10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (388 page)

‘Don’t need to, sir. You’ve already done it.’

Rebus looked at the mike on his chest and realised this was true.

‘Where did the cavalry come from?’ Archibald asked, his voice faint.

‘I got them from the ACC,’ Rebus told him. ‘He promised me a chopper too, but it would have needed X-ray eyes.’

Archibald managed a smile. ‘Do you think . . .?’

‘I’m sorry, Alan,’ Rebus said. ‘It was all crap, that’s what I think. He just wanted a couple more scalps.’

Archibald touched shaking fingers to his head. ‘He nearly got one,’ he said, closing his eyes to rest.

Alan Archibald went to hospital, and Rebus went in search of Jim Stevens. He’d already checked out of the hotel, and wasn’t at the newspaper office. Eventually, Rebus tracked him down to The Hebrides, a furtive little bar behind Waverley station. Stevens was sitting alone in a corner with only a full ashtray and glass of whisky for company.

Rebus got himself a whisky and water, gulped it down, ordered another and went to join him.

‘Come to gloat?’ Stevens asked.

‘About what?’

‘That wee shite set me up.’ He told Rebus what had happened.

‘Then I’m an angel straight from heaven,’ Rebus said.

Stevens blinked. ‘How do you make that out?’

‘I bring glad tidings. Or more accurately, a news story, and I’d say you’re ahead of the pack.’

Rebus had never seen a man sober up so quickly. Stevens pulled a notebook from his pocket and folded it open. His pen ready, he looked up at Rebus.

‘It’ll have to be a trade,’ Rebus told him.

‘I need this,’ Stevens said.

Rebus nodded, told him the story. ‘And I’d have been next if he got his way.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Stevens exhaled, took a gulp of whisky. ‘There are probably dozens of questions I should be asking you, but right now I can’t think of any.’ He took out a mobile phone. ‘Mind if I call this in?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Then we talk,’ he said.

While Stevens read from his notes, turning them into sentences and paragraphs, Rebus listened, nodding confirmation when it was demanded of him. Stevens listened while the story was read back to him. He made a few changes, then finished the call.

‘I owe you,’ he said, putting the phone on the table. ‘What’ll it be?’

‘Another whisky,’ Rebus said, ‘and the answers to some questions.’

Half an hour later he had a pair of headphones on and was listening to the tape of Oakes’s last interview.

‘“A date with my past”,’ he recited, slipping the headphones off his ears. ‘“A date with destiny”.’

‘That’s Archibald, isn’t it? Archibald’s been hassling him for years.’

Rebus thought back to Alan Archibald . . . the way he’d looked as they’d lifted him into the ambulance. He’d looked spent and stunned, as if his dearest possession had been torn from him. Easy to steal away a dream, a hope . . . Cary Oakes had done that.

And had gotten away.

‘They didn’t catch him then?’ Stevens asked, not for the first time.

‘He ran into the hills, could be anywhere.’

‘It’s a hell of an area to search,’ Stevens conceded. ‘What made you take reinforcements?’

Rebus shrugged.

‘You know, John, once upon a time you wouldn’t have thought you needed them.’

‘I know, Jim. Things change.’

Stevens nodded. ‘I suppose they do.’

Rebus rewound the tape, listened to the last half again. ‘
A date with destiny, as you and your fellow hacks might put it. With someone who never listened to me
. . .’ This time, he was frowning when he finished.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure he means Archibald and me. He called us his spot of R&R.’

Stevens had drained his glass. ‘What else could it be?’

Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘There was some reason for him coming back here.’

‘Yes, me and my chequebook.’

‘Something more than that. More than the chance to play games with Alan Archibald . . .’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked at Stevens. ‘You could find out.’

‘Me?’

‘You know the city inside out. It has to be something from his past, something from before he went to America.’

‘I’m not an archaeologist.’

‘No? Think of all the years you’ve spent digging dirt. And Alan Archibald has a lot of stuff on Oakes, better than anything the bastard gave you.’

Stevens snorted, then smiled. ‘Maybe . . .’ he said to himself. ‘It would be a way of getting back at him.’

Rebus was nodding. ‘He’s given you a tissue of lies, you bounce back with a whole boxful of truth.’

‘The truth about Cary Oakes,’ Stevens said, measuring it up for a headline. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said at last.

