Wylie: ‘How do you mean?’
‘You still hear stories, how a piece of Cafferty’s action heads out to Spain. Bryce Callan’s almost grown...’ He sought the word. More lyrics from the back room:
My mind returns, to things best left unsaid.
‘Mythical?’ Wylie suggested.
He nodded, stared at the window of the barber’s shop across the lane. ‘Because we never put him away, I suppose.’
‘How would Dean Coghill have fallen foul of him?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Protection maybe. There’s a lot can go wrong on a building site, and those projects... even then they’d be worth thousands. A few days lost could mean everything.’
Hood was nodding. ‘So we need to find Coghill.’
‘Always supposing he’ll speak to us,’ Wylie warned.
‘Let me do some checking on Bryce Callan,’ Rebus said.
The past is here now, insistent, carved from darkness,
So please beware, take care now where you tread...
‘Meantime,’ he went on, ‘you better try to get hold of Coghill’s employee files. We need to know who was working on the site.’
‘And if any of them disappeared,’ Hood added.
‘I’m assuming you’ve made a start on MisPer records.’
Wylie and Hood shared a look, said nothing.
‘It’s shit work,’ Rebus acknowledged, ‘but it’s got to be done. Two of you on it, takes half the time.’
Wylie: ‘Can we limit the search to late ’78, first three months of ’79?’
‘To start with, yes.’ He looked towards the pub. ‘Buy the pair of you a drink?’
Wylie was quick to shake her head. ‘I think we’ll head for the Cambridge, bit quieter there.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘In there’, nodding towards the door of the Ox, ‘looks too much like the broom cupboard we’re having to work out of.’
‘I’d heard,’ Rebus said. Wylie’s look was accusatory.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘the woman in there...’ Wylie looked down at her feet. ‘Was it who I thought it was?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Just a coincidence,’ he said.
‘Of course.’ She nodded slowly, began to move off. She still hadn’t made eye contact. Hood made to catch up with her. Rebus pushed open the door a crack but waited. Wylie and Hood with their heads together, Hood asking who the woman had been. If the story got around St Leonard’s, Rebus would know who’d started it.
And that would be the end of the Time Team.
He woke at 4 a.m. The bedside lamp was still on. The duvet had been kicked to the foot of the bed. The sound of an engine turning over outside. He stumbled to the window, just in time to see a dark shape disappearing into the back of a taxi. He weaved naked into the living room, reaching for handholds, his balance shot. She’d left him a gift: a four-track demo by the Robinson Crusoes. It was titled Shipwrecked Heart. Made sense, band having the name they did. ‘Final Reproof’ was the last song on it. He stuck it on the hi-fi, listened for a minute or two with the volume down low. Empty bottle and two tumblers on the floor by the sofa. There was still half an inch of whisky in one of them. He sniffed it, took it into the kitchen. Poured it down the sink and filled the glass with cold water, gulped it down. Then another, and another after that. No way he was getting away from this one without a hangover, but he’d do his best. Three paracetamol tablets and more water, then another glassful to take through to the bathroom with him. She’d showered: there was a wet towel hanging from the rail. Showered first, then called the taxi. Had he woken her with his snoring? Had she ever been asleep? He ran a bath, looked at himself in the shaving mirror. Slack skin covered his face, looking for somewhere else to go. He bent down, dry-retched into the sink, almost bringing the tablets back up. How much had they drunk? He couldn’t begin to count. Had they come back here straight from the Ox? He didn’t think so. Back in the bedroom, he searched his pockets for clues. Nothing. But the fifty quid he’d gone out with had been reduced to pennies.
‘Dear Christ.’ He squeezed shut his eyes. His neck felt stiff; so did his back. In front of the bathroom mirror again he stared into his eyes. ‘Did we do it?’ he asked himself. The answer came back: definitely maybe. Screwed shut his eyes again. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, John, what have you done?’
Answer: slept with Lorna Grieve. Twenty years ago, he’d have been doing cartwheels. But then twenty years ago, she hadn’t been part of a murder inquiry.
He turned off the taps, eased himself into the water and slid down, knees bent, so that his whole head went under. Maybe, he thought, if I just lie here like this it’ll all go away. His first mistake on booze had been over thirty years before, outside a school dance.
A bloody long apprenticeship, he thought, coming up for air. Whatever happened now, he felt tied to the Grieves, one more thread of their history.
And if Lorna put the story around, he’d be history, too.
Part Two
Fitful and Dark
16
Jerry had this morning routine, soon as Jayne had gone off to work. Tea, toast and the paper, and then into the living room to play a few records. Old stuff, punk 45s from his teens. Really set him up for the day. There might be thumps from upstairs, but he’d flick the Vs at the ceiling and dance on regardless. He had a few favourites — Generation X, ‘Your Generation’; Klark Kent, ‘Don’t Care’; Spizzenergi, ‘Where’s Captain Kirk?’ Their picture sleeves were dog-eared, and the vinyl was scratched to hell — too many lendings and parties. He still remembered gate-crashing a Ramones gig at the uni: October ’78. The Spizz single was May ’79: date of purchase scrawled on the back of the sleeve. He was like that back then. He’d time all his singles, make notes. A top five every week — best things he’d heard, not necessarily bought. The Virgin on Frederick Street had been shoplifting heaven for a while. Hadn’t been so easy at Bruce’s. The guy who ran Bruce’s had gone on to manage Simple Minds. Jerry’d seen them when they’d been called Johnny and the Self Abusers.
It all used to matter, to mean something. Weekends, the adrenaline could make you dizzy.
These days, dancing did that for him. He fell on to the sofa. Three records and he was knackered. Rolled himself a joint and switched on the TV, knowing there’d be nothing worth watching. Jayne was working a double shift, wouldn’t be home till nine, maybe ten. That gave him twelve hours to wash the dishes. Some days he itched to be working again, sitting in an office maybe with suit and tie on, making decisions and fielding phone calls. Nic said he had a secretary. A secretary. Who’d have thought it? He remembered the pair of them at school, kicking a football across the cul-de-sac, pogoing to punk in their bedrooms. Well, Jerry’s bedroom mostly. Nic’s mum had been funny about visitors; always a frown on her face when she opened her door and saw Jerry standing there. Dead now though, the old cow. Her living room had smelt of the Hamlet cigars Nic’s dad smoked. He was the only person Jerry knew who didn’t smoke cigarettes, had to be a cigar. Jerry, TV remote busy in his hand, chuckled now at the thought. Cigars! Who did the old sod think he was? Nic’s dad had worn ties and cardigans... Jerry’s dad had worn a vest most of the time, and a trouser-belt that came off whenever there was justice to dispense. But Jerry’s mum, she’d been a treasure: no way he’d have swapped his parents for Nic’s.
‘No bloody way,’ he said out loud.
He switched off the TV. The joint was down to the hot bit near the roach. He took a last draw and went to flush it down the bog. Not that he was worried about the pigs; it was Jayne didn’t like him doing the wacky bac. Way Jerry looked at it, the wacko kept him sane. Government should put the stuff on the National Health, way it kept the likes of him from going off the rails.