Authors: Ian Rankin
‘Inspector Rebus?’ The man held out his hand. Rebus
gave him a once-over. Late fifties, well-dressed. Didn’t look the type to pull a stunt, but you could never be sure. The man read his thoughts, smiled.
‘I don’t blame you. Middle of the night, stranger wants to make friends, already knows your name …’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
‘A while back. You’ve got a good memory. My name’s Archibald. Alan Archibald.’
Rebus nodded, finally shook Archibald’s hand. ‘You had a posting at Great London Road.’
‘For a couple of months, yes. Before I retired, I was based at Fettes, pushing paper around a desk.’
Alan Archibald: tall, cropped salt-and-pepper hair. A face full of strong features, a body resisting the ageing process.
‘I heard you’d retired.’
Archibald shrugged. ‘Twenty years in, I thought it was time.’ His look said: what about you? Rebus’s mouth twitched.
‘It’s warmer in the car. I can’t offer you a lift, but I could probably …’
‘I know,’ Alan Archibald was saying. ‘Cary Oakes told me.’
‘He what?’
Archibald nodded towards the car. ‘I’ll take you up on your offer, though. I’m not used to night shifts these days.’
So they got into the car, Archibald tucking his black woollen overcoat around him. Rebus ran the engine, stuck the heating on, offered Archibald a cigarette.
‘I don’t, thanks all the same. But don’t let me stop you.’
‘You’d need heavy artillery to stop me,’ Rebus said, lighting another for himself. ‘So what’s the story with Oakes?’
Archibald touched his fingers to the dashboard. ‘He called me, told me where he was.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘He knows all about you.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s the point.’
‘Yes, he knows that too. But he knew
you
were on the late shift.’
‘Not difficult. He can see me from his bedroom window.’ Rebus pointed towards it. ‘Or maybe his minder told him.’
‘The journalist? I didn’t meet him.’
‘Probably in bed.’
‘Yes, I had to ring up to Oakes’s bedroom. He wasn’t sleeping, though, told me it’s jet-lag.’
‘How did he get your number?’
‘It’s unlisted.’ Archibald paused. ‘I’m guessing the journalist pulled a few strings.’
Rebus inhaled smoke, let it pour down his nostrils. ‘So what’s the story?’
‘My guess is, Oakes wants to play some game.’
Rebus looked at his passenger. ‘What sort of game?’
‘The sort that gets me out of bed at one in the morning. That’s when he phoned, said we had to meet now or never at all.’
‘What about?’
‘The murder.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Murder singular?’
‘Not one of the ones he committed in the States. This happened right here in Edinburgh. More specifically, out at Hillend.’
Hillend: at the northern tip of the Pentland Hills – hence the name. Known locally for its artificial ski-slope. From the bypass, you could see the lights at night. Suddenly, Rebus remembered the case. An outcrop of rocks, a woman’s body. Young woman: student at a teacher-training college. Rebus had helped with the initial search. The search had taken him from Hillend to Swanston Cottages, an extraordinary cluster of homes, seemingly untouched by modernity. All at once he’d wanted to buy a place there, but it had been too isolated for his wife – and outwith their means anyway.
‘This was fifteen years ago?’ Rebus said.
Archibald shook his head. He’d slipped his hands into his pockets, was staring at the windscreen. ‘Seventeen years,’ he told Rebus. ‘Seventeen years this month. Her name was Deirdre Campbell.’
‘Were you on the case?’
Archibald shook his head again. ‘Wasn’t possible at the time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Never found the killer.’
‘She was strangled?’
‘Beaten about the head, then strangled.’
Rebus remembered Oakes’s
modus operandi
. Again, it was as if Archibald could read his mind.
‘Similar,’ he said.
‘Was Oakes here at the time?’
‘It was just before he left for the States.’
Rebus gave a low whistle. ‘He’s owned up?’
Archibald shifted in his seat. ‘Not exactly. When he was arrested in the States, I followed his trial, noticed similarities. I went out there to interview him.’
‘And?’
‘And he played his little games. Hints, smiles and half-truths and stories. He led me a merry little dance.’
‘I thought you weren’t on the case?’
