‘How could you do that to me, Jack?’ Rebus said quietly, drinking his drink as the room filled with ghosts.
It was late, but Jim Stevens knew his editor wouldn’t mind. He tried the mobile number first. Bingo: his boss was at a dinner party in Kelvingrove. Politicos, the usual movers and shakers. Stevens’s boss liked all that crowd. Maybe he was the wrong man for a tabloid.
Or maybe, all these years down the road, it was Jim Stevens who was out of touch. He seemed surrounded by journalists younger, brighter, and keener than him. These days, you could be washed up at fifty. He wondered how long it would be till the cheque for services rendered was being countersigned at his editor’s desk, how long before the young bloods in the office were having a whip-round to see off ‘good old Jim’. He knew the drill, even knew the speeches they’d make — stuff any self-respecting sub would block and delete. He knew because he’d been there himself, back in the days when he’d been a young blood and the old-timers had been complaining about falling standards and the changing world of journalism.
Soon as Jim had heard about Cary Oakes, he’d taken his boss aside for a private word, then had checked flight schedules, brown-nosing Heathrow Information so they’d page the prodigal son.
‘It’s yours, Jim,’ his editor had said, but with a warning finger. ‘Could be the cream on the cake. Just make sure it doesn’t turn sour.’
Now the boss was giving him a couple of snippets of gossip from the dinner party. He’d obviously had a few drinks. They wouldn’t stop him heading into the newsroom afterwards. Twelve-hour days: a while since Jim Stevens had worked any of those.
‘So what can I do you for, Jim?’
At last. Stevens took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got us settled in at the hotel.’
‘How does he seem?’
‘All right.’
‘Not a slavering monster or anything?’
‘No, pretty quiet really.’ Stevens deciding his boss needn’t know about the blow-up with Rebus.
‘And ready to give us the exclusive?’
‘Yes.’ Stevens lit a cigarette for himself.
‘You might try to sound a bit more enthusiastic.’
‘Just been a long day, boss, that’s all.’
‘Sure you’ve got the stamina, Jim? I could lend you one of the newsroom crew...?’
‘Thanks but no thanks.’ Stevens heard his boss laughing. Ha bloody ha. ‘That’s not the kind of back-up that worries me.’
‘You mean corroboration?’
‘Lack of it, more like.’
‘Mmm.’ Thoughtful now. ‘Got a game plan?’
‘You worked for a year or two in the States, didn’t you?’
‘While back.’
‘Still got friends there?’
‘Might have one or two.’
‘I need to hook up with someone on a Seattle paper, see if I can talk to one of the cops who worked the Oakes case.’
‘One guy I knew now works news for CBS.’
‘That’d be a start.’
‘Soon as I get to the office, OK, Jim?’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Jim? Don’t worry too much about confirmation. First thing you need to get from our friend Oakes is a bloody good story. Whatever it takes.’
Stevens put the phone down, lay back on his bed. Part of him wanted to chuck the job right now. But the other part was still hungry. It wanted those kids in the office to stare at him, wondering if they’d ever be as good, as sharp. It wanted Oakes’s story. Afterwards, he could walk away if he liked: crowning glory and all that. He thought again of Rebus. Wondered what Oakes had to gain from sparring with him. From what Stevens knew, no one had ever got into the ring with Rebus and come away without at least a few cuts and bruises. And sometimes... sometimes there’d be traction and a hospital waiting.
But Oakes had looked keen. Oakes had looked ready, making Rebus come at him like that.
Jim Stevens was supposed to be Oakes’s baby-sitter. But it seemed to him that Oakes had either an agenda or a death wish. Difficult to baby-sit either one.
‘This is your last job, Jim,’ Stevens promised himself. Decided a raid on the mini-bar would seal the contract.
13
The surveillance budget was so tight, they were reduced to singles. Four in the morning, Rebus couldn’t sleep, so he drove down to the waterfront, stopping off at an all-night garage. Siobhan Clarke was in an unmarked Rover 200. She’d dressed for a mountain trek: trousers tucked into thick socks and climbing boots; thermal jacket and bobble hat. On the passenger seat: notebook and pen; three empty packets of lo-fat crisps; two flasks. Rebus climbed into the back and offered a microwaved pasty and beaker of coffee.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
Rebus looked out at the hotel. ‘Any movement?’
She shook her head, chewed and swallowed. ‘I’m a bit worried though. There are service exits to the back of the building. No way I can cover those.’
‘He’s probably jet-lagged anyway.’
‘Meaning awake all night, asleep all day?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Rebus leaned forward. ‘He hasn’t been out at all?’
She shook her head. ‘All those years in jail, maybe he’s turned agoraphobic.’
‘Maybe.’ Rebus knew she might have a point. He’d known ex-cons who just couldn’t cope with the outside world — all that space and light. They ended up reoffending, only way they could get put away again.
‘He ate dinner in the restaurant.’ She nodded towards the plate-glass windows of the hotel’s dining room.
‘Did he spot you?’
‘Not sure. His room’s on the second floor. That window at the far end.’
Rebus looked. Twelve small square panes of glass. The window was open an inch at the bottom. ‘How do you know?’
‘I asked the manager.’
Rebus nodded: orders from the Farmer — no need to be subtle. ‘How did the manager take it?’
‘He seemed uncomfortable.’ She took a final bite of pasty.
‘Don’t want to make Oakes’s stay too pleasant, do we?’
‘No, sir,’ Clarke said.
Rebus opened his door. ‘Just going for a recce.’ He paused. ‘What do you do when you need to...?’
She lifted one of the flasks, reached to the floor for a kitchen funnel.
‘And what if...?’
‘Self-control, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t get your flasks mixed up, will you?’
Outside, the air was fresh. Sounds of night traffic at the port, the occasional taxi cruising past the end of the road. Taxis: he had to ask them about Damon and the woman. He walked around the side of the hotel, wandered into the car park. The service exits were locked. Beside them were four rubbish skips, separated by a high wooden fence from the guests’ cars. Jim Stevens’s Astra was easy to spot. Rebus tore a page from his notebook, scribbled a couple of words, folded the sheet and fixed it beneath a wiper blade. Back at the service doors, Rebus checked they couldn’t be opened from outside. He left satisfied that even if Oakes used them to get out of the hotel, he’d have to use the front entrance to get back in.
Always supposing he’d come back. Maybe he’d just scarper: wasn’t that what they wanted? No, not exactly: they wanted to be certain he’d left Edinburgh. Oakes missing from his hotel wasn’t quite the same thing. Rebus went back to Clarke’s car, got out his mobile and made a call. Hotel reception answered.
‘Good evening,’ Rebus said. ‘Could you put me through to Mr Oakes’s room, please?’
‘One moment.’
Rebus winked at Clarke. He held the mobile between them so she could listen. A buzzing noise repeated three or four times. Then the pick-up.