Dead Souls (8 page)

Who was he to disagree?

Four years before, Jim Margolies had been passing through St Leonard’s, seconded to help with a staff shortfall. Three of the CID were down with flu, and another was in hospital for a minor op. Margolies, whose usual beat was Leith, came highly recommended, which made his new colleagues wary. Sometimes a recommendation was made so a station could offload dead weight elsewhere. But Margolies had proved himself quickly, handling a paedophile inquiry with dedication and tact. Two boys had been interfered with on The Meadows during, of all things, a children’s festival. Darren Rough was already in police files. At twelve, he’d interfered with a neighbour’s son, aged six at the time. He’d had counselling, and spent time in a children’s home. At fifteen, he’d been caught peeping in at windows at the student residences in Pollock Halls. More counselling. Another mark in his police file.

The schoolboys’ description of their attacker had taken police to the house Rough shared with his father. At nine in the morning, the father was drunk at the kitchen table. The mother had died the previous summer, which looked to be the last time the house had been cleaned. Soiled clothes and mouldy dishes were everywhere. It looked like nothing ever got thrown out: burst and rotting binbags stood inside the kitchen door; mail was piled high in a corner of the front hall, where damp had turned it into a single sodden mass. In Darren Rough’s bedroom, Jim Margolies found clothing catalogues, crude penned additions made to the child models. There were collections of
teen magazines under the bed, stories about – and pictures of – teenage girls and boys. And best of all from the police point of view, tucked under a corner of rotting carpet was Darren’s ‘Fantasy League’, detailing his sexual proclivities and wish lists, with his Meadows exploit dated and signed.

For all of which the Procurator Fiscal was duly grateful. Darren Rough, by now twenty years old, was found guilty and sent to jail. A crate of beer was opened at St Leonard’s, and Jim Margolies sat at the top of the table.

Rebus was there, too. He’d been part of the shift team interviewing Rough. He’d spent enough time with the prisoner to know that they were doing the right thing locking him up.

‘Not that it ever helps with those bastards,’ DI Alistair Flower had said. ‘Reoffend as soon as they’re out.’

‘You’re suggesting treatment replaces incarceration?’ Margolies had asked.

‘I’m suggesting we throw away the fucking key!’ To which there had been cheers of agreement. Siobhan Clarke had been too canny to add her own view, but Rebus knew what she’d been thinking. Nothing was said of the complaint Rough had made. Bruising to his face and body: he’d told his solicitor Jim Margolies had given him a beating. No witnesses. Self-inflicted was the consensus. Rebus knew he’d felt like giving Rough a couple of slaps himself, but Margolies had no history of aggression against suspects.

There’d been an internal inquiry. Margolies had denied the accusation. A medical examination had been unable to determine whether Rough’s bruises were self-inflicted. And that’s where it had ended, with the faintest of blots on Margolies’ record, the faintest doubt hanging over the rest of his career.

Rebus closed the case file and walked back to the vault with it.

Mairie:
I think something’s gone bad inside you
.

Rough’s social worker:
Your lot wanted him here
.

Rebus went to the Farmer’s office, knocked on the door, entered when told.

‘What can I do for you, John?’

‘I had a word with Darren Rough’s social worker, sir.’

The Farmer looked up from his paperwork. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Just wanted to know why Rough had been given a flat with a view of a kiddies’ playground.’

‘I bet they loved you for that.’ Not sounding disapproving. Social workers rated only a rung or two above paedophiles on the Farmer’s moral stepladder.

‘They told me that we wanted him here in the first place.’

The Farmer’s face furrowed. ‘Meaning what?’

‘They suggested I ask you.’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘
We
wanted him here?’

‘That’s what they said.’

‘Meaning Edinburgh?’

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve just been through the file on Rough. He was in a children’s home for a while.’

‘Not Shiellion?’ The Farmer was looking interested.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Callstone House, other side of the city. Just for a short spell. Both parents were alcoholic, neglecting him. There was nowhere else for him to go.’

‘What happened?’

‘Mother dried out, Rough went back home. Then, later on, she was diagnosed with liver disease, only nobody bothered moving Rough.’

‘Why?’

‘Because by that time, he was looking after his father.’

