“There’s a curry house up the street.”
“I know.”
“Course you do, you’ve been here all your life.”
“Most of it,” he conceded.
“Never known a week like this one though,” she challenged him.
“Never,” he conceded. “Now drink up and we’ll go get that curry.”
She nodded, her hands gripping her glass, vise-like. “My mum and dad were in that Indian on Wednesday night. I got there in time for coffee...”
“You can always go see them in London.”
“Just wondering how much longer they’ll be around.” Her eyes were glistening. “Is this what it’s like to be Scottish, John? A few drinks to make you maudlin?”
“We do seem cursed,” he admitted, “to be always looking back.”
“And then you go and join CID, which only makes it worse. People die, and we look back into their lives...and we can’t change anything.” She tried lifting her glass, but its mass defeated her.
“We could go give Keith Carberry a kicking,” Rebus suggested.
She nodded slowly.
“Or Big Ger Cafferty, come to that...or anyone else we felt like. There’s two of us.” He leaned forward a little, trying for eye contact. “Two against nature.”
She gave him a sly look. “Song lyric?” she guessed.
“Album title: Steely Dan.”
“Tell you what I’ve always wondered.” She slouched against the back of the booth. “How did they get their name?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re sober,” Rebus offered, draining his glass.
He could feel eyes following them as he helped her to her feet and out of the bar. There was a sharp breeze and a smattering of rain. “Maybe we should go back to yours,” he suggested. “We can phone out for food.”
“I’m not that drunk!”
“Fair enough then.” They started the steep uphill climb, side by side, not saying anything. Saturday night, the town back to normal: souped-up teenagers in their souped-up cars; money looking for a place to spend itself; the diesel chug of cruising taxicabs. At some point, Siobhan snaked her arm through his, said something he didn’t catch.
“It’s not enough, is it?” she repeated. “Just...symbolic...because there’s nothing else you can do.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked with a smile.
“The naming of the dead,” she told him, resting her head against his shoulder.
Epilogue
29
Monday morning he was on the first train south. Left Waverley at six, due into King’s Cross just after ten. At eight, he called Gayfield Square and told them he was sick, which wasn’t so far from the truth. If they’d asked him the cause, he might have had some problems.
“Spending the overtime” was all the duty sergeant said.
Rebus went to the restaurant car and ate his fill of breakfast. Back at his seat, he read the paper and tried to avoid his fellow passengers. There was a surly-looking youth across the table, nodding along to the guitar music leaking from his earphones. Businesswoman next to him, annoyed that she didn’t have enough room to spread out the contents of her office. Nobody in the seat next to Rebus—not until York. He hadn’t been on the train in years. Busy with tourists and their baggage, mewling infants, vacationers, workers heading back to their weekday jobs in London. After York came Doncaster and Darlington. The pudgy man who’d settled down in his reserved seat next to Rebus had drifted off to sleep, after pointing out that really he’d booked the window seat but didn’t mind the aisle if Rebus didn’t want to shift.
“Fine” was all Rebus had said. The newsstand at Waverley had opened only a few minutes before the train was due to leave, but Rebus had managed to grab a Scotsman. Mairie’s piece had made the front page. It wasn’t the main story, and it was full of words like alleged and perhaps and potentially, but the headline still gladdened Rebus’s heart: “Arms Boss in Parliment Loans Mystery.”
Rebus knew an opening salvo when he saw one; Mairie would be holding back plenty of ammo for the future. He’d brought no luggage with him; fully intended being on the last train back. There was the option to upgrade to a sleeper compartment, and it might even come to that—a chance to question the crew, see if any of them had worked the sleeper south from Edinburgh on Wednesday. Rebus had, it seemed, been the last person to see Stacey Webster—unless the GNER staff could oblige. If he’d followed her to Waverley that night, he could have satisfied himself that she’d actually taken the train. As it was, she could be anywhere—including tucked away somewhere until Steelforth could arrange a new identity for her.
