Authors: Ian Rankin
He folded the paper and looked out of his car window. He was parked at the gateway to a Do-It-Yourself superstore, one of those thinly disguised warehouses which, cheaply and quickly built, seemed to surround the city. There were only four cars in the capacious car park. He didn’t know this part of the city well: Brunstane. Just to the west was The Jewel, with its mandatory shopping centre; to the east stood Jewel and Esk College. The message Jane Barbour had left for him at the office had been perfunctory: time and place, telling him to meet her. Rebus lit another cigarette, wondering if she was ever coming. Then a car pulled up alongside him, sounded its horn, and proceeded into the car park. Rebus started his engine and followed.
DI Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured Ford Mondeo. She was getting out as Rebus parked alongside her. She reached back into the car for an A4 envelope.
‘Nice car,’ Rebus said.
‘Thanks for coming.’
Rebus closed the car door for her. ‘What’s up? Run out of rawl-plugs?’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Can’t say that I have.’
The wind blew her hair across her face. ‘Come on,’ she said, all businesslike, verging on the hostile.
He let himself be led round the side of the building. This was where staff parked their cars and bikes. There were two fire-exit doors, painted a green as drab as the grey of the corrugated walls. The back of the warehouse was a waste and delivery area. Skips spilled out flattened cardboard boxes. A dozen terracotta pots waited to be taken inside and displayed for sale. A low brick wall surrounded the area.
‘Is this where you mug me?’ Rebus asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.
‘Why have you got it in for Darren Rough?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Just tell me.’
He tried for eye contact, but she wasn’t playing. ‘Because of what he is, what he was doing at the zoo. Because he slandered a fellow officer. Because of …’
‘Shiellion?’ she guessed, her eyes meeting his at last. ‘You couldn’t touch Ince and Marshall, but suddenly there was
someone
you could replace them with.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
Barbour reached into the envelope, lifted out a black and white photograph. It looked old, showed a three-storey Georgian house. A family posed in front of it, proud of their new motor car. The car was a 1920s model.
‘They knocked it down six years ago,’ Barbour explained. ‘It was either that or wait for it to disintegrate of its own accord.’
‘Nice-looking house.’
‘The patriarch there,’ Barbour said, tapping the man with one foot on the car’s running-board, ‘he went bankrupt. Mr Callstone, he was called. Worked in jute or something. The family home had to be sold. Church of Scotland snapped it up. But part of the deal was, they had to retain the family’s name. So it stayed Callstone House.’
She waited for him to get the name. ‘Children’s home,’ he said at last, watching her nod.
‘Ramsay Marshall worked there, prior to his transfer to Shiellion. He already knew Harold Ince before the move.’ She handed him more photos.
Rebus looked through them. Callstone House as a children’s home, run by the Church of Scotland. Kids grouped outside the same front door, kids photographed inside, seated at long tables, looking hungry. Dormitory beds. Some photos of stern-looking staff. Rebus’s mind was
working now. ‘Darren Rough spent some time at Callstone …’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘During Ramsay Marshall’s reign?’
She nodded again.
‘You …’ he said, suddenly getting it. ‘It was you that wanted Darren Rough back here.’
‘That’s right.’
‘For the trial?’
She nodded. ‘Arranged a flat for him, wanted him amenable. Worked on him for weeks.’
‘He was abused?’ Rebus frowned. ‘He’s not on the list.’
‘The Procurator Fiscal didn’t think he’d make a good witness.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Criminal record. Couldn’t risk cross-examination.’
‘That’s right.’
Rebus handed back the photographs. He knew where this was leading now. ‘So what happened to him?’
She busied herself putting the photos back in their envelope. ‘One night, Marshall went into the dorm. Darren wasn’t asleep. Marshall said they were going on a drive. He took Darren to Shiellion.’
‘Proving that Marshall and Ince were already in cahoots?’
‘That’s how it looks. The two of them and a third man took turns.’
‘Christ.’ Rebus stared at the warehouse, imagining it as a children’s home, a supposed refuge. He wondered what Mr Callstone’s ghost would be making of it. ‘Who was the third man?’
Barbour shrugged. ‘They had Darren in a blindfold.’
‘How come?’
‘The thing is, John, I made certain promises to him.’
‘To a convicted paedophile,’ Rebus felt bound to add.
‘Ever heard of environment working on character?’
