10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (372 page)

Destroy all monsters
, Cal was thinking, lying on his bed,
smoking a cigarette. He got up abruptly, thumped on the far wall.

‘Will you fucking well shut up, the pair of you!’

Silence, then muffled laughter. For a moment, Cal was ready to burst in on them, but he knew what his mum would do to him. And besides, last thing he wanted was to see her like that.

Destroy all monsters.

The doorbell. Who the fuck at this time of night . . .? Cal went to see. Recognised the woman. She looked agitated, rubbing her hands like she was doing the washing-up.

‘You haven’t seen our Billy, have you?’ She was Joanna Horman, Billy’s mum. Billy was one of Jamie’s pals. Cal called for him and Jamie came out of the living room.

‘Have you seen Billy Boy?’ Cal asked. Jamie shook his head. He had a packet of crisps in his hand. Cal turned back to Joanna Horman. Some of his friends reckoned she looked all right. Right now, though, she looked a mess.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘He went out to play about seven, I haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he’d gone to his gran’s, but when I checked she hadn’t clapped eyes on him.’

‘I’m just in. Hold on a minute.’ He went and banged on Van’s door: as good an excuse as any to break things up in there. ‘Hiy, Maw, has Billy Horman been round here the night?’

Noises from within. Joanna Horman was leaning against the door, looking ready to fall down. Not a bad body, Cal decided. Bit squishy, but he didn’t like them all skin and bones. His mother’s bedroom door opened. Van was wearing her dress, arranging it over her. Nothing on underneath, he’d bet. She closed the door quickly behind her; no way to tell who else was in the room.

‘Something the matter, Joanna?’ Pushing past Cal, ignoring him altogether.

‘It’s wee Billy, Van. He’s disappeared.’

‘Aw, Christ. Come into the living room.’

‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Where have you looked?’

Cal followed the two women into the living room.

‘Everywhere. I think maybe it’s time I called the police.’

Van snorted. ‘Oh aye, they’d be round here like a shot. Only thing those buggers are interested in is protecting perverts . . .’ Her voice died away; for the first time, she looked at her son. They knew one another so well, no words were needed.

‘Joanna, pet,’ Van said quietly, ‘you stay there. I’m going to round up the troops. If your Billy’s anywhere on the estate, we’ll find him, don’t you worry.’

Within half an hour, Van Brady had the search parties organised. People were going from door to door, asking questions, getting new volunteers. Jamie had been sent to bed, but wasn’t asleep, and Joanna Horman was in the living room with a tumbler of rum and Coke. Cal had offered to keep an eye on her. She was on the sofa, and he was in the chair. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Wasn’t normally this tongue-tied. He found himself aroused by her grief, the way it softened her. But he felt ashamed to be so affected by her, and his brain was spinning the way it did when he’d drunk too much or taken some speed.

He got up, opened the door to Jamie’s room.

‘Get up, you, and keep an eye on Billy’s mum. I’ve got to go out.’

Then he opened the main door and stalked down the hallway. Down the stairwell and out into the night. There were some lock-ups across the way. He had the key to one of them. He was keeping some stuff there. Jerry Langham’s lock-up it was, but Jerry was serving three-to-five in Saughton, another six months before he’d have even a whiff of roly-paroley. He kept his car in the lock-up. It was
a 1970s Merc with rusty sills and a custard-yellow paint job, but Jerry loved it.

‘I don’t keep my missus under lock and key, but no way am I letting any bastard near my Merc.’

This was by way of a warning: use the lock-up, keep an eye on the motor, but never think of touching it. Not that Cal had heeded the advice. He unlocked the car sometimes and sat in it, pretending to be driving. And he’d opened the boot once, too, so he knew what was inside.

He unlocked it now, lifted out the jerrycan and gave it a shake. He was sure there’d been more than that; it was barely half-full now. Evaporation or something. He supposed petrol could do that. On a stack of shelves he found some oily rags. Stuffed them into his pockets and he was ready.

Back to the block of flats, taking the steps two at a time. He had a purpose now, jerrycan making quiet sloshing sounds. Close your eyes, you could almost be at the seaside. Crept along to Darren Rough’s flat. Fresh lengths of board across his window. The kids had already been busy with their aerosols. GAP had made the flat their first stop tonight: no answer, nobody home. Cal opened the mouth of the can, held it high so the petrol trickled out of it, running it the length of the boarded window, then across the door. Took a ball of rag from his pocket and doused it in petrol. Stuffed it into the narrow gap between board and wall. Then another and another. Chucked the empty can over the balcony, then cursed to himself: there’d be prints on it. And besides, Jerry might want it. He’d go retrieve it in a minute.

