‘I don’t believe it,’ Rebus said for the fifth or sixth time.
‘This isn’t some joke of yours?’ Bill Pryde asked.
The Farmer looked inside. ‘Where’s the log?’
‘It was under the seat, sir.’
The Farmer reached in, pulled out the log and a set of car keys.
‘Did you say anything to Rough about the surveillance?’ he asked. Rebus shook his head. ‘So can we assume Rough did not take the car?’ Rebus shrugged.
‘Looks like it was someone who knew what we were up to,’ Bill Pryde admitted.
‘Or simply read about it in the log,’ Rebus said. ‘Anyone finding the keys would have found the log.’
‘True,’ Pryde conceded.
‘Which might put Rough back in the frame,’ the Farmer said. ‘Thing is, it also means whoever stole the car read the surveillance notes.’
‘Red faces all round, sir,’ Pryde said.
‘More than that if Fettes get to hear about it.’
‘Who’s going to tell them?’
The Farmer had flipped through the notes, coming to Rebus’s final section — or what should have been the final section. He opened the book wide, held it out so Rebus and Pryde could see it.
‘What’s this?’
Rebus looked. Written in big capitals, red felt pen. Someone had added a postscript to Rebus’s thoughts on the case:
NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY. WHERE’S MR ARCHIBALD????
The Farmer was staring at him.
‘Who’s Mr Archibald?’
Pryde was shrugging. ‘Search me.’
But the Farmer had eyes only for John Rebus.
‘Who’s Mr Archibald?’ he repeated, red rising to his cheeks. Rebus said nothing, crossed the street and looked in through the large windows of the restaurant. They were serving late breakfasts, tables half-hidden behind potted plants and hanging baskets. But there, at a window table and enjoying the show, sat Cary Oakes. He waved a fork at Rebus, sat beaming a grin as he lifted a glass of orange juice and toasted him. Rebus made for the hotel door, pushed it open, strode inside. Cooking smells were wafting from the restaurant. A waiter asked if he wanted a table for one. Rebus ignored him, walked straight up to the table where Cary Oakes was seated.
‘Care to join me, Inspector?’
‘Not even if you were coming apart at the seams.’ Rebus pushed his knuckles into Oakes’s face. ‘Remember these?’
‘Looks nasty,’ Oakes said. ‘I’d get a doctor to look at them. Lucky you already know one.’
‘You know where I live,’ Rebus hissed. ‘Jim Stevens told you.’
‘Did he?’ Oakes started cutting up a sausage. Rebus noticed that he sliced it lengthwise first, as though dissecting it.
‘You took the car.’
‘Bit early for riddles.’ Oakes lifted a morsel of meat to his lips. Rebus flung out a hand, sent fork and sausage flying. Then he hoisted Cary Oakes to his feet.
‘What the fuck are you up to?’
‘Shouldn’t that be my line?’ Oakes said, grinning. There was a sudden explosion of light. Rebus half-turned his head. Jim Stevens was behind him. Next to him stood a photographer.
‘Now,’ Stevens was saying, ‘if we could have the two of you shaking hands in the next one.’ He winked at Rebus. ‘Told you I wanted some pictures.’
Rebus dropped Oakes, flew towards the journalist.
‘Inspector!’
The Farmer’s voice. He was in the restaurant doorway, face like fury. ‘A word with you outside, if you don’t mind.’ A voice not to be disobeyed. Rebus stared hard at Jim Stevens, letting him know this wasn’t the end of anything. Then he walked out of the dining room and into reception. The Farmer was after him.
‘I’m still waiting for an answer. Who is Mr Archibald?’
‘A man with a mission,’ Rebus told him. In his mind, he could still see the grin on Oakes’s face. ‘Problem is, he’s not the only one.’
Rebus spent till lunchtime ‘in conference’ with the Farmer. Just before midday, Archibald himself joined them, the Farmer having dispatched a squad car to Corstorphine to pick him up. The two men knew one another of old.
‘Thought you’d have had the gold watch by now,’ Archibald said, shaking the Farmer’s hand. But the Farmer was not to be mollified.
‘Sit down, Alan. For a retired copper, you haven’t half been busy.’
Archibald glanced at Rebus, who was staring at the window-blind.
‘I’m going to nail him, that’s all.’
‘Oh, that’s all, is it?’ The Farmer looked mock-astonished. ‘John tells me you’ve seen the files on Cary Oakes. In fact, you’ve got more gen on him than we have. So you should know who you’re dealing with.’
‘I know what I’m dealing with.’
The Farmer’s gaze went from Archibald to Rebus and back again. ‘It’s bad enough I’m lumbered with this one,’ he said, nodding towards Rebus. ‘Last thing I need is yet another headcase out there trying to take the law into his own hands. You think Oakes killed your niece, show me the evidence.’
‘Come on, man...’
‘Show me the evidence!’
‘I would if I could.’
‘Would you, Alan?’ The Farmer paused. ‘Or would you want to keep it personal, right to the bitter end?’ He turned to Rebus. ‘What about you, John? Were you going to lend a hand burying the body?’
‘If I’d wanted him dead,’ Archibald said, ‘he’d be in the ground by now.’
‘But what if he confesses, Alan? Just you and him, no third party.’ The Farmer shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be enough to go to court with, so what would you do?’
‘It’d be enough,’ Archibald said quietly.
‘For what?’
‘For me. For Deirdre’s memory.’
The Farmer waited, turned to Rebus. ‘Do you buy that? You think Alan here would listen to Oakes’s confession and then just walk away?’
‘I don’t know him well enough to comment.’ Rebus still seemed mesmerised by the window-blind.
‘Two peas in a pod,’ the Farmer said. Rebus glanced at Archibald, who was looking at him. There was a knock at the door. The Farmer barked an order to enter. It was Siobhan Clarke.
‘Come to intercede?’ the Farmer asked.
‘No, sir.’ She seemed unwilling to come in; stood with only her head showing round the door.
‘Well?’
‘Suspicious death, sir. Up on Salisbury Crags.’
‘How suspicious?’
‘First reports say very.’
The Farmer pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is one of those weeks that seem to last a fortnight.’
‘Thing is, sir, from the description, I’d say we have an ID.’
He looked at her, hearing something in her tone. ‘Someone we know?’
Clarke was looking towards Rebus. ‘I’d say so, sir.’
‘This isn’t a parlour game, DC Clarke.’
She cleared her throat. ‘I think it might be Darren Rough.’
26
‘Start any time you’re ready.’
Jim Stevens’ room was beginning to look messy and lived-in, just the way he liked. But they weren’t in Stevens’ room, they were in Oakes’s, and it looked like its occupant hadn’t spent any time there at all. There were two chairs at a small circular table by the window. The complimentary book of matches still sat folded open in its ashtray. Two magazines of interest to visitors to Edinburgh sat beside it, and lying on top of them was the guests’ comment card, yet to be filled in, or even perused.
Most people, Stevens guessed, even people who’d spent a third of their life enjoying the facilities of a foreign country’s prison service, would do what he’d done in his own room: explore it, try out and touch everything, flick through every piece of literature.