Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

Linford didn’t think it was a last stop. No keys, so probably not his home. He checked the time again, but had left his notebook back in the car, lying on the seat with the mobile. The BMW unlocked. He gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around at the concrete maze. Could he find his way back to the pub? Would his pride and joy be there if he did?

But Rebus was on his way, wasn’t he? He’d work out what had happened, keep guard till Linford came back. He took a couple of steps further back into the darkness, plunged his hands into his pockets. Bloody freezing.

When the blow came, it came silently and from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Jayne had gone and done it this time. She wasn’t at her mum’s. The old crone told him: ‘Just said to tell you she was going to a friend’s, and don’t bother asking which one because she said it was better I didn’t know.’ She had her arms folded, filling the doorway of her semi-detached.

‘Well, thanks for helping me save my marriage,’ Jerry replied, heading back down the garden path. Her dog was sitting by the gate. Nice little thing, name of Eric. Jerry gave it a kick up its arse and opened the gate. He was laughing as Jayne’s mum swore at him above Eric’s yelps and howls.

Back at the flat, he went on another recce, see if she’d left any clues for him to find. No note, and at least half her clothes had gone. She hadn’t been in a temper. Evidence of this: one of his boxes of 45s was sitting on the floor, a pair of scissors next to it, but she hadn’t touched the records. Maybe a peace offering of sorts? Couple of things knocked off shelves, but put that down to her being in a hurry. He looked in the fridge: cheese, marge, milk. No beer. Nothing to drink in any of the cupboards either. He emptied his pockets on to the couch. Three quid and some change. Christ almighty, and when was the next giro due? Best part of a week away, was it? Friday night, and all he had was three quid. He searched drawers and down the back of the couch and under the bed. A grand total haul of a further eighty pence.

And the bills, staring at him from the noticeboard in the kitchen: gas, electric, council tax. Plus, somewhere, the rent and telephone. Phone bill had only come in that morning, Jerry asking Jayne why she had to spend three hours a week on the blower to her mum who only lived round the corner?

He went back through to the living room, dug out ‘Stranded’ by The Saints. B-side was even faster — ‘No Time’. Jerry had all the time in the world; thing was, he felt utterly stranded.

The Stranglers next, ‘Grip’, and he wondered if he would strangle Jayne for putting him through this.

‘Get a grip,’ he told himself.

Made a cup of tea and tried working out his options, but his mind wasn’t up to thinking. So he slumped back on to the sofa. At least he could play his music now, any time he liked. She’d taken her tapes with her — Eurythmics, Celine Dion, Phil Collins. Good riddance, the lot of them. He went along three doors to Tofu’s pad and asked if he had any blow. Tofu offered to sell him a quarter.

‘I just need enough for a joint. I’ll give it back.’

‘What? After you’ve smoked it?’

‘I mean I’ll owe you it.’

‘Yeah, you will. Like you still owe me for last Wednesday.’

‘Come on, Tofu, just one measly hit.’

‘Sorry, pal, no more tick from Tofu.’

Jerry jabbed a finger at him. ‘I’ll remember this. Don’t think I won’t.’

‘Aye, sure thing, Jer.’ Tofu closed the door. Jerry heard the chain rattle back across it.

Inside the flat again. Feeling itchy now, wanting some action . Where were your friends when you needed them? Nic... he could phone Nic. Tap him for a loan if nothing else. Christ, with the stuff Jerry knew, he had Nic over a barrel. Make the loan more of a weekly retainer. He checked the clock on the video. Gone five. Would Nic be at work, or maybe at home? He tried both numbers: no luck. Maybe he was out on the pull, a few drinks in the wine bar with some of the short skirts from the office. No place in that picture for his old comrade-in-arms. The only thing Jerry was useful for was as a punchbag, somebody to make Nic look good because he looked bad.

A stooge, plain and simple. They were all laughing at him: Jayne, her mum, Nic. Even the woman at the DSS. And Tofu... he could almost hear that bastard’s laughter, sitting snug in his padlocked flat with his bags of grass and nuggets of hash, bit of music on the hi-fi and money in his pocket. Jerry picked up the coins one by one from around him on the couch and tossed them at the blank TV screen.

Until the doorbell rang. Jayne, had to be! Okay, he had to pull himself together, act casual. Maybe be a bit huffy with her, but grown-up about it. Things happened sometimes, and it was down to those involved to... More ringing. Hang on, she’d have her keys, wouldn’t she? And now the banging of a fist on the door. Who did they owe money to? Were they taking away the TV? The video? There was precious little else.

He stood in the hallway, holding his breath.

‘I can see you, you tosser!’

A pair of eyes at the letter box. Nic’s voice. Jerry started moving forward.

‘Nic, man, I was just trying to get you.’

He unsnibbed the door and it flew inwards, driving him backwards and on to his arse. He was pulling himself upright when Nic gave him another push that sent him sprawling. Then the door slammed shut.

‘Bad move, Jerry, really, really bad move.’

‘What’re you talking about? What’ve I done this time?’

Nic was sweating profusely. His eyes were darker and colder than ever before, and his voice was like a chisel.

‘I never should’ve told you,’ he hissed.

Jerry was back up on his feet. He slid along the wall and into the living room. ‘Told me what?’

‘That Barry wanted me out.’

‘What?’ This wasn’t making sense to Jerry; he was panicking that it was his fault, that it would make sense if only he’d concentrate.

‘It wasn’t enough to grass me to the pigs—’

‘Whoah, hold on—’

‘No, you hold on, Jerry. Because when I’m finished with you...’

‘I didn’t do anything!’

‘Grassed me up and told them where I work.’

‘I never!’

‘They’ve been talking to Barry about me! There was one sitting in the car park this afternoon! He’d been there for hours, sitting in my space! Now why else would he be there, eh?’

Jerry was shaking. ‘Loads of reasons.’

Nic shook his head. ‘No, Jer, just the one. And you’re so fucking stupid you think I won’t take you with me.’

‘Christ’s sake, man.’

Nic had brought something from his pocket. A knife. A bloody great carving knife! And Jerry noticed that he was wearing gloves, too.

‘I swear to God, man.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Why would I do that, Nic? Think for a minute!’

‘Your bottle’s gone. I can see you shaking from here.’ Nic laughed. ‘I knew you were weak, but not this bad.’

‘Look, man, Jayne’s gone and I—’

‘Jayne’s the last thing you have to worry about.’ There were thumps on the ceiling. Nic glanced up. ‘ Shut it !’

Jerry saw a half-chance, dived through the doorway and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes. He plunged a hand in, pulled out forks, teaspoons. Nic was on him. Jerry chucked the lot at him. He was screaming now.

‘Call the police! You upstairs, get on to the cops!’

Nic swung with the knife, caught Jerry on his right hand. Now a current of blood flowed down his wrist, mixing with the dishwater. Jerry cried out in pain, lashed out with a foot, caught Nic smack on the kneecap. Nic lunged again, and Jerry pushed past him, back into the living room. Tripped and fell. Fell over the box of 45s, scattering them. Nic was coming, his feet grinding one of the records into the floor.