Set in Darkness (39 page)

‘What’s the boss up to?’ Hood asked Reagan.

Slitting his eyes against the rain, Reagan peered back towards his office, its lit windows like beacons of warmth and shelter against the darkening afternoon. ‘Setting up the command post, that’s what he told me.’

Hood and Wylie exchanged a look. ‘And did that involve a kettle and a seat by the heater?’ Wylie asked.

Reagan laughed.

‘He said shifts,’ Siobhan reminded them. ‘You’ll get your turn.’ All the same, she wished they’d find some files or something, so she, too, would have an excuse to visit the Portakabin.

‘I knock off at five,’ Reagan said. ‘No point staying here in the dark.’

‘Any lamps we could use?’ Siobhan asked. Wylie and Hood looked disappointed: a five o’clock homer sounded good to them. Reagan was looking doubtful, but for different reasons.

‘We’d lock up after us,’ Siobhan reassured him. ‘Set the alarms or whatever.’

‘I’m not sure my insurance company would be happy.’

‘When are they ever?’

He laughed again, rubbed his head. ‘I could stick around till six, I suppose.’

She nodded. ‘Six it is then.’

Soon afterwards, they started finding the box-files. Reagan had produced a wheelbarrow, with the folded-up sheet of polythene covering its base. They loaded the files into the barrow, and Siobhan wheeled it towards the
office. She pushed open the door and saw that Rebus was just finishing clearing one of the room’s two desks. He’d piled all the stuff on the floor in a corner.

‘Reagan said we could use this one,’ he told her. He pointed to a door. ‘There’s a chemical toilet through there. Plus sink and kettle. Boil the water before you drink it.’ She noticed there was a mug of coffee on the chair by Rebus.

‘I think we could all do with a cup,’ she said. She found a socket and plugged in her mobile phone, letting it charge while she filled the kettle and switched it on. Rebus went outside and started bringing the box-files in.

‘It’s getting pretty dark,’ she said.

‘How are you coping?’

‘There’s a light inside the garage. That’s pretty much it. Mr Reagan says he can stay till six.’

Rebus checked his watch. ‘So be it.’

‘Just one thing,’ she reminded him, ‘this is the Grieve case we’re working on now, right?’

He looked at her. ‘We can probably swing overtime, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Might help pay for the Christmas shopping . . . if I ever get time to do any.’

‘Christmas?’

‘You know, festive time of year, coming up fast.’

He looked at her. ‘You can just switch off like that?’

‘I don’t think you have to be obsessed to make a good detective.’

He went back outside, gathered more files into his arms. In the distance, he could see the three figures working in the mist – Wylie, Hood, Reagan – while their shadows danced on the pitted surface of the compound. The scene seemed timeless to him. Humans had been working like this, moving things in sub-zero gloom, for thousands of years. And to what end? So much of the past simply disappeared. But it was their job to make sure past crimes did not go unpunished, whether they be committed the
day before or two decades before. Not because justice or the lawmakers demanded it, but for all the silent victims, the haunted souls. And for their own satisfaction, too. Because in trapping the guilty, they atoned for their own sins of commission and omission. How in God’s name could you switch that all off for the sake of swapping some presents . . . ?

Siobhan came out to help, broke the spell. She cupped hands to her mouth and called out that she was making coffee. Cheers and clapping. The scene no longer timeless but discrete, the figures turned into personalities. Reagan thumping his gloved hands together, bouncing on his toes, glad to be part of this adventure: something to stave off the daily loneliness of his job. Hood whooping, but not breaking stride as he moved chairs from one unit to the other: the work ethic strong in him. Wylie raising her hand, announcing that she took two sugars: making sure she got what she wanted.

‘Strange job, isn’t it?’ Siobhan commented.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. But she meant Reagan’s.

‘Every day stuck out here on your own, all these concrete boxes full of secrets and other people’s stuff. Aren’t you curious what else we’d find if we opened a few doors?’

Rebus smiled. ‘Why do you think he’s so keen to help out?’

‘Because he’s a generous soul?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Or he doesn’t want us snooping.’ She looked at him. ‘Reason I was indoors so long, I thought I’d take a look at his client list.’

‘And?’

‘Couple of names I recognised: fences who live in Pilton and Muirhouse.’

‘Just along the road.’ Rebus nodded. ‘No way we can search without a warrant.’

