Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘I used to be, but not any more.’
He turned his back and walked.
Back in CID, the party was in full swing. A cassette player had been wired up, accordion reels at distorted volume. Only two couples were dancing, and then not very welclass="underline" there was barely room between the desks for professional ceilidh enthusiasts. Three or four bodies lay slumped at their desks, heads on arms. Someone else lay prone on the floor. Rebus counted nine empty whisky bottles, and someone had been sent out for more cases of beer. Jack was still talking with the secretary, his cheeks red from the heat in the room. The place was beginning to smell like a changing room at full-time.
Rebus walked around the room. The walls were still covered with material pertaining to Johnny Bible’s local victims: maps, diagrams, duty rosters, photographs. He studied the photos, as if memorising the smiling faces. He saw that the fax machine had just finished spewing something out. Car ownership details, metallic blue BMWs. Four in Aberdeen, but only one with the same sequence of letters the witness recalled. Registered to a company called Eugene Construction with a Peterhead address.
Eugene Construction? Eugene Construction?
Rebus emptied his pockets on to a desktop, finding petrol receipts, notebook, scraps of paper with telephone numbers, Rennies, a book of matches... there: business card. Given to him by the man he’d met at the convention. Rebus studied the card. Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division. The parent company: Eugene Construction, with a Peterhead address. Trembling, Rebus lifted the Borneo photo and looked at it, remembering the man he’d met that day in the bar.
‘No wonder Scotland’s down the pan. And we want independence.’
He’d handed over his business card, then Rebus had announced that he was a policeman.
‘Did I say anything incriminating...? Is it Johnny Bible?’
The face, the eyes, the height... close to the man in the photograph. Close. Ray Sloane... Ryan Slocum. Someone had broken into Rebus’s flat, looking for something, taking nothing. Looking for something that might incriminate them? He looked again at the business card, then reached for a phone, eventually tracked Siobhan down at home.
‘Siobhan, the guy you talked to at the National Library...?’
‘Yes?’
‘He gave you a description of the so-called journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to me again.’
‘Hang on.’ She went to fetch her notebook. ‘What’s this about anyway?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Read it out.’
‘“Tall, fair-haired, early fifties, longish face, no distinguishing features.”’
‘Anything about the accent?’
‘Nothing down here.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, he did say something. He said it was twangy.’
‘Like American?’
‘But Scottish.’
‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘Bible John, just like you said.’
‘What?’
‘Stalking his offspring...’ Rebus rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose. He had his eyes screwed shut. Was it or wasn’t it? Was he obsessed? How different was Johnny Bible’s shrine from the scene in his own kitchen, the table covered in cuttings?
‘I don’t know,’ he said. But he did know. He did. ‘Talk to you later,’ he told Siobhan.
‘Wait!’
But that was the one thing he couldn’t do. He needed to know. He needed to know right now. He looked round the room, saw dissolution and reverie, nobody who could drive, no back-up.
Except Jack.
Who had one arm around the secretary now, and was whispering in her ear. She was smiling, holding her cup with a steady hand. Maybe she was drinking the same thing Jack was: cola. Would Jack give him the keys? Not without an explanation, and Rebus wanted to do this alone, needed to. His motive: confrontation, and maybe exorcism. Besides, Bible John had cheated him out of Johnny Bible.
Rebus called downstairs. ‘Any cars going begging?’
‘Not if you’ve been drinking.’
‘Try me with a breath test.’
‘There’s an Escort parked outside.’
Rebus searched desk drawers, found a phone book. Peterhead... Slocum R. No listing. He could try BT, but an unlisted check would take time. Another option: get on the road. It was what he wanted anyway.
The city streets were wild: another Friday night, young souls at play. Rebus was singing ‘All Right Now’. Segue into: ‘Been Down So Long’. Thirty miles north to Peterhead, deep-water port. Tankers and platforms went there for servicing. Rebus wound the motor up, not much traffic heading out of the city. Sky glowing dull pink. Simmer dim, as the Shetlanders called it. Rebus tried not to think about what he was doing. Breaking rules he’d advised others not to break. No back-up. No real authority up here, a long way from home.
He had the address for Eugene Construction, got it from Ryan Slocum’s business card. I stood next to Bible John in a bar. He bought me a drink. Rebus shook his head. Probably a lot of other people could say the same, if only they knew; Rebus wasn’t so special. The company’s phone number was on the card, but all he’d got was an answering machine. It didn’t mean no one was there: security wouldn’t necessarily answer the phones. The card also had a pager number for Slocum, but Rebus wasn’t about to use that.
The company was housed behind a tall mesh fence. It took twenty minutes of driving around and asking questions before he found it. It wasn’t dockside, which was where he’d expected it to be. There was a country business park on the edge of town, and Eugene Construction bordered that. Rebus drove up to the gates. They were locked. He sounded his horn. There was a gatehouse, its lights on, but nobody in. Past the gates were barriers, painted red and white. His headlamps picked them out, and then behind them, coming forwards, a sauntering figure in guard’s uniform. Rebus left the car running, walked up to the gate.
‘What is it?’ the guard asked.
He pressed his warrant card to the mesh. ‘Police. I need a home address for one of your employees.’
‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
Gritted teeth. ‘Afraid not.’
The guard — sixties, retirement age, low-slung paunch — rasped at his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Look, who do you contact in an emergency?’
‘My office.’
‘And they contact someone from the company?’
‘I suppose so. Haven’t had to test it. Some kids tried to scale the fence a few months back, but they —’
‘Could you phone in?’
‘— heard me coming and ran away sharpish. What?’
‘Could you phone in?’
‘I suppose so, if it’s an emergency.’ The guard walked towards his hut.
‘And could you let me in while you’re at it? I’ll need to use your phone afterwards.’
The guard scratched his head, muttered something, but shook a chain of keys from his pocket and walked up to the gate.
‘Thanks,’ Rebus told him.
The hut was sparsely furnished. Kettle, mug, coffee and a little jar of milk sat on a rusted tray. There was a one-bar electric heater, two chairs, and a paperback novel on the desk: a western. Rebus took the telephone and explained the situation to the guard’s supervisor, who asked to speak to the guard again.
‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, ‘ID and everything.’ Staring at Rebus like he might be leader of a heist gang. He put Rebus back on, and the supervisor handed him the name and phone number he needed. Rebus made the call, waited.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Sturges?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. My name’s Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’m calling from your company’s gatehouse.’