‘I wasn’t. Not officially.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Archibald examined his fingertips. ‘All these years he’s been inside, we’ve played his games. Because I know I can wear him down. He doesn’t know how persistent I can be.’
‘And now he phones you in the middle of the night?’
‘And feeds me more stories.’ A half-smile. ‘But he doesn’t seem to realise, the gameboard has changed. He’s in Scotland now.
My
rules.’ A pause. ‘I’ve asked him to come out to Hillend with me.’
Rebus stared at Archibald. ‘The man’s a killer. Psych reports say he’ll do it again.’
‘He kills the weak. I’m not weak.’
Rebus wondered about that. ‘Maybe he’s switched games,’ he said.
Archibald shook his head. He looked like a man obsessed. Jesus, Rebus could write the book on that one: cases which grabbed you and wouldn’t let go; unsolveds which stayed with you all the long sleepless nights. You sifted through them time and again, examining the grains of sand, seeking anomalies …
‘I still don’t get it,’ Rebus said. ‘You weren’t on the original case … how come you’re …’
Then he remembered. It should have come to him sooner. The story had gone around at the time, had been passed between the searchers on the hillside.
‘Oh shit,’ Rebus said. ‘She was your niece …’
It had been easy, finding an unoccupied room in the hotel. Simplicity itself to pick the door lock. So it was that Cary Oakes sat in darkness at the window, a window unwatched by Detective Inspector John Rebus. He had to smile: the watcher had become the watched, without realising it.
There was an
A-Z
on his lap. He’d told Stevens he needed it so he could reacquaint himself with his city. Earlier, Stevens had let slip that Rebus used to live in Arden Street, and maybe still did. Arden Street in Marchmont. Page 15, square 6G. Alan Archibald lived in Corstorphine, or had done when he’d written to Oakes in prison. All those letters, he’d never once let the prisoner know his phone number. It had taken Oakes less than a day to discover it. Strength in knowledge; always surprise your opponent – that’s how games were played.
Oakes watched the two men talking in the car. He felt a certain pride, almost like running a dating agency. He’d brought the two of them together; he felt sure they’d get along. They sat there for an hour, even sharing a hot drink from a flask. Then a patrol car turned up – Rebus must have radioed for it. Wasn’t that thoughtful: a free ride home for the retired detective. Archibald had aged well, maybe out of spite. Oakes knew
he
didn’t look as fresh as the day he’d been incarcerated. Flesh sagged from his face, and there was a dead look to his eyes, despite the regular vitamins and exercise regime.
He slipped a hand into his pocket, felt a fold of banknotes there. He’d been drinking at the bar, spinning a
line to some business types, Stevens his quiet partner. Stevens had given up eventually, left them to it. Oakes had learned many trades during his time inside. Lock-picking was one; pocket-picking another. He’d left the credit cards alone: that was the sort of thing that could be traced, get him in trouble. He let cash alone be his guide. He knew Stevens wanted him to be dependent on the paper, knew that was why Stevens was holding back payment. Well, for now he needed Stevens, but that would change. And meantime, he had work to do.
And the money would be his means.
He left the room and made his way down the stairs to the first-floor landing. At the end was a window which opened on to a line of lock-up garages. Eight-foot drop to the roof of the nearest garage. He crouched on the windowledge, waited for the taxi to come. Heard its engine as it rolled towards the hotel. He’d given the name and room number of one of his drinking companions. He listened for the moment when the taxi would pass Rebus’s car, the moment when the detective would be least likely to hear anything, then dropped through the darkness on to the roof, sliding down and on to solid tarmac. Not even pausing for breath or to dust himself off, immediately jogging towards the wall which would take him into the lane, the lane which would take him away from the hotel.
With any luck, he’d pick up a taxi. There’d be one coming along in a minute, its driver disgruntled and seeking a fare …
Four in the morning, Darren Rough reckoned it would be safe. Everyone would be asleep. He counted himself lucky: out late the night before this, picking up an early edition of his paper on the way home, seeing his story twisted there. He’d been in the flat, Radio Two playing quietly so as not to disturb the neighbours: they had kids, kids needed sleep, everyone knew that. Radio barely audible, tea and toast, sitting by the gas fire.
