10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (367 page)

Rebus was half out of the window when he heard the noise behind him. Turned and saw Darren Rough standing in the doorway, face gaunt, eyes flickering in terrified expectation. Looking both haunted and hunted. He held shivering hands up to his chest, like they’d protect him from a crowbar’s blows.

Rebus, immune to most things, felt a sudden stab of pity. Jane Barbour was out on the walkway, talking to Tom Jackson. She saw Rebus’s look, broke off the conversation.

‘DI Barbour,’ he called. ‘One of yours, I believe.’

Jim Stevens tried to put from his mind the sight of Cary Oakes urinating in the church. Now that he had Oakes, he needed the story, needed it to be
big
. His boss had complained about the first instalment, called it a ‘cock-tease’, hoped there was better to come. Stevens had given him his word.

Oakes had a Bible beside his bed. Yet in the church . . . Stevens didn’t want to think about what it might mean. There was something about Oakes . . . you looked into his eyes sometimes and saw it, and if he caught you watching, he was able to blink it away. But for seconds at a time, his mind would be somewhere else, somewhere the reporter didn’t want to be.

Just do your job
, he kept telling himself. A few more days, plenty of time to score maximum brownie points with his boss, show the other rags that he could still cut it, and put together a proposal for whichever publisher made the highest bid. He was already in negotiation with two London houses, but four more had turned the idea down.

‘Killers’ life stories,’ one editor had said dismissively, ‘been there, done that.’

To get a bidding war going, he needed more offers. Two interested parties barely qualified as a tiff.

And now this.

Oakes had said he was going to his room for half an hour after lunch. The morning session had been good; not brilliant, but all right. Enough nuggets for the next instalment. But Oakes had complained of a headache, said he wanted to soak in a bath. After half an hour, Stevens had tried his room: no one answering. Reception hadn’t seen him. Stevens had thought about going out and asking the surveillance, but that would have been rash. He persuaded the manager that he was worried about his colleague’s health. A skeleton key got them into the room. No one there, no one at all. Stevens had apologised to the manager, gone back to his own room. Where he now sat,
nipping at his fingernails and wondering where his story had gone.

It had to be bravado.

Caught snivelling and shivering like that by the police . . . The only way for Darren Rough to scrape together any self-esteem was to turn down Barbour’s offer of a move. She could offer a police cell until something better came up; could no longer guarantee his safety in Greenfield.

Rough had smiled as she said ‘no longer’, both of them knowing she was playing with words.

‘I’m staying,’ he’d said. ‘Got to stop running some time, might as well be here and now.’ And he’d chuckled. ‘Like some old Western, isn’t it? Whatsisface, John Wayne.’ He made his fingers into a six-shooter, blasted the air. Then he looked around and sniffed, his face losing its animation.

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Barbour said.

‘I agree,’ Andy Davies said. It was the first time Rebus had met Darren Rough’s social worker. He was tall and thin and bearded, red hair going bald at the dome. Laughter lines around his eyes; small pink mouth.

‘There is something you could do for me,’ Rough said.

Davies leaning forward on the sofa, hands pressed between his knees. ‘What’s that, Darren?’

‘A dustpan and brush, so I can clear up all this shit.’ Kicking at a fragment of glass.

A council workman had arrived to put boards across the window. There was a dull loathing in his eyes. Someone down below had pressed a GAP label on to his toolbox. He used a cordless screwdriver, saw and hammer to fix the sheets of board to the windowframe, blotting out the last of the daylight.

When Rough went into the kitchenette, Rebus made to follow. The social worker stood up.

‘It’s OK,’ Rebus told him, ‘I just want a word.’ The two men fixed one another with a stare. Rebus motioned for
Davies to sit back down, but instead Davies walked to the window. Rebus made his way to the kitchenette’s archway. Rough was opening and closing cupboards, not really sure what he was doing or why. He knew Rebus was there, but wouldn’t look at him.

‘Got what you wanted,’ he muttered.

‘What I want are some answers.’

‘Funny way to go about it.’

Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘How long have you been back?’

‘Three, four weeks.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen DI Margolies?’

‘He’s dead. I saw it in the paper.’

‘Yes, but before then.’

Rough slammed shut one of the doors, turned on Rebus, voice shaking. ‘Christ, what now? He topped himself, didn’t he?’

‘Maybe.’

