‘I don’t, thanks all the same. But don’t let me stop you.’
‘You’d need heavy artillery to stop me,’ Rebus said, lighting another for himself. ‘So what’s the story with Oakes?’
Archibald touched his fingers to the dashboard. ‘He called me, told me where he was.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘He knows all about you.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s the point.’
‘Yes, he knows that too. But he knew you were on the late shift.’
‘Not difficult. He can see me from his bedroom window.’ Rebus pointed towards it. ‘Or maybe his minder told him.’
‘The journalist? I didn’t meet him.’
‘Probably in bed.’
‘Yes, I had to ring up to Oakes’s bedroom. He wasn’t sleeping, though, told me it’s jet-lag.’
‘How did he get your number?’
‘It’s unlisted.’ Archibald paused. ‘I’m guessing the journalist pulled a few strings.’
Rebus inhaled smoke, let it pour down his nostrils. ‘So what’s the story?’
‘My guess is, Oakes wants to play some game.’
Rebus looked at his passenger. ‘What sort of game?’
‘The sort that gets me out of bed at one in the morning. That’s when he phoned, said we had to meet now or never at all.’
‘What about?’
‘The murder.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Murder singular?’
‘Not one of the ones he committed in the States. This happened right here in Edinburgh. More specifically, out at Hillend.’
Hillend: at the northern tip of the Pentland Hills — hence the name. Known locally for its artificial ski-slope. From the bypass, you could see the lights at night. Suddenly, Rebus remembered the case. An outcrop of rocks, a woman’s body. Young woman: student at a teacher-training college. Rebus had helped with the initial search. The search had taken him from Hillend to Swanston Cottages, an extraordinary cluster of homes, seemingly untouched by modernity. All at once he’d wanted to buy a place there, but it had been too isolated for his wife — and outwith their means anyway.
‘This was fifteen years ago?’ Rebus said.
Archibald shook his head. He’d slipped his hands into his pockets, was staring at the windscreen. ‘Seventeen years,’ he told Rebus. ‘Seventeen years this month. Her name was Deirdre Campbell.’
‘Were you on the case?’
Archibald shook his head again. ‘Wasn’t possible at the time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Never found the killer.’
‘She was strangled?’
‘Beaten about the head, then strangled.’
Rebus remembered Oakes’s modus operandi. Again, it was as if Archibald could read his mind.
‘Similar,’ he said.
‘Was Oakes here at the time?’
‘It was just before he left for the States.’
Rebus gave a low whistle. ‘He’s owned up?’
Archibald shifted in his seat. ‘Not exactly. When he was arrested in the States, I followed his trial, noticed similarities. I went out there to interview him.’
‘And?’
‘And he played his little games. Hints, smiles and half-truths and stories. He led me a merry little dance.’
‘I thought you weren’t on the case?’
‘I wasn’t. Not officially.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Archibald examined his fingertips. ‘All these years he’s been inside, we’ve played his games. Because I know I can wear him down. He doesn’t know how persistent I can be.’
‘And now he phones you in the middle of the night?’
‘And feeds me more stories.’ A half-smile. ‘But he doesn’t seem to realise, the gameboard has changed. He’s in Scotland now. My rules.’ A pause. ‘I’ve asked him to come out to Hillend with me.’
Rebus stared at Archibald. ‘The man’s a killer. Psych reports say he’ll do it again.’
‘He kills the weak. I’m not weak.’
Rebus wondered about that. ‘Maybe he’s switched games,’ he said.
Archibald shook his head. He looked like a man obsessed. Jesus, Rebus could write the book on that one: cases which grabbed you and wouldn’t let go; unsolveds which stayed with you all the long sleepless nights. You sifted through them time and again, examining the grains of sand, seeking anomalies...
‘I still don’t get it,’ Rebus said. ‘You weren’t on the original case... how come you’re...’
Then he remembered. It should have come to him sooner. The story had gone around at the time, had been passed between the searchers on the hillside.
‘Oh shit,’ Rebus said. ‘She was your niece...’
17
It had been easy, finding an unoccupied room in the hotel. Simplicity itself to pick the door lock. So it was that Cary Oakes sat in darkness at the window, a window unwatched by Detective Inspector John Rebus. He had to smile: the watcher had become the watched, without realising it.
There was an A-Z on his lap. He’d told Stevens he needed it so he could reacquaint himself with his city. Earlier, Stevens had let slip that Rebus used to live in Arden Street, and maybe still did. Arden Street in Marchmont. Page 15, square 6G. Alan Archibald lived in Corstorphine, or had done when he’d written to Oakes in prison. All those letters, he’d never once let the prisoner know his phone number. It had taken Oakes less than a day to discover it. Strength in knowledge; always surprise your opponent — that’s how games were played.
Oakes watched the two men talking in the car. He felt a certain pride, almost like running a dating agency. He’d brought the two of them together; he felt sure they’d get along. They sat there for an hour, even sharing a hot drink from a flask. Then a patrol car turned up — Rebus must have radioed for it. Wasn’t that thoughtfuclass="underline" a free ride home for the retired detective. Archibald had aged well, maybe out of spite. Oakes knew he didn’t look as fresh as the day he’d been incarcerated. Flesh sagged from his face, and there was a dead look to his eyes, despite the regular vitamins and exercise regime.
He slipped a hand into his pocket, felt a fold of banknotes there. He’d been drinking at the bar, spinning a line to some business types, Stevens his quiet partner. Stevens had given up eventually, left them to it. Oakes had learned many trades during his time inside. Lock-picking was one; pocket-picking another. He’d left the credit cards alone: that was the sort of thing that could be traced, get him in trouble. He let cash alone be his guide. He knew Stevens wanted him to be dependent on the paper, knew that was why Stevens was holding back payment. Well, for now he needed Stevens, but that would change. And meantime, he had work to do.
And the money would be his means.
He left the room and made his way down the stairs to the first-floor landing. At the end was a window which opened on to a line of lock-up garages. Eight-foot drop to the roof of the nearest garage. He crouched on the windowledge, waited for the taxi to come. Heard its engine as it rolled towards the hotel. He’d given the name and room number of one of his drinking companions. He listened for the moment when the taxi would pass Rebus’s car, the moment when the detective would be least likely to hear anything, then dropped through the darkness on to the roof, sliding down and on to solid tarmac. Not even pausing for breath or to dust himself off, immediately jogging towards the wall which would take him into the lane, the lane which would take him away from the hotel.
With any luck, he’d pick up a taxi. There’d be one coming along in a minute, its driver disgruntled and seeking a fare...
Four in the morning, Darren Rough reckoned it would be safe. Everyone would be asleep. He counted himself lucky: out late the night before this, picking up an early edition of his paper on the way home, seeing his story twisted there. He’d been in the flat, Radio Two playing quietly so as not to disturb the neighbours: they had kids, kids needed sleep, everyone knew that. Radio barely audible, tea and toast, sitting by the gas fire.