‘All the same, a useful piece of ammo should Mr Reagan start proving uncooperative.’ He glanced at her. ‘And
something to bear in mind next time we pull either of them in on a charge: no point getting a search warrant for a flat in Muirhouse when the stuff’s sitting in self-storage.’

They took a break, huddling in the office. Four of them: Hood said he wanted to keep going; Wylie could take his coffee out to him when she’d finished hers.

‘Boy wouldn’t go down well with the unions,’ was Reagan’s comment.

The heater was Calor gas, all three elements lit. Not much insulation in the cabin. The long narrow window to the front wore a film of condensation, with occasional beads breaking free to trickle downwards, gathering on the sill. There was one overhead bulb, and a desk lamp. The room was fuggy and yellow-bathed. Reagan accepted a cigarette from Rebus, the two men forming a huddle while the non-smoking women edged away.

‘New Year resolution,’ Reagan said, examining the tip of the cigarette. ‘I’m giving them up.’

‘Reckon you’ll make it?’

The man shrugged. ‘Might do, all the practice I get – two or three times a year I try calling a halt.’

‘Practice makes perfect,’ Rebus admitted.

‘How long do you reckon this’ll all take?’ Reagan asked.

‘We appreciate your cooperation, sir.’ Said in the voice of someone who had suddenly become an official, all cigarette-sharing
bonhomie
erased. Reagan got the point: this policeman could make a nuisance of himself given the motivation. Then the door flew open and Grant Hood staggered in. He was carrying a computer screen and keyboard, pushed his way past them and dropped it on to the cleared desk.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, getting his breath.

‘Looks ancient,’ Siobhan commented.

‘Not much use without the hard drive,’ Ellen Wylie added.

Hood grinned. It was the answer he’d been waiting for. He reached beneath his coat, to where something was
tucked into his waistband. ‘Hard disks like we have weren’t around back then. Slot on the side is for floppies.’ He pulled out half a dozen cardboard squares, circular holes in them like old novelty records. ‘Nine-inch floppies,’ he said, waving them in front of him. With his free hand, he patted the keyboard. ‘Probably a DOS-based WP package. Which, if that doesn’t say much to any of you, means I’m going to be stuck in here.’ He put down the floppies and rubbed his hands in front of the flames. ‘While you lot are out there seeing if you can find any more disks.’

By the end of play, they’d emptied half the garage, and a lot of what was left looked like furniture. Rebus took three box-files away with him, thinking he’d make an evening of it at St Leonard’s. The station was quiet. This time of year, pickpockets and shoplifting were the major concerns: crowds in the Princes Street stores, wallets and purses bulging. You got muggings at cash machines, too. And depression: some said it was the short bursts of daylight and longer stretches of dark. People drank themselves angry, drank until they unravelled. Bust-ups, windows smashed – bus shelters; phone boxes; shops and pubs. They took knives to their loved ones, slashed at their own wrists. SAD: Seasonal Affective Disorder.

More work for Rebus and his colleagues. More work for the A&E departments, the social workers, the courts and prisons. Paperwork mounting as the Christmas cards started to arrive. Rebus had long since given up writing cards, but people persisted in sending them to him: family, colleagues, a few of his drinking cronies.

Father Conor Leary always sent one. But Leary was still convalescing, and Rebus hadn’t been to see him for a while. Hospital beds reminded him of his daughter Sammy, unconscious after the hit-and-run which had put her in a wheelchair. In Rebus’s experience, Christmas was about sham get-togethers, about pretending that all was
well with the world. A celebration of one man’s birth, carried out with tinsel and trappings, and conducted in a haze of white lies and alcohol.

Or maybe it was just him.

There was no sense of urgency as he studied each page from the box. He kept taking coffee and cigarette breaks, stepping outside, lighting up in the car park at the rear of the station. Business correspondence: deadly dull. Newspaper clippings: commercial properties for sale and rent, some of them circled, some with double question marks in the margin. Once Rebus had identified Freddy Hastings’ handwriting, he was able to tell that it was a one-man operation, no other hand at work. No secretary. And where did Alasdair Grieve fit in? Meetings: Alasdair was always mentioned at the meetings; business lunches. Maybe he was a meeter and greeter, his surname lending a certain something to the operation. Cammo’s brother, Lorna’s brother, Alicia’s son – someone prospective clients would want to dine with.

