10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (359 page)

Oakes started laughing, laughed all the way to the hotel’s glass doors. He stood on the inside, looking out.

‘That Rebus,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s not exactly what you’d call a slow burner, now is he?’

Back at Patience’s flat in Oxford Terrace, Rebus poured himself a whisky and added water from a bottle in the fridge. She came through from the bedroom, eyes slanted in the sudden light, a pale yellow nightdress falling to her ankles.

‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Rebus said.

‘I wanted a drink anyway.’ She took grapefruit juice from the fridge door, poured herself a large glass. ‘Good day?’

Rebus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They took the drinks into the living room, sat together on the sofa. Rebus picked up a copy of
The Big Issue:
Patience always bought it, but he was the one who read it. Inside, there were fresh appeals for MisPer information. He knew if he turned on the TV and went to Teletext, there was a listing for missing persons. He’d watched it from time to time, scanning a few pages. It was run by the National MisPer Helpline. Janice had said she’d contact them . . .

‘What about you?’ he asked.

Patience tucked her feet beneath her. ‘Same old story. Sometimes, I almost think a robot could do the work. Same symptoms, same prescriptions. Tonsils, measles, dizzy spells . . .’

‘Maybe we could go away.’ She looked at him. ‘Just for a weekend.’

‘We tried it, remember? You got bored.’

‘Ach, that was the country.’

‘So which romantic interlude did you have in mind? Dundee? Falkirk? Kirkcaldy?’

He got up for a refill, asked her if she wanted one. She shook her head, her eyes on his empty glass.

‘Second one today,’ he said, making for the kitchen.

‘What’s brought this on anyway?’ She was following him.

‘What?’

‘The sudden notion of a holiday.’

He glanced towards her. ‘I went to see Sammy yesterday. She said she speaks to you more than I do.’

‘A bit of an exaggeration . . .’

‘That’s what I said. But she has a point all the same.’

‘Oh?’

He poured less water into the glass this time. And maybe a drop more whisky too. ‘I mean, I know I can be . . . distracted. I know I’m a pretty lousy proposition.’ He closed the fridge, turned to her and shrugged. ‘That’s about it, really.’

Kept his eyes on the glass as he spoke, wondering why it was that as he said the words, a holiday snap of Janice Mee flashed across his mind.

‘I keep thinking you’ll come back,’ Patience said. He looked at her. She tapped her own head. ‘From wherever it is you’ve gone.’

‘I’m right here.’

She shook her head. ‘No you’re not. You’re not really here at all.’ She turned away, walked back through to the living room.

A little later, she went to bed. Rebus said he’d stay up a bit longer. Flipped TV channels, finding nothing. Went to Teletext, page 346. Stuck the headphones on so he could listen to Genesis: ‘For Absent Friends’. Jack Morton sitting on the arm of the sofa as screen after screen of missing persons appeared. No sign of Damon yet. Rebus lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the television, watching it dissolve. Then remembered this was Patience’s flat, and she didn’t like smoking. Back into the kitchen to extinguish his guilty pleasure. After Genesis, he switched to Family: ‘Song for Sinking Loves’.

Something’s gone bad inside you
.

It was your lot wanted him here
.

Saw two men in the dock, their lawyer working on the jury. Saw Cary Oakes leaning into the car.

He’ll do it again
.

Saw Jim Margolies take that final flight into darkness. Maybe there was no way to understand any of it. He turned to Jack. Often he’d phoned Jack – didn’t matter what time of night it was, Jack never complained. They’d talk around subjects, share worries and depressions.

‘How could you do that to me, Jack?’ Rebus said quietly, drinking his drink as the room filled with ghosts.

It was late, but Jim Stevens knew his editor wouldn’t mind. He tried the mobile number first. Bingo: his boss was at a dinner party in Kelvingrove. Politicos, the usual movers and shakers. Stevens’s boss liked all that crowd. Maybe he was the wrong man for a tabloid.

Or maybe, all these years down the road, it was Jim Stevens who was out of touch. He seemed surrounded by journalists younger, brighter, and keener than him. These days, you could be washed up at fifty. He wondered how long it would be till the cheque for services rendered was being countersigned at his editor’s desk, how long before the young bloods in the office were having a whip-round to see off ‘good old Jim’. He knew the drill, even knew the
speeches they’d make – stuff any self-respecting sub would block and delete. He knew because he’d been there himself, back in the days when
he’d
been a young blood and the old-timers had been complaining about falling standards and the changing world of journalism.

