‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ He studied himself in the mirror again. ‘I have a date with my past, Jim. A date with destiny, as you and your fellow hacks might put it. With someone who never listened to me.’ He was nodding to himself. ‘Just one last thing, Jim.’ Turning towards the journalist. ‘I knew when I came out I’d be telling my story. I’ve had a long time to get it straight.’
‘“Straight” rather than true?’
‘You’re smarter than you look, Jimbo.’ Oakes laughed.
Stevens’ heart beat a little faster. It was what he’d suspected for some days, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
‘Some of it must have been accurate,’ he managed to utter.
‘Scots are a nation of storytellers, Jim, isn’t that right?’ He patted Stevens’ cheek again, then headed for the door. ‘It was all shit, Jim. Remember that till the day you die.’
After the door had closed on Oakes, Stevens put his head in his hands and sat there for a few moments, relieved it was all over, whatever the outcome. When his phone rang, he remembered the recorder in his pocket. Removed it and switched it off, rewound and hit Play.
Oakes’s voice had grown small and tinny, but no less devilish. It was all shit, Jim. He turned off the tape and went to answer the phone. Cleared his throat first, sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘Hello?’ he said into the receiver.
‘Jim, is that you? Peter Barclay here.’
Barclay worked for a rival tabloid. ‘What do you want, Peter?’
‘Caught you at a bad time?’ Barclay chuckled. He always spoke with a cigarette in his mouth. It made him sound like a bad ventriloquist.
‘You might say that.’
‘I do say that. Your boy’s been telling tales out of school.’
‘What?’ Stevens stopped rubbing the back of his neck.
‘He’s sent a letter to all your lovely competitors, saying his “autobiography” is complete bollocks. Any comment to make, Jim? On the record, naturally.’
Stevens slammed the receiver back into its cradle, then swiped the apparatus off the bedside table and on to the floor.
‘Number disconnected,’ he said, giving it a kick for good measure.
39
There was mist on the Pentland Hills, leaching colour from the landscape and threatening to cut Hillend and Swanston off from the city just north of them.
‘I don’t like it,’ Rebus said as they parked.
‘Afraid we’ll get lost?’ Cary Oakes smiled. ‘Wouldn’t that be a blow to humanity?’
He was sitting in the passenger seat, Alan Archibald in the back. Rebus hadn’t wanted Oakes in the back; had wanted him where he could see him. Before setting off, he’d insisted on patting Oakes down. Oakes had asked if Rebus would reciprocate.
‘I’m not the killer here,’ Rebus had said.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Oakes had turned to Archibald. ‘I thought it would just be the two of us. More intimate that way.’ Nodding towards Rebus. ‘No need for outsiders, Mr Archibald.’
‘You’re going nowhere without me,’ Rebus had said.
And here they were. Archibald seemed nervous. Getting out of the car, he dropped his Ordnance Survey map. Oakes picked it up for him.
‘Maybe we should leave a little trail of breadcrumbs,’ he suggested.
‘Let’s just get on with it,’ Archibald answered, nerves lending his voice an edge of irritation.
Rebus was looking around. No other cars in the vicinity; no hill-walkers; no sounds of dogs being exercised.
‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ Oakes said. He was donning a cheap green kagoul.
Rebus’s jacket had an integral hood. He rolled it out but didn’t put it over his head. He knew it would work like a pair of blinkers, and didn’t want to be deprived of his peripheral vision. Archibald had a flat tweed cap with him, and was wearing hiking boots. Cap and boots looked brand new: they’d been waiting on this day for a while.
‘Drinkie anyone?’ Oakes said, taking out a hip flask. Rebus stared at him. ‘You going to be scowling like that all day?’ Oakes laughed. ‘Got something you want to get off your mind, maybe?’
‘Plenty.’ Rebus’s fists were clenched.
‘Not here, John,’ Archibald pleaded. ‘Not now.’
Eyes on Rebus, Oakes held out the flask to Archibald, who shook his head. Oakes tipped the flask to his own mouth, showing them the liquid trickling in. He swallowed noisily.
‘See,’ he said, ‘it’s not poisoned.’ He made the offer again, and this time Archibald took a sip. ‘I had them fill it at the hotel bar.’ He took the flask back from Archibald. ‘And yourself, Inspector?’
Rebus took the flask, sniffed its contents. Christ, it did smell good, but he handed it back untouched.
‘Balvenie,’ he said. ‘If I’m not mistaken.’
Oakes laughed again; Archibald forced a smile.
‘I thought you didn’t drink,’ Rebus said.
‘I don’t, but this is in the nature of a special occasion, wouldn’t you say?’
Then Archibald started unfolding the map, and it became business, Oakes studying the area intently, aware of Rebus immediately behind him, and finally saying: ‘I’m not sure this is going to be much use.’ He looked around. ‘I think I’m going to have to follow my nose.’ He glanced at Archibald. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Just take me to where she was killed,’ the older man said.
‘Maybe you should lead the way,’ Oakes said. ‘After all, I’ve never been here before.’ And he gave a wink.
They started walking.
Eventually Rebus said: ‘Another game, Oakes?’
Oakes stopped walking, caught his breath. ‘You know how the song goes, Inspector: we can’t go on together, if you’re going to have a suspicious mind. Far as I’m concerned, we’re just out for a breath of country air. Besides, I’m curious to see where the body was found.’
‘You know damned well where the body was found!’ Alan Archibald snapped.
Oakes turned his lips into a pout. Rebus wanted to see blood there, wanted teeth dislodged and a gushing nose. Instead, his fingernails bit more deeply into his palms.
‘Did you kill her?’ he asked.
‘Kill her when?’
Rebus felt his voice rising. ‘Did you kill her?’
Oakes wagged a finger. ‘I might not have been back that long, but don’t think I don’t know how it’s played. There are two of you. Anything I admit, you’ve got corroboration.’
‘This is between ourselves,’ Alan Archibald said. ‘It’s gone beyond anything I’d take to the police.’
Oakes smiled. ‘How long have you been chasing ghosts? If I say I killed her, will you rest easy in your bed?’ Archibald didn’t answer. ‘How about you, Inspector: any ghosts keeping you awake at night?’
As if he knew. Rebus tried not to show anything, but Oakes was nodding, smiling to himself. ‘A career littered with bodies, man,’ Oakes went on, ‘and I’m the one they lock up.’ He paused. ‘Tell me something,’ folding his arms, eyes on Archibald now, ‘how did the killer get her up here? Long way to bring a victim.’
‘She was terrified.’
‘What if she wasn’t? What if she was willing? She’d been out drinking, right? Feeling a bit horny...’
‘Shut up, Oakes.’
‘I thought you wanted me to talk?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘I might just be speculating here, but say he picked her up, drove her up here. Say it’s exactly what she wanted. I mean, this is a complete stranger she’s in the car with, but tonight she’s in the mood for danger. She feels reckless. Who knows, maybe she even wants it to happen.’