‘Did you know Darren Rough, Mr Heggie?’ Rebus asked.
‘He’s the one that got topped?’ He waited for Rebus to nod confirmation. ‘Never knew him.’
‘Never spoke to him?’
‘We weren’t in the same block.’
‘You knew where he lived then?’
‘It’s been all over the papers. Perverted little bastard, whoever did it deserves a medal.’
‘Why do you say he was “little”? He was, by the way. Not tall, at any rate. But it wasn’t in the papers.’
‘It’s just... it’s something you say, isn’t it?’
‘It’s certainly something you say. Makes me think you’d seen him.’
‘Maybe I had. It’s not that big a scheme.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘Everyone knows everyone else.’
‘Until the council move in bastards they can’t put anywhere else.’
Rebus nodded. ‘So you might have seen Darren Rough around?’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘It’s just that he liked young kids too. Paedophiles seem to be good at recognising one another.’
‘I’m not a paedophile!’ Losing it. His voice was trembling as he got to his feet. ‘I’d kill every last one of them.’
‘Did you start with Darren?’
‘What?’
‘Get rid of him, you’d be a hero.’
A burst of nervous laughter. ‘So now I didn’t just do in Billy, I topped the pervert as well?’
‘Is that what you’re telling us?’ Rebus asked.
‘I haven’t killed anyone!’
‘How did you get on with Billy, by the way? Must’ve been awkward, having him around, you wanting Joanna all to yourself.’
‘He’s a nice kid.’
‘Sit down, Mr Heggie,’ Frazer commanded.
Eventually Heggie sat down, but then leapt up again, his finger pointing at Rebus. ‘He’s trying to set me up!’
Rebus shook his head, gave a wry smile. He pushed off from the wall.
‘I’m just after the truth,’ he said, making to leave the room.
‘Inspector Rebus leaving the interview room,’ he could hear Frazer saying behind him.
Later, Frazer stopped off at Rebus’s desk. ‘You don’t really make him for Darren Rough, do you?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Do you make him for the kid?’
‘Maybe if Sex Offences come up with something. From what I hear, her mum’s sticking to her like glue, answering for her, putting words in her mouth.’
‘Doesn’t mean she’s lying.’
‘No.’ Frazer was thoughtful. ‘Heggie doesn’t give a shit about Billy Horman. All he’s worried about is that Joanna will boot him out.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘People like him, you never get through to them, do you?’
‘No.’
‘And you can’t get them to change.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘That’s what you think too, isn’t it?’
‘Welcome to my world, Roy,’ Rebus said, reaching for the telephone.
He had to keep working; had to stop letting thoughts of Cary Oakes consume him. So Rebus phoned Phyllida Hawes at Gayfield station.
‘Has your MisPer turned up?’ she asked.
‘Not a bloody sign of him.’
‘Well, that can be good news too, can’t it? Means he’s probably still alive.’
‘Or the body’s been well-hidden.’
‘I do like an optimist.’
Another time, Rebus might have kept the banter going. ‘You know Gaitano’s?’ he said instead, getting to the point.
‘Yes.’ Sounding curious, wondering what he was after.
‘As owned by Charmer Mackenzie?’
‘The same.’
‘What have you got on him?’
Silence for a moment. ‘Is he connected to your MisPer?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Rebus told her about the boat.
‘Yes, I knew about that,’ she said. ‘But it’s strictly a money thing. I mean, Mackenzie has a share, but he doesn’t interfere with the business. You’ve met Billy Preston?’ Rebus admitted he had. ‘Charmer leaves him to get on with it.’
‘Not quite. The under manager at Gaitano’s, young guy called Archie Frost, he keeps an eye on the Clipper. Plus provides muscle for the door.’
‘Is that so?’ Rebus could hear her scribbling a note to herself.
‘Does he have any other interests?’ he asked.
‘You might want to take this conversation to NCIS.’
NCIS: the National Criminal Intelligence Service. Rebus leaned forward in his chair. ‘They have something on Mackenzie?’
‘They have a file, yes.’
‘So he’s got dirt under his fingernails: what is it exactly?’
‘Farmyard mud for all I know. Go talk to NCIS.’
‘I will.’ Rebus put the phone down, logged on at one of the computer terminals and entered Mackenzie’s details. At the bottom of the screen there was a reference number and an officer’s name. Rebus called NCIS and asked to speak to the name: Detective Sergeant Paul Carnett.
‘That’s a misprint,’ the switchboard told him. ‘It’s not Paul, it’s Pauline.’ She put him through anyway, where a male voice told Rebus DS Carnett would be in a meeting for another hour, maybe an hour and a half. Rebus checked his watch.
‘Has she anything after that?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Then I’d like to make a reservation: table for two, the name’s DI Rebus.’
36
The Scottish office of NCIS was based at Osprey House in Paisley, not far off the M8. Last time Rebus had been this way had been to drop his ex-wife off at Glasgow Airport. She’d come up from London to see Sammy, and all the Edinburgh flights had been full. He couldn’t remember what they’d talked about on the drive.
Osprey House was supposed to be the future of high-profile policing in Scotland, housing as it did the Scottish Crime Squad and Customs and Excise as well as NCIS and the Scottish Criminal Intelligence Office. Its remit was intelligence-gathering. Having started with just the two officers, NCIS now had a staff of ten. There had been bad feeling when the office had opened, due to the fact that the Scottish NCIS team reported not to a Scottish chief constable but to the London-based director of the whole UK operation, who in turn reported to the Scottish Secretary. NCIS dealt with counterfeiting, money-laundering, organised drug and vehicle crime, and, if Rebus remembered correctly, paedophile gangs. Rebus had heard the officers at NCIS called ‘anoraks’ and ‘computer nerds’, but not by anyone who’d actually met them.
‘It’s fairly irregular,’ Pauline Carnett said, as Rebus explained why he was there.
They were seated in an open-plan office, around them the incessant humming of computer fans and quiet telephone conversations. The occasional flurry of keyboard strokes. Young men in shirtsleeves and ties; two women, both dressed for business. Pauline’s desk was at the opposite end of the room from the other woman officer. Rebus wondered if there was any significance in this.
Pauline Carnett was in her mid-thirties with short blonde hair brushed out from a centre parting. Tall and broad-shouldered, she had offered a handshake firmer than most Masons Rebus knew. She had a gap between her two front teeth and seemed overly conscious of the fact, which made Rebus want to make her smile.
Like all the others, her desk was L-shaped, with one surface given over to a computer, the other to paperwork. The office shared a printer. It was churning out work, a young man standing beside it, looking bored.
‘So this is the heart of the machine,’ had been Rebus’s comment on entering the room.