Ian Rankin - Dead Souls

‘Only he didn’t go off with her,’ Janice said. ‘John’s already told us, Damon left on his own.’

In fact, Rebus hadn’t even gone that far. They only had the girls’ word for it that Damon had left the club at all...

‘Well,’ Brian stumbled on, ‘thing is, he wouldn’t want his mates seeing them together, not when he was supposed to be engaged.’

‘I can’t believe it of Damon.’ Janice’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘He loves Helen.’

Rebus nodded. ‘But it happens, doesn’t it?’

She gave a rueful smile. Brian saw a look passing between them, but chose to ignore it.

‘Anyone want any more rice?’ he asked instead, lifting the salver from its hotplate.

‘We should be getting home,’ his wife said. ‘Damon might have tried phoning.’ She was getting to her feet. Rebus gestured towards the photo, and she handed it back. It was smudged, creased at the corners. Brian was looking down at the food still on his plate.

‘Brian...’ Janice said. He sniffed and got up from his chair. ‘Get the bill, will you?’

‘This is on me,’ Rebus said. ‘They’ll stick it on my tab.’

‘Thanks again, John.’ She held out her hand and he took it. It was long and slender. Rebus remembered holding it when they danced, remembered the way it would be warm and dry, unlike other girls’ hands. Warm and dry, and his heart pounding in his chest. She’d been so slender at the waist, he’d felt he could encircle her with just his hands.

‘Yes, thanks, Johnny.’ Brian Mee laughed. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Johnny?’

‘Why should I mind?’ Rebus said, still looking into Janice’s eyes. ‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’

First thing, Rebus looked through the newspapers, but he didn’t find anything to interest him.

He headed down to Leith police station, where Jim Margolies had been stationed. He’d told the Farmer he was looking for a connection between Rough’s reappearance and Jim’s death, but he wasn’t particularly confident of finding one. Still, he really did want to know why Jim had done it, had done something Rebus had thought about doing more than once — taking the high walk. He was met in Leith by a wary Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan.

‘I know I owe you a favour or two, John,’ Hogan began. ‘But do you mind telling me what it’s all about? Margolies was a good man, we’re missing him badly.’

They were walking through the station, making for CID. Hogan was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had been on the force for longer. He could take retirement any time he wanted, but Rebus doubted the man would ever want it.

‘I knew him, too,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I’m probably just asking myself the same question all of you have been asking.’

‘You mean why?’

Rebus nodded. ‘He was headed for the top, Bobby. Everyone knew it.’

‘Maybe he got vertigo.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘The notes aren’t going to tell you anything, John.’

They had stopped outside an interview room.

‘I just need to see them, Bobby.’

Hogan stared at him, then nodded slowly. ‘This makes us even, pal.’

Rebus touched him on the shoulder, walked into the room. The manila file was sitting on the otherwise empty desk. There were two chairs in the room.

‘Thought you’d like some privacy,’ Hogan said. ‘Look, if anyone wonders...’

‘My lips are sealed, Bobby.’ Rebus was already sitting down. He examined the folder. ‘This won’t take long.’

Hogan fetched a cup of coffee, then left him to it. It took Rebus precisely twenty minutes to sift through everything: initial report and back-up, plus Jim Margolies’ history. Twenty minutes wasn’t long for a CV. Of course, there was little about his home life. Speculation was for after-work drinks, for cigarette breaks and coffee-machine meetings. The bare facts, set down between double margins, gave no clues at all. His father was a doctor, now retired. Comfortable upbringing. The sister who’d committed suicide in her teens... Rebus wondered if his sister’s death had been at the back of Jim Margolies’ mind all these years. There was no mention of Darren Rough, no mention of Margolies’ short time at St Leonard’s. His last night on earth, Jim had been out to dinner at some friends’ house. Nothing out of the ordinary. But afterwards, in the middle of the night, he’d slipped from his bed, got dressed again, and gone walking in the rain. All the way to Holyrood Park...

‘Anything?’ Bobby Hogan asked.

‘Not a sausage,’ Rebus admitted, closing the file.

Walking in the rain... A long walk, from The Grange to Salisbury Crags. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him. Inquiries had been made, cabbies questioned. Perfunctory for the most part: you didn’t want to linger over a suicide. Sometimes you could find out things that were better left undisturbed.

Rebus drove back into town, parked in the car park behind St Leonard’s and went into the station. He knocked on Farmer Watson’s door, obeyed the command to enter. Watson looked like the day had started badly.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I had a bit of business down at D Division, looking at Jim Margolies’ file.’ Rebus watched the Farmer pace behind his desk. He cradled a mug of coffee in both hands. ‘Did you speak to Andy Davies, sir?’

‘Who?’

‘Andy Davies. Darren Rough’s social worker.’

The Farmer nodded.

‘And, sir?’

‘And he told me I’d have to speak to his boss.’

‘What did his boss say?’

The Farmer swung round. ‘Christ, John, give me time, will you? I’ve got more to deal with than your little...’ He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. Then he mumbled an apology.

‘No problem, sir. I’ll just...’ Rebus headed for the door.

‘Sit down,’ the Farmer ordered. ‘Now you’re here, let’s see if you can come up with any clever ideas.’

Rebus sat down. ‘To do with what, sir?’

The Farmer sat too, then noticed that his mug was empty. He got up again to fill it from the pot, pouring for Rebus too. Rebus examined the dark liquid suspiciously. Over the years, the Farmer’s coffee had definitely improved, but there were still days...

‘To do with Cary Dennis Oakes.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Should I know him?’

‘If you don’t, you soon will.’ The Farmer tossed a newspaper in Rebus’s direction. It fell to the floor. Rebus picked it up, saw that it was folded to a particular story, a story Rebus had missed because it wasn’t the one he’d been looking for.

KILLER IS SENT ‘HOME’.

‘Cary Oakes,’ Rebus read, ‘convicted of two murders in Washington State, USA, will today board a flight back to the United Kingdom after serving a fifteen-year sentence in a maximum-security prison in Walla Walla, Washington. It is believed that Oakes will make his way back to Edinburgh, where he lived for several years before going to the United States.’

There was a lot more. Oakes had flown to the States toting a rucksack and a tourist visa, and then had simply stayed put, taking a series of short-term jobs before embarking on a mugging and robbery spree which had climaxed with two killings, the victims clubbed and strangled to death.

Rebus put down the paper. ‘Did you know?’

The Farmer slammed his fists down on the table. ‘Of course I didn’t know!’

‘Shouldn’t we have been told?’

‘Think about it, John. You’re a cop in Wallumballa or whatever it’s called. You’re sending this murderer back to Scotland . Who do you tell?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Scotland Yard.’

‘Not realising for one minute that Scotland Yard might actually be in another country altogether.’