Black And Blue (39 page)

‘Not at all.’

‘Please, just listen to me.’ Her eyes were glistening in the sodium light. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the phone call, the one that tells me there’s bad news. I don’t want to plan weekends off and holidays away only to have them cancelled because some case or court appearance takes precedence. That’s asking too much.’

‘It’s asking a hell of a lot,’ Rebus conceded. ‘It’s a high-wire act without the safety net. But all the same …’

‘What?’

‘You can make it work. A lot of people do. Maybe you can’t plan things too far in advance, maybe there’ll be cancellations and tears. When the chances come, you take them.’

‘Have I wandered into a Dr Ruth show by mistake?’ Rebus sighed, and she stopped walking, took his hand. ‘Look, John, I know why you’re doing this. Brian’s hurting, and you don’t like to see it. I don’t like it either.’ A distant siren wailed, down towards the High Street, and Nell shivered. Rebus saw it, looked into her eyes, and found himself nodding. He knew she was right; his own wife had said the same things. And the way Jack was standing, the look on his face, he’d been here before, too. Nell started walking again.

‘He’ll leave the force, Nell. He’ll make them dump him. But for the rest of his life …’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be the same.
He
won’t be the same.’

She nodded. ‘I can live with that.’

‘You don’t know for sure.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You’ll take that risk, but you won’t risk him staying put?’ Her face hardened, but Rebus didn’t give her time for a comeback. ‘Here’s your bus. Just think about it, Nell.’

He turned and walked back towards the Meadows.

They’d made up a bed for Jack in the spare room – Sammy’s old bedroom, complete with Duran Duran and Michael Jackson posters. They’d washed themselves and shared a pot of tea – no alcohol, no ciggies. Rebus lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, knew sleep wouldn’t come for ages, and that when it did his dreams would be fierce. He got up and tiptoed through to the living room, keeping the lights off. The room was cool, they’d kept the windows open late, but the fresh paint and the old scorched paint from the door left a nice smell. Rebus uncovered his chair and dragged it over to the bay window. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him, felt himself relax. There were lights on across the way and he concentrated on them. I’m a peeper, he thought, a voyeur. All cops are. But he knew he was more than that: he liked to get involved in the lives around him. He had a need to
know
which went beyond voyeurism. It was a drug. And the thing was, when he had all this knowledge, he then had to use booze to blank it out. He saw his reflection in the window, two-dimensional, ghostly.

I’m almost not here at all, he thought.

Rebus woke up and knew something was wrong. He showered and dressed and still couldn’t put a name to it. Then Jack came slouching through to the kitchen and asked if he’d slept well.

And he had.
That
was what was different. He’d slept very well indeed, and he’d been sober.

‘Any word from Ancram?’ Jack asked, staring into the fridge.

‘No.’

‘Then you’re probably clear for today.’

‘He must be in training for the next bout.’

‘So do we crack on with the decorating, or actually go to work?’

‘Let’s do an hour’s painting,’ Rebus said. So that’s what they did, Rebus keeping half an eye on the street outside. No reporters, no
Justice Programme
. Maybe he’d scared them off; maybe they were biding their time. He hadn’t heard anything about an assault charge: Breen was probably too happy with the video footage to consider any further action. Plenty of time to file a complaint after the programme went out …

After the painting, they took Jack’s car to Fort Apache. Jack’s initial response did not disappoint Rebus.

‘What a shit-hole.’

Inside, the station was a frenzy of packing and moving. Vans were already taking crates and boxes to the new station. The desk sergeant had become a shirt-sleeved foreman, making sure the cases were labelled and the moving crew
knew where they were to go once they reached their destination.

‘It’ll be a miracle if it goes to plan,’ he said. ‘And I notice CID aren’t giving a hand.’

Jack and Rebus gave him a round of applause: an old joke, but well intentioned. Then they went to the Shed.

Maclay and Bain were in situ.

‘The prodigal son!’ Bain exclaimed. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Helping CI Ancram with his inquiries.’

‘You should have called in. MacAskill wants a word, toot-sweet.’

‘I thought I told you never to call me that.’

Bain smirked. Rebus introduced Jack Morton. There were nods, handshakes, grunts: the usual procedure.

‘You better go see the Boss,’ Maclay said. ‘He’s been fretting.’

‘I’ve been missing him, too.’

‘Did you bring us back anything from Aberdeen?’