Soon as Jim had heard about Cary Oakes, he’d taken his boss aside for a private word, then had checked flight schedules, brown-nosing Heathrow Information so they’d page the prodigal son.

‘It’s yours, Jim,’ his editor had said, but with a warning finger. ‘Could be the cream on the cake. Just make sure it doesn’t turn sour.’

Now the boss was giving him a couple of snippets of gossip from the dinner party. He’d obviously had a few drinks. They wouldn’t stop him heading into the newsroom afterwards. Twelve-hour days: a while since Jim Stevens had worked any of those.

‘So what can I do you for, Jim?’

At last. Stevens took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got us settled in at the hotel.’

‘How does he seem?’

‘All right.’

‘Not a slavering monster or anything?’

‘No, pretty quiet really.’ Stevens deciding his boss needn’t know about the blow-up with Rebus.

‘And ready to give us the exclusive?’

‘Yes.’ Stevens lit a cigarette for himself.

‘You might try to sound a bit more enthusiastic.’

‘Just been a long day, boss, that’s all.’

‘Sure you’ve got the stamina, Jim? I could lend you one of the newsroom crew . . .?’

‘Thanks but no thanks.’ Stevens heard his boss laughing. Ha bloody ha. ‘That’s not the kind of back-up that worries me.’

‘You mean corroboration?’

‘Lack of it, more like.’

‘Mmm.’ Thoughtful now. ‘Got a game plan?’

‘You worked for a year or two in the States, didn’t you?’

‘While back.’

‘Still got friends there?’

‘Might have one or two.’

‘I need to hook up with someone on a Seattle paper, see if I can talk to one of the cops who worked the Oakes case.’

‘One guy I knew now works news for CBS.’

‘That’d be a start.’

‘Soon as I get to the office, OK, Jim?’

‘Thanks.’

‘And Jim? Don’t worry too much about confirmation. First thing you need to get from our friend Oakes is a bloody good story. Whatever it takes.’

Stevens put the phone down, lay back on his bed. Part of him wanted to chuck the job right now. But the other part was still hungry. It
wanted
those kids in the office to stare at him, wondering if they’d ever be as good, as sharp. It wanted Oakes’s story. Afterwards, he could walk away if he liked: crowning glory and all that. He thought again of Rebus. Wondered what Oakes had to gain from sparring with him. From what Stevens knew, no one had ever got into the ring with Rebus and come away without at least a few cuts and bruises. And sometimes . . . sometimes there’d be traction and a hospital waiting.

But Oakes had looked keen. Oakes had looked ready,
making
Rebus come at him like that.

Jim Stevens was supposed to be Oakes’s baby-sitter. But it seemed to him that Oakes had either an agenda or a death wish. Difficult to baby-sit either one.

‘This is your last job, Jim,’ Stevens promised himself. Decided a raid on the mini-bar would seal the contract.

The surveillance budget was so tight, they were reduced to singles. Four in the morning, Rebus couldn’t sleep, so he drove down to the waterfront, stopping off at an all-night garage. Siobhan Clarke was in an unmarked Rover 200. She’d dressed for a mountain trek: trousers tucked into thick socks and climbing boots; thermal jacket and bobble hat. On the passenger seat: notebook and pen; three empty packets of lo-fat crisps; two flasks. Rebus climbed into the back and offered a microwaved pasty and beaker of coffee.

‘Cheers,’ she said.

Rebus looked out at the hotel. ‘Any movement?’

She shook her head, chewed and swallowed. ‘I’m a bit worried though. There are service exits to the back of the building. No way I can cover those.’

‘He’s probably jet-lagged anyway.’

‘Meaning awake all night, asleep all day?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Rebus leaned forward. ‘He hasn’t been out
at all
?’

She shook her head. ‘All those years in jail, maybe he’s turned agoraphobic.’

‘Maybe.’ Rebus knew she might have a point. He’d known ex-cons who just couldn’t cope with the outside world – all that space and light. They ended up reoffending, only way they could get put away again.

‘He ate dinner in the restaurant.’ She nodded towards the plate-glass windows of the hotel’s dining room.

‘Did he spot you?’

‘Not sure. His room’s on the second floor. That window at the far end.’

Rebus looked. Twelve small square panes of glass. The window was open an inch at the bottom. ‘How do you know?’

‘I asked the manager.’

