Set in Darkness (47 page)

‘Shut up.’

‘Why would I
do
that, Nic? Think for a minute!’

‘Your bottle’s gone. I can see you shaking from here.’ Nic laughed. ‘I knew you were weak, but not this bad.’

‘Look, man, Jayne’s gone and I—’

‘Jayne’s the last thing you have to worry about.’ There were thumps on the ceiling. Nic glanced up. ‘
Shut it
!’

Jerry saw a half-chance, dived through the doorway and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes. He plunged a hand in, pulled out forks, teaspoons. Nic was on him. Jerry chucked the lot at him. He was screaming now.

‘Call the police! You upstairs, get on to the cops!’

Nic swung with the knife, caught Jerry on his right hand. Now a current of blood flowed down his wrist, mixing with the dishwater. Jerry cried out in pain, lashed out with a foot, caught Nic smack on the kneecap. Nic
lunged again, and Jerry pushed past him, back into the living room. Tripped and fell. Fell over the box of 45s, scattering them. Nic was coming, his feet grinding one of the records into the floor.

‘Bastard,’ he was saying. ‘You won’t be saying a word against me.’

‘Nic, man, you’ve lost it!’

‘It wasn’t enough, Cat leaving me, you had to rub my nose in it. Well, pal, it’s
you
that’s the rapist here. I just drove the van. That’s what I’ll tell them.’ There was a sick grin on his face. ‘We got into a fight, it was self-defence. That’s what I’ll say. See, I’m the one with the brains here, Jerry-fucking-nobody. The job, the mortgage, the car. And
I’m
the one they’ll believe.’ He raised the knife, and Jerry lunged. Nic sort of wheezed, and froze for a second, mouth agape, then angling his chin to stare down at where the scissors protruded from his chest.

‘What were you saying about brains, man?’ Jerry said, rising to his feet as Nic slumped face forwards on to the floor.

He sat back down on the couch, Nic’s body twitching once or twice and then falling still. Jerry ran his hands through his hair. He examined his cut. It was a deep wound, and about three inches long. Hospital job, stitches. He knelt down, searched Nic’s pockets and came up with the keys to the Cosworth. Nic had never let him drive it, never once offered.

Now, at last, he had a choice. Sit here and wait it out? Get his story straight for the cops? Self-defence was the truth of it. Maybe the neighbours would tell what they’d heard. But the cops . . . the cops knew Nic was the rapist. And they also knew there were two men involved.

Stood to reason it was him: Nic’s pal from way back, the underachiever, Nic’s killer. They’d get witnesses who’d identify him from the nightclubs. Maybe there were clues in the van.

Not such a difficult choice then, in the end. He tossed
the keys, caught them, and headed out of the flat. Left the door wide open. Pigs would only kick it in otherwise.

He wondered if Nic would have thought of that.

Rebus was renewing his old acquaintance with the rougher end of the Leith pub scene. Not for him the charming, rejuvenated taverns of The Shore or the gleaming Victorian hostelries to be found on Great Junction Street and Bernard Street. For the nameless howffs, the spit ’n’ sawdusts, you had to look slightly further afield, charting streets which few Scottish Office brogues from the HQ down the road ever trod. He had drawn up a shortlist of four – drew a blank with the first two. But at the third, saw Linford’s BMW parked eighty yards away, under a busted street light: smart enough to park where he wouldn’t easily be spotted. Then again, every second street light was busted.

Rebus tucked his Saab behind the BMW. He flashed his lights: no response. Got out of his car and lit a cigarette. That’s all he was: a local lighting a cigarette. But his eyes were busy. The street was quiet. There was light in the high windows of Bellman’s Bar – its name from years back. What it was called now was anybody’s guess. Probably nobody who drank there knew, or cared.

He walked past the BMW, glancing inside. Something on the passenger seat: mobile phone. Linford couldn’t be far. Taking that piss maybe, the one he’d said he wouldn’t need. Rebus smiled and shook his head, then saw that the BMW’s doors weren’t locked. He tried the driver’s side. By the interior light he could see Linford’s notebook. He reached for it, started reading, but the light went off. So he slipped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and flipped the light back on again. Meticulous in every detail, but
that didn’t count for anything if you were spotted. Rebus went back outside, inspected the few parked cars. They were ageing and ordinary, the kind that passed each MOT with a backhander to a friendly mechanic. He wouldn’t place Barry Hutton as the owner of any of them. Yet Hutton had driven here. Did that mean he’d left?

