One of the gang looked in his direction, and he realized he’d been sitting too long at the empty intersection. He turned on to the new road, parked with his back to the other car, fifty yards farther along. Pretended to be looking up at the block of flats… just a visitor, here to pick up a pal. Two impatient blasts of his horn to complete the effect, the Lost Boys giving him a moment’s notice before dismissing him. Rebus put his phone to his ear, as if making a call to his missing friend…
And watched in his rearview.
Watched Rab Fisher gesticulating, animating his story, the driver someone he was keen to impress. Rebus could hear music, a rumble of bass, the driver’s radio tuned to one of the stations Rebus had rejected. He was wondering how long he could carry on the pretense. And what if the cart twosome really did bring him some cigarettes?
But now Fisher was straightening up, backing away from the car door, which was opening, the driver getting out.
And Rebus saw who it was: Evil Bob. Bob with his own car, acting big and tough, shoulders rolling as he walked around to the trunk, unlocking it. There was something inside he wanted them all to see, the gang forming a tight semicircle, blocking Rebus’s view.
Evil Bob… Peacock’s sidekick. But not acting the sidekick now, because though he might not be the brightest light on the Christmas tree, he was higher up that tree than a bauble like Fisher.
Not acting…
Rebus was remembering something from the interview room at St. Leonard’s, the day the lowlifes were being grilled. Bob, muttering about never having seen a panto, sounding disappointed. Bob, the big kid, hardly a grown-up at all. Which was why Peacock kept him around, treating him almost as a pet, a pet who did tricks for him.
And now Rebus had another face in his mind, another scene. James Bell’s mother, The Wind in the Willows…
Never too old… Wagging her finger at him. Never too old…
He gave a final, apparently despairing look out of his side window, then drove off, revving hard as if annoyed by his pal’s no-show. Turned at the next junction and then slowed again, pulled in and made a call on his mobile. Scribbled down the number he was given, made a second call. Then did a circuit, no sign of the cart or his money, not that he was expecting either. Ended up at another Yield, a hundred yards in front of Bob’s car. Waited. Saw the trunk being slammed shut, the Lost Boys making their way back to the sidewalk, Bob getting behind the steering wheel. He had an air horn, it played “Dixie” as he dropped the hand brake, tires squealing, sending up wisps of smoke. He was heading for fifty as he passed Rebus, “Dixie” blaring again. Rebus started to follow.
He felt calm, purposeful. Decided it was time for the last cigarette in the pack. And maybe even a few minutes of Rory Gallagher, too. Remembered seeing Rory in the seventies, Usher Hall, the place filled with tartan shirts, faded denims. Rory playing “Sinner Boy,” “I’m Movin’ On”… Rebus had one sinner boy in his sights, hopeful of snaring two more.
Rebus eventually got what he was hoping for. Having chanced his luck at a couple of amber traffic lights, Bob was forced to stop for a red. Rebus drove up behind him, then passed and stopped, blocking the road. Opened the driver’s door and got out as “Dixie” sounded its warning. Bob looked angry, came out of the car ready for trouble. Rebus had his hands up in surrender.
“Evening, Bo-bo,” he said. “Remember me?”
Bob knew him now all right. “The name’s Bob,” he stated.
“Right you are.” The lights had turned green. Rebus waved for the cars behind to come around them.
“What’s this all about?” Bob was asking. Rebus was inspecting the car, a prospective buyer’s once-over. “I’ve no’ done nothing.”
Rebus had reached the trunk. He tapped it with his knuckles. “Care to give me a quick tour of the exhibit?”
Bob’s jaw jutted. “Got a search warrant?”
“Think somebody like me bothers with the niceties?” The baseball cap was shading Bob’s face. Rebus bent at the knees so he was looking up into it. “Think again.” He paused. “But as it happens…” He straightened. “All I want is for the pair of us to go somewhere.”
“I’ve no’ done nothing,” the young man repeated.
“No need to fret… the cells are jam-packed at St. Leonard’s as it is.”
“So where are we going?”
“My treat.” Rebus nodded towards his Saab. “I’m going to park curbside. You pull in behind and wait for me. Got that? And I don’t want to see you with your mobile in your hand.”
“I’ve no’ -”
“Understood,” Rebus interrupted. “But you’re about to do something… and you’ll like it, I promise you.” He held up a finger, then retreated to his car. Evil Bob parked behind him, good as gold, and waited while Rebus got into the passenger seat, telling him he could drive.
“Drive where, though?”
“Toad Hall,” Rebus said, pointing towards the road ahead.
22
They’d missed the first half of the show, but their tickets for the second half were waiting at the Traverse box office. The audience comprised families, a busload of pensioners, and what looked like at least one school trip, the children wearing identical pale-blue jumpers. Rebus and Bob took their seats at the back of the auditorium.
“It’s not a panto,” Rebus told him, “but it’s the next best thing.” The lights were just going down for the second half. Rebus knew he’d read The Wind in the Willows as a kid, but couldn’t remember the story. Not that Bob seemed to mind. His caginess soon melted away as the lights illuminated the scenery and the actors bounded onstage. Toad was in jail as proceedings opened.
“Framed, no doubt,” Rebus whispered, but Bob wasn’t listening. He clapped and booed with the kids and by the climax-weasels put to flight by Toad and his allies-was on his feet, bellowing his support. He looked down at the still-seated Rebus and a huge grin spread across his face.
“Like I say,” Rebus offered as the houselights went up and kids began pouring out of the auditorium, “not quite pantomime, but you get the idea.”
“And this is all because of what I said that day?” With the play over, some of Bob’s mistrust was returning.
Rebus shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t see you as a natural-born weasel.”
Out in the foyer, Bob stopped, looking all around him, as though reluctant to leave.
“You can always come back,” Rebus told him. “Doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”
Bob nodded slowly, and allowed Rebus to lead him into the busy street. He already had his car keys out, but Rebus was rubbing his gloved hands together.
“A bag of chips?” he suggested. “Just to round the evening off…”
“I’m buying,” Bob was quick to stress. “You stumped up for the seats.”
“Well, in that case,” Rebus said, “I’m bumping my order to a fish supper.”
The chip shop was quiet: pubs hadn’t started emptying yet. They carried the warm, wrapped packages back to the car and got in, windows steaming up as they sat and ate. Bob gave a sudden, open-mouthed chuckle.