‘Will do, sir. You think he’ll try it again?’
Rebus didn’t even know if Oakes knew Sammy’s address. He didn’t know if Stevens had known it. He used the car’s two-way to talk to the nursing home.
‘Quiet as the grave here,’ he was told.
Then he tried the hospital, got one of the night staff, who assured him there was someone with Mr Archibald and, yes, they were wide awake. From her description, Rebus guessed it was still Bobby Hogan.
Everyone was safe. Everyone was covered.
The patrol car dropped him off, and he climbed the stairs to his flat. Unlocking the door, he thought he heard a sound on the stairwell below him. He peered over the banister, but couldn’t see anything. Mrs Cochrane’s tabby probably, rattling the cat-flap as it went in or out.
He closed the door after him, didn’t bother with the light in the hallway. He knew it well enough in the dark. Switched the light on in the kitchen and boiled the kettle. His head was thick from the whisky. He made tea, took it through to the living room. Too late for music, really. He walked over to the window and stood there, blowing on the tea.
Saw a shape move. On the pavement across the road. The outline of a man. He cupped his hands to the window, put his face between them, trying to block out the light from the streetlamp.
It was Cary Oakes. He was swaying slightly, like he could hear music. And he had a huge smile on his face. Rebus turned from the window, looked for his phone. Couldn’t see it anywhere. He kicked books across the floor. Where the hell was it?
His mobile then: where was that? He’d forgotten to take it with him; probably in a coat pocket. He went to the hall cupboard: no sign of it. Kitchen? No. Bedroom? Not there either.
Cursing, he ran back to the window to check if Oakes had gone. No, he was still there, only now he had his hands raised, as though in surrender. Then Rebus saw he was holding two small dark objects. He knew what they were.
His cordless phone and his mobile.
‘Bastard!’ Rebus roared. Oakes had been in the flat; picked the stairwell Yale and the front door.
‘Bastard,’ Rebus hissed. He ran to the door, yanked it open. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the main door creaking open. Had it been locked? If so, Oakes had dealt with it quickly.
Suddenly Oakes was there at the foot of the stairwell, backlit by a single bulb on the wall. All the walls were painted a weak-custard yellow, making his face seem jaundiced. His teeth were bared, mouth open to expose his tongue. He dropped the phones on the stone floor, reached into his waistband.
‘Remember this?’
He was holding the knife. Purposefully, eyes on Rebus, he started climbing the steps, his feet making the sound of sandpaper on wood.
Rebus turned and ran.
‘Where you going, Rebus?’ He was laughing, not worried about keeping his voice down. The neighbours were students and old-age pensioners: he probably fancied his luck against the whole lot of them.
Mrs Cochrane had a telephone. Rebus thumped on her door as he passed, knowing it to be a futile gesture. She was stone deaf. The students on his landing: would they have a phone? Would they even be home? He ran in through his own door, shut it after him. The Yale clicked, but he knew it would take more than that to keep Oakes out. He slid the chain across, knew a good kick would probably smash it and the Yale both. Where was the key for the mortice? It was usually in its lock. He looked on the floor, then realised Oakes must have taken it. He’d studied the locks, known the mortice would keep him out... Rebus put his eye to the spy-hole. Oakes’s face appeared from nowhere. Rebus could hear what he was saying.
‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me in.’
Lines from The Shining.
Rebus went into the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer. He found a twelve-inch-long Sabatier with a riveted black handle. He didn’t think it had ever been used. He ran his thumb over its blade and cut himself.
It would do.
Rebus had come up against knife attackers before. But he’d been able to reason with most of them. The others, he’d been able to deal with... But that was then and this was altogether different. Back out in the hall, he decided to take the fight to Oakes. With the carving-knife in his fist, he slid the chain off, threw open the door. He was expecting an immediate attack, but none came. He craned his neck, couldn’t see Oakes on the landing.
‘Piggy going walkies.’
Oakes’s voice: halfway down to the first landing. Rebus was out of the door, not hurrying, trying to keep calm. Eyes boring into Oakes’s, peripheral vision fixed on Oakes’s knife.
‘Ooh, that is a big one,’ Oakes mocked. He was moving backwards down the stairs, seeming sure of himself. ‘Let’s take it outside, Rebus. Let’s give it some air.’
He turned and jogged out of the tenement. Rebus thought for a moment. His telephones were lying there. He should pick up his mobile and call in, get officers here pronto. Then he thought of Alan Archibald and Patience and Janice... and of his parents’ grave. Of Jim Stevens. Time to end it. He had to keep Oakes in his sight, couldn’t let him slip away again.
He reached down, pocketed the mobile, and headed for the door.
Oakes was standing on the pavement, nodding.
‘That’s right. Just the two of us.’
He started walking. Rebus followed. The pace was brisk, without either man ever breaking into a jog. Oakes kept his head angled back towards his pursuer. He looked pleased that things were turning out this way. Rebus couldn’t see the logic, but he was wary. So far, Oakes had done nothing without good reason. Bouncing around Rebus’s head, the words Finish it! This is the last round...
‘Good for the arteries, an early-morning constitutional. Helps make up for the Scottish diet. I looked in your fridge, man. I had more food in my fucking cell back in Walla Walla. Whisky by the chair in the lounge, though: I have to give you credit for that.’ He laughed. ‘What are you, Sam Spade or something?’
Rebus said nothing. Oakes was a lot younger than him, and fitter too. Last thing Rebus wanted was to tire himself out yapping.
They were crossing Marchmont Road, heading along Sciennes and past the Sick Kids Hospital. Rebus cursed himself for living in such a quiet area. The pubs had all emptied; the chip shops were closed. There were no clubs, not so much as a massage parlour. Then, on the other side of the road: two young men walking home, knees just locking and no more — the end of a good night’s drinking. One of them was demolishing a kebab. They looked at the strange pursuit. Oakes’s knife was in his pocket, but Rebus brandished his.
‘Call the police!’ he called out.
Oakes just laughed, as if his buddy was drunk and joking, waving his rubber dagger around.
One man grinned; the other, the one with kebab sauce on his chin, stared, still chewing.
‘I’m not joking!’ Rebus shouted, not caring who he woke up. ‘Call the cops!’
He couldn’t stop to show them ID, couldn’t risk letting Oakes out of his sight: there were too many potential victims out there. And he couldn’t take his eyes off Oakes for a second.
So they kept moving, leaving the two young men far behind.
‘By the time they get home,’ Oakes said, ‘they’ll have forgotten the whole thing. It’ll be drinks from the fridge and Jerry Springer on TV. That’s how it is these days, Rebus. Nobody gives a shit.’
‘Nobody but me.’
‘Nobody but you. Ever wondered why that is?’
Rebus shook his head. He didn’t mind Oakes talking: while Oakes was talking, he was using up energy.
‘You never think about it? It’s because you’re a fucking dinosaur, man. Everyone knows it — you, your bosses, the people you work with. Probably even your doctor friend. What’s with her: she likes to screw prehistoric things?’ Oakes laughed again. ‘In case you’re wondering, I kept fit in the pen. I can bench-press your ass. I can keep this pace up all day and night. How about you? You look about as fit as something extinct.’