He joined her in front of the lift. Its doors slid open, revealing an attendant in charge of an empty wheelchair.
‘Kind of you,’ Jude told the man, ‘but I think I can walk.’
Once the wheelchair had gone, they got in and waited for the doors to close.
‘Times like this,’ Fox said, staring at the floor, ‘I wish I’d visited Dad more often.’
Jude glared at him. ‘It’s not the frequency that counts, it’s the intention.’
He met her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Dad always knew you were only there out of a sense of duty.’
‘That’s not true.’
But Jude wasn’t listening. ‘You were there because it was the thing that had to be done, and you could feel all good about yourself afterwards, because you’d done your duty.’ Her gaze was challenging him to deny it. ‘Something you felt was expected, rather than something you did out of love, like paying for your sister’s cab.’
‘Jesus, Jude . . .’
‘Dad could see it too – how bored you were, just sitting there, trying not to look at your watch too often and too obviously.’
‘You know how to kick a man when he’s down, sis.’
She smiled, not unsympathetically. ‘I do, don’t I? Needed to be said, though, before the full martyr complex kicks in. That was where we were headed next, wasn’t it?’
The bell pinged and the doors slid open, the automated voice telling them they had reached their floor. Fox led the way. The lights had been dimmed. The brightest lamp sat over the nurses’
station. Mitch had been moved into a room of his own. Fox was afraid to ask why – maybe a slow death wasn’t something the other patients and their visitors should have to witness. The breath caught in Jude’s throat when she saw her father. She walked briskly to his bedside while Fox closed the door, giving the three of them a measure of privacy. There was a window on to the main ward, its blinds left open, the room itself unlit. Fox reached for the light switch, but Jude shook her head.
‘It’s fine like this,’ she said, touching a hand to Mitch’s forehead. Her shoulder bag had fallen to the floor, a few items spilling out – phone, lipstick, cigarette lighter. Fox crouched to pick them up.
‘Just leave them,’ she hissed. ‘They’re not what’s important.’
‘But they’re something I can fix,’ her brother said, straightening up, her things gathered in his hand.
Her face softened. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said quietly.
Then, half turning from the bed, she wrapped her arms around him and began to sob.
Siobhan Clarke had been sitting on her sofa for the best part of an hour, just staring at the bookshelves opposite. She sat bent forward, elbows on knees, face cupped in her hands. She’d
made a mug of tea but it was as yet untouched. Acorn House – those two words kept reverberating, sometimes clashing against names like Champ and Broadfoot and Holroyd. Rebus had made her promise not to take it to James Page, not until he’d had a chance to dig a little deeper. More names: Tolland and Dalrymple, Jeffries and Ritter. Rebus had bombarded her with them, like they were dots that had to be joined together so the picture could emerge.
Tolland . . .
She still had the file Jim Grant had given her. She remembered the DVD footage, the subdued-looking wife. Ella Tolland, sad-eyed on her wedding day, her husband controlling her, his hand grasping her arm.
‘It wasn’t just shyness, was it, Ella?’ Clarke enquired out loud. ‘I think you knew. He’d said something, or else you’d always suspected.’ She straightened up and looked to left and right, spotting the file on the carpet, half hidden beneath the sofa. She lifted it up and opened it, seeking the various photographs, knowing there was no way to tell for sure, just as there was no hard and fast evidence that Acorn House – whatever horrors it had contained – had anything to do with the attacks on Tolland, Minton and Cafferty.
‘Proof would be nice,’ she mused, knowing she was going to give Rebus another day or so. Because whatever you could say about the man, he clamped his teeth on to a case and didn’t let go. ‘Go get ’em, John,’ she said, yawning as the photographs slid off her lap to the floor.
*
Fox was in bed when his phone rang. He had plugged it into a wall socket, so padded across the carpet in darkness and peered at the screen before answering.
‘John?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just thought I’d see how your dad’s doing.’