Rebus doubted she’d have any trouble picking up a new life. It had dawned on him last night: all those multiple personalities of hers: cop, Santal, sister, killer. Bloody quadrophenic, just like the Who album said. On Sunday, Kenny, Mickey’s son, had arrived at the apartment in his BMW, telling Rebus there was something for him on the backseat. Rebus had gone to look—albums, tapes and CDs, 45s...Mickey’s entire collection.
“They were in the will,” Kenny had explained. “Dad wanted you to have them.”
After they’d hauled the whole lot up two flights of stairs, and Kenny had rested long enough for a glass of water, Rebus had waved him good-bye and stared at the gift. Then he’d eased himself down onto the floor beside the boxes and started going through them: a mono Sergeant Pepper, Let It Bleed with the Ned Kelly poster, a lot of Kinks and Taste and Free...some Van der Graaf and Steve Hillage. There were even a couple of eight-track cartridges—Killer by Alice Cooper; a Beach Boys album. A treasure trove of memories. Rebus placed the sleeves beneath his nose—the very smell of them took him back in time. Warped Hollies singles, left too long on the turntable after a party...a copy of “Silver Machine” with Mickey’s writing on it—This Belongs to Michael Rebus—Paws Off!!!
And Quadrophenia, of course, its corners creased, the vinyl scarred but still playable.
Sitting on the train, Rebus remembered Stacey’s last words to him: Never told him you were sorry...Just before she’d bolted to the toilet. He’d thought she’d been talking about Mickey, but now realized she was meaning her and Ben, too. Sorry she’d killed three men? Sorry she’d gone and told her brother? Ben realizing he would have to turn her in, feeling the thick stone rampart behind him, sensing the drop immediately behind it...Rebus thought of Cafferty’s memoirs—Changeling. Decided it was a title most people could use for their own autobiographies. People you knew, they might always look the same on the surface—a few gray hairs or a thickening around the middle—but you could never tell what was going on behind their eyes.
It was Darlington before his phone rang, waking his softly snoring neighbor. The number was Siobhan’s. Rebus ignored it, so she sent a text, which—newspaper finished and countryside boring—he eventually opened.
WHERE R U? CORBYN WANTS 2 TALK 2 US. NEED 2 TELL HIM STH. CALL ME.
He knew he couldn’t, not from the train—she’d guess where he was headed. To delay the inevitable, he waited half an hour and then texted a reply.
IN BED NOT WELL TALK LATER
Hadn’t mastered any of the punctuation. She texted straight back:
HANGOVER?
LOCH LOMOND OYSTERS, he responded.
Switched the phone off to save its battery, then closed his eyes, just as the conductor announced that London King’s Cross would be the “next and final station stop.”
“Next and final,” the loudspeaker repeated.
There had been an announcement earlier concerning subway station closures. The stern-faced businesswoman had consulted her map of the Underground, holding it close to her so as not to share the information. On the outskirts of London, Rebus recognized a few of the local stations as the train trundled through them. The regular travelers began putting away their things, getting to their feet. The businesswoman’s laptop went back into her shoulder bag, along with her files and papers, diary and map. The pudgy man next to Rebus rose t
o his feet with a bow, as if they had shared some lengthy, heartfelt conversation. Rebus, in no real hurry, was one of the last to leave the train and had to squeeze past the cleaning crew on his way out. London was hotter, stickier than Edinburgh. His jacket felt too heavy. He exited the station on foot, no need for a taxi or subway train. Lit a cigarette and let the traffic noise and fumes wash over him. Blew a ring of smoke back at it and took a sheet of paper from his pocket. It was a map, lifted from an A-Z atlas and provided by Commander Steelforth. Rebus had called him on Sunday afternoon, explained that they’d be taking things easy on the Clootie Well killings, and would consult him about their findings before handing the case over to the public prosecutor—if it ever came to that.
“All right,” Steelforth had said, properly wary. Background noise: Edinburgh airport; the commander heading home. Rebus on the other end of the line, having just fed him a sack of crap, and now asking for a favor.
