‘Could we talk about it?’ Jane Barbour asked.
‘What’s there to talk about?’ Van Brady asked, folding her arms.
‘This whole situation.’
Cal Brady ignored her, spoke to his mother. ‘Is he in there?’
‘One of his neighbours heard sounds.’
Cal Brady thumped on the window, then had to wipe grease off on his jeans.
‘Look,’ Jane Barbour was saying, ‘if we could all—’
‘Right you are,’ Cal Brady said. Then, swiping the crowbar from his mother, he swung it at the window, shattering the glass. Grabbed at the soiled sheet, pulling it down from where drawing-pins held it in place. He was halfway over the windowsill and into the room, crowbar still in his hand. Rebus grabbed him by the feet, pulled him back. Glass shards ripped the front from Brady’s T-shirt.
‘Hey, you!’ Van Brady yelled, swinging a punch at Rebus. Cal Brady wriggled free, pulled himself up and got into Rebus’s face.
‘You want it, do you?’ Brandishing the crowbar. Not recognising the policeman.
‘I want you to calm down,’ Rebus said quietly. He turned to Van. ‘And you, behave yourself.’
The crowd had formed around the window, keen for a view of the flat’s interior. It looked much like any other: emulsioned walls, sofa, chair, bookcase. No TV, no hi-fi. Books piled on the sofa: photography texts; fiction titles. Newspapers on the floor, empty pot noodle containers, a pizza box. Cans and lemonade bottles on the bookcase. They all looked disappointed with this haul.
‘He’s polis,’ Van warned her son.
‘Listen to your mother, Cal,’ Rebus said.
Cal Brady was lowering the crowbar as half a dozen uniforms came out of the stairwell.
First thing they did was disperse the crowd. Van Brady shouted that there’d be a GAP meeting in her flat. The TV crew looked ready to follow. The photographer lingered to take shots of Darren Rough’s living room, until uniforms moved him on too. Barbour was on her mobile, calling for someone to come and board up the window.
‘And pronto, before someone tips a can of petrol into the place.’
Tom Jackson, mopping his brow, came over to where Rebus was standing.
‘Christ almighty,’ he said. ‘I think I preferred it the way it was before.’
When Rebus looked up, Jackson’s eyes were on him.
‘You’re blaming me for this?’ Rebus asked.
‘Did I say that?’ Jackson was still busy with his handkerchief. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’ He turned and walked away.
Rebus looked in through the window. There was a musty smell from the room; hardly surprising, when it got neither fresh air nor sunlight. In for a penny, he thought to himself, lifting a foot on to the sill and pulling himself up.
Broken glass crunched underfoot. No sign of Darren Rough.
This is what you wanted, John. The voice in his head: not his own, but Jack Morton’s. This is what you wanted, and now you’ve got it...
No, he thought, I didn’t want this.
But Jack was right to a degree: here it was anyway.
A narrow archway from the living room led into the kitchenette. Rebus felt the electric kettle: a trace of warmth. Looked in the fridge: bread, marge, jam. No milk. In the swing-top bin: empty milk carton, baked bean tins.
Jane Barbour looked in at him. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘How about opening the door?’
‘Sure.’ He opened the door to the hall, which was in darkness. Fumbled and found a light switch. Bare forty-watt bulb. He tried opening the door, but the mortice had been locked, no sign of a key anywhere. The letterbox was protected by a block of wood. Not that Rough would get much mail. He went back to the window, let Barbour know she’d have to climb in if she wanted the tour.
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘Once was enough.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘When I first brought him here.’
Rebus nodded, went back into the hall. Just the two bedrooms, plus bathroom and separate toilet. The first bedroom contained a sleeping bag on the floor. Bedtime reading: the Bible, Good News version. Empty crisp packets. Rebus picked them up. There was a used condom inside one. Curtain across the window: Rebus pulled it open, looked down on to a roadway. Second bedroom was empty, not even a lightbulb. Same view as bedroom one. The bathroom needed a clean. There was mould on the walls. The only towel was a pitifully small and frayed affair, hospital knock-off or similar. Rebus tried the toilet door. It was locked. He pushed harder, definitely locked. He tapped on the wood.
‘Rough? You in there?’ No way of locking the door from the outside. ‘Police,’ Rebus called. ‘Look, we’re about to move out, and your front window’s smashed. Minute we’re gone, the barbarians will be back.’ Silence. ‘Fine and dandy,’ Rebus said, turning away. ‘By the way, DI Barbour’s outside. Cheers, Darren.’
Rebus was half out of the window when he heard the noise behind him. Turned and saw Darren Rough standing in the doorway, face gaunt, eyes flickering in terrified expectation. Looking both haunted and hunted. He held shivering hands up to his chest, like they’d protect him from a crowbar’s blows.
Rebus, immune to most things, felt a sudden stab of pity. Jane Barbour was out on the walkway, talking to Tom Jackson. She saw Rebus’s look, broke off the conversation.
‘DI Barbour,’ he called. ‘One of yours, I believe.’
Jim Stevens tried to put from his mind the sight of Cary Oakes urinating in the church. Now that he had Oakes, he needed the story, needed it to be big. His boss had complained about the first instalment, called it a ‘cock-tease’, hoped there was better to come. Stevens had given him his word.
Oakes had a Bible beside his bed. Yet in the church... Stevens didn’t want to think about what it might mean. There was something about Oakes... you looked into his eyes sometimes and saw it, and if he caught you watching, he was able to blink it away. But for seconds at a time, his mind would be somewhere else, somewhere the reporter didn’t want to be.
Just do your job, he kept telling himself. A few more days, plenty of time to score maximum brownie points with his boss, show the other rags that he could still cut it, and put together a proposal for whichever publisher made the highest bid. He was already in negotiation with two London houses, but four more had turned the idea down.
‘Killers’ life stories,’ one editor had said dismissively, ‘been there, done that.’
To get a bidding war going, he needed more offers. Two interested parties barely qualified as a tiff.
And now this.
Oakes had said he was going to his room for half an hour after lunch. The morning session had been good; not brilliant, but all right. Enough nuggets for the next instalment. But Oakes had complained of a headache, said he wanted to soak in a bath. After half an hour, Stevens had tried his room: no one answering. Reception hadn’t seen him. Stevens had thought about going out and asking the surveillance, but that would have been rash. He persuaded the manager that he was worried about his colleague’s health. A skeleton key got them into the room. No one there, no one at all. Stevens had apologised to the manager, gone back to his own room. Where he now sat, nipping at his fingernails and wondering where his story had gone.
It had to be bravado.
Caught snivelling and shivering like that by the police... The only way for Darren Rough to scrape together any self-esteem was to turn down Barbour’s offer of a move. She could offer a police cell until something better came up; could no longer guarantee his safety in Greenfield.