10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (169 page)

‘This isn’t very nice,’ she’d said, standing her ground.

‘This is very nice,’ Father Leary said now, relaxing back further into his seat.

The whisky Rebus had drunk hadn’t rubbed out the picture. If anything, it had smeared the corners and edges, which only served to highlight the central fact. More whisky would have made this image sharper still.

‘We’re not here for very long, are we?’ he said now.

Father Leary frowned. ‘You mean here on earth?’

‘That’s what I mean. We’re not around long enough to make any difference.’

‘Tell that to the man with a bomb in his pocket. Every one of us makes a difference just by being here.’

‘I’m not talking about the man with the bomb, I’m talking about stopping him.’

‘You’re talking about being a policeman.’

‘Ach, maybe I’m not talking about anything.’

Father Leary allowed a short-lived smile, his eyes never leaving Rebus’s. ‘A bit morbid for a Sunday, John?’

‘Isn’t that what Sundays are for?’

‘Maybe for you sons of Calvin. You tell yourselves you’re doomed, then spend all week trying to make a joke of it. Others of us give thanks for
this
day and its meaning.’

Rebus shifted in his chair. Lately, he didn’t enjoy Father Leary’s conversations so much. There was something proselytising about them. ‘So when do we get down to business?’ he said.

Father Leary smiled. ‘The Protestant work ethic.’

‘You haven’t brought me here to convert me.’

‘We wouldn’t want a dour bugger like you. Besides, I’d more easily convert a fifty-yard penalty in a Murrayfield cross-wind.’ He took a swipe at the air. ‘Ach, it’s not really your problem. Maybe it isn’t a problem at all.’ He ran a finger down the crease in his trouser-leg.

‘You can still tell me about it.’

‘A reversal of roles, eh? Well, I suppose that’s what I had in mind all along.’ He sat further forward in the deckchair, the material stretching and sounding a sharp note of complaint. ‘Here it is then. You know Pilmuir?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Yes, stupid question. And Pilmuir’s Garibaldi Estate?’

‘The Gar-B, it’s the roughest scheme in the city, maybe in the country.’

‘There are good people there, but you’re right. That’s why the Church sent an outreach worker.’

‘And now he’s in trouble?’

‘Maybe.’ Father Leary finished his drink. ‘It was my idea. There’s a community hall on the estate, only it had been locked up for months. I thought we could reopen it as a youth club.’

‘For Catholics?’

‘For both faiths.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Even for the faithless. The Garibaldi is predominantly Protestant, but there are Catholics there too. We got agreement, and set up some funds. I knew we needed someone special, someone really dynamic in charge.’ He punched the air. ‘Someone who might just draw the two sides together.’

Mission impossible, thought Rebus. This scheme will self-destruct in ten seconds.

Not least of the Gar-B’s problems was the sectarian divide, or the lack of one, depending on how you looked at it. Protestants and Catholics lived in the same streets, the same tower blocks. Mostly, they lived in relative harmony and shared poverty. But, there being little to do on the estate, the youth of the place tended to organise into opposing gangs and wage warfare. Every year there was at least one pitched battle for police to contend with, usually in July, usually around the Protestant holy day of the 12th.

‘So you brought in the SAS?’ Rebus suggested. Father Leary was slow to get the joke.

‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘just a young man, a very ordinary young man but with inner strength.’ His fist cut the air. ‘Spiritual strength. And for a while it looked like a disaster. Nobody came to the club, the windows were smashed as soon as we’d replaced them, the graffiti got worse and more personal. But then he started to break through.
That
seemed the miracle. Attendance at the club increased, and both sides were joining.’

‘So what’s gone wrong?’

Father Leary loosened his shoulders. ‘It just wasn’t quite right. I thought there’d be sports, maybe a football team or something. We bought the strips and applied to join a local league. But the lads weren’t interested. All they wanted to do was hang around the hall itself. And the balance isn’t there either, the Catholics have stopped joining. Most of them have even stopped attending.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘That’s not just sour grapes, you understand.’

Rebus nodded. ‘The Prod gangs have annnexed it?’

‘I’m not saying that exactly.’

‘Sounds like it to me. And your . . . outreach worker?’

‘His name’s Peter Cave. Oh, he’s still there. Too often for my liking.’

‘I still don’t see the problem.’ Actually he could, but he wanted it spelling out.

‘John, I’ve talked to people on the estate, and all over Pilmuir. The gangs are as bad as ever, only now they seem to be working together, divvying the place up between them. All that’s happened is that they’ve become more organised. They have meetings in the club and carve up the surrounding territory.’

