10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (355 page)

‘He’s not in here much,’ Frost said.

‘All the same,’ Rebus persisted. So Frost stuck the photo in front of his friend’s nose. An immediate shake of the head.

‘I’m going to take this around your punters,’ Rebus said, lifting the photo from Frost’s hand, ‘see if their memories are any better.’ He wasn’t looking at Frost; he was looking at his companion. ‘Do I know you from somewhere, son? Your face looks familiar.’

The young man snorted, kept his eyes on the dancing.

‘I’ll let you get back to your business then,’ Rebus said. He did a circuit of the room, following behind Janice and Brian. They’d left flyers on most of the tables. A couple had already been crumpled up. Rebus fixed the culprits with a stare. He wasn’t faring any better with his own picture, but saw that ahead of him Janice and Brian had seated themselves at a table and were deep in conversation with two girls there. Eventually, he caught up with them. Janice looked up at him.

‘They say they saw Damon,’ she yelled, fighting the music.

‘He was getting into a taxi,’ one of the girls repeated for the newcomer’s benefit.

‘Where?’ Rebus asked.

‘Outside The Dome.’

‘Other side of the road,’ her friend corrected. They were wearing too much make-up, trying for a look they’d probably call ‘sophisticated’, trying to look older than their years. Soon enough, they’d be reversing the process. They wore incredibly short skirts. Rebus could see Brian trying not to stare.

‘What time was this?’

‘About quarter past twelve. We were late for a party.’

‘You’re sure about the date?’ Rebus asked. Janice looked at him accusingly, not wanting this fragile bubble to burst.

One girl got a diary out of her handbag, tapped a page. ‘That’s the party.’

Rebus looked: it was the same date Damon had disappeared. ‘How come you noticed him?’

‘We’d seen him in here earlier.’

‘Just standing at the bar,’ her friend added. ‘Not dancing or anything.’

A couple of young men, still in their day-job suits, had peeled off from an office party and were approaching, ready to ask for a dance. The girls tried to look disinterested, but a glower from Rebus sent the suitors back in the direction they’d come.

‘We were after a taxi ourselves,’ one girl explained. ‘Saw them waiting across the road. Only they got lucky, we ended up walking.’

‘“They”?’

‘Him and his girl.’

Rebus looked to Janice, then handed over the photo.

‘Yeah, that looks like her.’

‘Blonde out of a bottle,’ the other agreed.

Janice took the photo from them, looked at it herself.

‘Who is she, John?’

Rebus shook his head, telling her he didn’t know. Glancing towards the bar, he saw two things. One was that Archie Frost was watching him intently over the rim of a fresh glass. The other was that his non-drinking friend had gone.

‘Maybe they’ve run off together,’ one of the girls was saying, trying hard to be helpful. ‘That would be romantic, wouldn’t it?’

Janice and Brian hadn’t eaten, so Rebus took them to an Indian on Hanover Street, where he explained the little he knew about the woman in the photograph. Janice kept the photo in one hand as she ate.

‘It’s a start, isn’t it?’ Brian said, pulling apart a nan bread.

Rebus nodded agreement.

‘I mean,’ Brian went on, ‘we know now he left with someone. He’s probably still with her.’

‘Only he didn’t go off with her,’ Janice said. ‘John’s already told us, Damon left on his own.’

In fact, Rebus hadn’t even gone that far. They only had the girls’ word for it that Damon had left the club at all . . .

‘Well,’ Brian stumbled on, ‘thing is, he wouldn’t want his mates seeing them together, not when he was supposed to be engaged.’

‘I can’t believe it of Damon.’ Janice’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘He loves Helen.’

Rebus nodded. ‘But it happens, doesn’t it?’

She gave a rueful smile. Brian saw a look passing between them, but chose to ignore it.

‘Anyone want any more rice?’ he asked instead, lifting the salver from its hotplate.

‘We should be getting home,’ his wife said. ‘Damon might have tried phoning.’ She was getting to her feet. Rebus gestured towards the photo, and she handed it back. It was smudged, creased at the corners. Brian was looking down at the food still on his plate.

‘Brian . . .’ Janice said. He sniffed and got up from his chair. ‘Get the bill, will you?’

‘This is on me,’ Rebus said. ‘They’ll stick it on my tab.’