‘And anything you find, you share with me.’ Rebus reached for Stevens’ notepad. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number.’

‘Jim Stevens and John Rebus, working together.’ Stevens grinned.

‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

There were messages for Rebus. Janice had called three times; Damon’s bank manager once. Rebus spoke to the bank manager first.

‘We have a transaction,’ the man said.

‘What, when and where?’ Rebus reached for paper and pen.

‘Edinburgh. A cash machine on George Street. Withdrawal of one hundred pounds.’

‘Today?’

‘Yesterday afternoon at one forty precisely. It’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘I hope so.’

‘I mean, it proves he’s still alive.’

‘It proves someone’s used his card. Not quite the same thing.’

‘I see.’ The manager sounded a little dispirited. ‘I suppose you have to be cautious.’

Rebus had a thought. ‘This cash machine, it wouldn’t be under surveillance, would it?’

‘I can check for you.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ Rebus wound up the call and phoned Janice.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’ She paused. ‘It’s just you ran off so early that morning. I wondered if it was something we’d . . .’

‘Nothing to do with you, Janice.’

‘No?’

‘I just needed to get back here.’

‘Oh.’ Another pause. ‘Well, I was just worried.’

‘About me?’

‘That you were disappearing from my life again.’

‘Would I do that?’

‘I don’t know, John: would you?’

‘Janice, I know things are a bit rocky between you and Brian . . .’

‘Yes?’

He smiled, eyes closed. ‘That’s it really. I’m not exactly an expert on marriage guidance.’

‘I’m not in the market for one.’

‘Look,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, ‘there’s a bit of news about Damon.’

A longer pause. ‘Were you planning on telling me?’

‘I just did tell you.’

‘Only so you could change the subject.’

Rebus felt like he was in the boxing-ring, cornered on the ropes. ‘It’s just that his bank account’s been used.’

‘He’s taken out?’

‘Someone’s used his card.’

Her voice was rising, filling with hope. ‘But nobody else knows his number. It has to be him.’

‘There are ways of using cards . . .’

‘John, don’t you
dare
take this away from me!’

‘I just don’t want you getting hurt.’ He saw Alan Archibald again, saw that look of final inescapable defeat.

‘When was this?’ Janice said; she was barely listening to him now.

‘Yesterday afternoon. I got word about ten minutes ago. It was a bank on George Street.’

‘He’s still in Edinburgh.’ A statement of belief.

‘Janice . . .’

‘I can feel it, John. He’s there, I know he’s there. What time’s the next train?’

‘I doubt he’s still hanging around George Street. The withdrawal was a hundred pounds. Might have been travelling money.’

‘I’m coming anyway.’

‘I can’t stop you.’

‘That’s right, you can’t.’ She put down the telephone. Seconds later, it rang again. Damon’s bank manager.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s a camera.’

‘Trained on the machine?’

‘Yes. I’ve already asked: the tape’s waiting for you. Talk to a Miss Georgeson.’

As Rebus finished the call, George Silvers brought him a cup of coffee. ‘Thought you’d have gone home,’ he said: Hi-Ho’s way of showing he cared.

‘Thanks, George. No sign of him yet?’

Silvers shook his head. Rebus stared at the paperwork on his desk. There were cases to write up, he could barely recall them. Names swimming in front of him. All of them demanding an ending.

‘We’ll catch him,’ Silvers said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

‘You’ve always been a comfort to me, George,’ Rebus said. He handed back the cup. ‘And one of these days you’ll remember that I don’t take sugar.’

He went to talk to Miss Georgeson. She was plump and fiftyish and reminded Rebus of a school dinner-lady he’d once dated. She had the videotape ready for him.

‘Would you like to view it here?’ she asked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ll take it back to the station, if you’ve no objection.’

‘Well, really I should make you a copy . . .’

‘I don’t intend losing it, Miss Georgeson. And I
will
bring it back.’

He left the bank with the tape held tightly in one hand. Checked his watch, then headed down to Waverley. He sat on one of the benches on the concourse, drinking a milky coffee – or
caffe latte
as the vendor had called it – and keeping an eye open. He had the tape in his raincoat pocket; no way he was leaving it in the car. He flicked through the evening paper. Nothing about Cary Oakes – it
would be an exclusive in Stevens’ paper first thing in the morning, and Stevens would have answered his detractors with one mighty two-fingered salute.