Did that mean Linford had missed him?

Suddenly, this began to seem like the best-case scenario. Rebus started to think of others, not half as appealing. He walked back to the Saab and called in, got St Leonard’s to check any activity in Leith. They got back to him pronto: quiet night so far. He sat there, smoking three or four cigarettes, killing the packet. Then he walked over to Bellman’s and pushed open the door.

Smoky inside. No music or TV. Just half a dozen men, all standing at the bar, all staring at him. No Barry Hutton; no Linford. Rebus was taking coins from his pocket as he approached.

‘Cigarette machine?’ he asked.

‘Havenae got one.’ The man behind the bar was practising a scowl. Rebus blinked sleepily.

‘Any packs behind the bar?’

‘Naw.’

He turned to look at the drinkers. ‘Any of you guys sell me some?’

‘A pound each,’ came the lightning response. Rebus snorted.

‘That’s criminal,’ he said.

‘Then fuck off and buy them somewhere else.’

Rebus took his time studying the faces, then the bar’s blunt décor: three tables, a linoleum floor the colour of ox blood, wood panelling on the walls. Pictures of yester-year’s page three girls. A dartboard gathering cobwebs. He couldn’t see any toilets. There were only four optics behind the bar, and two taps: lager or export.

‘Must do a roaring trade,’ he commented.

‘I didn’t know you’d booked a floor show tonight, Shug,’ one drinker said to the barman.

‘The floor’s where he’ll end up,’ the barman said.

‘Easy, boys, easy.’ Rebus held up his hands in appeasement, started backing away. ‘I’ll be sure to tell Barry that this is what you call hospitality.’

They weren’t falling for it, stayed silent until Shug the barman spoke. ‘Barry who?’ he said.

Rebus shrugged, turned and walked out.

It was another five minutes before he got the call. Derek Linford: already on his way to the Infirmary.

Rebus paced the corridor: didn’t like hospitals; liked this one less than most. This was where they’d brought Sammy after the hit and run.

At just after eleven, Ormiston appeared. Police officer attacked, Fettes and Crime Squad always took an interest.

‘How is he?’ Rebus asked. He wasn’t alone: Siobhan was seated with a can of Fanta, looking shell-shocked. More officers had looked in – including the Farmer and Linford’s boss from Fettes, the latter pointedly ignoring Rebus and Siobhan.

‘Not good,’ Ormiston said, searching in his pockets for change for the coffee machine. Siobhan asked him what he needed, handed over some coins.

‘Did he say what happened?’

‘Doctors didn’t want him talking.’

‘But did he tell you?’

Ormiston straightened up, plastic cup in hand. ‘He got whacked from the back, and a few kicks for good measure. Best part of a broken jaw, I’d say.’

‘So he probably wasn’t in a chatty mood,’ Siobhan said, looking at Rebus.

‘They’ve pumped him full of drugs anyway,’ Ormiston said, blowing on the liquid in his cup and eyeing it speculatively. ‘Is this coffee or soup, would you say?’

Siobhan shrugged.

‘He did write something down,’ Ormiston said at last. ‘Bugger seemed keen enough about that.’

‘What did it say?’ Siobhan asked.

Ormiston glanced towards Rebus. ‘I might be paraphrasing, but it was along the lines of: Rebus knew I was there.’

‘What?’ Rebus’s face was like stone. Ormiston repeated the words for him.

Siobhan looked from one man to the other. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning,’ Rebus said, slumping into a chair, ‘he thinks I did it. Nobody else knew where he was.’

‘But it had to be whoever he was following,’ Siobhan argued. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘Not Derek Linford’s reason.’ Rebus looked up at her. ‘I phoned him, said I was on my way down. Could be I set him up, grassed him to whoever was in the bar. Or could be I was the one who whacked him.’ He looked to Ormiston for confirmation. ‘That how you see it, Ormie?’

Ormiston said nothing.

‘But why would you . . . ?’ Siobhan’s question trailed off as she saw the answer. Rebus nodded, letting her know she was right. Revenge . . . jealousy . . . because of what Linford had done to Siobhan.

That was Linford’s thinking. The way he saw the world, it made perfect sense.

To Linford’s mind, it was perfect.

Siobhan was sitting outside the hospital in her car, debating whether to visit the patient or not, when she heard the call on her radio.

Be on the lookout for a black Ford Sierra Cosworth, driver may be Jerry Lister, wanted for questioning concerning a major incident, code six
.

