‘Depends on your parameters,’ Rebus said. He’d lifted the line from a training course at Tulliallan.
‘Well, they’re obviously here for the duration, aren’t they?’
‘We just want Oakes to know.’
‘Yes, but surely the time to let him know is when he’s left to his own devices. Once he’s found himself a place to live, and all the media stuff’s finished.’
Frazer had a point. Rebus conceded as much with a slow nod of his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘tell the Chief Super.’
‘That’s just what I did.’ Rebus looked at him, waiting for more. ‘He turned up about nine o’clock, wanting to know how things were going.’
‘And you told him?’
Frazer nodded; Rebus laughed.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said to give it a few more days.’
‘You know they think Oakes might kill again?’
‘Only person within range at the moment is that reporter. Anything happened to him, I’d be heartbroken.’
Rebus burst out laughing again. ‘Know something, Roy? You’re going to be all right.’
‘The power of prayer, sir.’
Rebus had been in the car by himself for an hour, cold seeping inside his three pairs of socks, when he saw someone push open the door of the hotel and step outside. The hotel bar was still open, wouldn’t close till the last guest had had enough. Stevens wore his tie loose around his neck, top two shirt buttons open. He was blowing cigarette smoke up into the sky, shuffling his feet to keep his balance. Been there, done that, Rebus thought. Eventually, Stevens focused on the police car, seemed to find it amusing. Chuckled to himself, bending forward at the waist, shaking his head slowly. Came walking towards the car. Rebus got out, waited for him.
‘So we meet at last, Moriarty,’ Stevens said. Rebus folded his arms, leaned against the car.
‘How’s the baby-sitting?’
Stevens puffed out his cheeks. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m having trouble getting a handle on him.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘All that time behind bars — no pun intended — you’d think he might want to celebrate.’
‘I’m guessing he doesn’t drink.’
‘Your guess is correct. Says drink contaminates his mind, makes him feel dangerous.’ A humourless laugh.
‘How much longer?’ Rebus could smell the whisky on Stevens’ breath. Give him a minute or two, he’d place the brand.
‘Couple more days. It’s good stuff, wait till you read it.’
‘Know what the Yanks told us? They said he’ll kill again.’
‘Really?’
‘Has he said anything?’
Stevens nodded. ‘Gave me a list of his next victims. Nice tie-in with the story.’ Stevens grinned lopsidedly, saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Sorry, sorry. Not in very good taste. I’ve got a publisher interested, did I tell you? Coming back to me tomorrow or the day after with an offer.’
‘How can you do it?’ Rebus asked quietly.
Stevens got his balance back. ‘Do what?’
‘Do what you do.’
‘Sounds like a Motown line.’ He sniffed, coughed. ‘It’s an interesting story, Rebus. That’s what he means to me: a story. What does he mean to you?’ He awaited a response, didn’t get one, wagged a finger. ‘That note you left me: “Drop him”. Think I’d suddenly see the light, hand him over to somebody else, some other paper? No chance, pal. This isn’t the Damascus Road.’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘And my boy’s not the only ex-offender in the news, is he? I see someone outed a paedophile. Word is, it was a cop.’ He tutted, wagged his finger again. ‘Any comment to make, Inspector?’
‘Go fuck yourself, Stevens.’
‘Ah, now there’s another thing. Guy’s been in the nick fourteen years, and here we are in Leith, Edinburgh’s knocking-shop, and he’s not interested. Can you credit that?’
‘Maybe he’s got other things on his mind.’
‘Wouldn’t bother me if he preferred chickens, just so long as he gets me a book deal.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Look at us, eh? You out here, me in that big hotel. Makes you think.’
‘Go to bed, Stevens. You need all the beauty sleep you can get.’
Stevens turned away, remembered something and turned back. ‘OK for a wee photo-shoot tomorrow night? Photographer’s coming anyway, and I thought it’d make a nice sidebar: cop who’ll never sleep while killer’s at large.’
Rebus said nothing, waited till the reporter had turned away again. ‘What did he want in the church?’ The question stopped Stevens cold. Rebus repeated it. Stevens half-turned towards him, shook his head slowly, then walked back across the road. There was something tired in the walk now, something Rebus couldn’t interpret. He reached into the car for his cigarettes, lit one. Closed the driver’s door and walked fifty yards to the end of the road, then across the bridge to the other side of the basin, where a boat was moored. There was a sign telling patrons to respect the neighbours and keep the noise down late at night. But the boat wasn’t being used tonight, no private party or celebration. Nearby, they were building more ‘New York loft-style apartments’ for young professionals, part of Leith’s revival. Rebus crossed back to the pub, but it was closed now. The bar staff would probably be inside, enjoying a drink as they replayed the evening’s highlights. Rebus walked back to the car.
An hour later, a taxi pulled up outside the hotel. His first thought: another tape for the newspaper. But someone was in the taxi. They paid the driver, got out. Rebus checked his watch. Two fifteen. One of the guests who’d been out on the town. He took a nip from his quarter-bottle, slipped the headphones back on to his ears. String Driven Thing: ‘Another Night in This Old City’.
That’s all it ever was...
Forty minutes later, the man from the taxi exited the hotel. He waved back to the night porter. Window down, Rebus heard him say, ‘Good night.’ He stood outside, glanced at his watch, looked up and down the street. Looking for a taxi, Rebus thought. Who would be visiting a hotel this time of night? Who would he be visiting?
The man’s gaze fell on the police car. Rebus wound the window down further, flicked ash on to the roadway. The man was making his way towards the car. Rebus opened his door, got out.
‘Inspector Rebus?’ The man held out his hand. Rebus gave him a once-over. Late fifties, well-dressed. Didn’t look the type to pull a stunt, but you could never be sure. The man read his thoughts, smiled.
‘I don’t blame you. Middle of the night, stranger wants to make friends, already knows your name...’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
‘A while back. You’ve got a good memory. My name’s Archibald. Alan Archibald.’
Rebus nodded, finally shook Archibald’s hand. ‘You had a posting at Great London Road.’
‘For a couple of months, yes. Before I retired, I was based at Fettes, pushing paper around a desk.’
Alan Archibald: tall, cropped salt-and-pepper hair. A face full of strong features, a body resisting the ageing process.
‘I heard you’d retired.’
Archibald shrugged. ‘Twenty years in, I thought it was time.’ His look said: what about you? Rebus’s mouth twitched.
‘It’s warmer in the car. I can’t offer you a lift, but I could probably...’
‘I know,’ Alan Archibald was saying. ‘Cary Oakes told me.’
‘He what?’
Archibald nodded towards the car. ‘I’ll take you up on your offer, though. I’m not used to night shifts these days.’
So they got into the car, Archibald tucking his black woollen overcoat around him. Rebus ran the engine, stuck the heating on, offered Archibald a cigarette.