10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (373 page)

But then a face appeared at the open window.

‘Any chance of a ciggie?’

‘No problem.’ Rebus averted his face as he searched his pockets.

‘Eh . . . look, I’m not sure . . .’ A clearing of the throat. ‘I mean, you’re not looking for company, are you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ Now Rebus looked up. ‘Get in, Darren.’

Shock hit Darren Rough’s face as he recognised Rebus. His face was blackened. He coughed again, doubling over.

‘Smoke inhalation,’ Rebus observed. ‘You left it pretty late getting out.’

Rough wiped his mouth. The sleeves of his green raincoat were singed where he’d held them in front of his face.

‘I thought they’d be waiting for me outside. I kept listening for a fire engine.’

‘Somebody called one eventually.’

He snorted. ‘Probably afraid it would spread to their flat.’

‘Nobody was waiting outside?’

Rough shook his head. No, Rebus thought, because they’d all been out searching for Billy Horman. Cal Brady had torched the flat alone, and hadn’t stuck around to be spotted.

It had started to rain; sudden gobbets which bounced off Rough’s shoulders. He lifted his face to the sky, opened his scorched mouth to the drops.

‘You better get in,’ Rebus told him.

He angled his head, stared at Rebus. ‘What am I charged with?’

‘A kid’s gone missing.’

Rough lowered his eyes. Said something like ‘I see’, but so quietly Rebus didn’t catch it. ‘They think I . . .?’ He stopped. ‘Of course they think I did it. In their shoes, I’d think the same.’

‘But it wasn’t you?’

Rough shook his head. ‘I don’t do that any more. That’s not me.’ He was getting soaked.

‘Get in,’ Rebus repeated. Rough got into the passenger seat. ‘But you still think about it,’ Rebus said, watching for a response.

Rough stared at the windscreen, his eyes glinting. ‘I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t.’

‘So what’s changed?’

Rough turned to him. ‘Are you charging me?’

‘No charge,’ Rebus said, putting the car into gear. ‘Tonight, you ride for free.’

Rebus took Darren Rough to St Leonard’s.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Call it protective custody. I just want to make your answers on the missing kid official.’

They sat in an interview room with the recording machine running and a uniform on the door, drinking watery tea and with the rest of the station practically empty. All the spare bodies were down at Greenfield, looking for Billy Horman.

‘So you don’t know anything about a missing child?’ Rebus asked. Because there was no one around to tell him not to, he’d lit himself a cigarette. Rough didn’t want one, but then changed his mind.

‘Cancer’s probably the least of my problems right now,’ he surmised. Then he told Rebus that all he knew was what he’d heard from the detective himself.

‘But the locals warned you off, and you stayed put. There must have been a reason.’

‘Nowhere else to go. I’m a marked man.’ Glancing up. ‘Thanks to you.’ Rebus stood up. Rough flinched, but all Rebus did was lean against the wall, so he was facing the video camera. Not that it mattered: the camera wasn’t on.

‘You’re a marked man because of what you are, Mr Rough.’

‘I’m a paedophile, Inspector. I suppose I’ll always be one. But I have ceased to be a
practising
paedophile.’ A shrug. ‘Society’s going to have to get used to it.’

‘I don’t think your neighbours would agree.’

Rough allowed himself a condemned man’s smile. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘What about friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘Others who share your interests.’ Rebus flicked ash on to the carpet; the cleaners would be in before morning. ‘Had any of them round to the flat?’

Rough was shaking his head.

‘Sure about that, Mr Rough?’

‘Nobody knew I was there till the papers splashed me across a double-page spread.’

‘But afterwards . . . nobody from the old days got in touch?’

Rough didn’t answer. He was staring into space, still thinking of newspapers. ‘Ince and Marshall . . . I see the stories about them. Where they are . . . in the cells . . . do they get to see the news?’

‘Sometimes,’ Rebus admitted.

‘So they’ll know about me?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re on remand in Saughton Prison.’ He paused. ‘You were going to testify against them.’

‘I wanted to.’ He stared into space again, his face tightening with memories. Rebus knew the story: the abused became abusers themselves. He’d always found it easy to discard. Not every victim turned abuser.

‘That time they took you to Shiellion . . .’ Rebus began.