‘It keeps them off the street.’ Father Leary didn’t smile. ‘So close the youth club.’

‘That’s not so easy. It would look bad for a start. And would it solve anything?’

‘Have you talked with Mr Cave?’

‘He doesn’t listen. He’s changed. That’s what troubles me most of all.’

‘You could kick him out.’

Father Leary shook his head. ‘He’s lay, John. I can’t
order
him to do anything. We’ve cut the club’s funding, but the money to keep it going comes from somewhere nevertheless.’

‘Where from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How much?’

‘It doesn’t take much.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’ The question Rebus had been trying not to ask.

Father Leary gave his weary smile again. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. Perhaps I just needed to tell someone.’

‘Don’t give me that. You want me to go out there.’

‘Not if you don’t want to.’

It was Rebus’s turn to smile. ‘I’ve been in safer places.’

‘And a few worse ones, too.’

‘I haven’t told you about half of them, Father.’ Rebus finished his drink.

‘Another?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s nice and quiet here, isn’t it?’

Father Leary nodded. ‘That’s the beauty of Edinburgh, you’re never far from a peaceful spot.’

‘And never far from a hellish one either. Thanks for the drink, Father.’ Rebus got up.

‘I see your team won yesterday.’

‘What makes you think I support Hearts?’

‘They’re Prods, aren’t they? And you’re a Protestant yourself.’

‘Away to hell, Father,’ said John Rebus, laughing.

Father Leary pulled himself to his feet. He straightened his back with a grimace. He was acting purposely aged. Just an old man. ‘About the Gar-B, John,’ he said, opening his arms wide, ‘I’m in your hands.’

Like nails, thought Rebus, like carpentry nails.

Monday morning saw Rebus back at work and in the Chief Super’s office. ‘Farmer’ Watson was pouring coffee for himself and Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale, Rebus having refused. He was strictly decaf these days, and the Farmer didn’t know the meaning of the word.

‘A busy Saturday night,’ said the Farmer, handing Lauderdale a grubby mug. As inconspicuously as he could, Lauderdale started rubbing marks off the rim with the ball of his thumb. ‘Feeling better, by the way, John?’

‘Scads better, sir, thank you,’ said Rebus, not even close to blushing.

‘A grim business under the City Chambers.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So what do we have?’

It was Lauderdale’s turn to speak. ‘Victim was shot seven times with what looks like a nine-millimetre revolver. Ballistics will have a full report for us by day’s end. Dr Curt tells us that the head wound actually killed the victim, and it was the last bullet delivered. They wanted him to suffer.’

Lauderdale sipped from the cleaned rim of his mug. A Murder Room had been set up along the hall, and he was in charge. Consequently, he was wearing his best suit. There would be press briefings, maybe a TV appearance or two. Lauderdale looked ready. Rebus would gladly have tipped the mug of coffee down the mauve shirt and paisley-pattern tie.

‘Your thoughts, John,’ said Farmer Watson. ‘Someone mentioned the words “six-pack”.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s a punishment routine in Northern Ireland, usually carried out by the IRA.’

‘I’ve heard of kneecappings.’

Rebus nodded. ‘For minor offences, there’s a bullet in each elbow or ankle. For more serious crimes, there’s a kneecapping on top. And finally there’s the six-pack: both elbows, both knees, both ankles.’

‘You know a lot about it.’

‘I was in the army, sir. I still take an interest.’

‘You were in Ulster?’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘In the early days.’

Chief Inspector Lauderdale placed his mug carefully on the desktop. ‘But they normally wouldn’t then kill the person?’

‘Not normally.’

The three men sat in silence for a moment. The Farmer broke the spell. ‘An IRA punishment gang?
Here?
’

Rebus shrugged. ‘A copycat maybe. Gangs aping what they’ve seen in the papers or on TV.’

‘But using serious guns.’

‘Very serious,’ said Lauderdale. ‘Could be a tie-in with these bomb threats.’

The Farmer nodded. ‘That’s the line the media are taking. Maybe our would-be bomber had gone rogue, and they caught up with him.’

‘There’s something else, sir,’ said Rebus. He’d phoned Dr Curt first thing, just to check. ‘They did the knees from behind. Maximum damage. You sever the arteries before smashing kneecaps.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Two points, sir. One, they knew exactly what they were doing. Two, why bother when you’re going to kill him anyway? Maybe whoever did it changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe the victim was meant to live. The probable handgun was a revolver. Six shots. Whoever did it must have stopped to reload before putting that final bullet in the head.’

