She shrugged. ‘He had the chutzpah.’
‘Did he?’
Another shrug. ‘What else?’
‘See, the way it looks to me... you don’t mind tormenting your father — as publicly as possible. You’re at the front of every demo, you make sure your picture’s on TV... but if you actually came forward and let the world know who you are, that would be even more effective. Why the secrecy?’
Her face turned childlike again, her mouth busy with fingers, knees together. The single braid fell between her eyes, like she wanted to hide from the world but be caught at the same time — a child’s game.
‘Why the secrecy?’ Rebus repeated. ‘Seems to me it’s precisely because this is so personal between you and your father, like some sort of private game. You like the idea of torturing him, letting him wonder when you’ll go public with any of this.’ He paused. ‘Seems to me maybe you were using Mitch.’
‘No!’
‘Using him to get at your father.’
‘No!’
‘Which means he had something you found useful. What could that be?’
She got up. ‘Get out!’
‘Something that drew the two of you together.’
She clamped her hands over her ears, shaking her head.
‘Something from your past... your childhoods. Something like blood between you. How far back does it go, Jo? Between you and your father — how far into the past does it stretch?’
She swung around and slapped his face. Hard. Rebus rode it, but it still stung.
‘So much for non-violent protest,’ he said, rubbing the spot.
She slumped down on the magazines again, ran a hand over her head. It came to rest on one of her braids, which she twirled nervously. ‘You’re right,’ she said, so quietly Rebus almost didn’t hear.
‘Mitch?’
‘Mitch,’ she said, remembering him at last. Allowing herself that pain. Behind her, lighting flickered over the photographs. ‘He was so uptight when we met. Nobody could believe it when we started seeing one another — chalk and cheese they said. They were wrong. It took a while, but one night he opened up to me.’ She looked up. ‘You know his background?’
‘Orphaned,’ Rebus said.
She nodded. ‘Then institutionalised.’ She paused. ‘Then abused. He said there were times he’d thought of coming forward, telling people, but after all this time... he wondered what good it would do.’ She shook her head, tears forming. ‘He was the most unselfish person I’ve ever met. But inside, it was like he was eaten away, and Jesus, I know that feeling.’
Rebus got it. ‘Your father?’
She sniffed. ‘They call him “an institution” in the oil world. Me, I was institutionalised...’ A deep breath, nothing theatrical about it: a necessity. ‘And then abused.’
‘Christ,’ Jack said quietly. Rebus’s heart was racing; he had to fight to keep his voice level.
‘For how long, Jo?’
She looked up angrily. ‘You think I’d let the prick get away with it twice? I ran as soon as I could. Kept running for years, then thought: fuck it, I’m not to blame. I’m not the one who should be doing this.’
Rebus nodded understanding. ‘So you saw a bond between Mitch and you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you told him your own story?’
‘Quid pro quo.’
‘Including your father’s identity?’ She started to nod, but stopped, swallowed instead. ‘That’s what he was blackmailing your father with — the incest story?’
‘I don’t know. Mitch was dead before I could find out.’
‘But that was his intention?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘Jo, I think we’ll need a statement from you. Not now, later. All right?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ She paused. ‘We can’t prove anything, can we?’
‘Not yet.’ Maybe not ever, he was thinking. He slid out of the seat, Jack following.
Outside, there were more songs around the camp-fire. Candles danced inside Chinese lanterns strung from the trees. Faces had turned shiny orange, like pumpkins. Joanna Bruce watched from her doorway, leaning against the bottom half of the door as before. Rebus turned to say goodbye.
‘Will you be camped here a while?’
She shrugged. ‘The way we live, who knows?’
‘You like what you’re doing?’
She gave the question serious thought. ‘It’s a life.’
Rebus smiled, moved away.
‘Inspector!’ she called. He turned back to her. Kohl was dribbling down her cheeks. ‘If everything’s so wonderful, how come everything’s so fucked up?’
Rebus didn’t have an answer to that. ‘Don’t let the sun catch you crying,’ he told her instead.
On the drive back, he tried answering her question for himself, found he couldn’t. Maybe it all had to do with balance, cause and effect. Where there was light, there must needs be dark. It sounded like the start of a sermon, and he hated sermons. He tried out his own personal mantra instead: Miles Davis, ‘So What?’ Only, it didn’t sound so clever now.
It didn’t sound clever at all.
Jack was frowning. ‘Why didn’t she come forward with any of this?’ he asked.
‘Because as far as she’s concerned, it’s got nothing to do with us. It didn’t even have anything to do with Mitch, he just blundered in.’
‘Sounded more like he was invited.’
‘An invitation he should have refused.’
‘You think Major Weir did it?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure it matters. He’s not going anywhere.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s in this little private hell she’s constructed for the two of them. As long as he knows she’s out there, demonstrating against everything he holds dear... that’s his punishment and her revenge. No getting away from it for either of them.’
‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’
‘Fathers and daughters,’ Rebus agreed. And past misdemeanours. And the way they refused to go away...
They were beat when they got back to the hotel.
‘Round of golf?’ Jack suggested.
Rebus laughed. ‘I could just about manage coffee and a round of sarnies.’
‘Sounds good to me. My room in ten minutes.’
Their rooms had been made up, fresh chocolates on the pillows, clean bathrobes laid out. Rebus changed quickly, then phoned reception to ask if there were any messages. He hadn’t checked before — hadn’t wanted Jack to know he was expecting one.
‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist trilled. ‘I’ve a phone message for you here.’ Rebus’s heart rose: she hadn’t just upped and run. ‘Shall I read it to you?’
‘Please.’
‘It says, “Burke’s, half an hour after closing. Tried another time, another place, but he wasn’t having any.” There’s no name.’
‘That’s fine, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, sir.’
Of course he was welcome: business account. The whole world sucked up to you if you were corporate. He got the outside line, tried Siobhan at home, got her machine again. Tried St Leonard’s, was told she wasn’t there. Tried her at home again, deciding this time to leave his telephone number on her machine. Halfway through, she picked up.
‘What’s the use of an answering machine when you’re home?’ he asked.
‘Call filtering,’ she said. ‘I get to check if you’re a heavy breather or not before I talk to you.’
‘My breathing’s under control, so talk to me.’
‘First victim,’ she said. ‘I spoke to someone at Robert Gordon’s. Deceased was studying geology, and it included time spent offshore. People who study geology up there almost always get a job in the oil industry, the whole course is geared towards it. Because she spent time offshore, deceased did a survival module.’