Code six? The codes were always changing – all except code twenty-one, officer requiring assistance. Right now a
code six was suspicious death – usually meaning homicide. She called in, was told that the victim’s name was Nicholas Hughes. He’d been stabbed to death with a pair of scissors, his body found by Lister’s wife on her return home. The woman was now being treated for shock. Siobhan was thinking back to that night, the night she’d taken the short cut through Waverley. She’d taken it because of the two men in the black Sierra, one of them saying to the other,
Lesbian, Jerry
, and now a man called Jerry was on the run in a black Sierra.

She’d tried to get away, and in doing so had ended up involved with a tramp’s suicide.

The more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t help wondering . . .

The Farmer was apoplectic.

‘Whose idea was it for him to be tailing Barry Hutton in the first place?’

‘DI Linford was using his own initiative, sir.’

‘Then how come I see your grubby little prints all over this?’

Saturday morning, they were seated in the Farmer’s office. Rebus was edgy to start with: he had a pitch to sell, and couldn’t see his boss going for it.

‘You’ve seen his note,’ the Farmer continued. ‘“Rebus knew”. How the hell do you think that looks?’

There was so much tension in Rebus’s jaw, his cheeks were aching. ‘What does the ACC say?’

‘He wants an inquiry. You’ll be suspended, of course.’

‘Should keep me out of your way till retirement.’

The Chief Super slammed both hands against his desk, too angry to speak. Rebus took his chance.

‘We’ve got a description of the guy seen hanging around Holyrood the night Grieve was murdered. Add to this the fact that he drinks in Bellman’s, and there’s a good chance we can nab him. Bellman’s won’t give us anything; it’s the sort of pub where they look after their own. But I’ve got snitches in Leith. We’re looking for a hard man, someone who uses that pub almost as an office. With a few officers, I think I can—’

‘He says
you
did it.’

‘I know he does, sir. But with respect—’

‘How would it look if I put you in charge of the
investigation?’ The Farmer suddenly looked tired, beaten half to death by the job.

‘I’m not asking to be put in charge,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m asking you to let me go to Leith, ask some questions, that’s all. A chance to clear my own name if nothing else.’

Watson leaned back in his chair. ‘Fettes are going ape-shit as it is. Linford was one of theirs. And Barry Hutton under unauthorised surveillance – know what that would do to any case against him? The Procurator Fiscal will have a seizure.’

‘We need evidence. That’s why we need someone in Leith with a few contacts.’

‘What about Bobby Hogan? He’s Leith based.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And I’d want him there.’

‘But you want to be there, too?’ Rebus stayed silent. ‘And we both know you’ll go there anyway, no matter what I say.’

‘Better to have it official, sir.’

The Farmer ran a hand over the dome of his head.

‘Sooner the better, sir,’ Rebus prompted.

The Chief Super started shaking his head, his eyes on Rebus. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you down there, Inspector. It’s just not something I can sanction, bearing in mind the flak from headquarters.’

Rebus stood up. ‘Understood, sir. I don’t have permission to go down to Leith and ask my informants about the attack on DI Linford?’

‘That’s right, Inspector, you don’t. You’re awaiting suspension; I want you close by when word comes through.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He headed for the door.

‘I mean it. You don’t leave St Leonard’s, Inspector.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. The Murder Room was quiet when he reached it. Roy Frazer was reading a paper. ‘Finished with this?’ Rebus asked, picking up another. Frazer nodded. ‘Chicken
phal
,’ Rebus explained,
rubbing his stomach. ‘Hold all my calls and let everyone know the shunkie’s off-limits.’

Frazer nodded and smiled. Saturday morning on the bog with the paper: everyone had done it at one time.

So Rebus headed out of the station and into the car park, jumped into his Saab and got on the mobile to Bobby Hogan.

‘I’m ahead of you, pal,’ Hogan said.

‘How far?’

‘Sitting outside Bellman’s waiting for it to open.’

‘Waste of time. See if you can track down some of your contacts.’ Rebus flipped open his notebook, read the description of the Holyrood man to Hogan as he drove.

‘A hard man who likes rough pubs,’ Hogan mused when he’d finished. ‘Now where the hell would we find anyone like that in Leith these days?’

Rebus knew a few places. It was 11 a.m., opening time. Grey overcast morning. The cloud hung so low over Arthur’s Seat, you could pick out the rock only in shifting patches. Just like this case, Rebus was thinking. Bits of it visible at any one time, but the whole edifice ultimately hidden.