Rough had smiled as she said ‘no longer’, both of them knowing she was playing with words.
‘I’m staying,’ he’d said. ‘Got to stop running some time, might as well be here and now.’ And he’d chuckled. ‘Like some old Western, isn’t it? Whatsisface, John Wayne.’ He made his fingers into a six-shooter, blasted the air. Then he looked around and sniffed, his face losing its animation.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Barbour said.
‘I agree,’ Andy Davies said. It was the first time Rebus had met Darren Rough’s social worker. He was tall and thin and bearded, red hair going bald at the dome. Laughter lines around his eyes; small pink mouth.
‘There is something you could do for me,’ Rough said.
Davies leaning forward on the sofa, hands pressed between his knees. ‘What’s that, Darren?’
‘A dustpan and brush, so I can clear up all this shit.’ Kicking at a fragment of glass.
A council workman had arrived to put boards across the window. There was a dull loathing in his eyes. Someone down below had pressed a GAP label on to his toolbox. He used a cordless screwdriver, saw and hammer to fix the sheets of board to the windowframe, blotting out the last of the daylight.
When Rough went into the kitchenette, Rebus made to follow. The social worker stood up.
‘It’s OK,’ Rebus told him, ‘I just want a word.’ The two men fixed one another with a stare. Rebus motioned for Davies to sit back down, but instead Davies walked to the window. Rebus made his way to the kitchenette’s archway. Rough was opening and closing cupboards, not really sure what he was doing or why. He knew Rebus was there, but wouldn’t look at him.
‘Got what you wanted,’ he muttered.
‘What I want are some answers.’
‘Funny way to go about it.’
Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘How long have you been back?’
‘Three, four weeks.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen DI Margolies?’
‘He’s dead. I saw it in the paper.’
‘Yes, but before then.’
Rough slammed shut one of the doors, turned on Rebus, voice shaking. ‘Christ, what now? He topped himself, didn’t he?’
‘Maybe.’
Rough rubbed a hand over his forehead. ‘You think I...?’
Andy Davies had come over. ‘What the hell is it now?’
‘He’s trying to set me up,’ Rough blurted out.
‘Look, Inspector, I don’t know what you think—’
‘That’s right,’ Rebus snapped back, ‘you don’t. So why don’t you just keep out of it?’
‘I can’t handle this,’ Rough bawled, on the verge of tears.
Jane Barbour came in from the hall. Rebus read her look: four parts accusation to one part disappointment. He remembered what she’d told him about Rough. The man was sniffing now, rubbing the back of his hand beneath his nose. His knees looked like they were about to give way. The workman was nearly finished, leaving the room in twilight. Each screw that went home was like fixing the lid on a coffin.
‘Did DI Margolies come to see you?’ Rebus persisted.
Rough fixed him with a defiant look. ‘No.’
Rebus stared him out. ‘I think you’re lying.’
‘So slap me around a bit.’
Rebus took a step towards him. The social worker was pleading with Barbour.
‘DI Rebus,’ Barbour warned.
Rebus got right up into Rough’s face. Rough had backed all the way into the kitchenette, nowhere else to go.
‘Did he come to see you?’
Rough looked away, bit his lip.
‘Did he?’
‘Yes!’ Darren Rough screamed. He bowed his head, pulled a hand through his hair. Incessant hammering of nails into wood. He pushed both palms against his ears. Rebus pulled them away, using as little force as possible. Kept his voice quiet when he spoke.
‘What did he want?’
‘Shiellion,’ Rough groaned. ‘It’s always been Shiellion.’
Rebus frowned. ‘DI Rebus...’ Barbour’s voice growing taut, breaking point almost reached.
‘What about Shiellion?’
Rough looked to Jane Barbour, his words directed at her. ‘You told him what happened to me.’
‘And?’ Rebus probed.
‘He wanted to know why they’d blindfolded me... kept asking who else was there.’
‘Who else was there, Darren?’
Through gritted teeth: ‘I don’t know.’
‘That what you told him?’
A slow nod. ‘Could have been anyone.’
‘Someone they didn’t want you to see. Maybe you knew them.’
Rough nodded. His voice was calmer. ‘I’ve often wondered. Maybe I’d have recognised... I don’t know, a uniform or something. Priest’s dog collar.’ He looked up. ‘Maybe even one of your lot.’
But Rebus had stopped listening. ‘Priest?’ he said. ‘Callstone and Shiellion were run by the Church of Scotland. They don’t have priests.’
But Rough nodded. ‘We had one.’
Barbour, looking intrigued now, frowned. ‘You had a priest?’
‘Visited for a while, then stopped coming. I liked him. Father Leary, his name was.’ A weak smile. ‘Told us to call him Conor.’
When Rebus headed downstairs, Jane Barbour followed.
‘What do you make of it?’ she asked.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Why was Jim Margolies interested in Shiellion?’
Her turn to shrug.
‘You told Jim that Rough was abused there?’
She nodded. ‘You think it has something to do with his suicide?’
‘If it was suicide.’
She blew air from her cheeks. ‘I’d better talk to the vigilantes,’ she told him. ‘Keep the lid on the pressure cooker.’
‘Tom Jackson’s already had a word.’
They turned, hearing footsteps behind them on the stairwelclass="underline" Andy Davies.
‘We should move him,’ Davies said. ‘It’s not safe for him to stay here.’
‘He doesn’t want to leave.’
‘We could insist.’
‘If that mob up there couldn’t make him leave, what chance have we got?’
‘You could arrest him.’
Rebus burst out laughing. ‘A couple of days back—’
Davies turned on him. ‘I’m talking about protecting him, not harassment.’
‘We’ll keep someone in the vicinity,’ Barbour said.
‘Tom Jackson’s got to go home some time,’ Rebus commented.
‘I’ll do guard duty myself if need be.’ She turned to Davies. ‘At the moment, I’m not sure what more we can be expected to do.’
‘And if he’d proved useful to you in court...?’
‘I’ll ignore that remark, Mr Davies.’ Said with ice in her voice, and eyes like weaponry.
‘They’ll kill him,’ the social worker said. ‘And I don’t suppose you’ll be shedding too many tears.’
Barbour looked to Rebus, wondering if he would respond. All Rebus did was shake his head and light up a cigarette.
Rebus had known Father Conor Leary for years. For a time, he’d visited the priest regularly, sharing conversation and cans of Guinness. But when Rebus called Leary’s number, another priest answered.
‘Conor’s in hospital,’ the young priest explained.
‘Since when?’
‘A few days ago. We think it was a heart attack. Fairly mild, I think he’ll be fine.’
So Rebus drove to the hospital. Last time he’d visited Leary, there’d been a fridge full of medicine. The priest had explained that they were for minor ailments.
‘How long have you known?’ Rebus asked, drawing a chair over to his friend’s bedside. Conor Leary looked old and pale, his skin slack.