A date with destiny
. . .

What the hell did that mean? Was Oakes laying yet another false trail? Rebus would put nothing past him. He’d sold Stevens, Archibald, and himself dummies like he was vintage George Best and they were Sunday league.

Finally he saw her. Late-afternoon trains into Edinburgh weren’t busy; the traffic was all the other way. She was walking against the crowds as she came off the platform. He got into step beside her before she’d noticed him.

‘Needing a taxi?’ he said.

She looked surprised, then bemused. ‘John,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

For answer, he took the video out and held it in front of her.

‘A peace offering,’ he said, leading her back to his car.

They sat in the CID suite. It too was quiet. Most people had gone home for the day. Those who were left were trying to finish reports or catch up with themselves. No one was in the mood to dawdle. The video monitor sat in one corner. Rebus pulled two chairs over. He’d fetched them coffee. Janice was looking excited and fearful at the same time. Again, he was reminded of Alan Archibald on the hillside.

‘Look, Janice,’ he warned her, ‘if it’s not him . . .’

She shrugged. ‘If it’s not him, it’s not him. I won’t blame you.’ She flashed him a momentary smile. He started the tape. Miss Georgeson had explained that the camera was motion-sensitive, and would only begin recording when someone approached the machine. Back at the bank, Rebus had taken a look at the cash machine. The camera was above it, shooting from behind one of the bank’s glass windows. When the first face came on the
tape, Rebus and Janice were looking at it from above. The time-counter said 08.10. Rebus used the remote to fast forward.

‘We’re looking for one forty,’ he explained. Janice was sitting on the edge of her chair, the coffee cup held in both hands.

This, Rebus thought, was the way it had started: with security footage, grainy pictures. Towards the middle of the day, more people were using the machine. There was a lot of tape to get through. Lunchtime queues built up, but by one thirty it was a little quieter.

The time-counter said 13.40.

‘Oh, dear Lord, there he is,’ Janice said. She’d placed her cup on the floor, clapped her hands to her face.

Rebus looked. The face was angled down, looking at the machine’s keypad. Then it turned away, as if staring down the street. Fingers were tapped impatiently against the screen of the cash machine. The card was retrieved, a hand went to the slot to extract the notes. Didn’t linger; didn’t wait for a receipt. The next customer was already moving forward.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

A tear was falling from Janice’s cheek. ‘Positive,’ she said, nodding.

Rebus found it hard to tell. All he had were photos of Damon and the footage from Gaitano’s; he’d never met him. The hair looked similar . . . maybe the nose too, the shape of the chin. But it wasn’t as though they were unusual. The person on view now, they looked much like the customer who’d just left. But Janice was blowing her nose. She was satisfied.

‘It’s him, I’d swear to it.’ She saw uncertainty on his face. ‘I wouldn’t say it was if it wasn’t.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It’s not just the face or hair or clothes . . . it’s the way he stood, the way he held himself. And those little
twitches of impatience.’ She used a corner of the hankie to wipe her eyes. ‘It was him, John. It was him.’

‘OK,’ Rebus said. He rewound the tape, played the minutes leading up to 13.40. He was studying the background to see if he could spot Damon making for the machine. He wanted to know if he’d been alone. But he entered the picture suddenly, and from the side. That look again, towards where he’d just come from. Was there a slight nod of the head . . . some signal to another person just out of shot . . .? Rebus rewound and watched again.

‘What are you looking for?’ Janice asked.

‘Anyone who might have been with him.’

But there was nothing. So he let the tape play on, and was rewarded a minute or two later by legs moving across the top of the picture, just behind the person at the machine. Two pairs, one male, one female. Rebus pressed freeze-frame, but couldn’t get the picture to stay absolutely still and focused. So instead, he rewound and played it again, following the feet with his finger.

‘Recognise the trousers, the shoes?’

But Janice shook her head. ‘They’re just a blur.’

And so they were.

‘Could be anybody,’ she added.

And so it could.

She got to her feet. ‘I’m going to George Street.’ He made to say something but she cut him off. ‘I know he won’t be there, but there are shops, pubs – I can show them his picture at least.’