‘No real news. What time is it?’
‘Did I wake you? It’s only just gone eleven.’
‘We’re not all nighthawks.’
‘You’ll find you need less sleep as you get older.’
‘Anything happening at your end? Help take my mind off my dad.’
‘He’ll either be fine or he won’t, Malcolm. Nothing you can do except be there for him.’
‘My sister doesn’t think I even do that. I’m dutiful rather than loving, apparently. Look at me – at home in bed rather than keeping vigil at his bedside.’
‘Your sister’s at the hospital?’
‘We decided to take shifts.’ Fox sat on the carpet, back to the wall, knees raised. ‘Do you ever see your daughter?’
‘Once or twice a year.’
‘If I had a grandkid . . .’
‘You trying to make me feel guilty? Sammy knows she can visit any time she wants.’
‘Does she know you want her to, though? Seems to me we’re not always good at opening up. I mean, we’re fine with friends and strangers; it’s our families we keep stuff from.’
‘You’re wishing you’d said more to your dad?’
‘I said plenty, but Jude might have a point – I skated over the difficult stuff.’
‘He’s your father – he doesn’t need to be told.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He probably reads you better than anyone. He’ll know exactly how you’re feeling and what you’re not saying.’
‘Maybe.’ Fox rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a tightness there. ‘Anyway, I was asking for an update.’
‘Some bad things happened in the past. They may explain the attacks on Cafferty, Minton and our Linlithgow lottery winner.’
‘There is a connection then?’
‘Connection and motive both.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Bit early for that.’
‘But you’re making progress, showing the youngsters a thing or two.’
‘It feels like the end of a long song, though – men like Cafferty and Joe Stark . . . and me too, come to that. We’re on our last legs. Our way of doing things seems . . . I don’t know.’
‘Last century?’
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘Footwork still counts for something, John. Add it to gut instinct and you’ve got a formula that works.’ He listened to Rebus drain the dregs from a glass, imagined him at home, one last whisky before bed. Hell, he could almost taste it, oily, copper-coloured, peat-rich.
‘I should let you get back to bed,’ Rebus said, after a satisfied exhalation.
‘Will you pass on the news to Siobhan?’
‘She’d probably rather hear it from you.’
‘You’re right. I’ll send her a text.’
‘You could even call her.’
‘She might be in bed.’
‘Then again, she might not – take a risk for once.’
Fox smiled tiredly. ‘No promises,’ he said, ending the call.
Back in bed, he lay on his back, hands clasped across his chest.
His eyes remained open as he stared at the ceiling. Sleep, he knew, wasn’t going to come any time soon, so he got up and, grabbing his phone, headed to the kitchen, filling the kettle and switching it on. He dropped a tea bag into a mug and eased himself on to a stool. Yes, he could call Siobhan, but it was late and he really didn’t have any news. Would a text wake her up?
He started composing one, then
deleted it. When his tea was ready, he picked up the phone again. He had no messages, no unanswered calls. He tapped the photos icon and found a picture he’d taken of Siobhan with the low winter sun behind her, so that her face was mostly in shadow.
‘Don’t give up the day job, Malcolm,’ he muttered to himself. He opened another photo and used his finger and thumb to enlarge it on the screen. It was Hamish Wright’s itemised phone bill. Most of the calls were to other mobiles.
One of Compston’s team had added the details in the margin: wife, insurer, client, client, garage, nephew, client, ferry company, restaurant. But there were landline calls too: wife again, and an aunt in Dundee. Plus one 0131 number – Edinburgh. The Gifford Inn. And written next to it: staff never heard of him, reckon a wrong number. A wrong number on a Monday evening, one week prior to his disappearance, and lasting almost three minutes. The Gifford didn’t mean anything to Fox, but he looked it up – it was on St John’s Road in Corstorphine. He had driven along St John’s Road hundreds of times, but then he never really paid attention to pubs – though he’d lay money on John Rebus knowing the place.