The Farmer looked towards his collection of family snaps. ‘The way some people live …’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus agreed.

‘So where’s this leading?’

‘Only this: Rough comes back to Edinburgh, apparently
because we want him here. Next thing, the officer who put him away ends up walking off Salisbury Crags.’

‘You’re not suggesting a connection?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Jim goes out to dinner at some friends’ with his wife and kid. Drives home. Goes to bed. Next morning he’s dead. I’m looking for reasons why Jim Margolies would take his own life. Thing is, I’m not finding any. And I’m also wondering who’d want Darren Rough back here and why.’

The Farmer was thoughtful. ‘You want me to talk to Social Work?’

‘They wouldn’t talk to me.’

The Farmer reached for paper and a pen. ‘Give me a name.’

‘Andy Davies is Rough’s social worker.’

The Farmer underlined the words. ‘Leave it with me, John.’

‘Yes, sir. Meantime, I’d like to take a look at Jim’s suicide.’

‘Mind if I ask why?’

‘To see if it
does
tie in with Rough.’ And maybe, he could have added, to satisfy his own curiosity.

The Farmer nodded. ‘On the subject of Shiellion … when do you give evidence?’

‘Tomorrow, sir.’

‘Got your spiel rehearsed?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Remember the secret of a good court appearance, John.’

‘Presentation, sir?’

The Farmer shook his head. ‘Make sure you take plenty of reading matter with you.’

That evening, on his way home, he dropped in to see his daughter. Sammy had moved out of her first-floor colony flat into a newish ground-floor flat in a brick-built block off Newhaven Road.

‘Downhill all the way to the coast,’ she’d told her father. ‘And you should see this thing with the brakes off.’

Referring to her wheelchair. Rebus had wanted to put his hand in his pocket for a motorised one, but she’d waved away the offer.

‘I’m building up my muscles,’ she’d said. ‘And besides, I won’t be in this thing for long.’

Perhaps not, but the road back to full mobility was proving hard going. She was receiving physio only twice a week, spending the rest of her time concentrating on home exercises. It was as if the accident had affected both her spine and her legs.

‘My brain tells them what to do, but they don’t always listen.’

There was a little wooden ramp at the main door to her block. A friend of a friend had constructed it for her. One of the bedrooms in the flat had been turned into a makeshift gym, a large mirror placed against one wall, and parallel bars taking up most of the available space. The doorways were narrow, but Sammy had proved adept at manoeuvring her wheelchair in and out without grazing knuckles or elbows.

When Rebus arrived, Ned Farlowe opened the door. He had a job subbing for one of the local freesheets. The hours were short, which gave him time to help Sammy with her workouts. The two men still didn’t trust one another – did fathers ever really come to trust the men who were sleeping with their daughters? – but Ned seemed to be doing his damnedest for Sammy.

‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘She’s working out. Fancy a cuppa?’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’m just making some dinner.’ Ned was already retreating to the long, narrow kitchen. Rebus knew he’d only be in the way.

‘I’ll just go and …’

‘Fine.’

The smells from the kitchen were like those in the
Engine Shed: aromatic and vegetarian. Rebus walked down the hall, noting graze-marks on the walls where the wheelchair had connected. Music was coming from the spare bedroom, a disco beat. Sammy was lying on the floor in her black leotard and tights, trying to get her legs to do things. Her face was flushed with effort, hair matted to her forehead. When she saw her father, she rested her head against the floor.

‘Turn that thing off, will you?’ she said.

‘I could just watch.’

But she shook her head. She didn’t like him watching her at work. This was
her
fight, a private battle with her own body. Rebus switched off the tape machine.

‘Recognise it?’ she asked.

‘Chic, “Le Freak”. I went to enough bad discos in the seventies.’

‘I can’t imagine you in flares.’

‘Distress flares.’

She had pushed herself up to sitting. He made just the one step forward to help her, knowing if he got any closer she’d shoo him away.

‘How’s your claim for disability going?’

She rolled her eyes, reached a hand out for a towel, starting wiping her face. ‘I thought I knew all about bureaucracy. Thing is, I’m going to get better.’

‘Sure.’

‘So there are all kinds of complications. Plus my job at SWEEP’s still open.’

‘But the office is three floors up.’ He sat on the floor beside her.

