Dead Souls (12 page)

He’ll do it again
. Rebus was thinking of Darren Rough, but of Cary Oakes too. He checked his own watch. Soon Oakes would be touching down at Turnhouse. Soon he’d be a problem …

‘Sorry I can’t be more help about your MisPer,’ she said, beginning to stand. ‘Is it someone you know?’

‘Son of some friends.’ She was nodding. ‘How did you know?’

‘No offence, John, but you probably wouldn’t be bothering otherwise.’ She lifted up her briefcase. ‘He’s one out of quarter of a million. Who’s got the time?’

There were reporters waiting inside the terminal building. Most carried mobile phones with which they kept in touch with the office. Photographers chatted to each other about lenses and film speeds and the impact digital cameras would eventually have. There were three TV crews: Scottish, BBC and Edinburgh Live. Everyone seemed to know everyone else; they were all pretty relaxed, maybe even looking a bit tired by the wait.

The flight was subject to a twenty-minute delay.

Rebus knew the reason why. The reason was that the Met officers at Heathrow had taken their time transferring Cary Oakes. Oakes had spent over an hour in Heathrow. He’d visited the toilet, had a drink in one of the bars, bought a newspaper and a couple of magazines, and taken a telephone call.

The telephone call had intrigued Rebus.

‘He was paged,’ the Farmer had informed him. ‘Someone got a call through to him.’

‘Who would that be?’

The Farmer had shaken his head.

Now Oakes was bound for Edinburgh. Detectives had accompanied him on to the flight, then had left again, keeping their eyes on the plane right up until it left London air space. Then they’d called their colleagues at Lothian and Borders HQ.

‘He’s all yours,’ was the message.

The ACC (Crime) was putting the Farmer in charge. The Farmer didn’t usually stray from his office: he was happy to delegate; trusted his team. But tonight … tonight was
a bit special. So he was seated alongside Rebus in the squad car. DC Siobhan Clarke sat in the back. It was a marked car: they wanted Oakes to know about it. Rebus had been out to recce the scene, reporting back with news of the journos.

‘Anyone we know?’ Clarke asked.

‘Usual faces,’ Rebus said, accepting another piece of chewing gum from her. This was the bargain they’d made: he wouldn’t smoke so long as she bought the gum. His reconnaissance had been an excuse for a ciggie.

The dashboard clock said the plane would be touching down any minute. They heard it before they saw it: a dull whine, lights flashing in the dark sky. They had one window down, stopping the car from steaming up.

‘Could be the one,’ the Farmer stated.

‘Could be.’

Siobhan Clarke had all the paperwork beside her; she’d been doing her reading on Cary Dennis Oakes. She wasn’t sure that they were serving any purpose here other than curiosity. Still, she
was
curious.

‘Shouldn’t take long,’ she said.

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Rebus said, opening his door again. He was digging in his pocket for a cigarette as he made towards the terminal doors.

He circumvented the huddle of pressmen and made for a No Entry sign. Showing his ID, he made his way towards the arrivals hall. He’d already had a word, and Customs and Immigration were waiting for him. He knew what happened with international transfers: there were no checks at Heathrow. Often, there were no checks at Edinburgh either: it depended on staff rotas; the cutbacks had bitten hard. But there’d be the full panoply of checks tonight. Rebus watched as the passengers from the Heathrow flight filtered into the terminal and began the wait for baggage. Businessmen mostly, carrying briefcases and newspapers. Half the flight carried hand-luggage
only. They made their way briskly through Customs, cars waiting in the car park, families waiting at home.

Then there was the man wearing casual clothes: denims and trainers, red and black check shirt, white baseball cap. He carried a sports holdall. It didn’t look particularly full. Rebus nodded to the Customs officer, who stepped out and stopped the man, bringing him over to the counter.

‘Passport, please,’ the Immigration officer said.

The man dug into his shirt-breast pocket and produced a new-looking passport. It had been applied for over a month back, when the Americans had known they’d be freeing him. The Immigration officer flipped through it, finding little but empty pages.

‘Where are you travelling from, sir?’

Cary Oakes’s eyes were on the man in the background, the man who’d arranged all this.

‘United States,’ he said. His voice was an odd mix of transatlantic inflexions.

‘And what were you doing there, sir?’

Oakes smirked. He had the face of a weathered schoolboy, the classroom joker. ‘Passing time,’ he said.

