But then a face appeared at the open window.
‘Any chance of a ciggie?’
‘No problem.’ Rebus averted his face as he searched his pockets.
‘Eh... look, I’m not sure...’ A clearing of the throat. ‘I mean, you’re not looking for company, are you?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ Now Rebus looked up. ‘Get in, Darren.’
Shock hit Darren Rough’s face as he recognised Rebus. His face was blackened. He coughed again, doubling over.
‘Smoke inhalation,’ Rebus observed. ‘You left it pretty late getting out.’
Rough wiped his mouth. The sleeves of his green raincoat were singed where he’d held them in front of his face.
‘I thought they’d be waiting for me outside. I kept listening for a fire engine.’
‘Somebody called one eventually.’
He snorted. ‘Probably afraid it would spread to their flat.’
‘Nobody was waiting outside?’
Rough shook his head. No, Rebus thought, because they’d all been out searching for Billy Horman. Cal Brady had torched the flat alone, and hadn’t stuck around to be spotted.
It had started to rain; sudden gobbets which bounced off Rough’s shoulders. He lifted his face to the sky, opened his scorched mouth to the drops.
‘You better get in,’ Rebus told him.
He angled his head, stared at Rebus. ‘What am I charged with?’
‘A kid’s gone missing.’
Rough lowered his eyes. Said something like ‘I see’, but so quietly Rebus didn’t catch it. ‘They think I...?’ He stopped. ‘Of course they think I did it. In their shoes, I’d think the same.’
‘But it wasn’t you?’
Rough shook his head. ‘I don’t do that any more. That’s not me.’ He was getting soaked.
‘Get in,’ Rebus repeated. Rough got into the passenger seat. ‘But you still think about it,’ Rebus said, watching for a response.
Rough stared at the windscreen, his eyes glinting. ‘I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t.’
‘So what’s changed?’
Rough turned to him. ‘Are you charging me?’
‘No charge,’ Rebus said, putting the car into gear. ‘Tonight, you ride for free.’
24
Rebus took Darren Rough to St Leonard’s.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Call it protective custody. I just want to make your answers on the missing kid official.’
They sat in an interview room with the recording machine running and a uniform on the door, drinking watery tea and with the rest of the station practically empty. All the spare bodies were down at Greenfield, looking for Billy Horman.
‘So you don’t know anything about a missing child?’ Rebus asked. Because there was no one around to tell him not to, he’d lit himself a cigarette. Rough didn’t want one, but then changed his mind.
‘Cancer’s probably the least of my problems right now,’ he surmised. Then he told Rebus that all he knew was what he’d heard from the detective himself.
‘But the locals warned you off, and you stayed put. There must have been a reason.’
‘Nowhere else to go. I’m a marked man.’ Glancing up. ‘Thanks to you.’ Rebus stood up. Rough flinched, but all Rebus did was lean against the wall, so he was facing the video camera. Not that it mattered: the camera wasn’t on.
‘You’re a marked man because of what you are, Mr Rough.’
‘I’m a paedophile, Inspector. I suppose I’ll always be one. But I have ceased to be a practising paedophile.’ A shrug. ‘Society’s going to have to get used to it.’
‘I don’t think your neighbours would agree.’
Rough allowed himself a condemned man’s smile. ‘I think you’re right.’
‘What about friends?’
‘Friends?’
‘Others who share your interests.’ Rebus flicked ash on to the carpet; the cleaners would be in before morning. ‘Had any of them round to the flat?’
Rough was shaking his head.
‘Sure about that, Mr Rough?’
‘Nobody knew I was there till the papers splashed me across a double-page spread.’
‘But afterwards... nobody from the old days got in touch?’
Rough didn’t answer. He was staring into space, still thinking of newspapers. ‘Ince and Marshall... I see the stories about them. Where they are... in the cells... do they get to see the news?’
‘Sometimes,’ Rebus admitted.
‘So they’ll know about me?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re on remand in Saughton Prison.’ He paused. ‘You were going to testify against them.’
‘I wanted to.’ He stared into space again, his face tightening with memories. Rebus knew the story: the abused became abusers themselves. He’d always found it easy to discard. Not every victim turned abuser.
‘That time they took you to Shiellion...’ Rebus began.
‘Marshall took me. Ince told him to.’ His voice was trembling. ‘Didn’t pick on me specially or anything — could have been any one of us. Only I think I was the quietest, the least likely to do anything about it. Marshall was right under Ince’s thumb at that time, loved the way Ince ordered him about. I saw a photo of Ince, he hasn’t changed. Marshall’s got a lot tougher-looking, like he’s grown an extra skin.’
‘And the third man?’
‘I told you, could have been anybody.’
‘But he was already there, waiting at Shiellion when you arrived.’
‘Yes.’
‘So probably a friend of Ince, rather than Marshall.’
‘They took it in turns.’ Rough’s hands were holding the edge of the desk. ‘Afterwards, I tried telling people, but nobody would listen. It was: “You mustn’t say that”; “Don’t tell such stories.” Like it was all my fault. I’d touched up a neighbour’s kid, so I deserved everything I got... Even worse, some of them thought I was lying, and I never lied... never.’ He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on his hands. He muttered something that might have been ‘Bastards.’ And then he started to cry.
Rebus knew he had choices. Phone Social Work and have them take Rough somewhere. Put him in a cell. Or drop him off somewhere... anywhere. But when he tried the Social Work emergency number, no one answered. They’d be out on a call. The recorded message told him to keep trying the number every ten minutes or so. It told him not to panic.
There were empty cells in the station, but Rebus knew word would get out, and when it came time to release Darren Rough, there’d be a crowd waiting. So he lit another cigarette and went back to the interview room.
‘Right,’ he said, opening the door, ‘you’re coming with me.’
‘Nice room,’ Darren Rough said. He looked around, examining the high cornicing. ‘Big,’ he added, nodding to himself. He was trying to be pleasant, make conversation. He was wondering what Rebus was going to do with him, here in Rebus’s own flat.
Rebus handed over a mug of tea and told him to sit down. He offered Rough another cigarette, the offer refused this time. Rough was sitting on the sofa. Rebus wanted to tell him to move on to one of the dining chairs. It was as if Rough could contaminate everything he touched.
‘Your social worker better find you something in the morning,’ Rebus said. ‘Something far from Edinburgh.’
Rough looked at him. His eyes were dark-ringed, his hair needing a wash. The green raincoat was draped over the back of the sofa. He wore a check suit-jacket with jeans and baseball boots, white nylon shirt. He looked like he’d won a ninety-second dash through an Oxfam shop.
‘Keep moving, eh?’
‘A moving target’s harder to hit,’ Rebus told him.
Rough smiled tiredly. ‘I see you’ve been hitting a target yourself.’