10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (390 page)

‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ Siobhan said, glancing towards
Rebus. The look on his face had her sucking in her cheeks to stop from laughing. ‘Now, about this boy you saw, Mrs Wilkie . . .?’

They all sat down, and Mrs Wilkie told her story. She’d seen the laddie’s picture in the paper, and as she was coming back from the shops around two, caught him playing football in the street.

‘Kicking the ball against the wall of Montefiore’s Garage. There’s this low stone wall around the . . .’ She made motions with her hands. ‘What do you call it?’

‘Forecourt?’ Siobhan suggested.

‘That’s the word.’ She smiled at Siobhan. ‘I’ll bet you’re a dab hand at crosswords, brain like that.’

‘Did you say anything to the boy, Mrs Wilkie?’

‘It’s Miss Wilkie actually. I never married.’

‘Really?’ Rebus managed to put on a surprised look. Siobhan coughed into her hand, then handed some snaps of Billy Horman over to Miss Wilkie.

‘Well, these certainly look like him,’ the old woman said, sorting through the photos. She lifted one out. ‘Except for this, that is.’

Siobhan took the proffered photo, stuck it back in her folder. Rebus knew she’d sneaked in a picture of a different kid to assess how alert her witness actually was. Miss Wilkie had passed.

‘To answer your question,’ Miss Wilkie said, ‘no, I didn’t say anything. I came back here and took another look at the paper. Then I phoned the number it said to call. Spoke to a very nice young man at the police station.’

‘This was yesterday?’

‘That’s right, and I haven’t seen the laddie today.’

‘And you just saw him the once?’

Miss Wilkie nodded. ‘Playing all by himself. He looked so lonely.’ She had handed back the photos, and got up to look out of her window. ‘You notice strangers on a street like this.’

‘I’m sure not much gets past you,’ Rebus said.

‘All these cars nowadays . . . I’m surprised you found a space.’

Rebus and Siobhan looked at one another, thanked Miss Wilkie for her time, and left.

Outside, they looked to left and right. There was a garage on the corner at the far end of the street. They walked towards it.

‘What did she mean about the cars?’ Siobhan asked.

‘My guess is, there’s always someone parked outside her window. Makes it harder for her to see everything that’s going on.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Not that I speak from experience, you understand.’

But back in the cottage, Rebus had felt a sudden depression. He, too, was a watcher. All the nights he sat in his flat, lights off, watching from the window . . . As he got older, would he turn into a Miss Wilkie: the street’s nosy neighbour?

Montefiore’s Garage consisted of a single line of petrol pumps, a shop, and a double work-bay. A man in blue overalls was in one of the work-bays, his head just visible as he stood in the pit, a blue Volkswagen Polo above him. There was another, older man behind the counter in the shop. Rebus and Siobhan stopped on the pavement.

‘Might as well ask if they saw him,’ Siobhan said.

‘Suppose so,’ Rebus replied, with little enthusiasm.

‘I told you it was a wild shot.’

‘Could be a neighbourhood kid. New family moved in, hasn’t had time to make friends.’

‘It was two o’clock she saw him. He should have been at school.’

‘True,’ Rebus said. ‘She seemed so certain, didn’t she?’

‘Some people do. They want to be helpful, even if it means making up a story.’

Rebus tutted. ‘You didn’t learn cynicism like that from me.’ He looked around at the bumper-to-bumper parking. ‘I wonder . . .’

‘What?’

‘He was kicking the ball off the forecourt wall.’

‘Yes.’

‘Not much of a game if all these cars were here. Pavement’s not wide enough.’

Siobhan looked at the wall, the pavement. ‘Maybe the cars weren’t here.’

‘According to Miss Wilkie, that would be unusual.’

‘I can’t see what you’re getting at.’

Rebus pointed to the forecourt. ‘What if he was in there? Plenty of space so long as no cars are using the pumps.’

‘They’d chase him off.’ She looked at him. ‘Wouldn’t they?’

‘Let’s go ask them.’

They went to the shop first, identified themselves to the man behind the counter.

‘I’m not the owner,’ he said. ‘I’m his brother.’

‘Were you here yesterday?’

‘Been here the past ten days. Eddie and Flo are on their hols.’

‘Somewhere nice?’ Siobhan asked, making out they were just having a normal conversation.

‘Jamaica.’

‘Do you remember a young boy?’ Rebus asked. Siobhan held up one of the photographs. ‘Playing kickabout in the forecourt?’

The owner’s brother nodded. ‘Gordon’s nephew.’

Rebus tried to keep his voice level. ‘Gordon who?’