The Customs officer had decanted the contents of his bag on to the counter. Washbag, change of clothes, a couple of razzle mags. A manila folder was full of drawings and photos clipped from magazines. They looked like they’d been pinned to a wall for a long time. There was a good luck card, too, telling him to ‘fly high and straight’ and signed by ‘your buddies on the wing’. Another folder contained trial notes and newspaper court reports. There were two paperback books, one a Bible, the other a dictionary. Both looked well-used.

‘Travel light, that’s my motto,’ Oakes informed them.

The Customs officer looked to Rebus, who nodded, keeping his stare fixed on Oakes. Everything was put back into the bag.

‘This is actually pretty low-key,’ Oakes said. ‘And don’t
think I don’t appreciate it. Quiet life’s going to suit me for a while.’ He was nodding to himself.

‘Don’t plan on sticking around,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Officer.’ Oakes thrust out a hand. Rebus saw that the back of it was dotted with ink tattoos: initials, crosses, a heart. After a moment, Oakes withdrew the hand, laughing to himself. ‘Not so easy to make new friends, I guess,’ he mused. ‘I’ve lost the old social skills.’

The Customs officer was zipping the holdall. Oakes grabbed its handles.

‘Now, gentlemen, if you’ve had your fun …?’

‘Where are you headed?’ the Immigration man asked.

‘A nice hotel in the city. Hotels for me from now on. They wanted to put me in some palace out in the country, but I said no, I want lights and action. I want some
buzz
.’ He laughed again.

‘Who’s they?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking.

Oakes just grinned and winked. ‘You’ll find out, partner. Won’t even have to do much detecting.’ He hefted the bag and slung it over his shoulder, whistling as he walked away, joining the throng headed for the exit.

Rebus followed. The reporters outside were getting their photos and footage, even if Oakes had slid the baseball cap down over his face. Questions were hurled at him. And then an overweight man was pushing his way through, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Rebus recognised him: Jim Stevens. He worked for one of the Glasgow tabloids. He grabbed Oakes by the arm and said something into his ear. They shook hands, and then Stevens was in charge, manoeuvring Oakes through the huddle, proprietorial hand on his shoulder.

‘Oh, Jim, for Christ’s sake,’ one of the other reporters cried.

‘No comment,’ Stevens said, the cigarette flapping at one corner of his mouth. ‘But you can read our exclusive serialisation, starting tomorrow.’

And with a final wave, he was through the doors and off. Rebus made for another exit, got into the car beside the Farmer.

‘Looks like he’s made a friend,’ Siobhan Clarke commented, watching Stevens put Oakes’s bag into the boot of a Vauxhall Astra.

‘Jim Stevens,’ Rebus told her. ‘He works out of Glasgow.’

‘And Oakes is now his property?’ she guessed.

‘So it would seem. I think they’re heading into town.’

The Farmer slapped the dashboard. ‘Should have guessed one of the papers would nab him.’

‘They won’t hang on to him forever. Soon as the story’s done …’

‘But till then, they’ve got their lawyers.’ The Farmer turned to Rebus. ‘So we can’t do
anything
that could be construed as harassment.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ Rebus said, starting the engine. He turned to the Farmer. ‘So do we head home now?’

The Farmer nodded. ‘Just as soon as we’ve tailed them. Let Stevens know the score.’

‘There’s a cop car after us,’ Cary Oakes warned.

Jim Stevens reached for the cigarette lighter. ‘I know.’

‘Welcoming committee at the airport, too.’

‘He’s called Rebus.’

‘Who is?’

‘Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’ve had a few run-ins with him. What did he say to you?’

Oakes shrugged. ‘Just stood there trying to look mean. Guys I met in prison, they’d have given him a nervous breakdown.’

Stevens smiled. ‘Save it till the recorder’s running.’

Oakes had the passenger-side window open all the way, angling his head into the fierce cold air.

‘Does smoking bother you?’ Stevens said.

‘No.’ Oakes moved his head to and fro, as if under a hair dryer. ‘Clever of you to have me paged at Heathrow.’

‘I wanted to be the first to make you an offer.’

‘Ten grand, right?’

‘I think we can manage ten.’

‘Exclusive rights?’

‘Got to be, for that price.’

Oakes brought his head back into the car. ‘I’m not sure how good I’ll be.’

‘You’ll be fine. You’re a Scot, aren’t you? We’re born storytellers.’

‘I guess Edinburgh’s changed.’

