Rebus drove back into town, parked in the car park behind St Leonard’s and went into the station. He knocked on Farmer Watson’s door, obeyed the command to enter. Watson looked like the day had started badly.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I had a bit of business down at D Division, looking at Jim Margolies’ file.’ Rebus watched the Farmer pace behind his desk. He cradled a mug of coffee in both hands. ‘Did you speak to Andy Davies, sir?’
‘Who?’
‘Andy Davies. Darren Rough’s social worker.’
The Farmer nodded.
‘And, sir?’
‘And he told me I’d have to speak to his boss.’
‘What did his boss say?’
The Farmer swung round. ‘Christ, John, give me time, will you? I’ve got more to deal with than your little...’ He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. Then he mumbled an apology.
‘No problem, sir. I’ll just...’ Rebus headed for the door.
‘Sit down,’ the Farmer ordered. ‘Now you’re here, let’s see if you can come up with any clever ideas.’
Rebus sat down. ‘To do with what, sir?’
The Farmer sat too, then noticed that his mug was empty. He got up again to fill it from the pot, pouring for Rebus too. Rebus examined the dark liquid suspiciously. Over the years, the Farmer’s coffee had definitely improved, but there were still days...
‘To do with Cary Dennis Oakes.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Should I know him?’
‘If you don’t, you soon will.’ The Farmer tossed a newspaper in Rebus’s direction. It fell to the floor. Rebus picked it up, saw that it was folded to a particular story, a story Rebus had missed because it wasn’t the one he’d been looking for.
KILLER IS SENT ‘HOME’.
‘Cary Oakes,’ Rebus read, ‘convicted of two murders in Washington State, USA, will today board a flight back to the United Kingdom after serving a fifteen-year sentence in a maximum-security prison in Walla Walla, Washington. It is believed that Oakes will make his way back to Edinburgh, where he lived for several years before going to the United States.’
There was a lot more. Oakes had flown to the States toting a rucksack and a tourist visa, and then had simply stayed put, taking a series of short-term jobs before embarking on a mugging and robbery spree which had climaxed with two killings, the victims clubbed and strangled to death.
Rebus put down the paper. ‘Did you know?’
The Farmer slammed his fists down on the table. ‘Of course I didn’t know!’
‘Shouldn’t we have been told?’
‘Think about it, John. You’re a cop in Wallumballa or whatever it’s called. You’re sending this murderer back to Scotland. Who do you tell?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Scotland Yard.’
‘Not realising for one minute that Scotland Yard might actually be in another country altogether.’
‘And the brainboxes in London decided not to pass the message on?’
‘Their version is, they got their wires crossed, thought Oakes was only travelling as far as their patch. In fact, his ticket only goes as far as London.’
‘So he’s their problem.’ But the Farmer was shaking his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve had a whip-round and added the fare to Edinburgh?’
‘Bingo.’
‘So when does he get here?’
‘Later on today.’
‘And what do we do?’
The Farmer stared at Rebus. He liked that we. A problem shared — even if with a thorn like Rebus — was a problem that could be dealt with. ‘What would you suggest?’
‘High-visibility surveillance, let him know we’re watching. With any luck he’ll get fed up and slope off somewhere else.’
The Farmer rubbed at his eyes. ‘Take a look,’ he said, sliding a folder across the desk. Rebus looked: sheets of fax paper, about twenty of them. ‘The Met took pity on us at the last, sent what they’d been sent by the Americans.’
Rebus started reading. ‘How come he’s been released? I thought in America “life” meant till death.’
‘Some technicality to do with the original trial. So arcane, even the American authorities aren’t sure.’
‘But they’re letting him go?’
‘A retrial would cost a fortune, plus there’s the problem of tracing the original witnesses. They offered him a deal. If he gave it up, signed away the right to any retrial or compensation, they’d fly him home.’
‘In the news story, “home” had inverted commas.’
‘He hasn’t spent much time in Edinburgh.’
‘So why here?’
‘His choice, apparently.’
‘But why?’
‘Maybe the fax will tell you.’
The message of the fax was clear and simple. It said Cary Oakes would kill again.
The psychologist had warned the authorities of this. The psychologist said, Cary Oakes has little concept of right and wrong. There were lots of psychological terms applied to this. The word ‘psychopath’ wasn’t used much any more by the experts, but reading between the lines and the jargon, Rebus knew that was what they were dealing with. Anti-social tendencies... deep-seated sense of betrayal...
Oakes was thirty-eight years old. There was a grainy photo of him included with the file. His head had been shaved. The forehead was large and jutting, the face thin and angular. He had small eyes, like little black beads, and a narrow mouth. He was described as above-average intelligence (self-taught in prison), interested in health and fitness. He’d made no friends during his incarceration, kept no pictures on his walls, and his only correspondence was with his team of lawyers (five different sets in total).
The Farmer was on the telephone, finding out Oakes’s flight schedule, liaising with the Assistant Chief Constable at Fettes. When he’d finished, Rebus asked what the ACC thought.
‘He thinks we should ca’ canny.’
Rebus smiled: it was a typical response.
‘He’s right in a way,’ the Farmer continued. ‘The media will be all over this. We can’t be seen to be harassing the man.’
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and the reporters will scare him off.’
‘Maybe.’
‘It says here he was originally questioned about another four murders.’
The Farmer nodded, but seemed distracted. ‘I don’t need this,’ he said at last, staring at his desk. The desk was a measure of the man: always carefully ordered, reflecting the room as a whole. No piles of paperwork, no mess or clutter, not so much as a single stray paperclip on the carpet.
‘I’ve been at this job too long, John.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘You know the worst kind of officers?’
‘You mean ones like me, sir?’
The Farmer smiled. ‘Quite the opposite. I mean the ones who’re biding their time till pension day. The clock-watchers. Recently, I’ve been turning into one. Another six months, that’s what I was giving myself. Six more months till retirement.’ He smiled again. ‘And I wanted them quiet. I’ve been praying for them to be quiet.’
‘We don’t know this guy’s going to be a problem. We’ve been here before, sir.’
The Farmer nodded: so they had. Men who’d done time in Australia and Canada, and hardmen from Glasgow’s Bar-L, all of them settling in Edinburgh, or just passing through. All of them with pasts carved into their faces. Even when they weren’t a problem, they were still a problem. They might settle down, live quietly, but there were people who knew who they were, who knew the reputation they carried with them, something they’d never shake off. And eventually, after too many beers down the pub, one of these people would decide it was time to test himself, because what the hardman brought with him was a parameter, something you could measure yourself against. It was pure Hollywood: the retired gunslinger challenged by the punk kid. But to the police, all it was was trouble.