The man laughed. ‘Gordon Howe, actually.’ He spelt the name for them, and they laughed along with him.

‘Bet he gets jokes about that,’ Siobhan said, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. ‘Any idea where we could find Mr Howe?’

‘Jock will know.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘And who’s Jock?’

‘Sorry,’ the man said. ‘Jock’s the other mechanic.’

‘Under the Polo?’ Rebus asked. The man nodded.

‘So Mr Howe works for the garage?’

‘Yes, he’s a mechanic. He’s got the day off today. Well, we’re not busy, and with him looking after young Billy . . .’ He waved the picture of Billy Horman.

‘Billy?’ Siobhan said.

Sixty seconds later they were out on the forecourt again and Siobhan was using Rebus’s mobile. She got through to St Leonard’s and asked if Billy Horman had an uncle called Gordon Howe. Listening to the answer, she shook her head to let Rebus know what she was hearing. They walked towards the work-bay.

‘Could we have a word?’ Rebus called. They had their IDs ready as the mechanic called Jock crawled out from under the Polo and started wiping his hands on an impossibly oil-blackened rag.

‘What have I done?’ He had ginger hair, curling to the nape of his neck, and a long earring dangling from one ear. The backs of his hands were tattooed, and Rebus noticed he was missing the pinkie on his left hand.

‘Where can we find Gordon Howe?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Lives on Adamson Street. What’s the matter?’

‘Will he be there just now, do you think?’

‘How should I know?’

‘He’s got the day off,’ Rebus said, taking a step closer. ‘Maybe he told you how he planned to spend it?’

‘Taking Billy out.’ The mechanic’s eyes flicked from one detective to the other.

‘Billy being . . .?’

‘His sister’s kid. She’s been poorly, one-parent family and that. Billy either went into care for the duration or Gordy looked after him. Is it Billy? Has he been up to something?’

‘Do you think he’s the type?’

‘Not at all.’ The mechanic smiled. ‘Very quiet kid, actually. Didn’t want to talk about his mum . . .’

‘Didn’t want to talk about his mum,’ Siobhan repeated, as they walked up the path to the house in Adamson Street. It was a sixties-built semi in an estate on the edge of town. Council-owned for the most part. You could tell the homes that had been purchased by their tenants: replacement windows and better doors. But they all had the same grey harled walls.

‘Uncle Gordon’s orders, no doubt.’

They rang the bell and waited. Rebus thought he detected movement at an upstairs window. Took a step back to look, but couldn’t see anything.

‘Try again,’ he said, opening the letterbox while Siobhan pushed the doorbell. There was a door at the end of the corridor, half-open. He saw shadows beyond it, snapped the letterbox shut.

‘Round the back,’ he said, heading for the side of the house. As they entered the back garden, a man was disappearing over a high bark fence.

‘Mr Howe!’ Rebus shouted.

By way of response, the man called out, ‘Run for it!’ to the boy who was with him. Rebus let Siobhan climb the fence. He headed back round to the front, ran down the road, wondering where the two would appear.

Suddenly they were ahead of him. Howe was limping, clawing at one leg. The boy was off like a shot, Howe spurring him on. But when the boy looked back, saw the distance widening between himself and Howe, his pace slowed.

‘No! Keep running, Billy! Keep running!’

But the boy wasn’t listening to Howe. He came to a dead stop, waited for the man to catch up. Siobhan came into view, a rip in the knee of her trousers. Howe saw he was going nowhere and put up his hands.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right.’

He looked despairingly at Billy, who was walking back towards him.

‘Billy, will you never listen?’

As Gordon Howe dropped to his knees, Billy slid his arms around his neck, man and boy embracing.

‘I’ll tell them,’ Billy was wailing. ‘I’ll tell them it’s all right.’

Rebus looked down at them, saw the tattoos on Gordon Howe’s bare arms: No Surrender; UDA; the Red Hand of Ulster. He recalled Tom Jackson’s story:
ran off to Ulster to join the paramilitaries
. . .

‘You’ll be Billy’s dad then,’ Rebus guessed. ‘Welcome back to Scotland.’

On the way back into Edinburgh, Rebus sat in the back with Howe, while Billy sat in the front with Siobhan.

‘You read about Greenfield in the paper?’ Rebus guessed. Gordon Howe nodded. ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Eddie Mearn.’

‘How long have you been back from Northern Ireland?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Three months.’ He reached out a hand to ruffle his son’s hair. ‘I wanted Billy back.’

‘Did his mother know?’

‘That cow? It was our secret, wasn’t it, Billy?’