Then coming upon those pages. Reading just the first couple of paragraphs, enough to make him screw the paper up, pace the floor, start hyperventilating. He breathed into a paper bag until the attack passed. Felt weak, crawling into the bathroom on hands and knees. Splashed water from the toilet on to his face and neck. Hauled himself up on to the pan, sat there for a while, head bowed under its massive weight. When he got back the use of his legs, he uncrumpled the paper, spread it out on the floor. Read the story through.
So it starts again
, he thought to himself.
Knew he had to get out before morning. Spent the rest of the night walking the streets, bones cold and aching with tiredness. A café first thing for breakfast. His social worker didn’t get into the office till nine, said he’d talk to a solicitor, see what grounds they had for a complaint. Said everything would be fine.
‘We just have to ride it out.’
Easy words from a warm office; warm family probably waiting at home too. The car his social worker drove was an estate; kids’ football boots in the back. Family man, doing his nine-to-five.
The rest of that day, Darren kept his distance from Greenfield. Walked as far as the Botanics, pretended to be interested in the plants. Kept warm in the hothouses: did about a dozen circuits. Back into town, Princes Street Gardens: he managed an hour’s kip on a bench, until a policeman told him to move on. His plight was remarked on by a group of travellers. They offered him cigarettes and strong lager. He stayed with them for an hour, but didn’t like them: too scruffy; not his kind of people at all.
Art galleries; churches: there was a lot that was free in Edinburgh. By evening, he reckoned he could write his own guidebook. Ate in a fast-food restaurant, taking as long as he could over the meal. Then a pub on Broughton Street. Waiting for a day to pass … it made you realise
why people needed goals, needed work. He liked a structure to his day. Liked not to feel hunted.
After closing time, he’d met some more travellers, listened to more of their stories. Then had made his way carefully back towards Greenfield, turning away three times before finally confronting his own fear and overcoming it. Goal achieved.
He crept up the stairwell, expecting at every turn to find a waiting face, a knife-blade. Nothing. Just shadows. Along the landing, past closed doors, sleeping windows. His key sounded like a wood-saw as he slipped it into the lock. Then he noticed his hands were sticky. Stood back, noticed for the first time that his door was smeared with mud … No, not mud: excrement. He could smell it on the back of his hand, his knuckles, fingers. And beneath the shit, something in black paint, some writing. He crouched, wiped his hands on the concrete flooring, looked up at the message.
MONSTER YOU DIE.
The word DIE was underlined twice, just so he wouldn’t miss it.
This was the park.
It hadn’t changed. They’d installed some swings and a roundabout, but the roundabout was gone, leaving only a metal stump. The swings were thick rubber tyres. Tarmac underfoot, playing field off to the left. Trees had been planted, but looked stunted. His aunt’s house … you could see a thin vertical slice of the park from the upstairs bathroom window, peering between two blocks of terraced housing. The house was still there, in darkness, curtains closed. He’d shared a bedroom with his mother at the back of the house, with a view down on to a small neglected garden, the hut which had become his refuge.
There hadn’t been much refuge in the park. The local gang hung out there, and Cary was never allowed to join. He was an ‘incomer’, an ‘outsider’, the two terms
sounding like opposites. He stayed on the periphery, clinging to the park railings, until one of them, fed up of cursing him, would come over to administer a kicking.
And he’d take it. Because it was better than nothing.
The one time he’d stalked a cat, squirting lighter fluid on it, watching the tail catch fire … there’d been no one there to see him. Police had questioned the gang, but no one had bothered with Cary Oakes. No one had bothered to ask ‘the runt’.
He stood by the fence now. Half of it was missing. Middle of the night, no one was about. No cars passed. No one to see him as his hands worked at the rusted railings, turning them in their sockets.
Then a sound: drunken laughter. Three of them, young, wandering, not bothered who heard them, whose sleep they might be disturbing. The teenage Cary had lain awake late into the night, hearing above his mother’s breathing the sounds of revellers as they headed home, some singing songs about King Billy and the Sash.
Three of them, not worried about waking anyone because
they
ruled this place. They ran in the local gang.
They
were all that mattered.
They were on the other side of the road, but saw Oakes, saw him looking at them.
‘What you staring at?’
No answer. They started a conversation among themselves, didn’t seem to be stopping.
‘One of them paedophiles.’