‘And I’m telling you he’s back.’ Rebus slid his hands into his pockets and offered a shrug. ‘We’ve met before, in the Moorfoot, when I was showing everyone his photo. You did a pretty good job of looking oblivious.’
‘What else was I going to do?’
‘Who was the lassie you were with?’
‘Just a pal.’
‘Gaby Mackenzie?’
‘No.’ Tommy Oram paused. ‘How do you know about Gaby?’
‘I’m good at my job.’
‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’
‘You sure about that, son?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I told you, my name’s John Rebus.’
A light went on behind Tommy Oram’s eyes. ‘He talked about you. I used to play pool after school, and I remember that name being mentioned around the tables. Cafferty had some cops in his pocket, kept them sweet, and you were one of them.’ He broke off as he studied Rebus. ‘You look too old, though.’
‘I’ve been out of the force a while. And I was never in Cafferty’s pocket.’
‘He had my dad bumped off — did you know that?’
Rebus took a moment to form a response. ‘It’s actually Cafferty who asked me to find your dad — so he can apologise.’
‘Oh aye.’ The young man sounded rightly disbelieving. ‘Like that makes sense.’ Rebus was almost ready to agree with him, though he didn’t say as much.
‘Who do you think sent that envelope of cash to your mum?’
‘Not my dad, that’s for sure.’
‘Cafferty, then?’
‘That’s what Mum says. Didn’t stop her spending it, though.’
‘If you do see your dad—’
‘I keep telling you!’ The young man’s voice had risen so much that a dog somewhere nearby sent up a complaint.
‘Easy, son.’
Tommy Oram’s eyes had gone glassy, as though he might be near to tears. ‘You say you’re not Cafferty’s man, but here you are working for him.’ His face twisted. ‘Apologise to my dad? He had him killed for skimming a few lousy grand. That’s who your boss is, and I’m done talking here.’ He opened the van again and got in, slamming the door shut after him. Jammed the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it. Instead, he took out his phone, checking for messages or sending one.
Discretion being the better part of valour, Rebus retreated to his car. He decided Oram would be watching for it, so he made sure his headlights were on as he drove past the top of the lane. He took a right when he could, then another, doubling back on himself. This time he parked a hundred yards short of the lock-ups, again closing the door as quietly as he could. He wouldn’t exactly call it tiptoeing, but he kept his footsteps light.
The garage next to the van had been unlocked. Rebus could hear someone inside; sounded as if they were rifling through boxes of screws or nails. A light had been switched on, and music too — a dull, repetitive thump such as he heard from car and van windows a dozen times a day in the city. Tommy Oram was standing sideways on, busy at a row of shelves, each one containing boxes and trays filled with the bits and pieces he needed to do his job.
Rebus saw, however, that there was more to the lock-up than mere storage. A camp bed had been unfolded, a duvet draped across its thin mattress. There was a lamp next to it and a compact music system next to that, everything plugged into an extension cable that stretched to the wall.
Sensing movement, Oram’s head jerked round.
‘Get out!’ he barked.
‘In a minute,’ Rebus said, settling himself on the bed and switching the music off. ‘This where he sleeps?’
‘It’s where I sleep.’
‘No, Tommy, you sleep in your own bed under your mum’s roof.’ Rebus angled his head. There were discarded fast-food wrappers under the bed alongside a drained bottle of whisky. ‘Will he be back soon?’
When he spoke, the fight had gone out of the young man’s voice. ‘I told you, he’s gone. He was here, but not any more.’
‘What happened?’
‘He just left. Couldn’t bring himself to...’ His voice had thickened. He cleared his throat and swallowed. Rebus saw it all in an instant: how hard it was to lose your father in your teens, how hard to then start dealing with his sudden return.
‘What?’ he prompted.
‘He wanted Mum to know without either of us having to tell her. Don’t ask me why — I think he thought it would soften the impact.’
‘Might explain why he was hanging around Craigmillar. How long have you known?’
‘He phoned me last year, said he was missing us. He wanted to hear how we were doing.’
‘Up until then you thought he was...?’
Tommy nodded.
‘That must’ve been hard, son.’
‘Too right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell your mum?’
‘He made me promise not to. He wanted to get himself straightened out.’
‘Meaning off the booze?’
‘Aye. Last few years he’s been hitting it pretty hard.’
‘All paid for by the money he took from Cafferty?’ Rebus touched his toe against a box of empty spirits bottles. ‘He still had a ways to go by the look of things.’
‘That money you mentioned — Dad was skint when he came back. Even borrowed from me, though I could see how much it embarrassed him.’
‘Do you ever see your aunt?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one your dad’s brother Paul married.’
‘Auntie Joanna? Not in years. Uncle Paul and my dad had a falling-out decades back. Dad wouldn’t even let us go to the funeral.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I heard your dad gave her a bunch of cash after Paul passed away.’
Tommy Oram gave a snort. ‘I very much doubt that.’
There was sudden movement at the mouth of the lock-up. Two lads not yet in their teens had stopped their bikes and were straddling them, toes on the ground. The hoods of their jackets were up, and one of them had a hand in his pocket, as if ready to pull something out.
‘It’s okay,’ Tommy assured them. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Nothing more was said. But as the two kids cycled away, a squat monster of a dog appeared, licking its lips.
‘Hiya, Buster,’ Tommy cooed. The dog gave a short growl and made to rejoin its owners. ‘They keep an eye on the place,’ he explained.
‘For a fee, I dare say.’
‘Not necessary. What’s worth nicking?’
‘Everything has its price.’ Rebus pressed his hands down against the mattress. ‘Why this place rather than a flat or a B&B?’
‘Didn’t cost anything, and the bed was already here. There’s another one folded up over there. It’s in case one of the flats needs them.’
‘You like your job, then?’ Rebus got up and approached the workbench. The shelves above it held rows of five- and ten-litre paint pots.
‘It’s better than nothing.’
‘Your employer’s okay? I suppose he must be, keeping you on after you were suspected of thieving.’
‘That was a renter who was being booted for non-payment. Just stirring things up.’
Rebus made show of remembering something. ‘I know you know the daughter. I hear she helped get you the job. I’m not saying I’d have thought she’s out of your league...’
‘On a dance floor, doesn’t matter which school you went to.’
‘So that’s how you met?’
‘I kept putting in requests — obscure stuff, showing I knew what I was talking about. And eventually she played one.’
‘So she’s a DJ?’
‘It’s allowed these days, you know.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Rebus rested one hand against the worktop.