‘Thanks again, John.’ She held out her hand and he took it. It was long and slender. Rebus remembered holding it when they danced, remembered the way it would be warm and dry, unlike other girls’ hands. Warm and dry, and his heart pounding in his chest. She’d been
so slender at the waist, he’d felt he could encircle her with just his hands.

‘Yes, thanks, Johnny.’ Brian Mee laughed. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Johnny?’

‘Why should I mind?’ Rebus said, still looking into Janice’s eyes. ‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’

First thing, Rebus looked through the newspapers, but he didn’t find anything to interest him.

He headed down to Leith police station, where Jim Margolies had been stationed. He’d told the Farmer he was looking for a connection between Rough’s reappearance and Jim’s death, but he wasn’t particularly confident of finding one. Still, he really
did
want to know why Jim had done it, had done something Rebus had thought about doing more than once – taking the high walk. He was met in Leith by a wary Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan.

‘I know I owe you a favour or two, John,’ Hogan began. ‘But do you mind telling me what it’s all about? Margolies was a good man, we’re missing him badly.’

They were walking through the station, making for CID. Hogan was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had been on the force for longer. He could take retirement any time he wanted, but Rebus doubted the man would ever want it.

‘I knew him, too,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I’m probably just asking myself the same question all of you have been asking.’

‘You mean why?’

Rebus nodded. ‘He was headed for the top, Bobby. Everyone knew it.’

‘Maybe he got vertigo.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘The notes aren’t going to tell you anything, John.’

They had stopped outside an interview room.

‘I just need to see them, Bobby.’

Hogan stared at him, then nodded slowly. ‘This makes us even, pal.’

Rebus touched him on the shoulder, walked into the room. The manila file was sitting on the otherwise empty desk. There were two chairs in the room.

‘Thought you’d like some privacy,’ Hogan said. ‘Look, if anyone wonders . . .’

‘My lips are sealed, Bobby.’ Rebus was already sitting down. He examined the folder. ‘This won’t take long.’

Hogan fetched a cup of coffee, then left him to it. It took Rebus precisely twenty minutes to sift through everything: initial report and back-up, plus Jim Margolies’ history. Twenty minutes wasn’t long for a CV. Of course, there was little about his home life. Speculation was for after-work drinks, for cigarette breaks and coffee-machine meetings. The bare facts, set down between double margins, gave no clues at all. His father was a doctor, now retired. Comfortable upbringing. The sister who’d committed suicide in her teens . . . Rebus wondered if his sister’s death had been at the back of Jim Margolies’ mind all these years. There was no mention of Darren Rough, no mention of Margolies’ short time at St Leonard’s. His last night on earth, Jim had been out to dinner at some friends’ house. Nothing out of the ordinary. But afterwards, in the middle of the night, he’d slipped from his bed, got dressed again, and gone walking in the rain. All the way to Holyrood Park . . .

‘Anything?’ Bobby Hogan asked.

‘Not a sausage,’ Rebus admitted, closing the file.

Walking in the rain . . . A long walk, from The Grange to Salisbury Crags. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him. Inquiries had been made, cabbies questioned. Perfunctory for the most part: you didn’t want to linger over a suicide. Sometimes you could find out things that were better left undisturbed.

Rebus drove back into town, parked in the car park behind St Leonard’s and went into the station. He
knocked on Farmer Watson’s door, obeyed the command to enter. Watson looked like the day had started badly.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I had a bit of business down at D Division, looking at Jim Margolies’ file.’ Rebus watched the Farmer pace behind his desk. He cradled a mug of coffee in both hands. ‘Did you speak to Andy Davies, sir?’

‘Who?’

‘Andy Davies. Darren Rough’s social worker.’

The Farmer nodded.

‘And, sir?’

‘And he told me I’d have to speak to his boss.’

‘What did his boss say?’

The Farmer swung round. ‘Christ, John, give me time, will you? I’ve got more to deal with than your little . . .’ He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. Then he mumbled an apology.

‘No problem, sir. I’ll just . . .’ Rebus headed for the door.

‘Sit down,’ the Farmer ordered. ‘Now you’re here, let’s see if you can come up with any clever ideas.’

Rebus sat down. ‘To do with what, sir?’

