Not acting…
Rebus was remembering something from the interview room at St. Leonard’s, the day the lowlifes were being grilled. Bob, muttering about never having seen a panto, sounding disappointed. Bob, the big kid, hardly a grown-up at all. Which was why Peacock kept him around, treating him almost as a pet, a pet who did tricks for him.
And now Rebus had another face in his mind, another scene. James Bell’s mother, The Wind in the Willows…
Never too old… Wagging her finger at him. Never too old…
He gave a final, apparently despairing look out of his side window, then drove off, revving hard as if annoyed by his pal’s no-show. Turned at the next junction and then slowed again, pulled in and made a call on his mobile. Scribbled down the number he was given, made a second call. Then did a circuit, no sign of the cart or his money, not that he was expecting either. Ended up at another Yield, a hundred yards in front of Bob’s car. Waited. Saw the trunk being slammed shut, the Lost Boys making their way back to the sidewalk, Bob getting behind the steering wheel. He had an air horn, it played “Dixie” as he dropped the hand brake, tires squealing, sending up wisps of smoke. He was heading for fifty as he passed Rebus, “Dixie” blaring again. Rebus started to follow.
He felt calm, purposeful. Decided it was time for the last cigarette in the pack. And maybe even a few minutes of Rory Gallagher, too. Remembered seeing Rory in the seventies, Usher Hall, the place filled with tartan shirts, faded denims. Rory playing “Sinner Boy,” “I’m Movin’ On”… Rebus had one sinner boy in his sights, hopeful of snaring two more.
Rebus eventually got what he was hoping for. Having chanced his luck at a couple of amber traffic lights, Bob was forced to stop for a red. Rebus drove up behind him, then passed and stopped, blocking the road. Opened the driver’s door and got out as “Dixie” sounded its warning. Bob looked angry, came out of the car ready for trouble. Rebus had his hands up in surrender.
“Evening, Bo-bo,” he said. “Remember me?”
Bob knew him now all right. “The name’s Bob,” he stated.
“Right you are.” The lights had turned green. Rebus waved for the cars behind to come around them.
“What’s this all about?” Bob was asking. Rebus was inspecting the car, a prospective buyer’s once-over. “I’ve no’ done nothing.”
Rebus had reached the trunk. He tapped it with his knuckles. “Care to give me a quick tour of the exhibit?”
Bob’s jaw jutted. “Got a search warrant?”
“Think somebody like me bothers with the niceties?” The baseball cap was shading Bob’s face. Rebus bent at the knees so he was looking up into it. “Think again.” He paused. “But as it happens…” He straightened. “All I want is for the pair of us to go somewhere.”
“I’ve no’ done nothing,” the young man repeated.
“No need to fret… the cells are jam-packed at St. Leonard’s as it is.”
“So where are we going?”
“My treat.” Rebus nodded towards his Saab. “I’m going to park curbside. You pull in behind and wait for me. Got that? And I don’t want to see you with your mobile in your hand.”
“I’ve no’ -”
“Understood,” Rebus interrupted. “But you’re about to do something… and you’ll like it, I promise you.” He held up a finger, then retreated to his car. Evil Bob parked behind him, good as gold, and waited while Rebus got into the passenger seat, telling him he could drive.
“Drive where, though?”
“Toad Hall,” Rebus said, pointing towards the road ahead.
22
They’d missed the first half of the show, but their tickets for the second half were waiting at the Traverse box office. The audience comprised families, a busload of pensioners, and what looked like at least one school trip, the children wearing identical pale-blue jumpers. Rebus and Bob took their seats at the back of the auditorium.
“It’s not a panto,” Rebus told him, “but it’s the next best thing.” The lights were just going down for the second half. Rebus knew he’d read The Wind in the Willows as a kid, but couldn’t remember the story. Not that Bob seemed to mind. His caginess soon melted away as the lights illuminated the scenery and the actors bounded onstage. Toad was in jail as proceedings opened.
“Framed, no doubt,” Rebus whispered, but Bob wasn’t listening. He clapped and booed with the kids and by the climax-weasels put to flight by Toad and his allies-was on his feet, bellowing his support. He looked down at the still-seated Rebus and a huge grin spread across his face.
“Like I say,” Rebus offered as the houselights went up and kids began pouring out of the auditorium, “not quite pantomime, but you get the idea.”
“And this is all because of what I said that day?” With the play over, some of Bob’s mistrust was returning.
Rebus shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t see you as a natural-born weasel.”
Out in the foyer, Bob stopped, looking all around him, as though reluctant to leave.
“You can always come back,” Rebus told him. “Doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”
Bob nodded slowly, and allowed Rebus to lead him into the busy street. He already had his car keys out, but Rebus was rubbing his gloved hands together.
“A bag of chips?” he suggested. “Just to round the evening off…”
“I’m buying,” Bob was quick to stress. “You stumped up for the seats.”
“Well, in that case,” Rebus said, “I’m bumping my order to a fish supper.”
The chip shop was quiet: pubs hadn’t started emptying yet. They carried the warm, wrapped packages back to the car and got in, windows steaming up as they sat and ate. Bob gave a sudden, open-mouthed chuckle.
“Toad was an arse, wasn’t he?”
“Reminded me of your pal Peacock actually,” Rebus said. He’d removed his gloves so they wouldn’t get greasy, knew Bob wouldn’t see his hands in the dark. They’d bought cans of juice. Bob slurped from his, not saying anything. So Rebus tried again.
“I saw you earlier with Rab Fisher. What do you make of him?”
Bob chewed thoughtfully. “Rab’s okay.”
Rebus nodded. “Peacock thinks so, too, doesn’t he?”
“How would I know?”
“You mean he hasn’t said?”
Bob concentrated on his food, and Rebus knew he’d found the chink he was looking for. “Oh, aye,” he went on, “Rab’s rising in Peacock’s estimation all the time. Ask me, he’s just been lucky. See that time we busted him for the replica gun? Case got tossed, and that makes it look like Rab outwitted us.” Rebus shook his head, trying not to let thoughts of Andy Callis cloud his concentration. “But he didn’t, he just got lucky. When you’re lucky like that, though, people start to look up to you… They reckon you’re more sussed than others.” Rebus paused to let this sink in. “But I’ll tell you something, Bob, whether the guns are real or not isn’t the issue. The replicas look too good, no way for us to tell they’re not real. And that means sooner or later a kid’s going to get himself killed. And his blood’ll be on your hands.”
Bob had been licking ketchup from his fingers. He froze at the thought. Rebus took a deep breath and gave a sigh, leaning back against the headrest. “Way things are headed,” he added lightly, “Rab and Peacock are just going to get closer and closer…”
“Rab’s okay,” Bob repeated, but the words had a new hollowness to them.
“Good as gold, Rab is,” Rebus conceded. “He buy whatever you were selling?”
Bob gave him a look, and Rebus relented. “Okay, okay, none of my business. Let’s pretend you don’t have a gun or something wrapped in a blanket in your trunk.”
Bob’s face tightened.
“I mean it, son.” Rebus laying some stress on the son, wondering what sort of father Bob had known. “No good reason why you should open up to me.” He picked out another chip, dropped it into his mouth. Gave a satisfied grin. “Is there anything better than a good fish supper?”