10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (391 page)

A loud roar of agreement went up from Van Brady . . .

‘It’s Jamie, isn’t it?’

The boy on the bike nodded. ‘And you’re the cop who came looking for Darren.’

Darren: first name only. Rebus took out a cigarette, offered one to Jamie, who shook his head. Rebus lit up, exhaled.

‘I suppose you saw Darren around a bit?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘But before then. Before the story got out.’

Jamie nodded, eyes guarded.

‘Did he ever try anything?’

Now Jamie shook his head. ‘He just said hello, that’s all.’

‘Did he hang around the playground?’

‘Not that I saw.’ He was staring at the scene across the road.

‘Looks like Billy’s the centre of attention, eh?’ Rebus got the feeling Jamie was jealous, but trying not to let it show.

‘Yeah.’

‘I bet you’re glad he’s back.’

Jamie looked at him. ‘Cal’s moved in with his mum.’

Rebus took another draw on his cigarette. ‘She’s booted Ray out then?’ Jamie nodded again.

‘And moved your brother in?’ Rebus looked impressed. ‘That’s fast work.’

Jamie just grunted. Rebus saw an opening.

‘You don’t sound too chuffed: are you going to miss him?’

Jamie shrugged. ‘Not bothered.’ But he was. His brother had moved out; his mother was busy with GAP; and now Billy Boy Horman was getting all the attention.

‘You ever see Darren with anyone? I don’t mean kids, I mean visitors.’

‘Not really.’

Rebus angled his face so Jamie had little choice but to look at him. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘Someone came looking for him.’

‘When?’

‘When all the stuff about GAP started.’

‘Friend of Darren’s?’

Another shrug. ‘He didn’t say.’

‘Well, what did he say, Jamie?’

‘Said he was looking for the guy from the newspaper. He had the paper with him.’ The paper: the story outing Darren Rough.

‘Were those his exact words: “the guy from the newspaper”?’

Jamie smiled. ‘I think he said “chap”.’

‘Chap?’

Jamie put on a posh voice. ‘“The chap who was in the newspaper.”’

‘Not a local then?’

Now Jamie let out a stuttering laugh.

‘What did he look like?’

‘Old, quite tall. He had a moustache. His hair was grey, but the moustache was black.’

‘You’d make a good detective, Jamie.’

Jamie wrinkled his nose in distaste. His mother had spotted the conversation, was making to cross the road towards them.

‘Jamie!’ she called, trying to weave between traffic.

‘What did you tell him, Jamie?’

‘I pointed to Darren’s flat. Told him I knew Darren wasn’t in.’

‘What did the man do?’

‘Gave me a fiver.’ He looked around, almost furtively. ‘I followed him back to his car.’

Rebus smiled. ‘You really would make a detective.’

Another shrug. ‘It was a big white car. I think it was a Merc.’

Rebus backed off as Van Brady reached them.

‘What’s he been saying, Jamie?’ she asked, staring daggers at Rebus. But Jamie looked at her defiantly.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

She looked at Rebus, who just shrugged. When she turned back to her son, Rebus winked at him. Jamie gave the flicker of a smile. For a few moments,
he’d
been the centre of someone’s attention.

‘I was just asking about Cal,’ Rebus told Van Brady. ‘I’ve heard he’s moving in with Joanna.’

She turned on him. ‘What’s it to you?’

He nodded towards the leaflet in her hand. ‘Got one of those for me?’

‘If you did your job right,’ she sneered, ‘we wouldn’t need GAP.’

‘What makes you think we need it anyway?’ Rebus asked her, turning to walk away.

Rebus got on the computer, and decided to cover his bets by talking to the area’s Merc dealerships. He already knew one person who drove a white Merc: the widow Margolies. Rebus tapped his pen against his desk, started calling. He got lucky with the first number he tried.

‘Oh, yes, Dr Margolies is a regular customer. He’s been buying nothing but Mercedes for donkey’s years.’

‘Sorry, I’m talking about a Mrs Margolies.’

‘Yes, his daughter-in-law. Dr Margolies bought that car, too.’

Dr Joseph Margolies . . . ‘He bought one for his son and daughter-in-law?’

‘That’s right. Last year, was it?’

‘And for himself?’

‘He likes to part-ex: keeps the model a year or two, then trades for something brand new. That way you don’t get the same scale of depreciation.’

‘So what’s he driving just now?’

The sales manager turned cautious. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Rebus said. ‘And I’ll be sure to tell him you could have saved me the trouble.’