Took out his cigarette lighter, the one Jamie had given him for Christmas. Jamie . . . he was doing this for Jamie and his pals, for all the kids. Jamie was bright. Didn’t like school, but then who did? Didn’t make him thick. He could go places, do things with his life: a couple of times when drunk, Cal had tried to tell him as much. He got the feeling it hadn’t come out right, had come out like he was
envious. Maybe he was, just a little. A kid like Jamie, the world was his oyster. Cal looked at the lighter. Another thing about his wee brother: he had shoplifting down to an art.

When Rebus got to Greenfield, half the estate was out watching the fire, or what was left of it.

Rebus knew one of the firemen, guy called Eddie Dickson. Dickson nodded a greeting. He was in full uniform, standing guard by his engine.

‘If I move, they’ll be in about it.’ Meaning the local kids; meaning they’d strip it of anything they could find. ‘We got bottled coming in.’

‘Who by?’

Dickson shrugged. ‘Came flying out of the dark. I get the feeling we weren’t wanted.’

Uniforms from St Leonard’s were trying to get the spectators to go back to bed.

‘Any casualties?’

Dickson shrugged again. ‘You mean from the bottles?’

Rebus stared at him. ‘I mean in there.’ Pointing towards Darren Rough’s flat.

‘Place was empty when we got here.’

‘Door open?’

Dickson shook his head. ‘Had to kick in what was left of it. Grudge thing, is it?’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘When do I get the time, John?’

‘Paedophile.’

Dickson nodded. ‘Remember it now. Frying’s too good for them, eh?’

Rebus left him to his guard duty, headed for Cragside Court. The uniform in the lobby told him not to bother with the lifts.

‘One’s buggered, the other’s a toilet.’

Rebus would have taken the stairs anyway. Nothing left of the boards across Rough’s window but a few charred scraps clinging to their screws. The door had been torched, too. DC Grant Hood was standing in the hallway of the flat. Rebus toed open the toilet door: nobody home.

‘Your pal,’ Hood said. He was young, bright. Followed Glasgow Rangers with a passion, but nobody was perfect.

‘Wasn’t me,’ Rebus commented. ‘But thanks for the call.’

Hood shrugged. ‘Thought you might be interested.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s bandaged hands. ‘Had an accident yourself?’

Rebus ignored the question. ‘No chance
this
was an accident, I suppose?’

‘Bits of rag hanging from the windowframe. Petrol spilt on the walkway . . .’

‘No sign of the occupier?’

Hood shook his head. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Look around, Grant. It’s the Wild West out here. Any one of them’s capable.’ Rebus had walked back through what remained of the door, was leaning over the balcony. ‘But if it was me, I’d be asking Van Brady and her eldest son.’

Hood jotted the names down. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Rough will be coming back.’

‘No,’ Rebus said. Which had been the point all along. But now that they’d come to that point, Rebus wondered why he felt so lousy inside . . . Jane Barbour’s words came back to him: low chance of reoffending . . . abused as a child himself . . . need to give him a chance.

Then he saw Cal Brady, down amongst the thinning crowd. He was fully clothed, looked like he hadn’t yet been to bed. Rebus went back downstairs. Cal was handing out GAP stickers to anyone who didn’t have one. Women with coats thrown over their nighties were getting them. Cal placed each one on its recipient with
exaggerated gentleness, causing some of the women – not exactly coy maidens – to blush.

‘All right, Cal?’ Rebus said. Cal looked round at him, peeled off a sticker and slapped it on Rebus’s jacket.

‘I hope you’re with us, Inspector.’

Rebus started removing the sticker. Cal put out a hand to stop him, and Rebus caught it, lifted it to his nose. Cal pulled away quickly, but not quickly enough.

‘Soap and water’s usually a good idea,’ Rebus told him.

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘You stink of petrol.’

‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

‘I’m not one to prejudge, Cal—’

‘Not what I hear.’

‘But in your case I’ll definitely make an exception.’ Thinking: who had Cal been talking to? Who’d been telling him about Rebus? ‘DC Hood’s going to want to ask you some questions. Be nice to him.’