Rough rubbed a hand over his forehead. ‘You think I . . .?’

Andy Davies had come over. ‘What the hell is it now?’

‘He’s trying to set me up,’ Rough blurted out.

‘Look, Inspector, I don’t know what you think—’

‘That’s right,’ Rebus snapped back, ‘you don’t. So why don’t you just keep out of it?’

‘I can’t handle this,’ Rough bawled, on the verge of tears.

Jane Barbour came in from the hall. Rebus read her look: four parts accusation to one part disappointment. He remembered what she’d told him about Rough. The man was sniffing now, rubbing the back of his hand beneath his nose. His knees looked like they were about to give way. The workman was nearly finished, leaving the room in twilight. Each screw that went home was like fixing the lid on a coffin.

‘Did DI Margolies come to see you?’ Rebus persisted.

Rough fixed him with a defiant look. ‘No.’

Rebus stared him out. ‘I think you’re lying.’

‘So slap me around a bit.’

Rebus took a step towards him. The social worker was pleading with Barbour.

‘DI Rebus,’ Barbour warned.

Rebus got right up into Rough’s face. Rough had backed all the way into the kitchenette, nowhere else to go.

‘Did he come to see you?’

Rough looked away, bit his lip.

‘Did he?’

‘Yes!’ Darren Rough screamed. He bowed his head, pulled a hand through his hair. Incessant hammering of nails into wood. He pushed both palms against his ears. Rebus pulled them away, using as little force as possible. Kept his voice quiet when he spoke.

‘What did he want?’

‘Shiellion,’ Rough groaned. ‘It’s always been Shiellion.’

Rebus frowned. ‘DI Rebus . . .’ Barbour’s voice growing taut, breaking point almost reached.

‘What about Shiellion?’

Rough looked to Jane Barbour, his words directed at her. ‘You told him what happened to me.’

‘And?’ Rebus probed.

‘He wanted to know why they’d blindfolded me . . . kept asking who else was there.’

‘Who else
was
there, Darren?’

Through gritted teeth: ‘I don’t know.’

‘That what you told him?’

A slow nod. ‘Could have been anyone.’

‘Someone they didn’t want you to see. Maybe you knew them.’

Rough nodded. His voice was calmer. ‘I’ve often wondered. Maybe I’d have recognised . . . I don’t know, a uniform or something. Priest’s dog collar.’ He looked up. ‘Maybe even one of your lot.’

But Rebus had stopped listening. ‘Priest?’ he said.
‘Callstone and Shiellion were run by the Church of Scotland. They don’t have priests.’

But Rough nodded. ‘We had one.’

Barbour, looking intrigued now, frowned. ‘You had a priest?’

‘Visited for a while, then stopped coming. I liked him. Father Leary, his name was.’ A weak smile. ‘Told us to call him Conor.’

When Rebus headed downstairs, Jane Barbour followed.

‘What do you make of it?’ she asked.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Why was Jim Margolies interested in Shiellion?’

Her turn to shrug.

‘You told Jim that Rough was abused there?’

She nodded. ‘You think it has something to do with his suicide?’

‘If it
was
suicide.’

She blew air from her cheeks. ‘I’d better talk to the vigilantes,’ she told him. ‘Keep the lid on the pressure cooker.’

‘Tom Jackson’s already had a word.’

They turned, hearing footsteps behind them on the stairwell: Andy Davies.

‘We should move him,’ Davies said. ‘It’s not safe for him to stay here.’

‘He doesn’t want to leave.’

‘We could insist.’

‘If that mob up there couldn’t make him leave, what chance have
we
got?’

‘You could arrest him.’

Rebus burst out laughing. ‘A couple of days back—’

Davies turned on him. ‘I’m talking about
protecting
him, not harassment.’

‘We’ll keep someone in the vicinity,’ Barbour said.

‘Tom Jackson’s got to go home some time,’ Rebus commented.

‘I’ll do guard duty myself if need be.’ She turned to Davies. ‘At the moment, I’m not sure what more we can be expected to do.’

‘And if he’d proved useful to you in court . . .?’

‘I’ll ignore that remark, Mr Davies.’ Said with ice in her voice, and eyes like weaponry.

‘They’ll kill him,’ the social worker said. ‘And I don’t suppose you’ll be shedding too many tears.’

Barbour looked to Rebus, wondering if he would respond. All Rebus did was shake his head and light up a cigarette.