Rebus listened to the receiver making a sighing sound. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He heard fingers on a keyboard. A pause, then: ‘An E200, purchased six months ago. Happy?’

‘As a kid on Christmas morning.’ Rebus scribbled the details down. ‘And the colour?’

Another sigh. ‘White, Inspector. Dr Margolies always buys white.’

As Rebus put down the phone, Siobhan Clarke came over. She rested against the corner of his desk.

‘Looks like someone got lazy,’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Eddie Mearn. As far as the inquiry was concerned, he was still in Northern Ireland. Someone made a phone call to Lisburn, and took it as gospel when he was told Mearn was still around.’

‘Who made the call?’

‘Roy Frazer, I’m sorry to say.’

‘It’s the only way he’ll learn.’

‘Sure, like you’ve learned from past mistakes.’

He smiled. ‘That’s why I never make the same one twice.’

She folded her arms. ‘You think Mearn had this planned all along?’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘I’d say it’s likely. Moved back
from Lisburn, maybe it’s true he didn’t tell anyone there he was leaving. Sets up a new identity for himself in Grangemouth – striking distance of Edinburgh. Why lie about who he was? Only reason I can think of is, he was going to snatch Billy. New life for both of them.’

‘Would that have been so bad?’ Siobhan asked.

‘No worse than where Billy is now,’ Rebus admitted. He looked at her. ‘Careful there, Siobhan. You’re in danger of thinking the law’s an ass. That’s only one step away from making up your own rules.’

‘The way you’ve done.’ It was statement rather than question.

‘The way I’ve done,’ Rebus was forced to agree. ‘And look where it’s got me.’

‘Where’s that?’

He tapped his sheet of notes. ‘Seeing white cars everywhere.’

A white car had been spotted the night Jim Margolies had flown from Salisbury Crags. Fair enough, Jim himself owned a white car, but according to his wife the car had stayed in the garage. He’d walked all the way to the Crags. How likely was that? Rebus didn’t know.

Another white car had been spotted in Holyrood Park around the time Darren Rough was bludgeoned to death.

And prior to this, someone in a white car had been looking for Darren.

Rebus told the story to Siobhan, and she pulled over a chair so they could work through some theories.

‘You’re thinking they’re all the same car?’ she asked.

‘All I know is, they’re in the park when two apparently unconnected deaths occur.’

She scratched her head. ‘I’m not seeing anything. Any other owners of white Mercs?’

‘You mean, have any serial killers bought or hired one lately?’ She smiled at this. ‘I’m checking,’ Rebus went on. ‘So far, the only name I have is Margolies.’ He was thinking: Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured car, a Ford Mondeo . . .

‘But there are more white Mercs than that out there?’

Rebus nodded. ‘But Jamie’s description of the man sounds awfully like Jim’s father.’

‘You saw him at the funeral?’

Rebus nodded. And at a children’s beauty show, he might have added. ‘He’s a retired doctor.’

‘Racked with grief at his son’s suicide, he decides to become a vigilante?’

‘Ridding the world of corruption to protest at the iniquity of life.’

Her smile broadened. ‘You don’t see it, do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’ He tossed his pen on to the desk. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not seeing anything at all. Which must make it time for a break.’

‘Coffee?’ she suggested.

‘I was thinking of something stronger.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘But coffee will do in the meantime.’

He went out to the car park for a cigarette, but ended up jumping into the Saab and heading down The Pleasance, across the High Street and past Waverley station. He drove west along George Street, then made an illegal turn to head back east along it. Janice was sitting on the kerb, head in her hands. People were looking at her, but no one stopped to ask if they could help. Rebus pulled up alongside and got her into the car.

‘I know he’s here,’ she kept repeating. ‘I know it.’

‘Janice, this isn’t doing either of you any good.’

Her eyes were bloodshot, looking sore from all the crying. ‘What would you know about it? Have you ever lost a child?’

‘I nearly lost Sammy.’

‘But you didn’t!’ She turned away from him. ‘You’ve never been any good, John. Christ, you couldn’t even help Mitch, and he was supposed to be your best friend. They nearly blinded him!’

She had plenty left to say, plenty of poison. He let her talk, resting his hands lightly on the steering-wheel. At one point, she tried to get out, but he pulled her back into the car.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Give me more. I’m listening to you.’

