At least, that was what he hoped.
‘Something else,’ another of the team said, pointing to show Rebus a spread of tiny spots on the windscreen. ‘These are on the inside. The way the pattern is... it’s like someone coughed or sneezed. If it was the killer...’
‘Is there enough for DNA?’
‘It’s a hell of a long shot, but you never know. Don’t know if this is relevant.’ Now he pointed to a notebook on the floor of the passenger side. It had a tin spiral holding the loose-leaf pages in place. Shreds of paper clung to the spiral, showing where pages had been torn out.
Rebus patted the man’s shoulder. He didn’t like to say It doesn’t matter. I know who killed him... I may even know why... When he turned away, he was carrying the cassette tape in its little poly-bag, for all the world like a solemn kid who’d won a goldfish at the fair.
Because it was quieter there, Rebus used one of the interview rooms. He’d slotted the tape into one of the recorders, being careful to hold it by its edges. No point destroying trace evidence. He had a pair of Sennheiser headphones on, and spread out in front of him the contents of Cary Oakes’s file, as well as cuttings of his recent newspaper interviews. He’d telephoned Stevens’ old employer, and they were faxing over the unused portions of transcript. Every now and then, a uniform would stick his or her head round the door and hand him the latest fax sheets, so that the table became covered.
Siobhan Clarke went so far as to bring him a mug of coffee and a BLT, but otherwise left him to it, which was just what he wanted. His mind was on nothing but the interview he was listening to.
‘Little bugger came to us with his mum... my wife’s sister, she was. Right little runt he was.’ The man’s voice sounded old, wheezy.
‘You didn’t get on with him?’ Jim Stevens’ voice, making the hairs rise on Rebus’s arms. He looked around but Stevens’ ghost was nowhere to be seen; not yet... Occasional background noises: coughs, voices, a television playing. An audience... no, spectators. Spectators at what sounded like a football match. Rebus went through to CID and dug in bins, looked through the papers sitting folded and forgotten on window ledges, until he found one for the previous day. Seven thirty: UEFA Cup action. That seemed to fit the bill. He tore out the TV page, took it back with him to the interview room, turned the tape on again.
‘I hated him, to be frank with you. Bloody disruption, that’s all it was. I mean, we had ourselves sorted out, everything going smoothly, everything just so... and then the two of them come waltzing in. Couldn’t very well kick them out, being family and all, but I made sure they knew I wasn’t happy. Oi, I’m watching that!’
Someone had changed channels. Studio laughter. Rebus checked the paper: a sitcom on the BBC.
Back to the sound of crowd and commentator.
‘We had some high old ding-dongs, him and me.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything: him staying out, him thieving. Money kept disappearing. I laid a few traps, but I never caught him, he was too canny for that.’
‘Did your fights ever become physical?’
‘I should say so. Tough little runt, I’ll give him that. You see me the way I am now, but back then I was fighting fit.’ He coughed loudly; sounded like his lungs were being turned inside out. ‘Give me that water, will you?’ The old man took a drink, then broke wind. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, not bothering to apologise, ‘I made sure he knew who was boss. It was my house, remember.’ As if Stevens were accusing him.
‘You were the boss,’ Stevens reassured him.
‘I was and all. Take my word for it.’
‘And if you thumped him, it was just so he’d understand.’
‘That’s what I’m telling you. And he was no angel, believe you me. Mind you, try telling the women that.’
‘His mother and her sister?’
‘My wife, aye. She never saw any harm in anyone, did Aggie. But I’d have to say, even back then I knew there was badness in him. Deep-rooted badness.’
‘You tried knocking it out of him.’
‘I’d have needed a sledgehammer, son. Did use a hammer on him once, as it happens. Bastard was tough by then, ready to give as good as he got.’ Rebus thinking: The poison passed from one generation to the next. As with abuse, so with violence.
‘Did he run with a gang?’
‘Gang? Nobody would have him, son. What did you say your name was?’
‘Jim.’
‘And you’re with the papers? I spoke to some of your lot when he was put away.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That he should’ve had the electric chair. We could do a lot worse ourselves than bring back hanging.’
‘You think it’s a deterrent?’
‘Once they’re dead, son, they don’t do it again, do they? What more proof do you want?’
There were sounds of someone bringing Stevens a cup of coffee or tea.
‘Aye, they’re good to me in here.’
Nursing home... Cary Oakes’s uncle... What was his name? Rebus found it in the notes: Andrew Castle. Alongside it, the name of his nursing home. Rebus got on the phone, found a number for the home and rang them.
‘You’ve got a resident called Andrew Castle.’
‘Yes?’
‘He had a visitor last night.’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Did you see him leave?’
‘I’m sorry, who is this?’
‘My name’s Detective Inspector Rebus. Only Mr Castle’s visitor has turned up dead, and we’re trying to trace his last movements.’
There was a tapping at the door. Shug Davidson came in. Rebus nodded for him to sit.
‘Gracious,’ the woman at the nursing home was saying. ‘You mean the reporter?’
‘That’s who I mean. What time did he leave?’
‘It must have been...’ She broke off. ‘How did he die?’
‘He was stabbed, madam. Now, what time did he leave?’
Davidson, seated across the table from Rebus, turned some of the fax sheets round so he could read them.
‘Just before bedtime... say, nine o’clock.’
‘Did he have a car with him?’
‘I think so, yes. He parked it outside.’
‘Was anyone seen hanging around?’
She sounded puzzled. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Any suspicious sightings the past day or two?’
‘Gracious me, Inspector, what’s this about?’
Rebus thanked her for her time, said someone would be coming to get her statement. Then he put down the phone, checked the home’s address against an A — Z.
‘Shug,’ he said, ‘I’ve got Stevens at a nursing home near the Maybury roundabout, probably from around seven thirty last night till nine.’
‘Maybury’s on the road out to the airport.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I think Oakes was already there.’
‘Where?’
‘The nursing home.’
‘Who was Stevens seeing there?’
‘Oakes’s uncle. The questions Jim used on the tape... I think he’d already talked to the uncle, already made up his mind about him.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The questions were angled a certain way, letting the uncle show himself as a sadist.’
‘You’re going to tell me this uncle turned Cary Oakes into a psychopath?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s you talking, not me. What I do think is, Oakes has a grudge.’ He thought for a moment. I have a date with my past. A date with destiny... with someone who wouldn’t listen... Oakes’s words to Stevens at the end of their last interview... ‘Alan Archibald lives out that way.’ He opened the A — Z again, pointed to Archibald’s street, then the cul-de-sac which housed the nursing home. They were barely half a dozen streets apart. ‘I thought Oakes went there to scope out Alan Archibald.’