And now Rebus was in the CID suite with his coffee and a Mars Bar.
‘Breakfast of coronaries,’ he said, noting Siobhan’s distaste.
‘We’ve had a sighting of Billy Boy. It’ll probably turn out to be a waste of time...’
‘And you’d rather waste it with me?’ Rebus smiled. ‘Isn’t that thoughtful?’
‘Never mind,’ she said, turning away.
‘Whoa, hold on. What side of the bed did you fall out of?’
‘I didn’t quite reach bed last night,’ she snapped. Then she melted a little. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Just right for a car-ride then,’ he said. ‘Come on, you’ve got me hooked.’
The story was, her upstairs neighbours’ washing-machine had sprung a leak. They’d been out, and hadn’t noticed. And she’d only found out when she’d gone into her bedroom.
‘Their washing-machine’s above your bedroom?’ Rebus asked.
‘That’s another bone of contention. Anyway, I noticed this stain on the ceiling, and when I touched the bed it was soaked through. So I ended up on the couch in a smelly old sleeping-bag.’
‘Poor you.’ Rebus was thinking of all the times he’d slept in his chair — but that had been voluntary. He looked in the wing mirror as they crawled westwards out of town. ‘Tell me something: why are we going to Grangemouth? Couldn’t the locals handle it?’
‘I’m reluctant to delegate.’
Rebus smiled: she’d stolen one of his lines. ‘What you mean is, you don’t trust anyone to do the job thoroughly.’
‘Something like that,’ she said, glancing at him. ‘I had a good teacher.’
‘Siobhan, it’s been quite some time since I could teach you anything.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But that’s because you’ve stopped listening.’
‘We are not amused.’ She craned her neck. ‘What is with this traffic?’
The vehicles ahead were barely moving.
‘It’s part of the new council initiative. Make things bloody awful for drivers, and they’ll stop coming into town and making everything look untidy.’
‘They want a conservation village.’
Rebus nodded. ‘And just the half a million villagers.’
Eventually they got moving. Grangemouth lay out to the west along the Forth estuary. Rebus hadn’t been to the town in years. As they approached, Rebus’s first impression was that they’d wandered on to the set of Blade Runner. A vast petrochemical complex dominated the skyline, throwing up jagged chimneys and weird configurations of pipes. The complex looked like some encroaching alien life-form, about to throw its many mechanical arms around the town and squeeze the life out of it.
In fact, the contrary was true: the complex and all that went with it had brought employment to Grangemouth. The streets they eventually drove through were dark and narrow, with architecture from much earlier in the century.
‘Two worlds collide,’ Rebus muttered, taking it all in.
‘I feel they’ve spoiled their chances in the conservation village stakes.’
‘I’m sure the townsfolk are grieving.’ He was peering at the street names. ‘Here we go.’ They parked outside a row of cottage-type houses, all of which had added bedrooms and windows to their roof-space.
‘Number eleven,’ Siobhan said. ‘Woman’s name is Wilkie.’
Mrs Wilkie had been waiting for them. She seemed the type of neighbour every street has: interested to the point of nosiness. Her kind could be a distinct asset, but Rebus would bet some of her neighbours didn’t see it that way.
Her living room was a tiny box, overheated and with pride of place given to a large and ornate doll’s-house. When Siobhan, out of politeness, showed interest in it, Mrs Wilkie delivered a ten-minute speech concerning its history. Rebus could swear she didn’t once draw breath, giving neither of her prisoners the chance to jump in and take the conversation elsewhere.
‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ Siobhan said, glancing towards Rebus. The look on his face had her sucking in her cheeks to stop from laughing. ‘Now, about this boy you saw, Mrs Wilkie...?’
They all sat down, and Mrs Wilkie told her story. She’d seen the laddie’s picture in the paper, and as she was coming back from the shops around two, caught him playing football in the street.
‘Kicking the ball against the wall of Montefiore’s Garage. There’s this low stone wall around the...’ She made motions with her hands. ‘What do you call it?’
‘Forecourt?’ Siobhan suggested.
‘That’s the word.’ She smiled at Siobhan. ‘I’ll bet you’re a dab hand at crosswords, brain like that.’
‘Did you say anything to the boy, Mrs Wilkie?’
‘It’s Miss Wilkie actually. I never married.’
‘Really?’ Rebus managed to put on a surprised look. Siobhan coughed into her hand, then handed some snaps of Billy Horman over to Miss Wilkie.
‘Well, these certainly look like him,’ the old woman said, sorting through the photos. She lifted one out. ‘Except for this, that is.’
Siobhan took the proffered photo, stuck it back in her folder. Rebus knew she’d sneaked in a picture of a different kid to assess how alert her witness actually was. Miss Wilkie had passed.
‘To answer your question,’ Miss Wilkie said, ‘no, I didn’t say anything. I came back here and took another look at the paper. Then I phoned the number it said to call. Spoke to a very nice young man at the police station.’
‘This was yesterday?’
‘That’s right, and I haven’t seen the laddie today.’
‘And you just saw him the once?’
Miss Wilkie nodded. ‘Playing all by himself. He looked so lonely.’ She had handed back the photos, and got up to look out of her window. ‘You notice strangers on a street like this.’
‘I’m sure not much gets past you,’ Rebus said.
‘All these cars nowadays... I’m surprised you found a space.’
Rebus and Siobhan looked at one another, thanked Miss Wilkie for her time, and left.
Outside, they looked to left and right. There was a garage on the corner at the far end of the street. They walked towards it.
‘What did she mean about the cars?’ Siobhan asked.
‘My guess is, there’s always someone parked outside her window. Makes it harder for her to see everything that’s going on.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Not that I speak from experience, you understand.’
But back in the cottage, Rebus had felt a sudden depression. He, too, was a watcher. All the nights he sat in his flat, lights off, watching from the window... As he got older, would he turn into a Miss Wilkie: the street’s nosy neighbour?
Montefiore’s Garage consisted of a single line of petrol pumps, a shop, and a double work-bay. A man in blue overalls was in one of the work-bays, his head just visible as he stood in the pit, a blue Volkswagen Polo above him. There was another, older man behind the counter in the shop. Rebus and Siobhan stopped on the pavement.
‘Might as well ask if they saw him,’ Siobhan said.
‘Suppose so,’ Rebus replied, with little enthusiasm.
‘I told you it was a wild shot.’
‘Could be a neighbourhood kid. New family moved in, hasn’t had time to make friends.’
‘It was two o’clock she saw him. He should have been at school.’
‘True,’ Rebus said. ‘She seemed so certain, didn’t she?’
‘Some people do. They want to be helpful, even if it means making up a story.’
Rebus tutted. ‘You didn’t learn cynicism like that from me.’ He looked around at the bumper-to-bumper parking. ‘I wonder...’
‘What?’
‘He was kicking the ball off the forecourt wall.’