The Farmer sat too, then noticed that his mug was empty. He got up again to fill it from the pot, pouring for Rebus too. Rebus examined the dark liquid suspiciously. Over the years, the Farmer’s coffee had definitely improved, but there were still days . . .

‘To do with Cary Dennis Oakes.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Should I know him?’

‘If you don’t, you soon will.’ The Farmer tossed a newspaper in Rebus’s direction. It fell to the floor. Rebus picked it up, saw that it was folded to a particular story, a story Rebus had missed because it wasn’t the one he’d been looking for.

KILLER IS SENT ‘HOME’.

‘Cary Oakes,’ Rebus read, ‘convicted of two murders in Washington State, USA, will today board a flight back to the United Kingdom after serving a fifteen-year sentence
in a maximum-security prison in Walla Walla, Washington. It is believed that Oakes will make his way back to Edinburgh, where he lived for several years before going to the United States.’

There was a lot more. Oakes had flown to the States toting a rucksack and a tourist visa, and then had simply stayed put, taking a series of short-term jobs before embarking on a mugging and robbery spree which had climaxed with two killings, the victims clubbed and strangled to death.

Rebus put down the paper. ‘Did you know?’

The Farmer slammed his fists down on the table. ‘Of course I didn’t know!’

‘Shouldn’t we have been told?’

‘Think about it, John. You’re a cop in Wallumballa or whatever it’s called. You’re sending this murderer back to
Scotland
. Who do you tell?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Scotland Yard.’

‘Not realising for one minute that Scotland Yard might actually be in another country altogether.’

‘And the brainboxes in London decided not to pass the message on?’

‘Their version is, they got their wires crossed, thought Oakes was only travelling as far as
their
patch. In fact, his ticket only goes as far as London.’

‘So he’s their problem.’ But the Farmer was shaking his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve had a whip-round and added the fare to Edinburgh?’

‘Bingo.’

‘So when does he get here?’

‘Later on today.’

‘And what do we do?’

The Farmer stared at Rebus. He liked that
we
. A problem shared – even if with a thorn like Rebus – was a problem that could be dealt with. ‘What would you suggest?’

‘High-visibility surveillance, let him know we’re watching. With any luck he’ll get fed up and slope off somewhere else.’

The Farmer rubbed at his eyes. ‘Take a look,’ he said, sliding a folder across the desk. Rebus looked: sheets of fax paper, about twenty of them. ‘The Met took pity on us at the last, sent what they’d been sent by the Americans.’

Rebus started reading. ‘How come he’s been released? I thought in America “life” meant till death.’

‘Some technicality to do with the original trial. So arcane, even the American authorities aren’t sure.’

‘But they’re letting him go?’

‘A retrial would cost a fortune, plus there’s the problem of tracing the original witnesses. They offered him a deal. If he gave it up, signed away the right to any retrial or compensation, they’d fly him home.’

‘In the news story, “home” had inverted commas.’

‘He hasn’t spent much time in Edinburgh.’

‘So why here?’

‘His choice, apparently.’

‘But why?’

‘Maybe the fax will tell you.’

The message of the fax was clear and simple. It said Cary Oakes would kill again.

The psychologist had warned the authorities of this. The psychologist said, Cary Oakes has little concept of right and wrong. There were lots of psychological terms applied to this. The word ‘psychopath’ wasn’t used much any more by the experts, but reading between the lines and the jargon, Rebus knew that was what they were dealing with. Anti-social tendencies . . . deep-seated sense of betrayal . . .

Oakes was thirty-eight years old. There was a grainy photo of him included with the file. His head had been shaved. The forehead was large and jutting, the face thin and angular. He had small eyes, like little black beads, and
a narrow mouth. He was described as above-average intelligence (self-taught in prison), interested in health and fitness. He’d made no friends during his incarceration, kept no pictures on his walls, and his only correspondence was with his team of lawyers (five different sets in total).

The Farmer was on the telephone, finding out Oakes’s flight schedule, liaising with the Assistant Chief Constable at Fettes. When he’d finished, Rebus asked what the ACC thought.

‘He thinks we should ca’ canny.’

Rebus smiled: it was a typical response.

‘He’s right in a way,’ the Farmer continued. ‘The media will be all over this. We can’t be seen to be harassing the man.’

‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and the reporters will scare him off.’

‘Maybe.’

‘It says here he was originally questioned about another four murders.’