‘Which means,’ the Farmer said, ‘he left the hotel at some point, and one of you missed him.’
‘I saw his bedroom light go off,’ Rebus said.
‘That’s right, you did. It’s in the log.’
‘Which means he sneaked out on my shift?’ Rebus’s fingernails dug into his palms.
‘Or during the first hour of Bill Pryde’s.’
‘Either’s possible. We’re only covering the front of the building. Plenty of access points at the rear.’
The Farmer turned to face him. ‘Access isn’t our problem, John. Our problem is that he seems to be able to leave whenever he likes.’
‘Yes, sir. But a single-officer surveillance...’
‘Is no bloody use at all if we’re not keeping tabs on him.’
‘I thought the point was to needle him, let him know we can make things difficult.’
‘And does it look to you like we’re succeeding, Inspector?’
‘No, sir,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Thing is, if he’s got a way of getting out undetected, why not go back the same way?’
‘Because the doors at the back can only be opened from within.’
‘That’s one possibility, sir.’
‘And the other?’
‘He’s playing with us, having a little joke at our expense. He wants us to know what he’s been doing.’
‘And what has he been doing, all the time he’s been out roaming?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. Why don’t we ask him?’
When Frazer and the Farmer had left, Rebus decided to follow his own advice. He found Cary Oakes in the bar: no sign of Jim Stevens. Oakes was sitting on a stool, chatting with the two barmen. There were a few other drinkers scattered round the tables, business types, discussing deals even in their cups.
Oakes waved for Rebus to join him, asked him what he was drinking.
‘Whisky,’ Rebus said. ‘A malt.’
‘Take your pick, Mr Stevens is paying.’ Oakes allowed himself a little chuckle, chin tucked into his neck. He looked like he’d had a few, but Rebus saw he was drinking cola. ‘What about something to chase it down?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘And I pay for my own,’ he said.
There was plenty of choice behind the bar. Rebus decided on something fiery: Laphroaig, with a splash of water to damp the flames. Cary Oakes tried signing for the drink, but Rebus was insistent.
‘Your good health then,’ Oakes said, lifting his own glass.
‘You like playing games, don’t you?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not much else to do in jail. I taught myself chess.’
‘I don’t mean board games.’
‘What then?’ Oakes’ eyes were heavy-lidded.
‘Well, you’re playing a game right now.’
‘Am I?’
‘Bar-room raconteur. A couple too many, telling stories to anyone who’ll listen.’ He nodded towards the barmen, who’d moved to the far end to wash glasses. ‘Just another piece of play-acting.’
‘You could go on TV with this stuff. No, I mean it. You’re so shrewd. Guess you have to be in your profession.’
‘Is Jim Stevens falling for it?’
‘For what?’
‘The stories you’re telling him. How much of the truth are you giving him?’
Oakes narrowed his eyes. ‘How much truth do you think he can take? If I went into details, think his newspaper would publish them?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘People can only take so much truth, John.’ He leaned towards Rebus. ‘Want me to tell you about it, John? Want me to tell you how many I really did kill?’
‘Tell me about Deirdre Campbell.’
Oakes sat back, took a sip of his drink. ‘Alan Archibald thinks I killed her.’
‘And did you?’ Rebus tried to keep the question casual. Lifted his glass to his lips.
‘Does it matter?’ Oakes smiled. ‘It matters to Alan, doesn’t it? Why else would he have come running when I called?’
‘He wants the truth — all of it.’
‘Maybe you’re right. And what do you want, John? What brought you running in here? Shall I tell you?’ He made himself comfortable on the stool. ‘The morning shift saw me coming back. I wasn’t sure he was awake: arms folded, head over on one shoulder. I thought he’d nodded off.’ He tutted. ‘I’m not sure his heart’s in it. The job, I mean, police work. He looks the type who’s coasting to retirement.’
Which just about summed up Bill Pryde; not that Rebus was about to admit it.
‘I think you have problems with your job, too, but not in the same way.’
‘Taught yourself psychology along with the chess?’
‘When there were no new books to read, I started reading people.’
‘You killed Deirdre Campbell, didn’t you?’
Oakes put a finger to his lips. Then: ‘Did you kill Gordon Reeve?’
Gordon Reeve: another ghost; a case from years back... Jim Stevens had been shooting his mouth off.
‘Tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘do you trade with Stevens? You tell him a story, he has to tell you one?’
‘I’m just interested in you.’
‘Then you’ll know I killed Gordon Reeve.’
‘Did you mean to?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure about that? You stabbed a drug-dealer... he died.’
‘Self-defence.’
‘Yes, but did you want him dead?’
‘Let’s talk about you, Oakes. What made you pick Deirdre Campbell?’
Oakes gave another wry smile. Rebus wanted to rip his lips from his face. ‘See, John? See how easy it is to play the game? Stories, that’s all they are. Way back in the past, things we’d like to think we can forget.’ He slipped off the stool. ‘I’m going to my room now. A nice hot bath, I think, then maybe one of the in-room movies. I might call down for a sandwich later. Would you like something sent out to the car?’
‘I don’t know, what’s the menu like?’
‘No menu, you just order what you like.’
‘Then I’ll have your head on a plate, no garnish required.’
Cary Oakes was laughing as he left the bar.
There was someone in the car.
Rebus started forward, saw they were in the passenger seat. As he got close, he saw it was Alan Archibald. Rebus opened the driver’s-side door and got in.
‘Car wasn’t locked,’ Archibald said.
‘No.’
‘Didn’t think you’d mind.’
Rebus shrugged, lit a cigarette.
‘Have you been talking to him?’ Archibald needed no confirmation. ‘What did he say?’
‘He’s playing a game with you, Alan. That’s all it is to him.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He didn’t need to. It’s what he does. Stevens, you, me... we’re how he gets his kicks.’
‘You’re wrong there, John. I’ve seen how he gets his kicks.’ He leaned down to the floor, brought out a green folder. ‘Thought you might like something to read.’
Alan Archibald’s file on Cary Dennis Oakes.
Cary Oakes had travelled to the USA on a tourist visa. His biography prior to this time was sketchy: a father who’d died when he was young; a mother who’d had psychological problems. Cary had been born in Nairn, where his father had worked as a green-keeper at one of the local golf courses, and his mother as a maid at a hotel in the town. Rebus knew Nairn as a windswept coastal resort, the kind of destination that had lost out as cheap foreign holidays had prospered.
When Oakes’s father had died following a stroke, the mother had experienced a breakdown. Her employers had let her go, and she’d headed south with her son, finally stopping in Edinburgh, where she had a half-sister. They’d never been particularly close, but there was no one else, no other family, so mother and son had been squeezed into a room in the house in Gilmerton. Soon afterwards, Cary had started running away. His school had notified his mother that his attendance was irregular at best. There were nights and weekends when he just didn’t bother going home at all. His mother was beyond caring, and her half-sister preferred him out of the house anyway, since her husband had taken a furious dislike to the boy.