‘Fuck the lot of you.’

‘Think your dick’s long enough?’ Said with a smile.

Cal stared him out; then broke off and laughed. ‘You’re a clown. Go home to your circus.’

‘What do you think
you
are, Cal? The ringmaster?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘No, son, you’ll do tricks for whoever’s cracking the whip.’ Rebus turned away. ‘Whether it’s your mum or Charmer Mackenzie.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You work for him, don’t you?’

‘What’s it to do with you?’

Rebus just shrugged and went back to his car. He’d parked it right next to the fire engine: didn’t want to find it up on bricks.

‘Hey, John,’ Eddie Dickson said, ‘won’t it be perfect?’

‘What?’

‘When they build the Parliament.’ He swept an arm before him. ‘Right next door to all this.’

Rebus looked up, saw the dark form of Salisbury Crags.
Once more he felt like he was in a canyon of some kind, sheer walls affording no escape. Your fingers would be raw and bleeding from trying.

Either that or stained with four-star.

Hood came running up as Rebus was flexing his hands. ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’

‘Be a miracle if we didn’t.’

‘There’s a kid missing. They weren’t even going to tell us.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It’s UDI,’ he said. Hood looked puzzled. ‘A Unilateral Declaration of Independence, son. So who spilt the beans?’

‘I went to Van Brady’s flat. Door was open, young woman in the lounge.’ He checked his notebook. ‘Name’s Joanna Horman. Kid’s name is Billy.’

Rebus remembered his first visit to Greenfield, Van Brady leaning out of her window:
I saw you, Billy Horman!
He couldn’t remember much about the kid, only that he’d been playing with Jamie Brady.

‘Now we know why they torched the flat,’ Hood went on.

‘A brilliant deduction, Grant. Maybe we better go talk to the lady in question.’

‘The kid’s mum?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Van Brady.’

Having opened negotiations with Van Brady, her kitchen providing an unpromising table for such a high-powered summit, Rebus called for reinforcements. They’d organise more search parties, police and residents working together.

‘This is your patch,’ Rebus had conceded, washing down more pills with a mug of cheap chicory coffee. ‘You know the place better than any of us: any hidey-holes, gang huts, anywhere he might stop the night. If his mum gives us a list of his school pals, we can contact their parents, see if he’s maybe staying with one of them. There
are things we can do best, and things you can do.’ He’d kept his voice level, and maintained eye-contact throughout. There were eight bodies in the kitchen, and more in the hallway and living room.

‘What about the pervert?’ Van Brady had asked.

‘We’ll find him, don’t worry. But right now, I think we should concentrate on Billy, don’t you?’

‘What if he’s the one who’s
got
Billy?’

‘Let’s wait and see, eh? First thing is to get the search going again. We’re not going to find anyone sitting here.’

Meeting over, Rebus had sought out Grant Hood.

‘This is yours, Grant,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’

Hood nodded. ‘Sorry I got you involved.’

‘Don’t be. But keep yourself straight: wake up DI Barbour and let her know the score.’

‘What happens if they find him first?’ Meaning Darren Rough rather than the kid.

‘Then he’s dead,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

He drove out of Greenfield, wondering at what point Darren Rough had vacated his flat. Wondering where the young man would go. Holyrood Park: once, centuries back, it had been sanctuary for convicts. As long as you didn’t cross the boundary, you were on Crown Estate and couldn’t be touched by the law. Debtors would flee there, live there for years, existing on charity, fish from the lochs and wild rabbits. When their debts were finally paid or written off, they’d cross the boundary, step back into society. The park had provided them with an illusion of freedom; in reality, they’d merely been in an open prison.

Holyrood Park: a road wound its way around the base of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat. There were car parks near the lochs, popular with families and dog-owners during the day. At night, couples drove there for sex. The Royal Parks Police made irregular patrols. There had been talk of their disbanding, of the park falling
within Lothian and Borders jurisdiction. It hadn’t happened yet.

Rebus made three circuits of the park. Driving slowly, not really interested in the few parked cars he passed. Then, by St Margaret’s Loch, just as he was readying to exit at Royal Park Terrace, he thought he caught shadow play at the edge of his vision. Decided to stop the car. Maybe just the headache and the pills, tricking his vision. He kept the engine running, wound down the window and lit a cigarette. Foxes, maybe even badgers . . . he could have been mistaken. There were all kinds of shadows in the city.