Footwork still counts for something . . . Add it to gut instinct . . .
Take a risk . . .
Take a risk . . .
Take a risk . . .
‘Well, Malcolm?’ he challenged himself out loud. ‘What about it?’
Half an hour later, he was back in bed, hands under his head, eyes adjusting to the dark as he turned things over in his mind.
DAY EIGHT
Thirty One
Rebus held the box out towards Christine Esson. She was seated at her computer and looked wary.
‘From the baker’s,’ he said, placing it on the desk. She opened it and peered inside.
‘Jam doughnuts,’ she said.
‘My way of saying sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Not telling you I’d found Paul Jeffries all on my own.’
Ronnie Ogilvie approached the desk and lifted out one of the pastries, holding it in his teeth as he headed back to his own chair. Esson glowered at him, but he seemed impervious.
‘The other three are yours, if you’re quick,’ Rebus told her.
She closed the box and slipped it into her drawer. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Then she noticed he was holding out a slip of paper, expecting her to take it.
‘Bryan Holroyd,’ he explained. ‘I’ve not got much for you to go on – and I’m sorry about that, too. He was a teenager in the eighties, spent a bit of time at an assessment centre called Acorn House. It’s been shut for years, but the fact he was there at all means he probably had a criminal record . . .’
‘You think there’ll be something in the archive? Doesn’t stuff get expunged after a time?’
Rebus just shrugged. ‘There may even be information on Acorn House – it was a remand home before they changed the wording. But whatever you do, tread softly.’
‘Oh?’
‘Alarm bells may sound.’
‘And they’d do that because . . .?’
‘They probably won’t.’
‘Which doesn’t answer my question.’
He gave the slip of paper a little wave. ‘I brought doughnuts,’ he reminded her.
After a further ten seconds of stand-off, she sighed and snatched the details from him. ‘Which is more likely to trigger an alarm – online search or me traipsing to the records office?’
‘Only one way to find out.’ Rebus offered what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Siobhan not in yet?’
‘As you can see.’ Esson gestured towards the empty desk.
‘Maybe she spent the night consoling Malcolm . . .’
‘And why would I be doing that?’
The voice had come from the doorway. Clarke stepped into the office and lifted her laptop from her bag, placing it on her desk.
‘His dad’s still in hospital,’ Rebus explained. ‘I told him to phone you.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘It was getting late, to be fair. Though you don’t exactly look like you’ve had much in the way of beauty sleep.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ She was shrugging out of her coat and unwinding a long red woollen scarf from around her neck.
Esson had brought the box back out. ‘Doughnut?’ she suggested.
‘Just the job,’ Clarke said, plucking one out with a nod of thanks. Esson took one herself before returning the box to its drawer.
‘One spare,’ Rebus hinted.
‘For later,’ she retorted.
‘I’ve given Bryan Holroyd’s name to Christine,’ Rebus explained to Clarke. ‘I reckon she’s got more diplomacy than me.’
Clarke nodded. ‘Though if it’s the same groper in charge of the archive as when I last had cause to visit, diplomacy might have to take second place to pepper spray.’
‘I can handle myself,’ Esson assured her. ‘Just need to handle the final doughnut first.’
‘Thanks for rubbing it in,’ Rebus muttered, heading for the door. He was halfway there when Esson called him back.
‘Yes?’ he said, sounding hopeful.
‘Are you not going to ask me about Dave Ritter?’
‘I was surmising you didn’t have anything.’
‘You’d be wrong.’ She paused. ‘Sort of wrong, anyway. The forces of law and order in Ullapool have never had dealings with him, nor is there any record of him living in Scotland at the current time.’
‘Well, thanks for sharing.’
‘There is, however, a man called David Ratner. Known all too well by the local constabulary.’
‘In Ullapool?’
