Set in Darkness

  ‘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.

  35

  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 th
at 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 . . .

  36

  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.

  Leith was quiet, the day keeping people indoors. He drove past carpet shops, tattoo parlours, pawnbrokers. Laundrettes and social security offices: the latter were locked for the weekend. Most days, they’d be doing more business than the local stores. Parked his car in an alley and made sure it was locked before leaving it. At twelve minutes past opening, he was in his first pub. They were serving coffee, so he had a mug, same as the barman was drinking. Two ancient regulars watched morning television and smoked diligently: this was their day job, and they approached it with the seriousness of ritual. Rebus didn’t get much out of the barman, not so much as a free refill. It was time to move on.

  His mobile went off while he was walking. It was Bill Nairn.

  ‘Working weekends, Bill?’ Rebus said. ‘How’s the overtime?’

  ‘The Bar-L never closes, John. I did what you asked, checked out our friend Rab Hill.’

  ‘And?’ Rebus had stopped walking. A few shoppers moved around him. They were mostly elderly, feet hardly clearing the pavement. No cars to take them to the retail parks; no energy to take the bus uptown.

  ‘Not much really. Released on his due date. Said he was moving through to Edinburgh. He’s seen his parole officer there . . .’

  ‘Illnesses, Bill?’

  ‘Well, yes, he did complain of a dicky stomach. Didn’t seem to clear up, so he had some tests. They were all clear.’

  ‘Same hospital as Cafferty?’

  ‘Yes, but I really don’t see . . .’

  ‘What’s his Edinburgh address?’

  Nairn repeated the details: it was a hotel on Princes Street. ‘Nice,’ Rebus said. Then he took down the parole officer’s details, too. ‘Cheers, Bill. I’ll talk to you later.’

  The second bar was smoky, its carpet tacky with the previous night’s spillage. Three men stood drinking nips, sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos. They examined him as he entered, seemed not to find his presence objectionable enough to arouse comment. Later in the day, with sobriety a dull memory, things would be different. Rebus knew the barman, sat down at a corner table with a half-pint of Eighty and smoked a cigarette. When the barman came to empty the ashtray of its single dowp, it gave time for a couple of muted questions. The barman replied with little twitches of the head: negative. He either didn’t know or wasn’t saying. Fair enough. Rebus knew when he could push a bit harder, and this was not one of those times.

  He knew as he left that the drinkers would be talking about him. They’d smelt cop on him, and would want to know what he’d been after. The barman would tell them: no harm in that. By now it would be common knowledge – and when one of their own was attacked, the police always went in quickly and with prejudice. Leith would be expecting little else.

  Outside, he got on the phone again, called the hotel and asked to be put through to Robert Hill’s room.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr Hill’s not answering.’

  Rebus cut the call.

  Pub three: a relief barman, and no faces Rebus recognised. He didn’t even stay for a drink. T
wo cafés after that, Formica tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, the vinegary haze of brown sauce and chip fat. And then a third café, a place the men from the docks came to for huge doses of reviving cholesterol, as if it were more doctor’s surgery than eating place.

  And seated at one of the tables, scooping up runny egg with a fork, someone Rebus knew.

  His name was Big Po. Sometime doorman for pubs and clubs of the parish, Po’s past included a long stint in the merchant navy. His fists were nicked and scarred, face weathered where it wasn’t hidden by a thick brown beard. He was massive, and watching him squashed in at the table was like watching a normal-sized adult seated in a primary-school classroom. Rebus had the impression that the whole world had been built on a scale out of kilter with Big Po’s needs.

  ‘Jesus,’ the man roared as Rebus approached, ‘it’s been a lifetime and a half!’ Flecks of saliva and egg peppered the air. Heads were turning, but didn’t stay turned long. No one wanted Big Po accusing them of nosing into his business. Rebus took the proffered hand and prepared for the worst. Sure enough, it was like a car going through a crusher. He flexed his fingers afterwards, checking for fractures, and pulled out the chair opposite the man mountain.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ Po asked.

  ‘Just coffee.’

  ‘That counts as blasphemy in here. This is the blessed church of St Eck the Chef.’ Po nodded towards where a fat, elderly man was wiping his hands on a cook’s apron and nodding towards him. ‘Best fry-up in Edinburgh,’ Po roared, ‘is that right, Eck?’

  Eck nodded again, then got back to his skillet. He looked the nervous sort, and with Big Po on the premises, who could blame him?

  When a middle-aged waitress came out from behind the counter, Rebus ordered his coffee. Big Po was still busy with his fork and egg yolk.

  ‘Be easier with a spoon,’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘I like a challenge.’

  ‘Well, could be I’ve another for you.’ Rebus paused while the coffee arrived. It was in a see-through Pyrex cup with matching saucer. In some cafés, they were becoming trendy again, but Rebus had the feeling this was an original. He hadn’t asked for milk, but it was already added, with bubbles of white froth breaking on the surface. He took a sip. It was hot and didn’t taste of coffee.