‘I can work from home.’

‘Really?’

‘Only I don’t want to. I don’t want to become dependent on just these four walls.’

Rebus nodded. ‘If there’s anything you need …’

‘Got any disco tapes?’

He smiled. ‘I was more Rory Gallagher and John Martyn.’

‘Well, nobody’s perfect,’ she said, wrapping the towel around her neck. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Patience?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘I talk to her on the phone.’

‘Oh?’

‘She says I speak to her more than you do.’

‘I don’t think that’s true.’

‘Don’t you?’

Rebus looked at his daughter. Had she always had this edge to her? Was it something to do with the accident?

‘We get along fine,’ he said.

‘On whose terms?’

He stood up. ‘I think your dinner’s nearly ready. Want me to help you into the chair?’

‘Ned likes to do it.’

He nodded slowly.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I’m a policeman. Usually
we
ask the questions.’

She draped the towel over her head. ‘Is it because of me?’

‘What?’

‘Ever since …’ She looked down at her legs. ‘It’s like you blame yourself.’

‘It was an accident.’ He wasn’t looking at her.

‘It pushed the two of you back together. Do you see what I’m saying?’

‘You’re saying I’m busy blaming myself for your accident, while you’re busy blaming yourself for Patience and me.’ He glanced towards her. ‘Does that just about sum it up?’

She smiled. ‘Stay and have something to eat.’

‘Don’t you think I should head home to Patience?’

She lifted the towel from her eyes. ‘Is that where you’re going?’

‘Where else?’ He gave her a wave as he left the room.

Being down Newhaven Road, he stopped off at a couple of waterfront bars, a pint in one, nip of whisky in the other. Plenty of water in the whisky. It was dark, but he could see streetlights across the Forth in Fife. He thought of Janice and Brian Mee, who had never left their home town. He wondered how he’d have turned out if he’d stayed. He thought again of Alec Chisholm, the boy who had never been found. They’d scoured the countryside, sent men down into disused coal-shafts, dredged the river. A long hot summer, the Beatles and the Stones on the café jukebox, ice-cold bottles of Coke from the machine. Glass coffee cups topped with frothed milk. And questions about Alec, questions which showed that none of them had ever really known him, not deep down, not the way they thought they knew each other. And Alec’s parents and grandparents, walking the streets late at night, stopping to ask strangers the same thing: have you seen our boy? Until the strangers became acquaintances, and they ran out of people to stop.

Now Damon Mee had stepped away from the world, or had been yanked out of it by some irresistible force. Rebus got back in his car and drove along the coast, came up on to the Forth Bridge, and headed into Fife. He tried telling himself he wasn’t escaping – from Sammy’s words and Patience and Edinburgh, from all the ghosts. From thoughts of paedophiles and suicide leaps.

When he got to Cardenden, he slowed the car, finally coming to a stop on the main drag. There seemed to be flyers in every shop window: Damon’s picture and the
word MISSING. There were more taped to lamp-posts and the bus shelter. Rebus started the car again and headed for Janice’s house. But there was no one at home. A neighbour supplied the information Rebus needed, information which sent him straight back to Edinburgh and Rose Street, where he found Janice and Brian sticking more flyers on to lamp-posts and walls, pushing them through letterboxes. Photocopied sheets of A4. Holiday photo of Damon, and handwritten plea: DAMON MEE IS MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? Physical description, including the clothes he’d been wearing, and the Mees’ telephone number.

‘We’ve covered the pubs,’ Brian Mee said. He looked tired, eyes dark, face unshaven. The roll of sellotape he held was nearly finished. Janice leaned against a wall. Looking at the pair of them was far from like stepping into the past – present worries had scarred them.

‘The one place they don’t want to know,’ Janice said, ‘is that club.’

‘Gaitano’s?’

She nodded. ‘Bouncers wouldn’t let us in. Wouldn’t even take flyers from us. I stuck one on the door but they took it down.’ She was almost in tears. Rebus looked back along the street towards the flashing neon sign above Gaitano’s.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the magic word this time.’

And when he got to the door, he flashed his ID and said, ‘Police.’ The three were ushered inside while someone got on the phone to Charmer Mackenzie. Rebus looked to Janice and winked.