It was Cal Brady, his face an angry scowl.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just taking a look.’
‘I thought you were another pervert.’
Rebus nodded towards the mobile phone in Brady’s hand. ‘Did the playground guard tell you?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Nice little operation you’ve got here, Cal. Anything in it for you?’
‘It’s my public duty,’ Brady said, puffing out his chest.
Rebus took a step closer, hands in coat pockets. ‘Cal, the day people like you are deciding what’s right and what’s wrong, we’re all in Queer Street.’
‘You calling me a poof?’ Cal Brady yelled, but Rebus was already past him and heading for the stairs.
41
‘Tell me about Janice,’ Patience said.
They were seated in the living room, a bottle of red wine open on the carpet between them. Patience was lying along the sofa. There was a paperback novel folded open on her chest. She had placed it there some time ago; had been staring into space, listening to the music on the hi-fi. Nick Drake, ‘Pink Moon’. Rebus was in the armchair, legs hanging over its side. He had kicked off his shoes and socks, was catching up with the football news in that day’s paper.
‘What?’
‘Janice, I’d like to know about her.’
‘We were at school together.’ Rebus stopped reading. ‘She’s married with just the one son. She used to work as a teacher. I was at school with her husband, too. His name’s Brian.’
‘You went out with her?’
‘At school, yes.’
‘Sleep together?’
Rebus looked at her. ‘Didn’t quite get that far.’
She nodded to herself. ‘Are you curious about what it would have been like?’
He shrugged.
‘I think I would be,’ she went on. Her glass was empty, and she leaned over to refill it. The book slid on to the floor, but she paid it no heed. Rebus was still on his first helping of the Rioja. The bottle was nearly empty.
‘Anyone would think you were the one with the drink problem,’ he said, making sure he was smiling as he spoke.
She was getting comfortable again. A splash of wine fell on to the back of her hand, and she put her mouth to it.
‘No, I just like a little bit too much now and again. So, have you thought about sleeping with her?’
‘Christ, Patience...’
‘I’m interested, that’s all. Sammy says Janice had a look about her.’
‘What sort of look?’
Patience frowned, as if trying to recall the exact words. ‘Hungry. Hungry and a little desperate, I think. How’s the marriage?’
‘Rocky,’ Rebus admitted.
‘And you going to Fife... did that help?’
‘I didn’t sleep with her.’
Patience wagged a finger. ‘Don’t go defending yourself before an accusation’s made. You’re a detective, you know how it looks.’
He glared at her. ‘Am I a suspect?’
‘No, John, you’re a man. That’s all.’ She took another sip of wine.
‘I wouldn’t hurt you, Patience.’
She smiled, stretched out a hand as if to squeeze his, but he was too far away. ‘I know that, sweetheart. But the thing is, you wouldn’t even be thinking of me at the time, so the idea of hurting me or not hurting me wouldn’t enter into it.’
‘You’re so sure.’
‘John, I get it every single day. Wives coming into the surgery, wanting anti-depressants. Wanting anything that’ll help them get through the bloody awful marriages they’ve found themselves in. They tell me things. It all spills out. Some of them turn to drink or drugs, some slash their wrists. It’s bizarre how seldom they just walk out. And the ones who do walk out are usually the ones married to the violent cases.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you know what they do?’
‘End up going back?’ he guessed.
She focused on him. ‘How do you know?’
‘I get them too, Patience. The domestics, the neighbours who complain of screams and punches. The same wives you get, only further down the road. They won’t press charges. They get put into a hostel. And later, they walk back to the only life they really know.’
She blinked away a tear. ‘Why does it have to be like that, John?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘What’s in it for us?’
He smiled. ‘A paycheque.’
She had stopped looking at him. Picked her book off the floor, put down her wine glass. ‘The man who painted that message... What was he trying to do?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe he wanted me to know he’d been here.’
She had found her page, stared at the words without moving her eyes. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Lost on the hills and freezing to death.’
‘You really think so?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Someone like Oakes... that would be too easy.’
‘Will he come after you?’
‘I’m not at the top of his list.’ No, because Alan Archibald was still alive. X-rays had shown a skull fracture; Archibald would be in hospital a little longer. There was a police guard on his bed.
‘Will he come here?’ Patience asked.
The CD had finished; there was silence in the room. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If he tries painting my flagstones again, I’ll give him a bloody good kicking.’
Rebus looked at her, then began laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ she said.
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Nothing really. I’m just glad you’re on my side, that’s all.’
She raised the wine glass to her lips again. ‘What makes you so sure of that, Inspector?’
Rebus raised his own glass to her, pleased that until Patience had mentioned her, he hadn’t thought once that evening of Janice Mee. He hit ‘Replay’ on the CD remote. ‘This guy sounds like he needs help,’ Patience said.
‘He did,’ Rebus told her. ‘He OD’d.’ She looked at him and he shrugged. ‘Just another casualty,’ he said.
Later, he headed outside for a cigarette. The message was still there on the patio: YOUR COP LOVER KILLED DARREN. The workmen would start cleaning it off tomorrow. Oakes said he’d followed Darren but lost him. Well, someone had found him. Rebus wasn’t going to take the blame for that. Cigarette lit, he climbed the steps. There was a marked patrol car parked directly outside, a message to Cary Oakes should he think about paying a visit. Rebus had a word with the two officers inside, finished his cigarette and headed back indoors.
42
‘Fancy a run?’ Siobhan Clarke offered.
‘I trust you mean “run” as in “drive”?’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t have you down as the jogging type.’
‘Perceptive as ever. Where are you going?’
It was morning in St Leonard’s. The weather up on the Pentlands had cleared, and Rebus had made sure the helicopter would be out scanning the area for signs of Cary Oakes. Villages and farms in the foothills had been warned to be on the look out.
‘Don’t try to corner him,’ the message had gone. ‘Just let us know if you see him.’
So far, no one had called in.
Rebus felt like dead weight. He’d made breakfast for Patience — orange juice and two sachets of Resolve — and had been complimented on both his diagnosis and his bedside manner. She’d said she’d make the surgery OK.
‘I just hope no one expects me to do my Agony Aunt bit today.’