Eyes were avoided as the three men considered this, putting themselves in the victim’s place. You’ve been six-packed. You think it’s over. Then you hear the gun being reloaded . . .

‘Sweet Jesus,’ said the Farmer.

‘There are too many guns around,’ Lauderdale said matter-of-factly. It was true: over the past few years there had been a steady increase in the number of firearms on the street.

‘Why Mary King’s Close?’ asked the Farmer.

‘You’re not likely to be disturbed there,’ Rebus guessed. ‘Plus it’s virtually soundproof.’

‘You could say the same about a lot of places, most of them a long way from the High Street in the middle of the Festival. They were taking a big risk. Why bother?’

Rebus had wondered the same thing. He had no answer to offer.

‘And Nemo or Memo?’

It was Lauderdale’s turn, another respite from the coffee. ‘I’ve got men on it, sir, checking libraries and phone directories, digging up meanings.’

‘You’ve talked to the teenagers?’

‘Yes, sir. They seem genuine enough.’

‘And the person who gave them the key?’

‘He didn’t give it to them, sir, they took it without his knowledge. He’s in his seventies and straighter than a plumb-line.’

‘Some builders I know,’ said the Farmer, ‘could bend even a plumb-line.’

Rebus smiled. He knew those builders too.

‘We’re talking to everyone,’ Lauderdale went on, ‘who’s been working in Mary King’s Close.’ It seemed he hadn’t got the Farmer’s joke.

‘All right, John,’ said the Farmer. ‘You were in the army, what about the tattoo?’

Yes, the tattoo. Rebus had known the conclusion everyone would jump to. From the case notes, they’d spent most of Sunday jumping to it. The Farmer was examining a photograph. It had been taken during Sunday’s postmortem examination. The SOCOs on Saturday night had taken photos too, but those hadn’t come out nearly as clearly.

The photo showed a tattoo on the victim’s right forearm. It was a rough, self-inflicted affair, the kind you sometimes saw on teenagers, usually on the backs of hands. A needle and some blue ink, that’s all you needed; that and a measure of luck that the thing wouldn’t become infected. Those were all the victim had needed to prick the letters SaS into his skin.

‘It’s not the Special Air Service,’ said Rebus.

‘No?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘For all sorts of reasons. You’d use a capital A for a start. More likely, if you wanted an SAS tattoo you’d go for the crest, the knife and wings and “Who dares wins”, something like that.’

‘Unless you didn’t know anything about the regiment,’ offered Lauderdale.

‘Then why sport a tattoo?’

‘Do we have any ideas?’ asked the Farmer.

‘We’re checking,’ said Lauderdale.

‘And we still don’t know who he is?’

‘No, sir, we still don’t know who he is.’

Farmer Watson sighed. ‘Then that’ll have to do for now. I know we’re stretched just at the minute, with the Festival threat and everything else, but it goes without saying this takes priority. Use all the men you have to. We need to clean this up quickly. Special Branch and the Crime Squad are already taking an interest.’

Ah, thought Rebus, so that was why the Farmer was being a bit more thorough than usual. Normally, he’d just let Lauderdale get on with it. Lauderdale was good at running an office. You just didn’t want him out there on the street with you. Watson was shuffling the papers on his desk.

‘I see the Can Gang have been at it again.’

It was time to move on.

Rebus had had dealings in Pilmuir before. He’d seen a good policeman go wrong there. He’d tasted darkness there. The sour feeling returned as he drove past stunted grass verges and broken saplings. Though no tourists ever came here, there was a welcome sign. It comprised somebody’s gable-end, with white painted letters four feet high: ENJOY YOUR VISIT TO THE GAR-B.

Gar-B was what the kids (for want of a better term) called the Garibaldi estate. It was a mish-mash of early-’60s terraced housing and late-’60s tower blocks, everything faced with grey harling, with boring swathes of grass separating the estate from the main road. There were a lot of orange plastic traffic cones lying around. They would make goalposts for a quick game of football, or chicanes for the bikers. Last year, some enterprising souls had put them to better use, using them to divert traffic off the main road and into the Gar-B, where youths lined the slip-road and pelted the cars with rocks and bottles. If the drivers ran from their vehicles, they were allowed to go, while the cars were stripped of anything of value, right down to tyres, seat-covers and engine parts.