He wondered if it would be a surprise...
Now, he was level with the car park. He sauntered past, just another tired worker on his way home. From the corner of his eye, he checked for police cars. Not that he thought they’d have guessed, but he wasn’t going to underestimate Rebus again.
And saw instead a car he thought he recognised. Stopped and put his bags down, making to change hands, making out they were heavier than they were. And studied the car. A Vauxhall Astra. Numberplate the same. Oakes bared his teeth and let out a hiss of air. This was too much, the bastards were determined to wreck his plans.
Only one thing for it. He fingered the knife in his pocket, knowing he’d have to do some killing.
He had ditched the carrier bags and was lying beneath the car when he heard footsteps. Turned his head to watch them coming closer. He reckoned he’d been lying on the ground for a good hour and a half. His back was chilled, and the shivers were starting again. When he heard the clunk of the locks disengaging, he slid out from his hiding-place and tugged open the passenger door. Seeing him, the driver made to get out again, but Cary Oakes had the knife in his right hand while his left grabbed at Jim Stevens’s sleeve.
‘Thought you’d be pleased to see me again, Jimbo,’ Oakes said. ‘Now close the door and get this thing moving.’ He took off his jacket, tossed it on to the back seat.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Just drive, man.’ His shirt followed.
‘What are you doing?’ Stevens asked. But Oakes ignored him, loosed his trousers and threw them into the back too.
‘This is all a bit sudden for me, Cary.’
‘A man who likes a joke, huh?’ As they left the car park, Oakes realised he was sitting on something. Pulled out the reporter’s notebook and pen.
‘Been working, Jim?’ He opened the notebook, and was disappointed to see Stevens had used shorthand.
‘Why’d you go see him?’ Oakes asked, beginning to tear each page of the notebook into four.
‘See who? I was visiting an old neighbour of mine, and—’
The knife arced into Stevens’s side. He took his hands off the wheel, and the car veered towards the kerb. Oakes straightened it up.
‘Keep your foot down, Jim! If this car stops, you’re a dead man!’
Stevens examined his palm. It was wet with blood. ‘Hospital,’ he croaked, face twisted with pain.
‘You’ll get a hospital after I’ve had my answers! What made you go to see him?’
Stevens hunched over the wheel, taking control again. Oakes thought he was going to pass out, but it was just the pain.
‘I was checking details.’
‘That all?’ Ripping at the notebook.
‘What else would I be doing?’
‘Well, that’s why I’m asking, Jim-Bob. And if you don’t want knifing again, you’ll convince me.’ Oakes reached for the heater switch, slid it to full.
‘It’s for the book.’
‘The book?’ Oakes narrowed his eyes.
‘I don’t have enough material with just the interviews.’
‘You should have asked me first.’ Oakes was silent for a minute.
‘Where are we going?’ Stevens had one hand on the steering-wheel, one pressed to his side.
‘Turn right at the roundabout, head out of town.’
‘The Glasgow road? I need a hospital.’
Oakes wasn’t listening. ‘What did he say?’
‘What?’
‘What did he say about me?’
‘Probably what you’d expect.’
‘He’s compos mentis then?’
‘Pretty much.’
Oakes wound down the window, scattering the scraps of paper. When he turned round again, Stevens was scrabbling on the floor with his hand.
‘What are you doing?’ Oakes brandished the knife.
‘Paper hankies. I thought I’d a box somewhere.’
Oakes examined his handiwork. ‘Just between you and me, Jim, I don’t think paper tissues are going to do the job.’
‘I feel faint. I’ve got to stop.’
‘Keep going!’
Stevens’ eyelids looked heavy. ‘See if they’re in the back.’
‘What?’
‘The box of hankies.’
So Oakes turned in his seat, pushed his clothes around. ‘Nothing here.’
Stevens was rooting in his pockets. ‘Must be something...’ Eventually he found a large cotton handkerchief, eased it inside his shirt.
‘Take the airport exit,’ Oakes commanded.
‘You leaving us, Cary?’
‘Me?’ Oakes grinned. ‘When I’m just beginning to enjoy myself?’ He sneezed, spraying the windscreen with spittle.
‘Bless you,’ Stevens said. There was silence in the car for a moment, then both men laughed.
‘That’s funny,’ Oakes said, wiping an eye. ‘You blessing me.’
‘Cary, I’m losing a lot of blood.’
‘It’s all right, Jimbo. I’ve seen people bleed to death before. You’ve got hours left in you.’ He sat back in his seat. ‘So you were out there all by yourself, checking background...? Who knew you were going?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Not your editor?’
‘No.’
‘And John Rebus?’
Stevens snorted. ‘Why would I tell him?’
‘Because I made you mad.’ Oakes pushed out his bottom lip. ‘Sorry about that, by the way.’
‘Was it really all lies?’
‘That’s between me and my conscience, man.’
The car hit a bump and Stevens grimaced.
‘Know what they say about pain, Jim? They say it makes you see colour for the very first time. Makes everything really vivid.’
‘The blood certainly looks vivid.’
‘There’s nothing like it,’ Oakes said quietly, ‘not in the whole world.’
They were coming to another roundabout. Off to their left sat Ingliston Showground, unused for the most part of the year. Unused tonight.
‘Airport?’ Stevens asked.
‘No, take a left.’
So Stevens did, and found himself approaching a building site. Another new hotel was being thrown up, to complement the one at the airport exit. Around it lay farmland, the dwellings few and far between. There were no visible lights at all, not even from planes landing and taking off.
‘No hospitals near here,’ Stevens said, dread overcoming him.
‘Pull over.’
Stevens did as he was told.
‘They’ll have a doctor at the airport,’ Oakes told him. ‘I’ll need your car, but you can walk it.’
‘Better still, you could drop me off.’ Jim Stevens licked his dry lips.
‘Or better yet...’ Cary Oakes said. And his hand flew, and the knife went into Stevens’ side again.
And again and again, as the journalist’s words became twisted sounds, finding a new vocabulary of terror, resignation and pain.
Oakes dragged the corpse out and dumped it behind a mound of earth. Searched in the pockets and found Stevens’ cassette recorder. There wasn’t much light, but he was able to prise it open, remove the tape. Left the recorder behind; took the tape. Little money in Stevens’ wallet: credit cards, but he wanted neither to use them nor be caught with them in his possession. He bent down again, wiped the recorder on Stevens’ jacket, getting rid of prints.
The wind was cutting through him. If he tried concealing the body, he might die of hypothermia. He raced back to the car, got into the driver’s seat and headed off. The heater wouldn’t go any higher. The blood was sticking his underpants to the seat. He could feel it against his skin. Couldn’t put his clothes on yet: had to keep them clean. Couldn’t go wandering around Edinburgh with bloodstained clothes.