Rebus searched his pockets. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’

‘Well,’ Bain said, ‘you were probably busy.’

‘Busier than you two, but that wouldn’t be hard.’

‘Go see the Boss,’ Maclay told him.

Bain was wagging a finger. ‘And you should be nice to us, otherwise we might not tell you what our snitches came up with.’

‘What?’ Local snitches: word out for Tony El’s accomplice.

‘After you’ve talked to MacAskill.’

So Rebus went to see his boss, leaving Jack Morton outside the door.

‘John,’ Jim MacAskill said, ‘what have you been playing at?’

‘Different games, sir.’

‘So I hear, and you’ve not proved proficient at any of them, eh?’

MacAskill’s office was emptying, but there was some way
to go. His filing cabinet stood with its drawers gutted, the files themselves spread across the floor.

‘Nightmare,’ he said, noticing Rebus’s look. ‘How’s your own packing coming?’

‘I travel light, sir.’

‘I forget, you’ve not been with us long. Sometimes it seems like for ever.’

‘I have that effect on people.’

MacAskill smiled. ‘Question one in my mind, this reopening of the Spaven case: is it going to go anywhere?’

‘Not if I have my way.’

‘Well, Chick Ancram’s pretty persistent … and thorough. Don’t depend on him overlooking something.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve had a word with your boss at St Leonard’s. He tells me this is par for the course.’

‘I don’t know, sir, seems like I’m playing under a handicap.’

‘Well, anything I can do, John …’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I know the way Chick will play it: attrition. He’ll sweat the arse off you, run you in circles. He makes it easier for you to lie and say you’re guilty than to keep telling the truth. Watch out for that.’

‘Will do.’

‘Meantime, question one: how are you feeling?’

‘I’m all right, sir.’

‘Well, there’s not much happening around here that we can’t handle. So any time off you need, take it.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Chick’s west coast, John. He shouldn’t be over here.’ MacAskill shook his head, went to his drawer for a can of Irn-Bru. ‘Bugger,’ he said.

‘Problem, sir?’

‘I’ve gone and bought the diet stuff.’ He opened it anyway. Rebus left him to his packing.

Jack was right outside the door.

‘Did you catch any of that?’

‘I wasn’t listening.’

‘My boss just told me I can bunk off whenever I like.’

‘Which means we can finish doing up the living room.’

Rebus nodded, but he was thinking of finishing something else instead. He went into the Shed and stood in front of Bain’s desk.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ Bain said, sitting back, ‘we did what you asked, put word out with our snitches. And they came up with a name.’

‘Hank Shankley,’ Maclay added.

‘He’s not got much of a record, but he’s game to make a few quid where he can, no scruples attached. And he gets around. Word is, he’s had a windfall and after a couple of drinks he was boasting about his “Glasgow connection”.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

Bain shook his head. ‘Bided our time.’

‘Waiting for you to turn up,’ Maclay added.

‘Have you been rehearsing this routine? Where can I find him?’

‘He’s a keen swimmer.’

‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘The Commie Pool.’

‘Description?’

‘Big building at the top of Dalkeith Road.’

‘I meant Shankley.’

‘You can’t miss him,’ Maclay said. ‘Late thirties, six feet tall and skinny as a pole, short fair hair. Nordic looking.’

‘The description we got,’ Bain corrected, ‘was albino.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I owe you for this, gents.’

‘You haven’t heard who it was spilled the beans.’

‘Who?’

Bain grinned. ‘Remember Craw Shand?’

‘Claimed to be Johnny Bible?’ Bain and Maclay nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a snitch of yours?’

Bain shrugged. ‘Didn’t want it broadcast. But Craw’s a big fan of yours. See, he likes it rough now and then …’

Outside, Jack made for the car, but Rebus had other plans. He went into a shop and came out with six cans of Irn-Bru,
not
diet, then marched back into the station. The desk sergeant was sweating. Rebus handed him the carrier bag.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ the sergeant said.

‘They’re for Jim MacAskill,’ Rebus said. ‘I want at least five to reach him.’

Now he was ready to go.