Back inside to warm his feet and dig into the box, retrieving another batch of documents. And then another cup of coffee, a wander downstairs to talk to the night shift in the Comms Room. Break-ins, fist fights, family quarrels. Cars stolen, vandalised. Burglar alarms tripped. A missing person reported. A patient who’d absconded from his hospital ward, dressed only in pyjamas. Car smashes: black ice on the roads. One alleged rape; one serious assault.

‘Quiet night,’ the duty officer said.

Camaraderie on the night shift. One officer shared his sandwich snack with Rebus. ‘I always seem to make one more than I need.’ Salami and lettuce on wholemeal bread. A carton of orange juice if Rebus wanted one, but he shook his head.

‘This is fine,’ he said.

Back at his desk, he jotted notes based on his findings, flagging some of the pages by dint of fixing Post-it notes to
them. Looked at the office clock and saw it was almost midnight. Reached into his pocket and checked his cigarette packet: just the one left. That decided it. He locked the files in a drawer, put his coat on, and headed out. Cut through to Nicolson Street. There were all-night shops there, three or four of them. Cigarettes and a snack on his shopping list; maybe something for tomorrow’s breakfast. The street was noisy. A group of teenagers screaming for a non-existent taxi; people weaving home, cartons of carry-out food held close to them, faces bathing in steam. Underfoot: greasy wrappings, dropped gobbets of tomato and onion, squashed chips. An ambulance sped past, blue light flashing but sirenless, eerily silent amidst the street’s cacophony. Conversations turned high decibel by drink. And older groups, too, well dressed, heading home from a night at the Festival Theatre or Queen’s Hall.

Clusters of young people, standing in doorways and the corners of buildings. Voices low, eyes scanning. Rebus saw crime where none existed; or perhaps it was that he was attuned to the
possibility
of crime. Had the midnight revels always been this harsh and alarming? He didn’t think so. The city was changing for the worse, and no amount of imaginative construction in glass and concrete could hide the fact. The old city was dying, wounded by these roars, this new paradigm of . . . not lawlessness exactly, but certainly lack of respect: for surroundings, neighbours, self.

The fear was all too apparent in the tense faces of the elders, their theatre programmes tightly rolled. But there was something mixed in with the fear: sadness and impotence. They couldn’t hope to change this scene; they could only hope to survive it. And back home they would collapse on the sofa, door locked and bolted, curtains or shutters closed tight. Tea would be poured into the pot, biscuits nibbled as they stared at the wallpaper and dreamed of the past.

There was a scrum outside Rebus’s chosen shop. Cars
had drawn up kerbside, music blaring from within. Two dogs were attempting to copulate, cheered on by their youthful owners as girls squealed and looked away. Rebus went inside, the glare forcing his eyes closed for a moment. A pack of lorne sausage, four rolls. Then up to the counter for cigarettes. A white poly bag to take his purchases home. Home meant turning right, but he turned left.

He needed to pee, that was all, and the Royal Oak was near by. Just off the main drag, the place never seemed to close. Thing was, he could use their toilet without entering the bar, so it wasn’t as if he was going there to drink. You walked through the doorway, and the bar was straight ahead through another door, but if you headed down the stairs, that’s where the toilets were. The toilets, plus another, quieter bar. The upstairs bar at the Oak was famous. Open late, and always, it seemed, with live music. Locals would sing the old songs, but then some Spanish flamenco guitarist might do his piece, followed by a guy with an Asian face and Scots inflections playing the blues.

You never could tell.

As Rebus made for the stairs, he looked in through the window. The pub was tiny, and packed this night with gleaming faces: old folkies and hardened drinkers, the curious and the captivated. Someone was singing unaccompanied. Rebus saw fiddles and an accordion, but resting while their owners concentrated on the rich baritone voice. The singer was standing in the corner. Rebus couldn’t see him, but that’s where all eyes were focused. The words were by Burns:

What force or guile could not subdue,
Through many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitors’ wages
. . .

Rebus was halfway down when he stopped. He’d recognised one of the faces. Back up he went, his face a bit
closer to the window this time. Yes, seated next to the piano: Cafferty’s pal, the one from the Bar-L. What was his name? Rab, that was it. Sweating, hair slick. His face was jaundiced, eyes dull. His fist was wrapped around what Rebus took to be a vodka and orange.