‘No grapes, I notice,’ Leary said, his voice lacking its usual gruff power. He was sitting up in the bed, surrounded by flowers and get-well cards. On the wall above his head Christ on the cross gazed down.
‘I only heard half an hour ago.’
‘Nice of you to drop by. Can’t offer you a drink, I’m afraid.’
Rebus smiled. ‘They say you’ll be out in no time.’
‘Ah, but did they say whether I’d be leaving in a box?’
Rebus managed a smile. Inside, he saw a carpenter, hammering home nails.
‘I’ve a favour to ask,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it.’
‘You want to turn Catholic?’ Leary joked.
‘Think the confessional could cope?’
‘True enough. We’d need a relay team of priests for a sinner like yourself.’ He rested his eyes. ‘So what is it then?’
‘Sure you’re up to it? I could come back...’
‘Cut it out, John. You know you’re going to ask me anyway.’
Rebus leaned forward in his chair. His old friend had flecks of white at the corners of his mouth. ‘A name you might remember,’ he said. ‘Darren Rough.’
Leary thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to give me a clue.’
‘Callstone House.’
‘Now that was a while back.’
‘You spent time there?’
Leary nodded. ‘One of those multi-faith things. God knows whose idea it was, but it wasn’t mine. A minister would visit Catholic homes, and I got to spend time in Callstone.’ He paused. ‘Was Darren one of the kids?’
‘He was.’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything. I spoke with a lot of them.’
‘He remembers you. Says you told him to call you Conor.’
‘I’m sure he’s right. Is he in trouble, this Darren?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘This place tends to swaddle you. No newspapers, no news.’
‘He’s a paedophile, released into the community. Only the community doesn’t want him.’
Conor Leary nodded, eyes still closed. ‘Did he abuse another child?’
‘When he was twelve. The victim was six.’
‘I remember him now. Whey-faced, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. The man who ran Callstone...’
‘Ramsay Marshall.’
‘He’s on trial, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he...? With Darren?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Ah, dear Lord. Probably going on under my very nose.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Maybe the boys... maybe they tried to tell me, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’ When the priest’s eyes closed again, a tear escaped from one and trickled down his cheek.
Rebus felt bad, which hadn’t been his intention in coming here. He squeezed his friend’s hand. ‘We’ll talk again, Conor. But you need to rest now.’
‘John, when do the likes of you and me ever rest?’
Rebus got up, looked down at the figure on the bed. Priest’s dog collar... Maybe, but never Conor Leary. Even one of your lot... Someone in uniform. Rebus didn’t want to think about it, but Jim Margolies had put some thought into it. And soon afterwards, he’d died.
‘John,’ the priest was saying, ‘remember me in your prayers, eh?’
‘Always, Conor.’
Hadn’t the heart to admit he’d stopped praying long ago.
20
Back at his flat, he made two mugs of coffee and took them through to the living room. Janice was on the phone to yet another charity, giving them details of Damon. Rebus sat at the dining table. It was a big room, twenty-two feet by fourteen. Bay window (still with the original shutters). High ceiling — maybe eleven feet — with cornicing. Rhona, his ex-wife, had loved the room, even with the original wallpaper from when they’d bought it (purple wavy lines which made Rebus feel seasick whenever he walked past). The wallpaper had gone, as had the brown carpet with matching paintwork.
He thought of Darren Rough’s flat. He’d seen worse in his time, of course, but not much worse. Janice put down the receiver and scratched at her hair with a pen, before scribbling a note on a pad of paper. Having scored a line through the charity’s phone number, she threw the pen on to the table.
‘Coffee,’ Rebus told her. She took the mug with a smile of thanks.
‘You look glum.’
‘My natural disposition,’ he said. ‘Mind if I use the phone?’
She shook her head, so he moved over to the chair, sat down and picked it up. A cordless model; he’d only had it a few months. He called Ama Petrie’s number again. A flustered male voice told him to try one of the function rooms at the Marquess Hotel, told him what he’d find there.
‘You got a message from Damon’s bank manager,’ Janice told him, when the call was finished.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Head office approval. If there are any debits from Damon’s account, he’ll let you know.’
‘Nothing so far?’
‘No.’
‘Night he vanished, he took out a hundred.’
‘How far does that go these days?’
‘If he’s sleeping rough, quite a way.’
‘We’re talking as if he’s a runaway.’
‘Until proved otherwise, that’s what he is.’
‘But why would he...?’ She broke off, smiled. ‘Same old questions. You must be sick of hearing them.’
‘The only one who can explain is Damon himself. Doing your head in isn’t going to help in the interim.’
She looked at him. ‘Right as ever, Johnny.’
He shrugged. ‘Pleased to be of service.’
When Janice had finished her coffee, using the last mouthfuls to wash down two paracetamol tablets, he told her they were going out.
‘Where?’ she asked, looking around for her jacket.
‘A beauty contest,’ Rebus told her. Then he winked. ‘Brought your swimsuit with you?’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t be eligible anyway: too old.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘You’ll see,’ he said, leading her to the door.
Cary Oakes had a newspaper cutting. It was old and fragile. These days, he didn’t look at it much for fear that it would crumble between his fingers. But today was a special occasion, sort of, so in the café he withdrew it from his pocket and read it through. Faded words on grey paper. A report of his trial and verdict, clipped from one British tabloid. And words of hate: ‘He should have had the electric chair.’ A simple statement of belief.
But they hadn’t given him ‘Old Sparky’, and here he was, back in the same town as the person who’d wanted them to fry him. The anger rising in him again, his hands trembled a little as he folded the cutting along its well-creased lines, slipping it back into his pocket. One day very soon, he’d make someone eat those words. He’d sit there watching them chew, seeing fear and knowledge in their eyes.
And then he’d spark out their life.
Leaving the café, he headed uphill, wandering past bungalows, along quiet pavements. Until he reached his destination. Stared at the building.
He was in there. Oakes could almost taste and smell him. Maybe he was alone in his room, resting or asleep. Or reading the newspaper, catching up on the exploits of Cary Oakes.
‘Soon,’ Oakes said quietly to himself, turning away, not wanting to seem conspicuous. ‘Soon,’ he repeated, beginning to walk back down the hill towards the town.
The hotel was a 1930s design, next to a roundabout on the western edge of Edinburgh.
‘Looks like the Rex, doesn’t it?’ Janice said.
She had a point. The Rex had been one of Cardenden’s three cinemas, perched on a prominent site on the town’s main street. As a kid, it had looked to Rebus like one of those state buildings you saw in films about the Iron Curtain: forbidding, all straight lines and right angles. This hotel was an elongated version of the Rex, as though someone had gripped its sides and pulled. The spaces in the car park were taken, so Rebus did what others before him had done: bumped the Saab up on to the grass verge so that its nose touched the flower beds.