Yet Rebus knew he had to do something about Cafferty. The man deserved punishment, a million punishments. Let the punishment fit the crime, he thought. But he shook the notion away. No more guns.
He didn’t go home, not right away. He walked out of the now-empty office and got into his car. And sat there, in the car park. The key was in the ignition, but he let it sit there. His hands rested lightly on the steering-wheel. After almost an hour, he started the engine, mostly because he was getting cold. He didn’t go anywhere, except inside his head, and slowly but surely, with backtracking and rerouting along the way, the idea came to him. Let the punishment fit the crime. Yes, but not Cafferty’s punishment. No, not Cafferty’s.
Andrew McPhail’s.
33
Rebus didn’t go near St Leonard’s for a couple of days, though he did get a message from Farmer Watson that Broderick Gibson was considering bringing an action against him, for harrying his son.
‘He’s been harrying himself for years,’ was Rebus’s only comment.
But he was waiting in his car when they released Andy Steele. The fisherman cum private eye blinked into the sun. Rebus sounded his horn, and Steele approached warily. Rebus wound down his window.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Steele. There was disappointment in his voice. Rebus had said he’d see what he could do for the young man, then had left him to languish, never coming near.
‘They let you out, then,’ said Rebus.
‘Aye, on bail.’
‘That’s because someone put up the money for you.’
Steele nodded, then started. ‘You?’
‘Me,’ said Rebus. ‘Now get in, I’ve got a job for you.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘Get in and I’ll tell you.’
There was a bit more life in Steele as he walked round to the passenger side and opened the door.
‘You want to be a private eye,’ stated Rebus. ‘Fair enough. I’ve got a job for you.’
Steele seemed unable to take it in for a moment, then cleared his head by shaking it briskly, rubbing his hands through his hair.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘So long as it’s not against the law.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing illicit. All I want you to do is talk to a few folk. They’re good listeners too, shouldn’t be any problem.’
‘What am I going to tell them?’
Rebus started the car. ‘That there’s a contract out on a certain individual.’
‘A contract?’
‘Come on, Andy, you’ve seen the films. A contract.’
‘A contract,’ Andy Steele mouthed, as Rebus pulled into the traffic.
There was still no sign of Andrew McPhail. Alex Maclean, Rebus discovered, was back in circulation though not yet back at work. When Rebus visited Mrs Mackenzie, she said she hadn’t seen a man with bandaged hands and face hanging around. But one of the neighbours had. Well, it didn’t matter, McPhail wouldn’t be coming back here again. He would probably write or telephone with a forwarding address, asking his landlady to send on his stuff. Rebus looked towards the school as he got back into his car. The children were in their own little worl…and safe.
He did a lot of driving, visiting schools and playparks. He knew McPhail must be sleeping rough. Maybe he was well away from Edinburgh by now. Rebus had a vision of him climbing up onto a coal train headed slowly south. A hand reached out and helped McPhail into the wagon. It was Deek Torrance. The opening credits began to roll …
It didn’t matter if he couldn’t find McPhail; it would just be a nice touch. A nicely cruel touch.
Wester Hailes was a good place to get lost, meaning it was an easy place to get lost. Sited to the far west of the city, visible from the bypass which gave Edinburgh such a wide berth, Wester Hailes was somewhere the city put people so it could forget about them. The architecture was unenthusiastic, the walls of the flat-blocks finished off with damp and cracks.
People might leave Wester Hailes, or stay there all their lives, surrounded by roads and industrial estates and empty green spaces. It had never before struck Rebus that it would make a good hiding place. You could walk the streets, or the Kingsknowe golf course, or the roads around Sighthill, and as long as you didn’t look out of place you would be safe. There were places you could sleep without being discovered. And if you were of a mind, there was a school. A school and quite a few play-parks.
This was where, on the second day, he found Andrew McPhail. Never mind watching the bus and railway stations, Rebus had known where to look. He followed McPhail for three-quarters of an hour, at first in the car and then, when McPhail took a pedestrian shortcut, awkwardly on foot. McPhail kept moving, his gait brisk. A man out for a walk, that was all. A bit shabby maybe, but these days with unemployment what it was, you lost the will to shave every morning, didn’t you?
McPhail was careful not to draw attention to himself. He didn’t pause to stare at any children he saw. He just smiled towards them and went on his way. When Rebus had seen enough, he gained quickly and tapped him on the shoulder. He might as well have used a cattle-prod.
‘Jesus, it’s you!’ McPhail’s hand went to his chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘That would have saved Alex Maclean a job.’
‘How is he?’
‘Minor burns. He’s up and about and on the warpath.’
‘Christ’s sake! We’re talking about something that happened years ago!’
‘And it’s not going to happen again?’
‘No!’
‘And it was an accident you ended up living across from a primary school?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I was wrong to think I’d find you somewhere near a school or a playgroun…?’
McPhail opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. ‘No, you weren’t wrong. I still like kids. But I neve…I’d never do anything to them. I won’t even speak to them these days.’ He looked up at Rebus. ‘I’m flying, Inspector.’
Everyone wanted a second chance: Michael, McPhail, even Black Aengus. Sometimes, Rebus could help. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘There are programmes for past offenders. You could go into one of them, not in Edinburgh, somewhere else. You could sign on for social security and look for a job.’ McPhail looked ready to say something. ‘I know it takes money, a wee bit of cash to get you on your feet. But I can help with that too.’
McPhail blinked, one eye staying half closed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to. And afterwards, you’ll be left alone, I promise. I won’t tell anyone where you are or what’s happened to you. Is it a deal?’
McPhail thought about it-for two seconds. ‘A deal,’ he said.
‘Fine then.’ Rebus put his hand on McPhail’s shoulder again, drawing him a little closer. ‘There’s just one small thing I’d like you to do for me firs…’
It had been quiet in the social club, and Chick Muir was thinking of heading home when the young chap at the bar asked if he could buy him a drink. Chick readily agreed.
‘I don’t like drinking on my own,’ the young man explained.
‘Who can blame you?’ said Chick agreeably, handing his empty glass to the barman. ‘Not from round here?’
‘Aberdeen,’ said the young man.
‘A long way from home. Is it still like Dallas up there?’
Chick meant the oil-boom, which had actually disappeared almost as quickly as it had begun, except in the mythology of those people not living in Aberdeen.
‘Maybe it is,’ said the young man, ‘but that didn’t stop them sacking me.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’ Chick really was too. He’d been hoping the young man was off the oil rigs with cash to burn. He was planning to tap him for a tenner, but now shrugged away the idea.
‘I’m Andy Steele, by the way.’
‘Chick Muir.’ Chick placed his cigarette in his mouth so he could shake Andy Steele’s hand. The grip was like a rubbish-crusher.