‘The abused becoming the abuser? You think that’s a reasonable excuse?’
‘I think it’s a reason.’ She was calmer now. ‘Professor Calder in Glasgow, he has this test. It shows how likely it is someone will reoffend. Darren came out low-risk. All his time inside, he went to the meetings, kept the therapy going.’
Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘How come he’s not registered?’ He’d checked: forty-nine sex offenders registered with police in Edinburgh; Rough wasn’t among them.
‘That was part of the deal. He’s terrified they’ll get him.’
‘“They”?’
‘Ince and Marshall. I know they’re locked up, but he still has nightmares about them.’ She waited for him to say something, but Rebus was thoughtful. ‘What’s happening down at Greenfield,’ she pressed on, ‘it’s not right. Is that your answer: hound them, chase them out? They’ll end up
somewhere
, John. We need to deal with them, not hand them to the mob.’
Rebus looked down at his shoes. As ever, they needed a clean. ‘Did Rough tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘When I saw the paper, I tried to find him. Then I spoke to his social worker. Andy Davies is pretty sure it was you.’
‘You believe him?’
She shrugged. They were walking back towards their cars. ‘So what do you want?’ Rebus asked. ‘An apology?’
‘I just want you to understand.’
‘Well, thanks for the therapy. I think I’m ready to be released back into the community.’
‘I’m glad you can make a joke of it,’ she said coldly.
He turned to her. ‘Rough comes back to Edinburgh, and Jim Margolies, the cop he accused of beating him up, decides to take a walk from Salisbury Crags. I think there might be a connection.
That’s
why I’m interested in …’ He saw her face change at Jim Margolies’ name. ‘What?’ he asked. She shook her head. Rebus narrowed his eyes.
‘You spoke to Jim, didn’t you? Had the same conversation we’ve just had?’
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I was bringing Darren back to Edinburgh. He was reluctant, wanted to know if DI Margolies was still around.’
‘So you met with Jim, explained it all?’
‘I wanted to know there’d be no … conflict, I suppose.’
‘So Margolies knew Rough was coming back?’ Rebus was thoughtful. A mobile phone sounded: hers. She lifted it from her pocket, listened for a moment.
‘I’ll head straight there,’ she said, terminating the call. Then to Rebus: ‘You’d better come too.’
He looked at her. ‘What is it?’
She opened her car door. ‘Ugly scenes in Greenfield. Looks like Darren’s finally gone home.’
There was a mob on the landing outside Darren Rough’s flat, and the only thing standing between them and it was PC Tom Jackson. Van Brady was at the front of the queue, brandishing a crowbar. Other women crowded behind her. A local TV crew jockeyed for position. A news photographer was snapping a cluster of kids holding up a banner. The banner was homemade: half a bedsheet and black spray-paint. The message read: SAVE US FROM THE BEAST.
‘Lovely,’ Jane Barbour said.
People in the other blocks were watching from their windows, or had opened them to shout encouragement. Rebus saw that paint had been daubed on the door of the flat. Eggs and grease had been smeared on the window. The crowd was baying for blood, and more people seemed to be joining in all the time.
Rebus thought:
What in God’s name have I done?
Tom Jackson glanced in Rebus’s direction. His face was red, lines of sweat trickling from both temples. Jane Barbour was pushing her way to the front.
‘What’s going on here?’ she shouted.
‘Just bring the bastard out here,’ Van Brady yelled back. ‘We’ll bloody well lynch him!’
There were cries of agreement – ‘String him up!’; ‘Hanging’s too good!’ Barbour held up both hands, appealing for quiet. She saw that most of the protestors were wearing white sticky labels on their jackets and jumpers. Plain labels on which had been written three letters – GAP.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Greenfield Against Perverts,’ Van Brady told her.
Rebus saw a kid handing the labels out. Recognised him as Jamie Brady, Van’s youngest.
‘Since when was it your job to stick up for sick bastards like him?’ one woman asked.
‘Everybody’s got certain rights,’ Barbour replied.
‘Even sickos?’
‘Darren Rough served his sentence,’ Barbour went on. ‘He’s now on a rehab programme.’ She saw the film crew getting close, whispered something to Tom Jackson. He pushed his way to the camera, held a hand in front of it.
‘We want answers,’ Van Brady was shouting. ‘Why was he put here? Who knew about it? Why weren’t we told?’
