“It’s not his money though,” the drinker grumbled. “My wife works at that new shoe shop on Frederick Street, says they might as well have shut down for the week.”
“Royal Bank’s going to be closed all tomorrow,” Harry stated.
“Aye, tomorrow’s going to be the bad one,” the drinker muttered.
“And to think,” Rebus complained, “I came in here to cheer myself up.”
Harry stared at him in mock disbelief. “Should know better than that by now, John. Ready for another?”
Rebus wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway.
A couple of pints later, and having demolished the last sandwich on display, he decided he might as well head home. He’d read the Evening News, watched the Tour de France highlights on TV, and listened to further opposition to the new road layout.
“If they don’t change it back, my wife says they might as well pull down the shutters where she works. Did I tell you? She’s in that new shoe shop on Frederick Street…”
Harry was rolling his eyes as Rebus made for the door. He considered walking home, or calling Gayfield to see if anyone was out in a patrol car and could maybe pick him up. A lot of the taxis were steering clear of the center, but he knew he could take a chance outside the Roxburghe Hotel, try to look like a wealthy tourist.
He heard the doors opening but was slow to turn around. Hands grabbed at his arms, pulling them behind his back.
“Had a bit too much to drink?” a voice barked. “Night in the cells will do you good, pal.”
“Get off me!” Rebus twisted his body, to no effect. He felt the plastic restraints going around his wrists, pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. No way to loosen them once they were on: you had to slice them off.
“Hell’s going on?” Rebus was hissing. “I’m bloody CID.”
“Don’t look like CID,” the voice was telling him. “Stink of beer and cigarettes, clothes like rags…” It was an English accent; London maybe. Rebus saw a uniform, then two more. The faces shadowy-maybe tanned-but chiseled and stern. The van was small and unmarked. Its back doors were open, and they pushed him in.
“I’ve got ID in my pocket,” he said. There was a bench for him to sit on. The windows were blacked out and covered on the outside by a metal grille. There was a faint smell of sick. Another grille separated the back of the van from the front, with a sheet of plywood blocking any access.
“This is a big mistake!” Rebus yelled.
“Tell it to the marines,” a voice called back. The van started moving. Rebus saw headlights through the back window. Stood to reason: three of them couldn’t fit in the front; had to be another vehicle. Didn’t matter where they took him- Gayfield Square, West End, or St. Leonard ’s-he’d be a known face. Nothing to worry about, except the swelling of his fingers as the blood failed to circulate. His shoulders were in agony, too, drawn back by the tightness of the cuffs. He had to slide his legs apart to stop himself careering around the enclosure. They were doing maybe fifty, not stopping for lights. He heard two pedestrians squeal at a near miss. No siren, but the roof light was flashing. Car behind seemed to have neither siren nor flasher. Not a patrol car then…and this wasn’t exactly a regulation vehicle either. Rebus thought they were heading east, meaning Gayfield, but then they took a sharp left toward the New Town, barreling downhill so that Rebus’s head thumped the roof as they went.
“Where the hell…?” If he’d been drunk before, he was sober now. Only destination he could think of was Fettes, but that was HQ. You didn’t take drunks there to sleep off their binge. It was where the brass hung out, James Corbyn and his cronies. Sure enough, they took a left into Ferry Road, but didn’t make the turn to Fettes.
Which left only Drylaw police station, a lonely outpost in the north of the city-Precinct Thirteen, some called it. A gloomy shed of a place, and they were pulling to a halt at its door. Rebus was hauled out and taken inside, his eyes adjusting to the sudden glare of the strip lighting. There was no one on the desk; place seemed deserted. They marched him into the back where two holding cells waited, both with their doors wide open. He felt the pressure on one hand ease, the blood tingling its way back down the fingers. A push in the back sent him stumbling into one of the cells. The door slammed shut.
“Hey!” Rebus called out. “Is this some sick kind of joke?”
“Do we look like clowns, pal? Think you’ve wandered into an episode of Jackass?” There was laughter from behind the door.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” another voice added, “and don’t go giving us any trouble, else we might have to come in there and administer one of our special sedatives, mightn’t we, Jacko?”
Rebus thought he could hear a hiss. Everything went quiet, and he knew why. They’d made a mistake, given him a name.
Jacko.
He tried to remember their faces, the better to exact his eventual revenge. All that came to him was that they’d been either tanned or weather-beaten. But there was no way he was going to forget those voices. Nothing unusual about the uniforms they’d been wearing…except the badges on the epaulets had been removed. No badges meant no easy means to ID them.
Rebus kicked the door a few times, then reached into his pocket for his phone.
And realized it wasn’t there. They’d taken it from him, or he’d dropped it. Still had his wallet and ID, cigarettes and lighter. He sat on the cold concrete shelf which served as a bed and looked at his wrists. The plastic cuff was still encircling his left hand. They’d sliced open the one around his right. He tried to run his free hand up and down the arm, massaging the wrist, the palm and fingers, trying to get some blood going. Maybe the lighter could burn its way through, but not without searing his flesh in the process. He lit a cigarette instead, and tried to slow his heartbeat. Walked over to the door again and banged on it with his fist, turned his back to it and hammered his heel into it.
All the times he’d visited the cells in Gayfield and St. Leonard ’s,hearing these selfsame tattoos. Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum. Making jokes with the jailer about it.
Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum.
The sound of hope over experience. Rebus sat down again. There was neither toilet nor basin, just a metal pail in one corner. Ancient feces smeared on the wall next to it. Messages gouged into the plaster: Big Malky Rules; Wardie Young Team; Hearts Ya Bass. Hard to believe, but someone with a bit of Latin had even been holed up here: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. In the Scots: Whau Daur Meddle Wi’ Me? Modern equivalent: Screw Me and I’ll Screw You Right Back.
Rebus got to his feet again, knew now what was going on, should have realized from the word go.
Steelforth.
Easy for him to get his hands on some spare uniforms and dispatch three of his men on a mission, the same men he’d offered to Rebus earlier. They’d probably been watching as he’d left the hotel. Followed him from pub to pub until they picked their spot. The lane outside the Oxford Bar was perfect.
“Steelforth!” Rebus yelled at the door. “Come in here and talk to me! Are you a coward as well as a bully?” He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing. The spy hole was closed. The hatch which would be opened at mealtimes was locked shut. He paced the cell, opened his cigarette packet but decided he needed to conserve supplies. Changed his mind and lit one anyway. The lighter spluttered-not much lighter fluid left…a toss-up which would run out first. Ten o’clock, his watch said. A long time till morning.
Monday, July 4, 2005
8
The turning of the lock woke him. The door creaked open. First off, he saw a young uniform, mouth agape in amazement. And to his left, Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae, looking irate and with his hair uncombed. Rebus checked his watch: just shy of four, which meant Monday was dawning.