Result: a name, an address, and a street map.
Steelforth had even apologized for Pennen’s goons. Their orders had been to watch him; harassment never part of the brief. “Only found out about it afterward,” Steelforth had said. “You think you can control men like that...”
Control...
Rebus picturing Councilman Tench again, trying to manage an entire community, unable to alter his own destiny.
Less than an hour’s walk, Rebus had estimated. And not a bad day for it. One of the bombs had gone off on a subway train between Russell Square and King’s Cross, another on a bus heading from Euston to Russell Square. All three were on the map he held in his hands. The sleeper would have arrived at Euston around seven that morning.
8:56 a.m.—the subway blast.
9:47 a.m.—the bus blast.
Rebus couldn’t believe Stacey Webster had been near either of them. The train conductor had assured them they were lucky: past three days, the service had been terminating at Finsbury Park. Rebus could hardly have said that Finsbury Park would have done just as well...
Cafferty was alone in the pool hall. He didn’t even look up when Siobhan walked in, not until he’d played his shot. It was an attempt at a double.
And it missed.
He walked around the table, chalking his cue. Blew away some excess powder from the tip.
“You’ve got all the moves,” Siobhan told him. He gave a grunt and lowered himself over the cue.
Missed again.
“And yet you’re still lousy,” she added. “Just about sums you up really.”
“Good morning to you, too, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Is this a social call?”
“Does it feel like a social call?”
Cafferty glanced up at her. “You’ve been ignoring my little messages.”
“Get used to it.”
“Doesn’t change what happened.”
“And what exactly did happen?”
He seemed to consider the question for a moment. “We both got something we wanted?” he pretended to guess. “Except now you’re feeling guilty.” He rested the cue against the floor. “We both got something we wanted,” he repeated.
“I didn’t want Gareth Tench dead.”
“You wanted him punished.”
She took a couple of steps toward him. “Don’t try to pretend any of this was for my benefit.”
Cafferty made a tutting sound. “You need to start enjoying these little victories, Siobhan. Life doesn’t offer too many, in my experience.”
“I screwed up, Cafferty, but I’m a quick learner. You’ve had a bit of fun down the years with John Rebus, but from now on you’ve got another enemy breathing down your neck.”
Cafferty chuckled. “And that’s you, is it?” He leaned against the cue. “But you have to admit, Siobhan, we made a pretty good team. Imagine how we could run the city between us—information exchanged, tip-offs and trades...me going about my business and you swiftly climbing that promotion ladder. Isn’t that what we both want, when it comes down to it?”
“What I want,” Siobhan said quietly, “is to have nothing to do with you until I’m standing in the witness box and you’re on trial.”
“Good luck with that,” Cafferty said with another low chuckle. He turned his attention back to the table. “Want to thrash me at pool in the meantime? I was never any good at this bloody game.”
But when he turned around, she was heading for the door.
“Siobhan!” he called to her. “Remember the two of us? Upstairs in the office here? And the way that little useless idiot Carberry started squirming? I saw it in your eyes...”
She’d pulled the door open, but couldn’t resist the question. “Saw what, Cafferty?”
“You were starting to like it.” He ran his tongue around his lips. “I’d say you were definitely starting to like it.”
His laughter followed her out into the daylight.
Pentonville Road and then Upper Street...farther than he thought. He stopped at a café opposite the Highbury and Islington subway stop, ate a sandwich, and flicked through the first edition of the day’s Evening Standard. Nobody in the café was speaking English, and when he placed his order they struggled with his accent. Good sandwich though...
He could feel blisters forming on the soles of both feet as he headed back outside again. Turning off St. Paul’s Road into Highbury Grove. Opposite some tennis courts he found the street he was looking for. Found the block he wanted. Found the apartment number and its buzzer. No name next to it, but he pressed it anyway.
No reply.
Checked his watch, then pushed the other buzzers until someone answered.
“Yeah?” the voice crackled from the intercom.