‘In Ullapool,’ she confirmed. Now it was her turn to hand a slip of paper out for Rebus to take. He digested the details as she went on. ‘Arrests for minor offences – drunk and disorderly, brawling in the street . . .’
‘Might be him, then.’
‘Might be.’
He stared at her. ‘When were you going to tell me this?’
‘It was on the tip of my tongue, until you produced yet another favour you wanted me to do.’
‘What’s this?’ Clarke enquired, her mouth full of pastry, sprinkles of sugar on her lips.
‘One of Cafferty’s goons,’ Rebus reminded her. ‘The one we didn’t manhandle in front of his carers.’
‘He’s living in the Highlands under an assumed name?’
‘Could be.’
‘You going to head up there?’
Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘If only to protect him from Cafferty.’
‘You’re all heart,’ Clarke said. Rebus turned back towards Esson.
‘I’m all heart,’ he told her. ‘Official confirmation.’
With a sigh and a rolling of the eyes, Esson held the box out towards him.
It had taken Rebus only a couple of minutes with a map to work out that the quickest route to Ullapool was the A9 to Inverness, then the A835 heading west. He filled the Saab with petrol, offered up a prayer that the old crate would survive the journey, and piled water, cigarettes and crisps on the passenger seat, along with a cut-price CD that promised him the best rock songs of the seventies and eighties.
The A9 was not a road he relished. He had driven up and down it several times a couple of years back on a previous case.
Some of it was dualled, but long, winding stretches weren’t, and those were where you tended to get stuck behind a convoy
of lorries or venerable caravans towed by underpowered saloon cars. Inverness was 150 miles from Edinburgh, but it would take him three hours, and maybe half that again to reach his final destination.
Having witnessed Cafferty’s reaction at the nursing home, he had decided to say nothing about this trip. Not until he was safely back in Edinburgh. As he crossed the Forth Road Bridge, he saw its replacement taking shape over to the west. The project was apparently on time and under budget, unlike the Edinburgh tram route. He had yet to take a tram anywhere in the city. At his age, buses were
free to use, but he never took those either.
‘Me and you,’ he told his Saab, giving the steering wheel a reassuring pat.
North as far as Perth was dual carriageway and relatively quiet, but once past Perth the road narrowed and new average-speed cameras didn’t help. He began to wish he had commandeered a patrol car and driver, with blue lights and siren. But then he would have had to explain the purpose of the trip.
A kid was killed and I need to talk to the man who took him away and buried him . . .
The fact that David Ratner had been in trouble recently meant that he might at least be available to answer a few questions. On the other hand, how willing would he be? Rebus mulled that over as he drove. Cafferty had helped cover up a crime – possibly a murder. In the scheme of things, he should already be in custody, but that wouldn’t help solve the mystery.
He would clam up, and his lawyer would have him back on the street in no time. This way, as Rebus had argued to Siobhan Clarke, at least there was the possibility of closure – retribution
could come later, if the Fiscal’s office decided it was feasible.
Rebus was a realist if nothing else. Down the years he had seen the guilty walk free and the (relatively) innocent suffer punishment. He had watched – as furiously impotent as Albert Stout or Patrick Spiers – as the rich and powerful played the system. He had come to appreciate that those with influence could be more cunning and ruthless than those with none.
‘The overworld and the underworld,’ he muttered to himself, pulling out to overtake an artic. Having done so, he found himself stuck behind a Megabus with a smiling cartoon character waving at him from its rear end, advertising the cheap fares. Five slow miles later, he was imagining himself beating his cheery tormentor with a stick. The CD wasn’t helping either – he didn’t recognise most of the tunes, and power ballads coupled with big hair had never been his thing. He changed to the radio, until the reception died as white-capped mountains began to rise either side of the road. There was snow on the verges, turned grey from exhaust fumes, but the day was overcast and a couple of degrees above zero. He hadn’t entertained the possibility that the route might become difficult or impassable. How good were his tyres? When had he last checked them? He glanced towards his passenger-seat supplies.