10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (318 page)

She brought him the first edition of the day’s
Evening News
. There was a paragraph on one of the inside pages – ‘Hit and Run Coma Victim’.

It wasn’t a coma. She was unconscious, that was all. But Rebus was thankful for the story. Maybe someone would read it and come forward. Maybe guilt would begin to press down on the driver. Maybe there’d been a passenger . . . It was hard to keep secrets, usually you told
some
one.

He tried Remnant Kings, but of course they had been closed last night, so he climbed to the flats above. There was no one home at the first flat. He wrote a brief message on the back of a business card and pushed it through the letterbox, then jotted down the surname on the door. If they didn’t call him, he’d call them. A young man answered the second door. He was just out of his teens and pushed a thick lock of black hair away from his eyes. He wore Buddy Holly glasses and had acne scars around his mouth. Rebus introduced himself. The hand went to the hair again, a backward glance into the flat.

‘Do you live here?’ Rebus asked.

‘Mm, yeah. Like, I’m not the owner. We rent it.’

There were no names on the door. ‘Anyone else in at the moment?’

‘Nope.’

‘Are you all students?’

The young man nodded. Rebus asked his name.

‘Rob. Robert Renton. What’s this about?’

‘There was an accident last night, Rob. A hit and run.’ So many times he’d been in this situation, passing on the bland news of another changed life. It was a whole hour since he’d telephoned the hospital. In the end, they’d taken his mobile number, said it might be easier if they phoned him whenever there was news. They meant easier for them, not him.

‘Oh, yes,’ Renton was saying, ‘I saw it.’

Rebus blinked. ‘You saw it?’

Renton was nodding, hair bobbing in front of his eyes. ‘From the window. I was up changing a CD, and –’

‘Is it okay if I come in for a minute? I want to see what kind of view you had.’

Renton puffed out his cheeks, exhaled. ‘Well, I suppose . . .’

And Rebus was in.

The living-room was fairly tidy. Renton went ahead of him, crossed to where a hi-fi rack sat between two windows. ‘I was putting on a new CD, and I looked out of the window. You can see the bus stop, and I wondered if I might catch Jane coming off a bus.’ He paused. ‘Jane’s Eric’s girlfriend.’

The words washed over Rebus. He was looking down on the street, where Sammy had been walking. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘This girl was crossing the road. She was nice-looking . . . I thought so anyway. Then this car came through the lights, swerved and sent her flying.’

Rebus closed his eyes for a second.

‘She must have gone ten feet in the air, hit that hedge, bounced back on to the pavement. She didn’t move after that.’

Rebus opened his eyes. He was at the window, Renton standing just behind his left shoulder. Down on the street, people were crossing the road, walking over the spot where Sammy had been hit, the spot where she’d landed. Flicking ash on to the pavement where she’d lain.

‘I don’t suppose you saw the driver?’

‘Not from this angle.’

‘Any passengers?’

‘Couldn’t tell.’

He wears glasses, Rebus thought. How reliable is he?

‘When you saw it happen, you didn’t go down?’

‘I’m not a medical student or anything.’ He nodded towards an easel in the corner, and Rebus noticed a shelf of
paints and brushes. ‘Someone ran to the phone box, so I knew help was coming.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Anyone else see it?’

‘They were in the kitchen.’ Renton paused. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Rebus doubted it. ‘You’re thinking I wear specs, so maybe I didn’t see it right. But he definitely swerved. You know . . . deliberately. I mean, like he was aiming for her.’ He nodded to himself.

‘
Aiming
for her?’

Renton made a movement with his hand, imitating a car gliding off one course and on to another. ‘He steered straight for her.’

‘The car didn’t lose control?’

‘That would have been jerkier, wouldn’t it?’

‘What colour was the car?’

‘Dark green.’

‘And the make?’

Renton shrugged. ‘I’m hopeless with cars. Tell you what though . . .’

‘What?’

Renton took off his glasses, started polishing them. ‘Why don’t I try sketching it for you?’

He moved the easel over to the window and got to work. Rebus went into the hall and called the hospital. The person he got through to didn’t sound too surprised.

‘No change, I’m afraid. She’s got a couple of visitors with her.’

Mickey and Rhona. Rebus terminated the call, made another to Pryde’s mobile.

‘I’m in one of the flats over Remnant Kings. I’ve got an eyewitness.’

‘Yes?’