Rebus had known Father Conor Leary for years. For a time, he’d visited the priest regularly, sharing conversation and cans of Guinness. But when Rebus called Leary’s number, another priest answered.

‘Conor’s in hospital,’ the young priest explained.

‘Since when?’

‘A few days ago. We think it was a heart attack. Fairly mild, I think he’ll be fine.’

So Rebus drove to the hospital. Last time he’d visited Leary, there’d been a fridge full of medicine. The priest had explained that they were for minor ailments.

‘How long have you known?’ Rebus asked, drawing a chair over to his friend’s bedside. Conor Leary looked old and pale, his skin slack.

‘No grapes, I notice,’ Leary said, his voice lacking its usual gruff power. He was sitting up in the bed, surrounded by flowers and get-well cards. On the wall above his head Christ on the cross gazed down.

‘I only heard half an hour ago.’

‘Nice of you to drop by. Can’t offer you a drink, I’m afraid.’

Rebus smiled. ‘They say you’ll be out in no time.’

‘Ah, but did they say whether I’d be leaving in a box?’

Rebus managed a smile. Inside, he saw a carpenter, hammering home nails.

‘I’ve a favour to ask,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it.’

‘You want to turn Catholic?’ Leary joked.

‘Think the confessional could cope?’

‘True enough. We’d need a relay team of priests for a sinner like yourself.’ He rested his eyes. ‘So what is it then?’

‘Sure you’re up to it? I could come back . . .’

‘Cut it out, John. You know you’re going to ask me anyway.’

Rebus leaned forward in his chair. His old friend had flecks of white at the corners of his mouth. ‘A name you might remember,’ he said. ‘Darren Rough.’

Leary thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to give me a clue.’

‘Callstone House.’

‘Now that was a while back.’

‘You spent time there?’

Leary nodded. ‘One of those multi-faith things. God knows whose idea it was, but it wasn’t mine. A minister would visit Catholic homes, and I got to spend time in Callstone.’ He paused. ‘Was Darren one of the kids?’

‘He was.’

‘The name doesn’t mean anything. I spoke with a lot of them.’

‘He remembers you. Says you told him to call you Conor.’

‘I’m sure he’s right. Is he in trouble, this Darren?’

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘This place tends to swaddle you. No newspapers, no news.’

‘He’s a paedophile, released into the community. Only the community doesn’t want him.’

Conor Leary nodded, eyes still closed. ‘Did he abuse another child?’

‘When he was twelve. The victim was six.’

‘I remember him now. Whey-faced, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. The man who ran Callstone . . .’

‘Ramsay Marshall.’

‘He’s on trial, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he . . .? With Darren?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Ah, dear Lord. Probably going on under my very nose.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Maybe the boys . . . maybe they tried to tell me, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’ When the priest’s eyes closed again, a tear escaped from one and trickled down his cheek.

Rebus felt bad, which hadn’t been his intention in coming here. He squeezed his friend’s hand. ‘We’ll talk again, Conor. But you need to rest now.’

‘John, when do the likes of you and me ever rest?’

Rebus got up, looked down at the figure on the bed.
Priest’s dog collar
. . . Maybe, but never Conor Leary.
Even one of your lot
. . . Someone in uniform. Rebus didn’t want to think about it, but Jim Margolies had put some thought into it. And soon afterwards, he’d died.

‘John,’ the priest was saying, ‘remember me in your prayers, eh?’

‘Always, Conor.’

Hadn’t the heart to admit he’d stopped praying long ago.

Back at his flat, he made two mugs of coffee and took them through to the living room. Janice was on the phone to yet another charity, giving them details of Damon. Rebus sat at the dining table. It was a big room, twenty-two feet by fourteen. Bay window (still with the original shutters). High ceiling – maybe eleven feet – with cornicing. Rhona, his ex-wife, had loved the room, even with the original wallpaper from when they’d bought it (purple wavy lines which made Rebus feel seasick whenever he walked past). The wallpaper had gone, as had the brown carpet with matching paintwork.

He thought of Darren Rough’s flat. He’d seen worse in his time, of course, but not much worse. Janice put down the receiver and scratched at her hair with a pen, before scribbling a note on a pad of paper. Having scored a line through the charity’s phone number, she threw the pen on to the table.

‘Coffee,’ Rebus told her. She took the mug with a smile of thanks.