‘Sorry, I’m talking about a Mrs Margolies.’
‘Yes, his daughter-in-law. Dr Margolies bought that car, too.’
Dr Joseph Margolies... ‘He bought one for his son and daughter-in-law?’
‘That’s right. Last year, was it?’
‘And for himself?’
‘He likes to part-ex: keeps the model a year or two, then trades for something brand new. That way you don’t get the same scale of depreciation.’
‘So what’s he driving just now?’
The sales manager turned cautious. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Rebus said. ‘And I’ll be sure to tell him you could have saved me the trouble.’
Rebus listened to the receiver making a sighing sound. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He heard fingers on a keyboard. A pause, then: ‘An E200, purchased six months ago. Happy?’
‘As a kid on Christmas morning.’ Rebus scribbled the details down. ‘And the colour?’
Another sigh. ‘White, Inspector. Dr Margolies always buys white.’
As Rebus put down the phone, Siobhan Clarke came over. She rested against the corner of his desk.
‘Looks like someone got lazy,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Eddie Mearn. As far as the inquiry was concerned, he was still in Northern Ireland. Someone made a phone call to Lisburn, and took it as gospel when he was told Mearn was still around.’
‘Who made the call?’
‘Roy Frazer, I’m sorry to say.’
‘It’s the only way he’ll learn.’
‘Sure, like you’ve learned from past mistakes.’
He smiled. ‘That’s why I never make the same one twice.’
She folded her arms. ‘You think Mearn had this planned all along?’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘I’d say it’s likely. Moved back from Lisburn, maybe it’s true he didn’t tell anyone there he was leaving. Sets up a new identity for himself in Grangemouth — striking distance of Edinburgh. Why lie about who he was? Only reason I can think of is, he was going to snatch Billy. New life for both of them.’
‘Would that have been so bad?’ Siobhan asked.
‘No worse than where Billy is now,’ Rebus admitted. He looked at her. ‘Careful there, Siobhan. You’re in danger of thinking the law’s an ass. That’s only one step away from making up your own rules.’
‘The way you’ve done.’ It was statement rather than question.
‘The way I’ve done,’ Rebus was forced to agree. ‘And look where it’s got me.’
‘Where’s that?’
He tapped his sheet of notes. ‘Seeing white cars everywhere.’
44
A white car had been spotted the night Jim Margolies had flown from Salisbury Crags. Fair enough, Jim himself owned a white car, but according to his wife the car had stayed in the garage. He’d walked all the way to the Crags. How likely was that? Rebus didn’t know.
Another white car had been spotted in Holyrood Park around the time Darren Rough was bludgeoned to death.
And prior to this, someone in a white car had been looking for Darren.
Rebus told the story to Siobhan, and she pulled over a chair so they could work through some theories.
‘You’re thinking they’re all the same car?’ she asked.
‘All I know is, they’re in the park when two apparently unconnected deaths occur.’
She scratched her head. ‘I’m not seeing anything. Any other owners of white Mercs?’
‘You mean, have any serial killers bought or hired one lately?’ She smiled at this. ‘I’m checking,’ Rebus went on. ‘So far, the only name I have is Margolies.’ He was thinking: Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured car, a Ford Mondeo...
‘But there are more white Mercs than that out there?’
Rebus nodded. ‘But Jamie’s description of the man sounds awfully like Jim’s father.’
‘You saw him at the funeral?’
Rebus nodded. And at a children’s beauty show, he might have added. ‘He’s a retired doctor.’
‘Racked with grief at his son’s suicide, he decides to become a vigilante?’
‘Ridding the world of corruption to protest at the iniquity of life.’
Her smile broadened. ‘You don’t see it, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’ He tossed his pen on to the desk. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not seeing anything at all. Which must make it time for a break.’
‘Coffee?’ she suggested.
‘I was thinking of something stronger.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘But coffee will do in the meantime.’
He went out to the car park for a cigarette, but ended up jumping into the Saab and heading down The Pleasance, across the High Street and past Waverley station. He drove west along George Street, then made an illegal turn to head back east along it. Janice was sitting on the kerb, head in her hands. People were looking at her, but no one stopped to ask if they could help. Rebus pulled up alongside and got her into the car.
‘I know he’s here,’ she kept repeating. ‘I know it.’
‘Janice, this isn’t doing either of you any good.’
Her eyes were bloodshot, looking sore from all the crying. ‘What would you know about it? Have you ever lost a child?’
‘I nearly lost Sammy.’
‘But you didn’t!’ She turned away from him. ‘You’ve never been any good, John. Christ, you couldn’t even help Mitch, and he was supposed to be your best friend. They nearly blinded him!’
She had plenty left to say, plenty of poison. He let her talk, resting his hands lightly on the steering-wheel. At one point, she tried to get out, but he pulled her back into the car.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Give me more. I’m listening to you.’
‘No!’ she spat. ‘Know why? Because so help me, I think you’re enjoying it!’ This time when she opened the door, he didn’t try to stop her. She took a left at the corner, heading down into the New Town. Rebus turned the car again, took a right into Castle Street and a left into Young Street. Stopped outside the Oxford Bar and walked in. Doc Klasser was standing in his usual spot. The afternoon drinkers were in: most of them would clear out by five or six, when the place filled with office workers. Harry the barman saw Rebus and lifted a pint glass. Rebus shook his head.
‘A nip, Harry,’ he said. ‘Better make it a large one.’
He sat in the back room. Nobody there but the writer, the one with the big bag of books. He seemed to use the place as an office. A couple of times Rebus had asked him what books he should be reading. He’d bought the suggestions, but hadn’t read them. Today, neither man seemed in need of company. Rebus sat with his drink and his thoughts. He was thinking back over thirty years, back to the last school party. His own version of the story...
Mitch and Johnny had a plan. They’d join the army, see some action. Mitch had sent away for the literature, then had dropped into the Army Careers Office in Kirkcaldy. The following week, he’d taken Johnny with him. The recruiting sergeant told them jokes and stories from his time ‘in the field’. He told them they’d breeze through basic training. He had a moustache and a paunch and told them there’d be ‘shagging and boozing galore’: ‘two good-looking lads like you, it’ll be dripping out of your ears’.
Johnny Rebus hadn’t been sure what that meant exactly, but Mitch had rubbed his hands together and chuckled with the Sarge.
So that was that. All Johnny had to do was tell his dad and Janice.
His dad, it turned out, wasn’t keen. He’d done some time in the Far East in World War II. He had some photographs and a black silk scarf with the Taj Mahal sewn into it. He had a scar on his knee that wasn’t really a bullet wound, even though he said it was.