‘You know what, I nearly did.’
‘Lucky you didn’t. Might need to turn it into a council of war.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time, Rob. I’ll be there on the dot of four. Still haven’t found you an M4, by the way, but I’ve got feelers out. Sure you don’t want to go hybrid? Petrol’s going to be red-flagged in the city centre sooner rather than later.’
‘Just keep looking, Alan. I’ll see you at four.’
Driscoll ended the call and made another, but it went straight to messaging. ‘I want to help,’ he said, holding the phone in front of him, his eyes reflected in its glass. ‘And I can help. But not if you keep avoiding me, Francis. The Crew’s meeting at the usual place, but I’ll be free from six onwards. So let’s do this — you say when and where. It’ll just be the two of us, swear to God. I really do want to see you, mate. And I really do want to help.’ He tried to think what else to say, ending the call when he couldn’t come up with anything. Was it worth having eyes and ears on Constitution Street? Maybe even the Newhaven flat, despite what he’d said to Chris? Where the hell else would Francis go when he was busy burning bridges? He brought out the little packet of powder from his pocket, snorted some of it off the back of his hand right there and then.
Constitution Street... I’d say that’s one hell of a coincidence. It wasn’t, though, was it? It couldn’t possibly be...
10
There was no one at the Oram home when Rebus got there. He walked around to the back door and peered through the kitchen window: a sink half filled with dishes, and a cat staring back at him from above the plate it had been licking on the drop-leaf table. The garden itself was tidy enough, and a new-looking barbecue sat under its covering on the patio. The garage was locked and there were no windows for him to look through. He had just finished retracing his steps to the pavement when he saw Ishbel Oram and her distinctive orange hair heading his way, two bags of shopping hanging heavily from her arms.
‘You again,’ she said.
‘The proverbial bad penny.’
‘Still ghost-hunting?’
‘Just for as long as the spirit is willing.’ She made to pass him. He followed her along the path to her front door, wondering how different her life would have turned out if her husband hadn’t been made to run. ‘It’s Tommy I was looking for,’ he said to her back.
‘He’s at work.’
‘What time does he finish?’
‘Can you not just leave us in peace?’
‘Jack’s been spotted, Mrs Oram. By more than one person. He was even seen on the pavement here. You’re telling me you don’t know anything about that?’
‘I’m telling you you’re wrong. And if I see you here again, I’ll toss a coin. Heads I call the polis, tails I grab a hammer from the kitchen drawer — is that clear enough for you?’
‘Why would he be watching the house but not come in?’
She had found her keys and unlocked the door. She closed it after her without saying anything. Rebus took out his phone and called QC Lettings. Eventually, Marion answered.
‘Marion, it’s John Rebus again. You mentioned a lock-up where Tommy keeps his bits and bobs. If I absolutely promise this is the last time you’ll hear from me, any chance you could save me some time and give me the address?’
It was in Burnhill, a few turnings off Calder Road into a maze of low-quality housing, mostly of 1960s and ’70s vintage. Three-storey blocks, the palette drab, the roadway spattered with litter mulched by car tyres. Rebus knew this area from the day job. It was a place where residents, whatever their hardships, closed ranks, protecting their own. If you lived in Burnhill or the neighbouring estates, you were part of an ever-evolving tribe with its own unwritten rules, rules you were best advised to learn and abide by.
The row of six lock-up garages was down a dead-end street. Rebus didn’t like his chances so sat in his car for ten or so minutes, just getting a feel for the terrain. He wished he’d brought Brillo with him, not as a deterrent but because no one really thought twice about a dog-walker.
‘You’re an old geezer,’ he told himself. ‘Nobody looks twice at you anyway.’
But he locked the Saab when he got out.
One of the lock-ups belied its name, having lost both lock and whatever door was attached to it. It had become an open-sided skip, doubling as a lavatory judging by the aroma. The other garages boasted a serious array of padlocks. Even then, dents and scrapes showed where attempts had been made to breach their defences. Rebus had no way of knowing which belonged to Tommy Oram, so retreated to the car and, for want of anything else to do, sent Clarke another text:
Nothing?
He had brought the misper case notes with him and reached under the passenger seat to retrieve them. There had been interviews with friends and associates of Oram’s. Rebus knew he could try questioning them himself, but he got no sense that the man had a close confidant or best pal. According to his wife’s statement, he’d been regular in his habits — at the Potter’s Bar from midday until nine or ten, five or six days a week, leaving his staff of four to make up the other hours. The staff had been questioned and had proved as forthcoming as any breeze-block wall.
He turned the radio on while he read, but couldn’t find anything he wanted to listen to. He slid a CD into the player instead. It had been playing up recently, skipping or refusing to work altogether, but today it seemed in a more generous mood. Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac, which would do Rebus just fine. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, eyes on the outside world. There were days in winter when the sun barely seemed to rise above the rooftops before running out of juice. On those days, the lights stayed on in his flat from when he woke up until he retired for the night — same went for the heating. They were saying on the news that bills were about to shoot up. Rebus reckoned he would be okay, but others wouldn’t. Politicians would say the usual things while wringing their hands. Whole bloody country seemed to be fraying, and its inhabitants along with it. He wondered where Jack Oram had spent the last four years.
Wondered, too, why he’d bothered coming back.
A black van, maybe a Citroën Berlingo, was crawling towards the lane. Rebus had parked a few yards along from the entrance. His was still the only vehicle in the vicinity, and he could feel the driver’s gaze on him. But eventually the van trundled down the lane and stopped. Rebus was just out of its eyeline, but he heard the handbrake being applied. He got out of the Saab again and closed the door as quietly as he could. A young man had emerged from the van and was standing in front of one of the garages, a set of keys in his hand but eyes peering up the lane to the figure sauntering towards him.
‘Not opening up?’ Rebus asked.
‘Who are you?’
‘Name’s Rebus. Your mum might have mentioned me.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Probably doesn’t want to stir up memories.’
‘Memories?’
‘Of your dad. He’s who I’m looking for.’
Tommy Oram — Rebus was sure it was him — angled his head downwards, suddenly very interested in the outline of each key he was holding. He had a wavy mop of dark hair and a long, sharp face with pronounced cheekbones. Rebus could imagine him fronting a band. He had enough presence to pull it off.
‘My dad’s gone,’ the young man said, blood rising to his neck.
‘Look, Tommy — it is Tommy, isn’t it? — he’s not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just need a quiet word with him.’
‘I told you he’s gone.’