‘He saw the whole thing. And he’s an art student.’

‘Yes?’

‘Come on, Bill. Do you want me to draw it for you?’

There was silence for a moment, then Pryde said ‘Ah’.

Rebus held the mobile to his ear as he walked through the hospital.

‘Joe Herdman’s put together a list,’ Bill Pryde was saying. ‘Rover 600 series, the newer Ford Mondeos, Toyota Celica, plus a couple of Nissans. Rank outsider is the BMW 5-series.’

‘It narrows things down a bit, I suppose.’

‘Joe says the Rover, Mondeo and Celica are favourites. He’s given me a few more details – chrome around the number-plates, stuff like that. I’m going to call our artist friend, see if anything clicks.’

A nurse was glaring at Rebus as he walked towards her.

‘Let me know what he says. Talk to you later, Bill.’ Rebus slipped the phone back into his pocket.

‘You’re not supposed to use those things in here,’ the nurse snapped.

‘Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry . . .’

‘They can interfere with the machines.’

Rebus pulled up, colour leaving his face. ‘I forgot,’ he said. He put a shaking hand to his forehead.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine, fine. Look, I won’t do it again, okay?’ He started to move off. ‘You can rely on that.’

Rebus took a photocopy of Renton’s drawing from his pocket. Joe Herdman was a desk sergeant who knew everything about cars. He’d been useful before, turning a vague description into something more concrete. Rebus
looked at the drawing as he walked. All the details were there: buildings in the background, the hedge, the onlookers. And Sammy, caught at the point of impact. She’d half-turned, was stretching out her hands as if she could push the car to a stop. But Renton had drawn fine lines issuing from the back of the car, representing the air being pushed, representing speed. Where there should have been a face, he had left a blank oval. The back half of the car was very clearly defined, the front a blur of disappearing perspective. Renton said he’d left out anything he couldn’t be sure of. He promised he hadn’t let his imagination fill in the blanks.

It was the face, or the lack of it . . . it disturbed Rebus more than anything else in the picture. He drew himself into the scene, wondered what he’d have done. Would he have concentrated on the car, caught its licence plate? Or would his attention have been focused on Sammy? Which would have prevailed: cop instincts or fatherhood? Someone at the station had said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’ Not, ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.’ Which brought it all down to two things: him – meaning the driver – and retribution, rather than her – the victim – and recovery.

‘I’d just have been another witness,’ Rebus said quietly. Then he folded the drawing and put it away.

Sammy had a room to herself, all tubes and machinery, the way he’d seen it in films and on TV. Only here the room was dingier, paint flaking from the walls and around the window-frames. The chairs had metal legs and rubber feet and moulded plastic seats. A woman rose as he came in. They embraced. He kissed the side of her forehead.

Aiming for her. Didn’t anyone say that?

‘Hello, Rhona.’

‘Hello, John.’

She looked tired, of course, but her hair was stylishly cut and dyed the colour of a dull golden harvest. Her clothes
were smart and she wore jewellery. He studied her eyes. Their colour was wrong. Coloured contacts. Not even her eyes were going to betray her past.

‘Christ, Rhona, I’m sorry.’

He was whispering, not wanting to disturb Sammy. Which was ludicrous, because right now all he wanted in the world was for her to wake up.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Much the same.’

Mickey stood up. There were three chairs arranged in a sort of semi-circle. Mickey and Rhona had been sitting with an empty chair between them. As Rhona broke from Rebus’s embrace, his brother took her place.

‘This is so fucking awful,’ Mickey said, his voice low. He looked the same as ever: a party animal who’d stopped getting the invites.

Niceties dispensed with, Rebus went to Sammy’s bedside. Her face was still bruised, and now he could place the probable cause of each abrasion: hedge, wall, pavement. One leg was broken, both arms heavily bandaged. A teddy bear, missing one ear, lay by her head. Rebus smiled.

‘You brought Pa Broon.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do they know yet if there’s any . . . ?’ His eyes were on Sammy as he spoke.

‘What?’ Rhona wanted him to spell it out. No hiding place.

‘Brain damage,’ he said.

‘Nobody’s told us anything,’ she said, sounding snubbed.

Aiming for her. Didn’t anyone say that?
No, none of the other onlookers had even hinted as much, but then they hadn’t had Renton’s grandstand view.

‘Has nobody been in?’

‘Not since I got here.’

