Rebus would have taken the stairs anyway. Nothing left of the boards across Rough’s window but a few charred scraps clinging to their screws. The door had been torched, too. DC Grant Hood was standing in the hallway of the flat. Rebus toed open the toilet door: nobody home.
‘Your pal,’ Hood said. He was young, bright. Followed Glasgow Rangers with a passion, but nobody was perfect.
‘Wasn’t me,’ Rebus commented. ‘But thanks for the call.’
Hood shrugged. ‘Thought you might be interested.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s bandaged hands. ‘Had an accident yourself?’
Rebus ignored the question. ‘No chance this was an accident, I suppose?’
‘Bits of rag hanging from the windowframe. Petrol spilt on the walkway...’
‘No sign of the occupier?’
Hood shook his head. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Look around, Grant. It’s the Wild West out here. Any one of them’s capable.’ Rebus had walked back through what remained of the door, was leaning over the balcony. ‘But if it was me, I’d be asking Van Brady and her eldest son.’
Hood jotted the names down. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Rough will be coming back.’
‘No,’ Rebus said. Which had been the point all along. But now that they’d come to that point, Rebus wondered why he felt so lousy inside... Jane Barbour’s words came back to him: low chance of reoffending... abused as a child himself... need to give him a chance.
Then he saw Cal Brady, down amongst the thinning crowd. He was fully clothed, looked like he hadn’t yet been to bed. Rebus went back downstairs. Cal was handing out GAP stickers to anyone who didn’t have one. Women with coats thrown over their nighties were getting them. Cal placed each one on its recipient with exaggerated gentleness, causing some of the women — not exactly coy maidens — to blush.
‘All right, Cal?’ Rebus said. Cal looked round at him, peeled off a sticker and slapped it on Rebus’s jacket.
‘I hope you’re with us, Inspector.’
Rebus started removing the sticker. Cal put out a hand to stop him, and Rebus caught it, lifted it to his nose. Cal pulled away quickly, but not quickly enough.
‘Soap and water’s usually a good idea,’ Rebus told him.
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘You stink of petrol.’
‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’
‘I’m not one to prejudge, Cal—’
‘Not what I hear.’
‘But in your case I’ll definitely make an exception.’ Thinking: who had Cal been talking to? Who’d been telling him about Rebus? ‘DC Hood’s going to want to ask you some questions. Be nice to him.’
‘Fuck the lot of you.’
‘Think your dick’s long enough?’ Said with a smile.
Cal stared him out; then broke off and laughed. ‘You’re a clown. Go home to your circus.’
‘What do you think you are, Cal? The ringmaster?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘No, son, you’ll do tricks for whoever’s cracking the whip.’ Rebus turned away. ‘Whether it’s your mum or Charmer Mackenzie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You work for him, don’t you?’
‘What’s it to do with you?’
Rebus just shrugged and went back to his car. He’d parked it right next to the fire engine: didn’t want to find it up on bricks.
‘Hey, John,’ Eddie Dickson said, ‘won’t it be perfect?’
‘What?’
‘When they build the Parliament.’ He swept an arm before him. ‘Right next door to all this.’
Rebus looked up, saw the dark form of Salisbury Crags. Once more he felt like he was in a canyon of some kind, sheer walls affording no escape. Your fingers would be raw and bleeding from trying.
Either that or stained with four-star.
Hood came running up as Rebus was flexing his hands. ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’
‘Be a miracle if we didn’t.’
‘There’s a kid missing. They weren’t even going to tell us.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It’s UDI,’ he said. Hood looked puzzled. ‘A Unilateral Declaration of Independence, son. So who spilt the beans?’
‘I went to Van Brady’s flat. Door was open, young woman in the lounge.’ He checked his notebook. ‘Name’s Joanna Horman. Kid’s name is Billy.’
Rebus remembered his first visit to Greenfield, Van Brady leaning out of her window: I saw you, Billy Horman! He couldn’t remember much about the kid, only that he’d been playing with Jamie Brady.
‘Now we know why they torched the flat,’ Hood went on.
‘A brilliant deduction, Grant. Maybe we better go talk to the lady in question.’
‘The kid’s mum?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Van Brady.’
Having opened negotiations with Van Brady, her kitchen providing an unpromising table for such a high-powered summit, Rebus called for reinforcements. They’d organise more search parties, police and residents working together.
‘This is your patch,’ Rebus had conceded, washing down more pills with a mug of cheap chicory coffee. ‘You know the place better than any of us: any hidey-holes, gang huts, anywhere he might stop the night. If his mum gives us a list of his school pals, we can contact their parents, see if he’s maybe staying with one of them. There are things we can do best, and things you can do.’ He’d kept his voice level, and maintained eye-contact throughout. There were eight bodies in the kitchen, and more in the hallway and living room.
‘What about the pervert?’ Van Brady had asked.
‘We’ll find him, don’t worry. But right now, I think we should concentrate on Billy, don’t you?’
‘What if he’s the one who’s got Billy?’
‘Let’s wait and see, eh? First thing is to get the search going again. We’re not going to find anyone sitting here.’
Meeting over, Rebus had sought out Grant Hood.
‘This is yours, Grant,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’
Hood nodded. ‘Sorry I got you involved.’
‘Don’t be. But keep yourself straight: wake up DI Barbour and let her know the score.’
‘What happens if they find him first?’ Meaning Darren Rough rather than the kid.
‘Then he’s dead,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s as simple as that.’
He drove out of Greenfield, wondering at what point Darren Rough had vacated his flat. Wondering where the young man would go. Holyrood Park: once, centuries back, it had been sanctuary for convicts. As long as you didn’t cross the boundary, you were on Crown Estate and couldn’t be touched by the law. Debtors would flee there, live there for years, existing on charity, fish from the lochs and wild rabbits. When their debts were finally paid or written off, they’d cross the boundary, step back into society. The park had provided them with an illusion of freedom; in reality, they’d merely been in an open prison.
Holyrood Park: a road wound its way around the base of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat. There were car parks near the lochs, popular with families and dog-owners during the day. At night, couples drove there for sex. The Royal Parks Police made irregular patrols. There had been talk of their disbanding, of the park falling within Lothian and Borders jurisdiction. It hadn’t happened yet.
Rebus made three circuits of the park. Driving slowly, not really interested in the few parked cars he passed. Then, by St Margaret’s Loch, just as he was readying to exit at Royal Park Terrace, he thought he caught shadow play at the edge of his vision. Decided to stop the car. Maybe just the headache and the pills, tricking his vision. He kept the engine running, wound down the window and lit a cigarette. Foxes, maybe even badgers... he could have been mistaken. There were all kinds of shadows in the city.