Rebus flexed his fingers again, trying to stop them seizing up.
Rough sipped his tea. ‘He did beat me up, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Your friend.’
‘Jim Margolies?’
Rough nodded. ‘All of a sudden he got this look in his eyes. Next thing the fists were flying.’ He shook his head. ‘When he killed himself, I read the obituaries. They all said he was a “fine officer”, a “loving father”. Attended church regularly.’ A half-smile. ‘When he laid into me, he must have been demonstrating muscular Christianity.’
‘Careful what you say,’
‘Yes, he was your friend, you worked with him. But I wonder if you knew him.’
He didn’t say as much, but Rebus was beginning to wonder the same thing. Orange lipstick, meaning he liked them young. He’d asked Fern how young. Nothing illegal, she’d told him.
‘Why do you think he died?’ Rebus asked.
‘How should I know?’
‘When the two of you talked... how did he seem?’
Rough was thoughtful. ‘Not angry with me or anything. Just wanting to know about Shiellion. How often I’d been... you know. And who by.’ He glanced towards Rebus. ‘Some people get a kick that way, listening to stories.’
‘You think that’s why he was asking?’
‘Why are you asking all these questions, Inspector? Outing me to the papers, then coming to the rescue. I think maybe that’s how you get your kicks, fucking with people’s heads.’
Rebus thought of Cary Oakes and his games. ‘I think you had something to do with Jim Margolies’ death,’ he said. ‘Whether you know it or not.’
They sat in silence after that, until Rough asked if there was anything he could eat. Rebus went through to the kitchen, stared at one of the cupboard doors, wanting to punch it. But his knuckles wouldn’t thank him for that. He looked at them. He knew what Oakes had done, rubbed them hard over the floor of the car park, maybe bunched them into fists and driven them into the steel skip. Twisted little bastard that he was. And Patience wondered if it was all a blind, some way of diverting Rebus from some other scheme. His head seemed full of diversions. How could he trust what Rough was telling him? He didn’t see Rough as a schemer; too weak. But Jim Margolies... had he been playing some game?
And had it killed him?
Rebus opened the cupboard door, called out that he could do beans on toast. Rough said that would be fine. There was no marge for the toast, but Rebus reckoned the tomato sauce would soften it up. He emptied the beans into a pot, stuck the bread under the grill, and went to sort out the sleeping accommodation.
Not his own room; definitely not his own room. He opened the door to what had been the guest room, and — long before that — Sammy’s room. Her single bed was still there; posters on the walls; teenage girls’ annuals on a bookshelf. One of the last people to use the room had been Jack Morton. No way was Darren Rough sleeping there.
Rebus opened the wardrobe, found an old blanket and pillow, took them through to the living room.
‘You can have the sofa,’ he said.
‘Fine. Whatever.’ Rough was standing at the window. Rebus crossed over to him. A couple of kids lived across the street, but their shutters were closed, no peep-show available.
‘It’s so quiet here,’ Rough said. ‘In Greenfield, there always seems to be a row going on. Either that or a party, and most of the parties turn into a row.’
‘But you’re a good neighbour, eh?’ Rebus said. ‘Quiet, keep yourself to yourself?’
‘I try to.’
‘What about when the kids are noisy: don’t you want to do something about them?’
Rough closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to the glass. ‘I won’t make any excuses,’ he whispered.
‘And no apologies either?’
Another smile, eyes still shut. ‘I can apologise until the cows come home. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel.’ He opened his eyes, turned to Rebus. ‘But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?’
Rebus stared at him. ‘The toast’s burning,’ he said, turning away.
At five o’clock, with Rough hidden under the blanket on the sofa, Rebus telephoned Bill Pryde.
‘Sorry to wake you, Bill.’
‘The alarm was about to go off anyway. What’s up?’
‘The surveillance car.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s not at The Shore.’ He explained where it was.
‘Christ, John, what about Oakes?’
‘He comes and goes as he likes, Bill. The only thing we were doing there was keeping him amused.’
‘You better tell that to the Farmer.’
‘I will.’
‘Meantime, you want me to pick up the car from your flat?’
‘I’ve filled in the log, explained everything.’
‘What about the keys?’
‘Under the front seat, same place the log is. I’ve left it unlocked.’
‘And now you’re about to get your head down?’
‘Something like that.’ He stared at Darren Rough, watching the rise and fall of the blanket. He looked about as dangerous as pastry dough. Rebus cut the connection, tried the station. There was still no sign of Billy Horman. They’d looked everywhere. The search was being called off until daylight. Rebus called the hotel, asked for Cary Oakes’s room: still no answer. He put down the phone, went into his bedroom. Lay on his bed — a mattress on the floor. He’d thought about going back to Patience’s, but didn’t like the thought of Rough being here by himself. He might explore, find Sammy’s room. Pull open drawers, touch things. As soon as feasible, Rebus wanted him out.
You brought him here, a voice in his head seemed to say. You brought him to this. Sticks and crowbars and angry voices. The residents of Greenfield roused to a mob. Cal Brady with his petrol and denials. He worked for Charmer Mackenzie, worked the door at Guiser’s. Damon Mee had left there, got into a taxi with a blonde. Last seen in the vicinity of the Clipper, the night of one of Ama Petrie’s parties. Her father was presiding over Shiellion, where Darren Rough should have given evidence, where Rebus had been steamrollered by Richard Cordover. Lord Justice Petrie... who was related to Katherine Margolies.
Ama, Hannah, Katherine... Sammy, Patience, Janice... The never-ending dance of relationships and criss-crossings which took up so much space in his head. The party that never stopped, the invitations guilt-edged.
Life and death in Edinburgh. And space still left over for a few ghosts, their numbers increasing.
If I’d stuck around Fife, he thought, not joined the army... what would I be thinking now? Who would I be?
The voice in his head again — was it Jack Morton’s? It was never going to happen. This is where you were always headed. He looked around the room for whisky, but he was all cleaned out. Closed his eyes instead. Still that dull pain at the back of his skull. Please, Lord, let my sleep be dreamless.
His first prayer in a while.
Cary Oakes had been in Arden Street for Rebus’s return, had seen him get out of his car with another man, lead the man into his tenement. He wondered who this stranger was, wondered where Rebus had met him. He’d been standing across the road, hidden in the shadow of a tenement doorway. He had a plastic bag with him, a paperback book inside to give it weight. If anyone saw him, he had his story ready: working shifts, waiting for his lift to turn up. They were late, he’d say.
Only no one saw him. No one entered or left the building. But he saw the lights come on in Rebus’s living room. Saw the stranger approach the window, put his head to it. Saw Rebus over the man’s shoulder, staring down. Oakes stood his ground, felt he hadn’t been spotted. The beauty was, even if Rebus did see him, well, that was all right too. Then Rebus had come out of the tenement, gone to his car to fetch something: a book of some kind. Way he was moving, acting, Oakes hadn’t done too much damage. Rebus took the book upstairs with him, then came back down half an hour later, put it back in the car. When he’d gone back up again, Oakes crossed to where the car was parked, tried the driver’s door. It wasn’t locked. He got in, felt on the floor for where Rebus had put the book. Found it. And the car keys. Smiled to himself. He turned the ignition, powered up the police radio: easy listening while he perused the surveillance notes. Rebus hadn’t put in anything about Alan Archibald. That was interesting.