‘And I was here before Rhona,’ Mickey added. ‘Haven’t seen a soul.’

It was enough. Rebus strode from the room. A doctor and two nurses were standing chatting at the end of the corridor. One of the nurses was leaning against a wall.

‘What’s going on?’ Rebus exploded. ‘Nobody’s been near my daughter all morning!’

The doctor was young, male. Blond hair cut short with a parting.

‘We’re doing everything we can.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I can appreciate that you’re –’

‘Fuck you, pal. Why hasn’t the big man been to look at her? Why’s she just lying there like a –’ Rebus choked back the words.

‘Your daughter was seen by two specialists this morning,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘We’re waiting for some test results to determine whether to operate again. There’s some brain swelling. The tests take a little time to process, there’s nothing we can do about it.’

Rebus felt cheated: still angry, but nothing to feel angry
about
, not here. He nodded, turned away.

Back in the room, he explained the situation to Rhona. A suitcase and large holdall were sitting behind one of the machines.

‘Listen,’ he told her, ‘it’d make sense if you stayed at the flat. It’s only ten minutes away, and I could let you have the car.’

She was shaking her head. ‘We’re booked into the Sheraton.’

‘The flat’s nearer, and I tend not to charge . . .’
We?
Rebus looked at Mickey, whose eyes were on the bed. Then the door opened and a man came in. Short, thickly built, breathing hard. He was rubbing his hands to let everyone know he’d been to the toilet. Loose folds of flesh furrowed
his brow and bulged from his shirt collar. His hair was thick and black, like an oil-slick. He stopped when he saw Rebus.

‘John,’ Rhona said, ‘this is a friend of mine, Jackie.’

‘Jackie Platt,’ the man said, reaching out a plump hand.

‘When Jackie heard, he insisted on driving me up.’

Platt shrugged, his head almost disappearing into his shoulders. ‘Couldn’t have her training it up on her ownio.’

‘Hell of a drive,’ Mickey said, his tone hinting at repetition.

‘Could have done without the roadworks,’ Jackie Platt agreed. Rebus’s eyes caught Rhona’s; she looked away quickly, dodging reproach.

To Rebus, this bulk didn’t belong. It was as if a character had wandered on to the wrong set. Platt hadn’t been in the script.

‘She looks so peaceful, don’t she?’ the Londoner was saying, making for the bed. He touched her arm, Sammy’s bandaged arm, grazing it with the back of his hand. Rebus’s fingernails dug into his palms.

Then Platt yawned. ‘You know, Rhona, it might not be good manners, but I think I’m about to crash. See you back at the hotel?’ She nodded, relieved. Platt picked up the suitcase. As he passed her, his hand went into his trouser pocket, came out with a fold of banknotes.

‘Get a cab back, all right?’

‘All right, Jackie. See you later.’

‘Cheers, pet.’ And he squeezed her hand. ‘Take care, Mickey. All the best, John.’ A huge, face-creasing wink, then he was gone. They waited in silence for a few seconds. Rhona held up her free hand, the one without the wad of notes.

‘Not a word, okay?’

‘Furthest thing from my mind,’ Rebus said, sitting down. ‘“Think I’m about to crash”. Tactful or what?’

‘Come on, Johnny,’ Mickey said. Johnny: only Mickey could do that, using the name so that the years fell from both of them. Rebus looked at his brother and smiled. Mickey was a therapist by profession; he knew the things to say.

‘Why the cases?’ Rebus asked Rhona.

‘What?’

‘You’re going to a hotel, why not leave them in his car?’

‘I thought about staying here. They said I could if I wanted to. Only then I saw her . . . and I changed my mind.’ Tears started down her face, smudging already-smudged mascara. Mickey had a handkerchief ready.

‘John, what if she . . . ? Oh, Jesus Christ, why did this have to happen?’ She was wailing now. Rebus went over to her chair, crouched in front of it, his hands resting on hers. ‘She’s all we’ve got, John. She’s all we ever had.’

‘She’s still here, Rhona. She’s right here.’

‘But why her? Why Samantha?’

‘I’ll ask him when I find him, Rhona.’ He kissed her hair, his eyes on Mickey. ‘And believe me, I’m going to find him.’

Later, when Ned Farlowe visited, Rebus took him outside. There was drizzle falling, but the air felt good.

‘One of the eye-witnesses,’ Rebus said, ‘thinks it was deliberate.’