The Commonwealth Pool, which had been built for the Commonwealth Games in 1970, was sited at the top of Dalkeith Road, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, and just over quarter of a mile from St Leonard’s police station. In the days when he swam, Rebus used the Commie Pool at lunchtimes. You found yourself a lane – never an empty lane, it was like easing out of a slip-road on to a motorway – and you swam, pacing yourself so you didn’t catch up with the person in front, or let the person behind gain on you. It was OK, but a bit too regimented. The other option was to swim breadths in the open pool, but then you were in with the kids and their parents. There was a separate pool for infants, plus three flumes Rebus had never been down, and elsewhere in the building were saunas, gym, and a café.

They found a space in the overflow car park and went in by the main entrance. Rebus showed ID at the kiosk and gave a description of Shankley.

‘He’s a regular,’ the woman told him.

‘Is he here just now?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve only just come on.’ She turned to ask the other woman in the booth, who was counting coins into polythene bank-bags. Jack Morton tapped Rebus’s arm and nodded.

Beyond the kiosk there was a wide open space, with windows looking down on to the main pool. And standing
there, glugging Coke from the can, stood a very tall, very thin man with damp, bleached hair. He had a rolled-up towel under one arm. When he turned, Rebus saw that his eyebrows and lashes were fair. Shankley saw two men examining him, placed them immediately. When Rebus and Morton started towards him, he ran.

He turned a corner into the open-plan café, but couldn’t see an exit from there, so kept running, ended up beside the children’s play area. This was a large netted enclosure totalling three storeys, with slides and walkways and other challenges – a toddler assault course. Rebus liked sometimes to sit with a post-swim coffee watching the kids playing, wondering which would make the best soldier.

Shankley was cornered and knew it. He turned to face them: Rebus and Jack were smiling. The impulse to flee was still too strong: Shankley pushed past the attendant, opened the door to the play area, ducked and went in. Two huge padded rollers stood directly in front of him, like a giant mangle. He was thin enough to squeeze between them.

Jack Morton laughed. ‘Where’s he going to go from there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Let’s grab a cup of tea and wait for him to get fed up.’

Rebus shook his head. He’d heard a noise from the top storey. ‘There’s a kid in there.’ He turned to the attendant. ‘Isn’t there?’

She nodded. Rebus turned to Jack. ‘Possible hostage. I’m going in. Stay out here, tell me where Shankley is.’

Rebus took off his jacket and went in.

The rollers were the first obstacle. He was too big to squeeze through, but managed to push his way through the gap between them and the side netting. He remembered his SAS training: assault courses you wouldn’t believe. Kept going. A pool of coloured plastic balls to wade through, and then a tube curving upwards, leading to the first floor. A slide nearby – he climbed that. Through the netting he could see Jack, pointing up and towards the far corner. Rebus stayed in
a crouch, looked around. Punch-bags, a net across a yawning gap, a cylinder to crawl through … more slides and climbing-ropes. There: far corner, wondering what to do next. Hank Shankley. People in the café were watching, no longer interested in swimming. One floor further up was the kid. Rebus had to get there before Shankley; either that or grab Shankley first. Shankley didn’t know anyone was in here with him. Jack was shouting up, distracting him.

‘Hey, Hank, we can wait here all day! All night too if we have to! Come on out, we only want a chat! Hank, you look ridiculous in there. Maybe we’ll just padlock it shut and keep you for an exhibit.’

‘Shut up!’ Flecks of foam from Shankley’s mouth. Skinny, gaunt … Rebus knew it was crazy to worry about HIV, but found himself worrying anyway. Edinburgh was still HIV city. He was about fifteen feet from Shankley when he heard a swooshing sound coming towards him fast. He was passing the exit to one of the tubes when a pair of feet hit him, toppling him on to his side. A boy about eight years old stared at him.

‘You’re too big for in here, mister.’

Rebus got up, saw Shankley coming for them, and started dragging the kid by the scruff of his neck. He backed up to the slide, then dropped the boy down it. He was turning to confront Shankley when another foot hit him – the albino’s. He bounced off the mesh wall and tumbled down the padded slide. The boy was making his way to the entrance, where the attendant gestured for him to hurry. Shankley slid down, both fists out, and clubbed Rebus on the neck. He was sprinting for the kid, but the boy was already through the rollers. Rebus dived at Shankley, brought him down into the plastic balls, caught him with a decent punch. Shankley’s arms were tired from swimming; he pummelled Rebus’s sides, but it was like being hit by a rag doll. Rebus grabbed a ball, stuffed it into Shankley’s mouth, where it wedged, the lips taut and
bloodless. Then he hit Shankley in the groin, twice, and that just about did it.