“Sit down if you like.” Rebus nodded towards the sofa. Bob took a seat, but looked awkward. “TV’s there if you want it.”
Bob nodded, but his eyes were wandering. He saw the shelves of books, walked over to take a look. “Maybe I’ll…”
“Help yourself, take anything you fancy.”
“That show we saw… you said it’s based on a book?”
Rebus’s turn to nod. “I’ve not got a copy, though.” He listened to the ringing tone for another fifteen seconds, then gave up.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched any of the books, seemed to be regarding them as some rare species, to be stared at but not handled.
“You’re not.” Rebus got to his feet. “Just wait here a minute.” He went into the hall, unlocked a closet door. There were cardboard boxes high up, and he lifted one down. Some of his daughter’s old stuff… dolls and paint boxes, postcards and bits of rock picked up on seaside walks. He thought of Allan Renshaw. Thought of the ties which should have bound the two of them, ties too easily loosed. Allan with his boxes of photographs, his attic store of memories. Rebus put the box back, brought down the one next to it. Some of his daughter’s old books: little Ladybird offerings, some paperbacks with the covers scribbled on or half torn off, and a favored few hardcovers. Yes, here it was: green dust jacket, yellow spine with a drawing of Mr. Toad. Someone had added a speech bubble and in it the words “poop-poop.” He didn’t know if the handwriting was his daughter’s or not. Thought again of his cousin Allan, trying to put names to the long-dead faces in the photos.
Rebus put the box back where he’d found it, locked the cupboard, and took the book into the living room.
“Here you go,” he told Bob, handing it over. “Now you can find out what we missed in the first act.”
Bob seemed pleased but held the book warily, as if unsure how best to treat it. Then he retreated back to his room. Rebus stood by the window, staring out at the night, wondering if he, too, had missed something… not in the play, but right back at the start of the case.
DAY SEVEN. Wednesday
23
The sun was shining when Rebus woke up. He checked his watch, then swiveled out of bed and got dressed. Filled the kettle and switched it on, gave his face a wash before treating it to a once-over with the electric razor. Listened at the door to Bob’s bedroom. No sound. He knocked, waited, then shrugged and went into the living room. Called the forensics lab, still no answer.
“Lazy sods.” Speaking of which… This time, he banged harder on Bob’s door, then opened it an inch. “Time to face the world.” The curtains were open, the bed empty. Cursing under his breath, Rebus walked in, but there were no feasible hiding places. The copy of The Wind in the Willows was lying on the pillow. Rebus pressed his palm to the mattress, thought he could still feel some warmth there. Back in the hall, he saw that the door wasn’t properly closed.
“Should have locked us in,” he muttered, going to push it shut. He’d get his jacket and shoes on and go out hunting again. Doubtless Bob would head for his car first of all. After which, if he had any sense at all, he’d take the road south. Rebus doubted he’d have a passport. He wished he’d thought to take down Bob’s license plate. It would be traceable, but it would take time…
“Hang on, though,” he said to himself. He went back to the bedroom, picked up the book. Bob had used the flyleaf as a page marker. Why would he have done that unless…? Rebus opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. Feet were shuffling up the steps.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Bob said. He lifted a carrier bag for Rebus to see. “Milk and tea bags, plus four rolls and a packet of sausages.”
“Good thinking,” Rebus said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.
Breakfast over, they headed in Rebus’s car to St. Leonard’s. He was trying not to make it seem like a big deal. At the same time, there was no disguising the fact that they were going to be spending most of the day in an interview room, tapes loaded into the dual voice recorder, with another tape for the video.
“Can of juice or anything before we get started?” Rebus asked. Bob had brought a morning tabloid with him and had it spread out on the desk, lips moving as he read. He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a sec, then,” Rebus told him, opening the door and closing it, locking it after him. He climbed the stairs to the CID suite. Siobhan was at her desk.
“Busy day ahead?” he asked her.
“I’ve got my first flying lesson this afternoon,” she said, looking up from her computer.
“Courtesy of Doug Brimson?” Rebus studied her face as she nodded. “How’re you feeling?”
“No visible signs of damage.”
“Has McAllister been let out of the cells yet?”
Siobhan looked up at the clock above the door. “I suppose I better do that.”
“Not charging him, then?”
“You think I should?”
Rebus shook his head. “But before you let him waltz out, maybe you should ask him a few things.”
She rested against the back of her chair and stared up at him. “Like what?”
“I’ve got Evil Bob downstairs. He says Peacock Johnson started the fire. Stuck the heat under the chip pan and left it.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Does he say why?”
“My idea is, he thought Fairstone had turned rat. Already no love lost between them, then someone calls Johnson and says I’m having a friendly drink with Fairstone.”
“And he murdered him for that?”
Rebus shrugged. “Must’ve had cause to worry.”
“But you don’t know why?”
“Not yet. Maybe it was just meant to scare Fairstone off.”
“You reckon this Bob character’s the missing link?”
“I think he can be persuaded.”
“How does Rod McAllister enter this food chain of yours?”
“We won’t know that until you use your brilliant detective powers on him.”
Siobhan started sliding her mouse around its mat, saving what she was working on. “I’ll see what I can do. You coming with me?”
He shook his head. “I need to get back to the interview room.”
“This talk you’re having with Johnson’s sidekick… is it formal?”
“Informally formal, you might say.”
“Then you should have someone else present.” She looked at him. “Go by the rule book for once in your life.”
He knew she was right. “I could wait till you’ve finished with the barman,” he suggested.
“Kind of you to offer.” She looked around the suite. DC Davie Hynds was taking a call, writing something down as he listened. “Davie’s your man,” she said. “Bit more flexible than George Silvers.”
Rebus looked towards Hynds’s desk. He’d finished the call and was putting the receiver down with one hand while still scribbling with the other. He saw that he was being stared at, looked up and lifted one eyebrow questioningly. Rebus crooked a finger, beckoning him over. He didn’t know Hynds well, hadn’t really worked with him much. But he trusted Siobhan’s judgment.
“Davie,” he said, laying a companionable arm on the younger man’s shoulder, “take a walk with me, will you? I need to fill you in on the guy we’re about to interview.” He paused. “Best bring that notebook with you…”
Twenty minutes in, however, and with Bob still giving them general background, there was a knock at the door. Rebus opened it, saw a female uniform standing there.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Call for you.” She pointed back towards reception.
“I’m busy here.”
“It’s DI Hogan. He says it’s urgent, and you’re to be pulled out of anything short of triple-bypass surgery.”
Despite himself, Rebus smiled. “His exact words?” he guessed.
“Exact words,” the female officer echoed. Rebus turned back into the room, told Hynds he wouldn’t be long. Hynds switched off the machines.