‘Marshall took me. Ince told him to.’ His voice was trembling. ‘Didn’t pick on me specially or anything – could have been any one of us. Only I think I was the quietest, the least likely to do anything about it. Marshall was right under Ince’s thumb at that time, loved the way Ince ordered him about. I saw a photo of Ince, he hasn’t changed. Marshall’s got a lot tougher-looking, like he’s grown an extra skin.’

‘And the third man?’

‘I told you, could have been anybody.’

‘But he was already there, waiting at Shiellion when you arrived.’

‘Yes.’

‘So probably a friend of Ince, rather than Marshall.’

‘They took it in turns.’ Rough’s hands were holding the edge of the desk. ‘Afterwards, I tried telling people, but nobody would listen. It was: “You mustn’t say that”; “Don’t tell such stories.” Like it was all
my
fault. I’d touched up a neighbour’s kid, so I deserved everything I got . . . Even worse, some of them thought I was lying, and I never lied . . . never.’ He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on his hands. He muttered something that might have been ‘Bastards.’ And then he started to cry.

Rebus knew he had choices. Phone Social Work and have them take Rough somewhere. Put him in a cell. Or drop him off somewhere . . . anywhere. But when he tried the Social Work emergency number, no one answered. They’d be out on a call. The recorded message told him to keep trying the number every ten minutes or so. It told him not to panic.

There were empty cells in the station, but Rebus knew word would get out, and when it came time to release Darren Rough, there’d be a crowd waiting. So he lit another cigarette and went back to the interview room.

‘Right,’ he said, opening the door, ‘you’re coming with me.’

‘Nice room,’ Darren Rough said. He looked around, examining the high cornicing. ‘Big,’ he added, nodding to himself. He was trying to be pleasant, make conversation. He was wondering what Rebus was going to do with him, here in Rebus’s own flat.

Rebus handed over a mug of tea and told him to sit down. He offered Rough another cigarette, the offer refused this time. Rough was sitting on the sofa. Rebus wanted to tell him to move on to one of the dining chairs. It was as if Rough could contaminate everything he touched.

‘Your social worker better find you something in the morning,’ Rebus said. ‘Something far from Edinburgh.’

Rough looked at him. His eyes were dark-ringed, his hair needing a wash. The green raincoat was draped over the back of the sofa. He wore a check suit-jacket with jeans and baseball boots, white nylon shirt. He looked like he’d won a ninety-second dash through an Oxfam shop.

‘Keep moving, eh?’

‘A moving target’s harder to hit,’ Rebus told him.

Rough smiled tiredly. ‘I see you’ve been hitting a target yourself.’

Rebus flexed his fingers again, trying to stop them seizing up.

Rough sipped his tea. ‘He did beat me up, you know.’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend.’

‘Jim Margolies?’

Rough nodded. ‘All of a sudden he got this look in his eyes. Next thing the fists were flying.’ He shook his head. ‘When he killed himself, I read the obituaries. They all said he was a “fine officer”, a “loving father”. Attended church regularly.’ A half-smile. ‘When he laid into me, he must have been demonstrating muscular Christianity.’

‘Careful what you say,’

‘Yes, he was your friend, you worked with him. But I wonder if you
knew
him.’

He didn’t say as much, but Rebus was beginning to wonder the same thing. Orange lipstick, meaning he liked them young. He’d asked Fern how young. Nothing illegal, she’d told him.

‘Why do you think he died?’ Rebus asked.

‘How should I know?’

‘When the two of you talked . . . how did he seem?’

Rough was thoughtful. ‘Not angry with me or anything. Just wanting to know about Shiellion. How often I’d been . . . you know. And who by.’ He glanced towards
Rebus. ‘Some people get a kick that way, listening to stories.’

‘You think that’s why he was asking?’

‘Why are
you
asking all these questions, Inspector? Outing me to the papers, then coming to the rescue. I think maybe that’s how
you
get your kicks, fucking with people’s heads.’

Rebus thought of Cary Oakes and his games. ‘I think you had something to do with Jim Margolies’ death,’ he said. ‘Whether you know it or not.’

They sat in silence after that, until Rough asked if there was anything he could eat. Rebus went through to the kitchen, stared at one of the cupboard doors, wanting to punch it. But his knuckles wouldn’t thank him for that. He looked at them. He knew what Oakes had done, rubbed them hard over the floor of the car park, maybe bunched them into fists and driven them into the steel skip. Twisted little bastard that he was. And Patience wondered if it was all a blind, some way of diverting Rebus from some other scheme. His head seemed full of diversions. How could he trust what Rough was telling him? He didn’t see Rough as a schemer; too weak. But Jim Margolies . . . had
he
been playing some game?