Rebus nodded: orders from the Farmer – no need to be subtle. ‘How did the manager take it?’

‘He seemed uncomfortable.’ She took a final bite of pasty.

‘Don’t want to make Oakes’s stay too pleasant, do we?’

‘No, sir,’ Clarke said.

Rebus opened his door. ‘Just going for a recce.’ He paused. ‘What do you do when you need to . . .?’

She lifted one of the flasks, reached to the floor for a kitchen funnel.

‘And what if . . .?’

‘Self-control, sir.’

He nodded. ‘Don’t get your flasks mixed up, will you?’

Outside, the air was fresh. Sounds of night traffic at the port, the occasional taxi cruising past the end of the road. Taxis: he had to ask them about Damon and the woman. He walked around the side of the hotel, wandered into the car park. The service exits were locked. Beside them were four rubbish skips, separated by a high wooden fence from the guests’ cars. Jim Stevens’s Astra was easy to spot. Rebus tore a page from his notebook, scribbled a couple of words, folded the sheet and fixed it beneath a wiper blade. Back at the service doors, Rebus checked they couldn’t be opened from outside. He left satisfied that even if Oakes used them to get out of the hotel, he’d have to use the front entrance to get back in.

Always supposing he’d come back. Maybe he’d just scarper: wasn’t that what they wanted? No, not exactly: they wanted to be
certain
he’d left Edinburgh. Oakes missing from his hotel wasn’t quite the same thing. Rebus
went back to Clarke’s car, got out his mobile and made a call. Hotel reception answered.

‘Good evening,’ Rebus said. ‘Could you put me through to Mr Oakes’s room, please?’

‘One moment.’

Rebus winked at Clarke. He held the mobile between them so she could listen. A buzzing noise repeated three or four times. Then the pick-up.

‘Yeah? What is it?’ Sounding authentically groggy.

‘Tommy, is that you?’ Mock-Glaswegian. ‘We’re having a bit of a bevvy in my room. Thought you were coming up.’

Silence for a moment. Then: ‘What room is it again?’

Rebus pondered an answer, cut the connection instead. ‘At least we know he’s there.’

‘And awake now.’

Rebus checked his watch. ‘Your shift ends at six.’

‘If Bill Pryde doesn’t sleep in.’

‘I’ll give him an alarm call for you.’ Rebus made to leave the car again.

‘Look, sir.’ Clarke was nodding towards the hotel.

Rebus looked: second-floor window, right at the far end. No light on, but curtains open and a face at the window, peering out. Looking straight at them. Rebus gave Cary Oakes a wave as he made for his own car.

No need to be subtle.

At eight sharp he was in the office, typing up details of Damon Mee, preparing a blitz on charities, hostels and organisations for the homeless. At nine there was a message from the front desk. Someone to see him.

Janice.

‘You must be psychic,’ Rebus told her. ‘I was just working on Damon. Any news?’

He was guiding her down Rankeillor Street. They’d find a café on Clerk Street. He didn’t want to talk to her in the cop-shop. A bundle of motives: didn’t want anyone to
suspect he was working on a case that wasn’t official L&B business; didn’t want her seeing some of the stuff in St Leonard’s – photos of MisPers and suspects, cases dealt with without emotion or (often) enthusiasm; and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to share her. Didn’t want the part of her that belonged to his past intruding on his here and now, his workplace.

‘No news,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d spend the day in Edinburgh, see if I couldn’t . . . I don’t know. I have to do
something
.’

Rebus nodded. There were dark half-moons beneath her eyes. ‘Are you getting much sleep?’ he asked.

‘The doctor gave me some pills.’

Rebus remembered the way her replies to questions could sometimes only
seem
to be answers.

‘Do you take them?’ She smiled, glanced at him. ‘Thought not,’ he said. It wasn’t that Janice would lie to you, but you had to know how to phrase a question to make sure of getting a truthful response.

‘We used to have these conversations all the time, didn’t we?’

She was right, they did. Rebus wondering if she fancied any of his friends, trying to find ways of asking without seeming jealous. She telling him versions of her life before they’d started dating. Dialogues of the left-unsaid.

He guided her into the café. They took a corner table. The owner, recently arrived, had only unlocked the door because he recognised Rebus.

‘I can’t cook anything,’ he warned them.

‘Coffee’s fine for me,’ Rebus said. He looked to Janice, who nodded. Their eyes stayed on one another as the café owner walked away.