‘Have you tried patches?’
‘No good, they kept slipping off my eye.’
They shared a laugh at that.
‘I’m assuming you’ll get round to it eventually,’ Jackson said.
‘What, trying a patch?’
‘No, telling me what it is you’re after.’
‘Am I that transparent?’
‘Maybe it’s just my finely honed intuition.’
Rebus flicked ash into the breeze. ‘I was out at Greenfield earlier. You know a guy called Darren Rough?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘I had a run-in with him at the zoo.’
Jackson nodded, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I heard about it. Paedophile, yes?’
‘And living in Cragside Court.’
Jackson stared at Rebus. ‘That I didn’t know.’
‘Neighbours don’t seem to know either.’
‘They’d murder him if they did.’
‘Maybe someone could have a word...’
Jackson frowned. ‘Christ, I don’t know about that. They’d string him up.’
‘Bit of an exaggeration, Tom. Run him out of town maybe.’
Jackson straightened his back. ‘And that’s what you want?’
‘You really want a paedophile on your beat?’
Jackson thought about it. He brought out his pack of cigarettes and was reaching into it when he checked his watch: ciggie break over.
‘Let me think on it.’
‘Fair enough, Tom.’ Rebus flicked his own cigarette on to the tarmac. ‘I bumped into one of Rough’s neighbours, Van Brady.’
Jackson winced. ‘Don’t get on the wrong side of that one.’
‘You mean she has a right side?’
‘Best seen when retreating.’
Back at his desk, Rebus put a call in to the council offices and was eventually put through to Darren Rough’s social worker, a man called Andy Davies.
‘Do you think it was a wise move?’ Rebus asked.
‘Care to give me some clue what you’re talking about?’
‘Convicted paedophile, council flat in Greenfield, nice view of the children’s playground.’
‘What’s he done?’ Sounding suddenly tired.
‘Nothing I can pin him for.’ Rebus paused. ‘Not yet. I’m phoning while there’s still time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘To move him.’
‘Move him where exactly?’
‘How about Bass Rock?’
‘Or a cage at the zoo maybe?’
Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘He’s told you.’
‘Of course he’s told me. I’m his social worker.’
‘He was taking photos of kids.’
‘It’s all been explained to Chief Superintendent Watson.’
Rebus looked around the office. ‘Not to my satisfaction, Mr Davies.’
‘Then I suggest you take it up with your superior, Inspector.’ No hiding the irritation in the voice.
‘So you’re going to do nothing?’
‘It was your lot wanted him here in the first place!’
Silence on the line, then Rebus: ‘What did you just say?’
‘Look, I’ve nothing to add. Take it up with your Chief Superintendent. OK?’
The connection was broken. Rebus tried Watson’s office, but his secretary said he was out. He chewed on his pen, wishing plastic had a nicotine content.
It was your lot wanted him here.
DC Siobhan Clarke was at her desk, busy on the phone. He noticed that on the wall behind her was pinned up a postcard of a sea-lion. Walking up to it, he saw someone had added a speech balloon, issuing from the creature’s mouth: ‘I’ll have a Rebus supper, thanks.’
‘Ho ho,’ he said, pulling the card from the wall. Clarke had finished her call.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she said.
He scanned the room. DC Grant Hood reading a tabloid, DS George Silvers frowning at his computer screen. Then DI Bill Pryde walked into the office, and Rebus knew he had his man. Curly fair hair, ginger moustache: a face just made for mischief. Rebus waved the card at him and watched Pryde’s face take on a look of false wounded innocence. As Rebus walked towards him, a phone began sounding.
‘That’s yours,’ Pryde said, retreating. On his way to the phone, Rebus tossed the card into a bin.
‘DI Rebus,’ he said.
‘Oh, hello. You probably won’t remember me.’ A short laugh on the line. ‘That used to be a bit of a joke at school.’
Rebus, immune to every kind of crank, rested against the edge of the desk. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, wondering what kind of punch-line he was walking into.
‘Because it’s my name: Mee.’ The caller spelled it for him. ‘Brian Mee.’
Inside Rebus’s head, a fuzzy photograph began to develop — mouthful of prominent teeth; freckled nose and cheeks; kitchen-stool haircut.
‘Barney Mee?’ he said.
More laughter on the line. ‘I never knew why everyone called me that.’
Rebus could have told him: after Barney Rubble in The Flintstones. He could have added: because you were a dense wee bastard. Instead, he asked Mee what he could do for him.
‘Well, Janice and me, we thought... well, it was my mum’s idea actually. She knew your dad. Both my parents knew him, only my dad passed away, like. They all drank at the Goth.’
‘Are you still in Bowhill?’
‘Never quite escaped. I work in Glenrothes though.’
The photo had become clearer: decent footballer, bit of a terrier, the hair reddish-brown. Dragging his satchel along the ground until the stitching burst. Always with some huge hard sweet in his mouth, crunching down on it, nose running.
‘So what can I do for you, Brian?’
‘It was my mum’s idea. She remembered you were in the police in Edinburgh, thought maybe you could help.’
‘With what?’
‘It’s our son. Mine and Janice’s. He’s called Damon.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s vanished.’
‘Run away?’
‘More like a puff of smoke. He was in this club with his pals, see—’
‘Have you tried calling the police?’ Rebus caught himself. ‘I mean Fife Constabulary.’
‘Thing is, the club’s in Edinburgh. Police there say they looked into it, asked a few questions. See, Damon’s nineteen. They say that means he’s got a right to bugger off if he wants.’
‘They’ve got a point, Brian. People run away all the time. Girl trouble maybe.’
‘He was engaged.’
‘Maybe he got scared.’
‘Helen’s a lovely girl. Never a raised voice between them.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
‘I went through this with the police. No note, and he didn’t take any clothes or anything.’
‘You think something’s happened to him?’
‘We just want to know he’s all right...’ The voice fell away. ‘My mum always speaks well of your dad. He’s remembered in this town.’
And buried there, too, Rebus thought. He picked up his pen. ‘Give me a few details, Brian, and I’ll see what I can do.’
A little later, Rebus visited Grant Hood’s desk and retrieved the discarded newspaper from the bin. Turning the pages, he found the editorial section. At the bottom, in bold script, were the words ‘Do you have a story for us? Call the newsroom day or night.’ They’d printed the telephone number. Rebus jotted it into his notebook.
5
The silent dance resumed. Couples writhed and shuffled, threw back their heads or ran hands through their hair, eyes seeking out future partners or past loves to make jealous. The video monitor gave a greasy look to everything.
No sound, just pictures, the tape cutting from dancefloor to main bar to second bar to toilet hallway. Then the entrance foyer, exterior front and back. Exterior back was a puddled alley boasting rubbish bins and a Merc belonging to the club’s owner. The club was called Gaitano’s, nobody knew why. Some of the clientele had come up with the nickname ‘Guiser’s’, and that was the name by which Rebus knew it.