‘You’ve been away a while.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Do you still know anyone here?’

‘I can think of a couple of names.’ Oakes smiled. ‘Jim Stevens, John Rebus. That’s two, and I’ve only been in the country half an hour.’ Jim Stevens started to laugh. Oakes rolled the window back up, leaned down to switch off the music. Turned in his seat so Stevens had his full attention. ‘So tell me about Rebus. I’d like to get to know him.’

‘Why?’

Oakes’s eyes never left the reporter’s. ‘Someone takes an interest in me,’ he said, ‘I take an interest back.’

‘Does that put me in the frame too?’

‘You never know your luck, Jim. You just never know your luck.’

Stevens had wanted Oakes out of Edinburgh. He’d wanted him in seclusion for as long as it took to do the interviews. But Oakes had told him on the phone: it has to be Edinburgh. It just has to be. So Edinburgh it was; a discreet hotel in a New Town terrace. Stevens had to smile at ‘New Town’: everywhere else in Scotland, it meant the likes of Glenrothes and Livingston, places built from nothing in the fifties and sixties. But in Edinburgh, the New Town dated back to the eighteenth century. That
was about as new as the city liked things. The hotel would have been a private residence at one time, spread over four floors. Understated elegance; a quiet street. Oakes took one look at it and decided it wouldn’t do. He didn’t say why, just stood on the steps outside, taking in the air, while Stevens made a couple of frantic calls on his mobile.

‘It would help if I knew what you wanted.’

Oakes just shrugged. ‘I’ll know when I see it.’ He waved a little wave towards where the police car had parked, its lights still on.

‘Right,’ Stevens said at last. ‘Back in the motor.’

They headed down Leith Walk, towards the port of Leith itself.

‘This still a rough part of town?’ Oakes said.

‘It’s changing. New developments, Scottish Office. New restaurants and a couple of hotels.’

‘But it’s still Leith, right?’

Stevens nodded. ‘Still Leith,’ he conceded. But when they hit the waterfront and Oakes saw their hotel, he started nodding straight away.

‘Atmosphere,’ he said, looking out across the docks. There was a container ship tied up there, arc lights on as men worked around it. A couple of pubs, both with restaurants attached. Across the basin was a permanent mooring, a boat which had become a floating nightclub. New flats being built across there too.

‘Scottish Office is just down there,’ Stevens said, pointing.

‘How long do you think they’ll keep this up?’ Oakes asked, watching the police car come to a stop.

‘Not long. If they try it on, I’ll phone our lawyers. I need to call them anyway, get your contract sorted.’

‘Contract.’ Oakes tried out the word. ‘Long time since I’ve had a job.’

‘Just talking into a microphone, posing for a few pictures.’

Oakes turned to him. ‘For ten thou, I’ll do re-enactments for you.’

Some of the colour slid from Stevens’ face. Oakes was watching him intently, measuring the reaction.

‘That probably won’t be necessary,’ Stevens said.

Oakes laughed, liking that ‘probably’.

Inside the hotel, he approved of his room. Stevens couldn’t get one next door, had to settle for down the hall. Stuck the rooms on plastic and said they’d need them for a few days. He found Oakes lying on the bed in his room, shoes still on, holdall on the bed beside him. He’d taken one item from it: a battered Bible. It lay on the bedside table. Nice touch: Stevens would use it in his intro.

‘You a religious man, Jim?’ Oakes asked.

‘Not especially.’

‘Shame on you. Bible’ll teach you a lot of things. I got my first taste in prison. Time was, I’d no time for the Good Book.’

‘Did you go to church?’

Oakes nodded, seeming distracted. ‘We had Sunday service in the jail. I was a regular.’ He looked to Stevens. ‘I’m not a prisoner, right? I mean, I can come and go?’

‘Last thing I want is for you to feel like a prisoner.’

‘Makes two of us.’

‘But there are a few rules, so long as
I’m
paying your way. If you go out, I want to know. In fact, I’d like to tag along.’

‘Afraid the competition will hook me?’

‘Something like that.’

Oakes turned his head, grinned. ‘Supposing I want a woman? You going to be sitting in the corner while I hump her?’

‘Listening at the door will be fine,’ Stevens said.

Oakes laughed, wriggled on the mattress. ‘Softest bed I ever had. Smells nice too.’ He lay a moment longer, then swung swiftly to his feet. Stevens was surprised at the turn of speed.