“Package for number nine,” Rebus said.
“This is sixteen.”
“Thought maybe I could leave it with you.”
“Well, you can’t.”
“Outside their door then?”
The voice swore, but the buzzer sounded and Rebus was in. Up the stairs to the door of apartment 9. It boasted a spy hole. He pressed his ear to the wood. Took a step back and studied it. Solid door, with half a dozen locks and a steel plate around the rim.
“Who lives in a place like this?” Rebus asked himself quietly. “David, it’s over to you.” The catchphrase from a TV show called Through the Keyhole. Difference was, Rebus knew exactly who lived here: information gleaned by—and from—Steelforth. Rebus rapped at the door halfheartedly, then headed back downstairs again. Tore the lid from his cigarette pack and wedged it in the main door so it couldn’t lock. Then went outside and waited.
He was good at waiting.
There were a dozen residents’ parking bays, each one protected by a vertical metal pole. The silver-colored Porsche Cayenne came to a stop while its owner got out and undid the padlock on the pole, laying it flat so he could maneuver into the space. He was whistling contentedly as he walked around the car, giving its tires a kick because that was what guys did. He rubbed his sleeve over a spot of dirt and tossed his keys in the air, snatching them and returning them to his pocket. Another bunch of keys emerged, and he sought the one that would unlock the main door to the block. He seemed bemused that the door wasn’t fully closed. Then his face smashed into it as he was propelled from behind, through the door and into the stairwell, Rebus not giving him any sort of a chance. Grabbed him by the hair and pummeled the face into the gray concrete wall, smearing blood across it. A knee in the back and Jacko was on the ground, dazed and semiconscious. A rabbit punch to the neck and another punch to the jaw. The first for me, Rebus thought, the second for Mairie Henderson.
Rebus stared closely at the man’s face. Scar tissue, but well fed. He’d been ex-army for a while, growing fat courtesy of the private sector. The eyes glazed over and then slowly closed. Rebus waited a moment, in case it was a trick. Jacko’s whole body had gone limp. Rebus made sure he still had a pulse and his airway wasn’t blocked. Then he yanked the man’s hands behind his back and secured them with the plastic restraints he’
d brought.
Secured them nice and tight.
Climbed to his feet, took the car keys from Jacko’s pocket, and headed back outside, checking no one was watching. Over to the Porsche, where he scored one side of the bodywork with the key before opening the driver’s-side door. Slotted the key home and left the door open invitingly. Paused a moment to catch his breath, and then headed for the main road again. Any passing taxi or bus, he’d take it. Five-o’clock train from King’s Cross would see him back in Edinburgh before closing time. He had an open-return ticket—could have flown to Ibiza for less. But it meant he could catch any train he liked.
He had unfinished business at home, too.
His luck was in: a black cab with its yellow roof light shining. In the back, Rebus reached into his pocket. He’d told the cabbie Euston—knew it was a short walk from there to King’s Cross. He took out the sheet of paper and roll of tape. Unfolded the sheet and studied it—crude but to the point. Two photos of Santal/Stacey: one from Siobhan’s cameraman friend, the other from an old newspaper. Above them in thick black pen the single word MISSING, underlined twice. Below, Rebus’s sixth and final attempt at a credible message:
My two friends, Santal and Stacey, missing since the bombs. Arrived at Euston that morning on night train from Edinburgh. If you have seen them or have any news, please call me. Need to know they are safe and well.
No name at the bottom, just his cell number. And half a dozen copies in his other pocket. He’d already flagged her as a missing person with the police national computer: both identities; height, age, and eye color; a few background snippets. Next week, her description would go out to the homeless charities, the Big Issue sellers. When Eric Bain was out of the hospital, Rebus would ask him about Web sites. Maybe they could even set up one of their own. If she was out there, she was traceable. No way Rebus would be giving up on this one.
Not for a good while yet.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There is no Clootie Well in Auchterarder. However, the one on the Black Isle is worth a visit, if you like your tourist attractions on the skin-crawling side.