse, a loony bin, an asylum.

‘Said he no longer posed a threat. If you ask me, it’s been a long time since he did. All he wants to do is run away.’

‘To see his treasure.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Aye, right.’

‘And to tell Colin he’s sorry … sorry for what?’

‘Sorry he killed him.’ She started walking down the corridor, trying hard not to limp. ‘He thinks he killed his brother.’

‘But Colin must have visited?’

‘A few times, yes.’

‘Only a few?’

She stopped again, turned to face him. ‘How would you feel if every time your brother saw you, he thought you were a ghost?’

Rebus could think of no reply, so gave a shrug. Satisfied with this, she went a few more paces, then stopped at a swing door, ready with her palm against its surface.

‘Thanks for your help,’ she said.

‘My name’s John.’

She nodded at this information. ‘You’re a friend of Mr Flatley. Did he tell you his theory?’

‘He thinks people are dying.’

‘And what do you think, John?’

‘I think you get lousy pay for back-breaking work.’

‘And?’ Her face was almost breaking into a smile.

‘And you do the best you can for your patrons.’

She nodded slowly, pushed open the door and disappeared through it into what seemed to be the kitchen.

The painting had been removed from the entrance hall. There was no sign of either Ken Flatley or Donald Morrison. Outside, Morrison’s Merc had gone from the car park. As Rebus manoeuvred his own rusting Saab down the driveway, slowing for the speed bumps, each one a potential nail in his car’s coffin, he had to pull on to the verge so that a delivery van could pass him. His eyes sought the driver’s, expecting some gesture of thanks at the show of courtesy, but the man stared resolutely ahead. The side of the white transit bore the legend ‘Pakenham Fresh Fleshing’. Rebus stayed on the verge and watched in his rear-view as the van rattled towards its destination. He knew the driver from somewhere; seemed to recognise the face. It was the jawline, the set of the mouth. Maybe from a butcher’s shop, but he didn’t know the name Pakenham. All the same, he was reminded that he needed something for dinner. Steak pie maybe, and a tin of marrowfat peas. Or he could always eat out, provided he could find a dinner partner. He thought again of Annie and those deep hazel eyes. Shame she wore a wedding ring. His mobile started ringing. He fished it out of his pocket and checked the display, then held it to his ear.

‘How do you fancy dinner tonight, my treat?’

‘And will there be any solids involved?’ a voice replied.

‘Some,’ he promised, knowing that Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke had already taken the bait.

Diners in the Oxford Bar needed no menu. There was the Cambridge Bar further along Young Street if you really wanted a meal. The Ox, on the other hand, served pies and bridies (until they ran out), and filled rolls – corned beef and beetroot a speciality. Snacks consisted of crisps, nuts and pork scratchings.

‘Yummy,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

‘We can hit a chip shop later if you’re not replete,’ Rebus responded, placing her vodka and lemonade on the table. She’d settled for a ham and tomato roll. The barman had gone to some lengths to also supply a crusty jar of French mustard. Rebus pulled out a chair and settled himself. Two inches were already missing from his pint of
IPA
. A macaroni cheese pie sat on the plate before him. ‘It was the last hot thing they had,’ he explained now.

‘I can imagine.’

He took a bite and shrugged. Siobhan spread mustard thinly across the roll, and closed it up again. ‘How was Ken?’ she asked, lifting it to her mouth.

‘He says the inmates are dropping like flies – his exact words.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning a few of his fellow codgers have caught the last train.’

‘Isn’t that what happens when you get old?’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘Something else happened while I was out there.’

Siobhan ate in silence as Rebus told her the story of Lionel Waters. By the end of it, he’d finished his first pint. He raised the empty glass. She shook her head, letting him know she didn’t yet need a refill.

‘I mean it’s your shout,’ he said. When she made to get up, he beat her to it. ‘Only kidding: you’re my guest, remember?’

By the time he returned from the bar, she had finished her roll and was swirling the ice cubes in what was left of her drink.

‘I bought my car from Waters Motors,’ she told him.

‘So did half the city.’

‘I’d never heard about a brother, though.’

‘Me neither.’

‘He’s lucky he wasn’t lobotomised – they used to do that, you know.’

‘You mean they don’t any more?’

She saw that he was teasing. ‘John F. Kennedy’s sister … I was reading about her only the other day.’

‘He had a sister?’

‘She died recently. Locked up for sixty years …’

‘And given a lobotomy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, we don’t do that any more.’

They sat in silence for a moment, concentrating on their drinks. Siobhan was first to speak. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Something’s bugging you. I hope it’s not gold fever.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Tales of hidden treasure.’ She widened her eyes theatrically. ‘They’ve sent many a man mad before you.’

‘Sod off, Siobhan.’

She laughed. ‘But there
is
something, isn’t there?’

‘It’s what he said when he was standing in front of me.’

‘What?’

‘“I’m not what you think I am”. He said “what” rather than “who”.’

Siobhan snapped her fingers. ‘They’ve swapped places! Lionel is Colin and vice versa – that’s how it would work in a film.’

‘I’m warning you …’ Rebus stared into his beer. ‘And he said “she” – “she buried the body”. He wanted to say sorry to his brother.’

Siobhan leaned across the table. ‘We’re not psychiatrists, John.’

‘I know that.’

‘We’re
detectives
.’

‘That’s right.’ He looked up at her. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

His tone alerted her. She sat back again, hands resting around her empty glass. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘For now, I’m going to get you a refill.’ He pushed himself to his feet.

‘And after?’

‘You said it yourself, Shiv: I’m a detective.’

‘You’re going to see the car man, aren’t you?’

A smile flitted across Rebus’s face. ‘If nothing else, maybe he’ll do me a trade-in on the Saab …’