‘No!’ she spat. ‘Know why? Because so help me, I think you’re enjoying it!’ This time when she opened the door, he didn’t try to stop her. She took a left at the corner, heading down into the New Town. Rebus turned the car
again, took a right into Castle Street and a left into Young Street. Stopped outside the Oxford Bar and walked in. Doc Klasser was standing in his usual spot. The afternoon drinkers were in: most of them would clear out by five or six, when the place filled with office workers. Harry the barman saw Rebus and lifted a pint glass. Rebus shook his head.

‘A nip, Harry,’ he said. ‘Better make it a large one.’

He sat in the back room. Nobody there but the writer, the one with the big bag of books. He seemed to use the place as an office. A couple of times Rebus had asked him what books he should be reading. He’d bought the suggestions, but hadn’t read them. Today, neither man seemed in need of company. Rebus sat with his drink and his thoughts. He was thinking back over thirty years, back to the last school party. His own version of the story . . .

Mitch and Johnny had a plan. They’d join the army, see some action. Mitch had sent away for the literature, then had dropped into the Army Careers Office in Kirkcaldy. The following week, he’d taken Johnny with him. The recruiting sergeant told them jokes and stories from his time ‘in the field’. He told them they’d breeze through basic training. He had a moustache and a paunch and told them there’d be ‘shagging and boozing galore’: ‘two good-looking lads like you, it’ll be dripping out of your ears’.

Johnny Rebus hadn’t been sure what that meant exactly, but Mitch had rubbed his hands together and chuckled with the Sarge.

So that was that. All Johnny had to do was tell his dad and Janice.

His dad, it turned out, wasn’t keen. He’d done some time in the Far East in World War II. He had some photographs and a black silk scarf with the Taj Mahal sewn into it. He had a scar on his knee that wasn’t really a bullet wound, even though he said it was.

‘You don’t want that,’ Johnny’s dad said. ‘You want a
proper job.’ They kicked it back and forth between them. His dad’s final shot at goal: ‘What will Janice say?’

Janice didn’t say anything; Rebus kept putting off telling her. And then one day she learned from her mum, who’d been talking to Johnny’s dad, learned Johnny was thinking of leaving.

‘It’s not like I’m going for good,’ he argued. ‘I’ll have plenty of home visits.’

She folded her arms, the way her mother did when she had right on her side. ‘And am I supposed to just wait for you?’

‘Please yourself,’ Johnny said, kicking a stone.

‘That’s the plan,’ she said, walking off.

Later, they made it up. He went to her house, went up to her bedroom with her: it was the only place they could talk. Her mum brought up juice and biscuits; gave them ten minutes then came up again to check they didn’t need anything. Johnny said he was sorry.

‘Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?’ Janice asked.

He shrugged. He wasn’t sure. Who did he want to let down: Janice or Mitch?

By the night of the dance, he’d made his mind up. Mitch could go alone. Johnny would stay behind, get a job of some kind and marry Janice. It wouldn’t be a bad life. Plenty before him had done the same thing. He would tell Janice, tell her at the dance. And Mitch too, of course.

But first they had a drink. Mitch had got some bottles and an opener. They sneaked into the churchyard next to the school, drank a couple each, lay there in the grass, the headstones rising all around them. And it felt good, felt comfortable. Johnny swallowed back his confession. It could wait; he couldn’t spoil this moment. It was like their whole lives had been sorted out, and everything was going to be fine. Mitch talked about the countries they’d visit, the things they’d see and do.

‘And they’ll all be gutted, just you wait.’ Meaning
everyone who stayed in Bowhill, all their friends who were going off to college or down the pit or into the dockyard. ‘We’ll see the whole fucking world, Johnny. And all they’ll ever see is this place.’ And Mitch stretched his arms out until his fingertips brushed the rough surfaces of two headstones. ‘All they’ll ever have to look forward to is this . . .’

They were untouchable as they marched into the playground. A teacher and the deputy head were on the door, collecting tickets.

‘I smell beer,’ the deputy head said, catching them off guard. Then he winked. ‘You might have saved one for me.’

Johnny and Mitch were laughing, all grown-up now, as they walked into the assembly hall. There was music playing, people up dancing. Soft drinks and sandwiches on trellis tables in the dining hall. Chairs around the perimeter of the assembly hall; huddles of conversation, eyes darting everywhere. It felt – just for a moment – as if everyone was looking at the new arrivals . . . looking at them,
envying
them. Mitch slapped Johnny’s arm, headed towards his girlfriend Myra. Johnny knew he’d tell him at the end of the dance.