‘In a roundabout sort of way.’ Rebus paused. ‘So do you know where she is?’
‘Cut the crap, John. She’s at your flat.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. She’s biding with you.’
‘First I’ve heard of it.’
‘She doesn’t know anybody else over there.’
‘There are bed and breakfasts, rooms to rent...’
‘You’re not putting her up?’
‘You’ve got my word for it.’
There was a long silence on the line. ‘Christ, man, I’m sorry. I’m off my head with worry here.’
‘Only to be expected, Brian.’
‘Think it’s worth my while coming to look for her?’
Rebus exhaled. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think she used to love me.’
‘But not any more?’
‘She wouldn’t have left otherwise.’
‘True enough.’
‘Even if she finds Damon, I don’t think she’s coming back.’
‘Give her some time, Brian.’
‘Aye, sure.’ Brian Mee sniffed. ‘Know something? I used to like it that folk called me Barney. I know how I got the name, you know.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t?’
‘Oh aye, but I know all the same. Barney Rubble. Because folk thought I was like him. Somebody said it to me once, not just “Barney” but “Barney Rubble”.’
Rebus smiled. ‘But you liked the name anyway?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I liked that I had a nickname. It was a sort of identity, wasn’t it? And that’s better than nothing.’
Rebus’s smile stretched. He was seeing Barney Mee, the tough little battler, wading in to save Mitch. The years separating the present from that long-ago event seemed to fall away. It was as if the two could live side by side, the past a ghostly presence forever of the here and now. Nothing lost; nothing forgotten; redemption always a possibility.
But if that was true, how could he explain that Dr Margolies would never see a court of law, his crimes known only to the few? And how to explain that the Procurator Fiscal seemed able to prosecute Cary Oakes only for the attempted murder of Alan Archibald? All the forensic evidence connecting him to Jim Stevens could be explained away: fingerprints and fibres in Stevens’ car — Oakes had ridden in it before. Hell, three police officers had watched him being driven away from the airport in it. The Stevens file would be kept open, but no one would be investigating. Everyone knew who’d done it. But short of a confession, there was nothing they could do.
‘Let’s stick to our strongest suit,’ the fiscal depute had said. This meant discarding the attack on Rebus, too, even though the taxi driver had been willing to testify.
‘Too many possible arguments for the defence,’ the fiscal depute had said. Rebus tried not to take it personally. He knew prosecution was a game all to itself, where the best player might lose, the cheat prosper. He knew it was the job of the police to investigate and present the facts. It was the job of lawyers like Richie Cordover to then twist everything around until they could persuade juries and witnesses that Celtic fans sang ‘The Sash’ and Cowdenbeath was an ideal holiday location.
‘Hey, John?’ Brian Mee was saying.
‘Yes, Barney?’
Brian laughed at that. ‘What about coming through some weekend, just you and me, eh? Double-act at the karaoke, and see if we can dust off some chat-up lines.’
‘Sounds tempting, Barney. I’ll give you a bell some time.’ Both men knowing he wouldn’t.
‘Right then, that’s you on a promise.’
‘Cheers, Barney.’
‘Bye, John. It was good to catch up with you...’
Another paedophile had been released from prison, this time in Glasgow. GAP had organised a bus and headed off for Renfrew, where he was rumoured to be holed up. Some of the younger males in the company had gone for a night on the town, which had ended with a full-scale battle raging through the streets.
It was hoped, at least in some quarters, that the resulting negative publicity would sound the organisation’s death knell. But Van Brady was still giving interviews and getting her picture in the papers, still applying to the Lottery for funding. Journalists liked that she talked almost exclusively in sound-bites, even if half of them had to be toned down for publication.
There was a memorial service for Jim Stevens. Rebus went along. He suspected that in his day Stevens had probably fallen out with at least three-quarters of the mourners. But there were eulogies and sombre faces, and Rebus couldn’t help feeling that Jim wouldn’t have wanted it that way. Afterwards, he held a little wake of his own in the Oxford Bar’s back room with three or four of the loudest, rudest, and funniest hacks around. They drank till well after midnight, their laughter almost drowning out the music from the ceilidh band in the corner.
Rebus stumbled down the road to Oxford Terrace, dumped his clothes in the washing basket and had a shower.
‘You still reek,’ Patience told him as he climbed into bed.
‘I’m keeping up traditions,’ Rebus said. ‘Edinburgh’s not called “Auld Reekie” for nothing.’
He thought it curious that Cal Brady should want to speak to him. Cal was out on bail, awaiting trial for various offences against the person on the night of the Renfrew stramash. The morning phone call was so unexpected, Rebus walked out of the station without telling anyone where he was going. They met up on Radical Road. Cal had wanted somewhere not too far from home, but not a cop-shop, somewhere they could talk without anyone hearing.
The wind was flying, stinging Rebus’s ears. There were occasional blasts of sunshine as the fast-moving clouds broke, only to blot out the sun again moments later. Cal Brady had deep bruises beneath both eyes, and a burst lip. His left hand sported a bandage and he seemed to limp ever so slightly as he walked.
‘Bad one, was it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Those weegies...’ Cal shook his head.
‘I thought it was Renfrew?’
‘Renfrew, Glasgow... all the same, man. Mad bastards, each and every one. Their idea of a square go is to rip your face off with their teeth.’ He shivered, pulled his denim jacket tighter around him.
‘You could button it up,’ Rebus told him.
‘Eh?’
‘The jacket... if you’re cold.’
‘Aye, but it looks stupid when you do that. Levi jackets are only cool when they’re open.’ Rebus had no answer to that. ‘I hear you got a bit of a scrape yourself.’
Rebus looked at his arm. No sling now, just a taped compress. Another week or so, the stitches would dissolve. ‘What did you want to see me for, Cal?’
‘These fucking charges.’
‘What about them?’
‘I’ll probably end up going down, record I’ve got.’
‘So?’
‘So, I could do without it.’ He twitched a shoulder. ‘Gonny help me out?’
‘You mean put in a good word?’
‘Aye.’
Rebus stuck his hands in his pockets, as if relaxing. In truth, he’d been on his guard ever since arriving at the meeting-point five minutes before Brady: on the lookout for traps or a possible ambush. Lessons learned from Cary Oakes. ‘Why should I do that?’ he asked.
‘Look, I’m no fucking snitch, right?’
Rebus nodded agreement, as seemed to be expected.
‘But I hear things.’ He paused. ‘Try not to, but sometimes I can’t help it.’
‘Such as?’
‘So you’ll put a word in?’
Rebus stopped walking. He seemed to be admiring the vista. ‘I could tell them you’re one of mine. I could make you sound important.’
‘But I wouldn’t be your grass, right? That’s the crux.’
Rebus nodded. ‘But you’ve got something to trade?’