‘And we want him out!’ a male voice called. A newcomer, the sea of bodies parting to let him through. A young man, chiselled face, bare-armed. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Van Brady, ignoring Barbour and directing his comments towards the film crew.
‘This is our community here, not the police’s.’ Applause and cheers. ‘If they can’t deal with scum,’ jerking his thumb back towards Rough’s front door, ‘no problem – we’ll deal with it ourselves. We’ve always been tidy that way in Greenfield.’
More cheers; nods of agreement.
One protestor: ‘You said it, Cal.’
Cal Brady, standing next to his mum, who looked on with pride at her son’s oratory. Cal Brady: Rebus’s first sighting in the flesh.
Well, not exactly: first sighting with the knowledge of who he was. But Rebus had seen Cal Brady before. At Gaitano’s nightclub, standing at the bar with the under-manager, Archie Frost. Frost with his pigtail and bad manners; his friend saying nothing, then making himself scarce …
‘Could we talk about it?’ Jane Barbour asked.
‘What’s there to talk about?’ Van Brady asked, folding her arms.
‘This whole situation.’
Cal Brady ignored her, spoke to his mother. ‘Is he in there?’
‘One of his neighbours heard sounds.’
Cal Brady thumped on the window, then had to wipe grease off on his jeans.
‘Look,’ Jane Barbour was saying, ‘if we could all—’
‘Right you are,’ Cal Brady said. Then, swiping the crowbar from his mother, he swung it at the window, shattering the glass. Grabbed at the soiled sheet, pulling it down from where drawing-pins held it in place. He was halfway over the windowsill and into the room, crowbar still in his hand. Rebus grabbed him by the feet, pulled him back. Glass shards ripped the front from Brady’s T-shirt.
‘Hey, you!’ Van Brady yelled, swinging a punch at Rebus. Cal Brady wriggled free, pulled himself up and got into Rebus’s face.
‘You want it, do you?’ Brandishing the crowbar. Not recognising the policeman.
‘I want you to calm down,’ Rebus said quietly. He turned to Van. ‘And you, behave yourself.’
The crowd had formed around the window, keen for a view of the flat’s interior. It looked much like any other: emulsioned walls, sofa, chair, bookcase. No TV, no hi-fi. Books piled on the sofa: photography texts; fiction titles. Newspapers on the floor, empty pot noodle containers, a pizza box. Cans and lemonade bottles on the bookcase. They all looked disappointed with this haul.
‘He’s polis,’ Van warned her son.
‘Listen to your mother, Cal,’ Rebus said.
Cal Brady was lowering the crowbar as half a dozen uniforms came out of the stairwell.
First thing they did was disperse the crowd. Van Brady
shouted that there’d be a GAP meeting in her flat. The TV crew looked ready to follow. The photographer lingered to take shots of Darren Rough’s living room, until uniforms moved him on too. Barbour was on her mobile, calling for someone to come and board up the window.
‘And pronto, before someone tips a can of petrol into the place.’
Tom Jackson, mopping his brow, came over to where Rebus was standing.
‘Christ almighty,’ he said. ‘I think I preferred it the way it was before.’
When Rebus looked up, Jackson’s eyes were on him.
‘You’re blaming me for this?’ Rebus asked.
‘Did I say that?’ Jackson was still busy with his handkerchief. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’ He turned and walked away.
Rebus looked in through the window. There was a musty smell from the room; hardly surprising, when it got neither fresh air nor sunlight. In for a penny, he thought to himself, lifting a foot on to the sill and pulling himself up.
Broken glass crunched underfoot. No sign of Darren Rough.
This is what you wanted, John
. The voice in his head: not his own, but Jack Morton’s.
This is what you wanted, and now you’ve got it
…
No, he thought, I didn’t want
this
.
But Jack was right to a degree: here it was anyway.
A narrow archway from the living room led into the kitchenette. Rebus felt the electric kettle: a trace of warmth. Looked in the fridge: bread, marge, jam. No milk. In the swing-top bin: empty milk carton, baked bean tins.
Jane Barbour looked in at him. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘How about opening the door?’
‘Sure.’ He opened the door to the hall, which was in darkness. Fumbled and found a light switch. Bare forty-watt
bulb. He tried opening the door, but the mortice had been locked, no sign of a key anywhere. The letterbox was protected by a block of wood. Not that Rough would get much mail. He went back to the window, let Barbour know she’d have to climb in if she wanted the tour.