‘Aye, Dad,’ Billy said.

Mearn turned to Rebus. ‘I used to visit him on the quiet. If his mum had found out, she’d’ve put a stop to it. But we kept it hush-hush.’

‘Then you read about Darren Rough?’ Rebus added.

Mearn nodded. ‘Looked too good to be true. I knew if I snatched Billy, they’d just assume that wanker had him – at least for a while. Give us a chance to get settled. We were getting on fine, weren’t we, Billy?’

‘Grand,’ his son agreed.

‘Your mum’s been at her wits’ end, Billy,’ Siobhan said.

‘I hate Ray,’ Billy said, tucking his chin into his neck. Ray Heggie: Joanna Horman’s lover. ‘He hits her.’

‘Why do you think I wanted Billy out of there?’ Mearn said. ‘It’s not right for a kid to have to deal with. It’s not right.’ He bent forward to kiss the top of his son’s head. ‘We were all fixed up, though, weren’t we, Billy Boy? We’d’ve managed.’

Billy turned in his seat, tried to hug his father, the seatbelt restricting him. Looking in the rearview, Siobhan fixed her eyes on Rebus’s. Both knew what would happen: Billy would go back to Greenfield; Mearn would probably be charged. Neither officer felt especially great about it.

As they headed into central Edinburgh, Rebus asked Siobhan to make a detour along George Street. There was no sign of Janice . . .

‘You know something?’ Rebus asked Mearn.

They were in an interview room at St Leonard’s. Mearn had a cup of tea in front of him. A doctor had looked at his leg: just a sprain.

‘What?’

‘You said you knew they’d all blame Billy’s disappearance on Darren Rough, and that would give you some time to get settled.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But I can think of a better way, a plan that would mean they’d
give up
looking for Billy.’

Mearn looked interested. ‘What’s that then?’

‘If Rough was dead,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I mean, we’d look for Billy for a while, even if all we expected to find was a body hidden somewhere. But we’d call a halt eventually.’

‘I thought of that.’

Rebus sat down. ‘You did?’

Mearn was nodding. ‘You know, after I read about him being topped. I thought it was the answer to our prayers.’

Rebus was nodding. ‘And that’s why you did it?’

Mearn frowned. ‘Did what?’

‘Killed Darren Rough.’

The two men stared at one another. Then a look of horror spread across Mearn’s face. ‘N-n-no,’ he stammered. ‘No way, no way . . .’ His hands gripped the edge of the table. ‘Not me, I didn’t do it.’

‘No?’ Rebus looked surprised. ‘But you’ve got the perfect motive.’

‘Christ, I was starting a
new
life. How could I contemplate
that
if I’d topped someone?’

‘Lots of people do it, Eddie. I see them in here several times a year. I’d’ve thought it would be easy for someone with paramilitary training.’

Mearn laughed. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

‘It’s what they’re saying on the estate. When Joanna got pregnant with Billy, you ran off to join the terrorists.’

Mearn calmed down, looked around. ‘I think I want a solicitor,’ he said quietly.

‘One’s on its way,’ Rebus explained.

‘What about Billy?’

‘They’ve phoned his mum. She’s on her way too. Probably smartening herself up for the press conference.’

Mearn squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. Then: ‘Sorry, Billy.’ He was blinking back tears as he looked towards Rebus. ‘What gave us away?’

A nosy old lady and a line of parked cars, Rebus could have told him. But he hadn’t the heart.

There were cameras and microphones outside St Leonard’s; so many that the journalists were spilling on to the road. Cars and vans were sounding their horns, making it hard to hear Joanna Horman speaking of her emotional reunion with her son. No sign of Ray Heggie: Rebus wondered if she’d given him the push. And not much sign of emotion from young Billy Boy. His mother kept hugging him to her, almost smothering him as the cameramen bayed for another shot. She pockmarked his face with lipstick kisses. As she made to answer another question, Rebus noticed Billy trying to wipe his face clean.

There were civilians mixed in with the reporters: passers-by and the curious. A woman in a GAP T-shirt was trying to hand out leaflets: Van Brady. Across the road, a kid sat balanced on his bike, one hand touching a
lamp-post for support. Rebus recognised him: Van’s youngest. No leaflets; no T-shirt – Rebus wondered about that. Was the boy less easily swayed than those around him?

‘And I’d like to thank the police for all their hard work,’ Joanna Horman was saying. You’re welcome, Rebus thought to himself, pushing through the scrum and crossing the road. ‘But most of all, I’d like to thank everyone at GAP for their support.’