And had it killed him?

Rebus opened the cupboard door, called out that he could do beans on toast. Rough said that would be fine. There was no marge for the toast, but Rebus reckoned the tomato sauce would soften it up. He emptied the beans into a pot, stuck the bread under the grill, and went to sort out the sleeping accommodation.

Not his own room; definitely not his own room. He opened the door to what had been the guest room, and – long before that – Sammy’s room. Her single bed was still there; posters on the walls; teenage girls’ annuals on a bookshelf. One of the last people to use the room had been Jack Morton. No way was Darren Rough sleeping there.

Rebus opened the wardrobe, found an old blanket and pillow, took them through to the living room.

‘You can have the sofa,’ he said.

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Rough was standing at the window. Rebus crossed over to him. A couple of kids lived across the street, but their shutters were closed, no peep-show available.

‘It’s so quiet here,’ Rough said. ‘In Greenfield, there always seems to be a row going on. Either that or a party, and most of the parties turn into a row.’

‘But you’re a good neighbour, eh?’ Rebus said. ‘Quiet, keep yourself to yourself?’

‘I try to.’

‘What about when the kids are noisy: don’t you want to do something about them?’

Rough closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to the glass. ‘I won’t make any excuses,’ he whispered.

‘And no apologies either?’

Another smile, eyes still shut. ‘I can apologise until the cows come home. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel.’ He opened his eyes, turned to Rebus. ‘But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?’

Rebus stared at him. ‘The toast’s burning,’ he said, turning away.

At five o’clock, with Rough hidden under the blanket on the sofa, Rebus telephoned Bill Pryde.

‘Sorry to wake you, Bill.’

‘The alarm was about to go off anyway. What’s up?’

‘The surveillance car.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s not at The Shore.’ He explained where it was.

‘Christ, John, what about Oakes?’

‘He comes and goes as he likes, Bill. The only thing we were doing there was keeping him amused.’

‘You better tell that to the Farmer.’

‘I will.’

‘Meantime, you want me to pick up the car from your flat?’

‘I’ve filled in the log, explained everything.’

‘What about the keys?’

‘Under the front seat, same place the log is. I’ve left it unlocked.’

‘And now you’re about to get your head down?’

‘Something like that.’ He stared at Darren Rough, watching the rise and fall of the blanket. He looked about as dangerous as pastry dough. Rebus cut the connection, tried the station. There was still no sign of Billy Horman. They’d looked everywhere. The search was being called off until daylight. Rebus called the hotel, asked for Cary Oakes’s room: still no answer. He put down the phone, went into his bedroom. Lay on his bed – a mattress on the floor. He’d thought about going back to Patience’s, but didn’t like the thought of Rough being here by himself. He might explore, find Sammy’s room. Pull open drawers, touch things. As soon as feasible, Rebus wanted him out.

You brought him here
, a voice in his head seemed to say.
You brought him to this
. Sticks and crowbars and angry voices. The residents of Greenfield roused to a mob. Cal Brady with his petrol and denials. He worked for Charmer Mackenzie, worked the door at Guiser’s. Damon Mee had left there, got into a taxi with a blonde. Last seen in the vicinity of the Clipper, the night of one of Ama Petrie’s parties. Her father was presiding over Shiellion, where Darren Rough should have given evidence, where Rebus had been steamrollered by Richard Cordover. Lord Justice Petrie . . . who was related to Katherine Margolies.

Ama, Hannah, Katherine . . . Sammy, Patience, Janice . . . The never-ending dance of relationships and criss-crossings which took up so much space in his head. The party that never stopped, the invitations guilt-edged.

Life and death in Edinburgh. And space still left over for a few ghosts, their numbers increasing.

If I’d stuck around Fife
, he thought,
not joined the army . . . what would I be thinking now? Who would I be?

The voice in his head again – was it Jack Morton’s?
It was never going to happen. This is where you were always headed
. He looked around the room for whisky, but he was all cleaned out. Closed his eyes instead. Still that dull pain at the back of his skull.
Please, Lord, let my sleep be dreamless
.