Ian Rankin - Dead Souls

‘Then I can’t help you,’ Nicky Petrie said, with all the defiance he could muster.

Plan Two: Ama Petrie.

She flew into the station like a whirlwind. Cal Brady was right: she had a soft spot for her little brother.

‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’

Rebus looked at her with a façade of utter calm. ‘Shouldn’t those be my questions?’

She didn’t seem to understand.

‘Damon Mee,’ Rebus explained. ‘Nicky met him at Gaitano’s, took him to the boat where you were having one of your parties. That’s the last time he was seen alive, Ms Petrie.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with Nicky.’

They were seated in the same interview room, Nicky Petrie having been taken down to the cells. It was also the same interview room where Harold Ince had first been questioned. Ince had been sentenced to twelve years, Marshall to eight, the bulk of both sentences to be served at Peterhead. Had Rebus known anyone there, he might have put in a word for Ince. But he didn’t know a single damned soul...

‘What’s got nothing to do with Nicky?’ he asked.

‘It’s my fault, not his.’

Rebus understood: she thought Nicky had talked, had somehow incriminated himself. She was underestimating him. The chink in her armour which Cal Brady had detected: she loved her brother too much.

Rebus sat back, knew how to play this. He asked her if she wanted anything to drink. She shook her head violently.

‘I want to make a statement,’ she blurted out.

‘You’ll probably want a solicitor, Ms Petrie.’

‘Bugger that.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Is Nicky here? In this station?’

‘Safely in the cells.’

‘Safely?’ Her voice trembled. ‘Poor Nicky...’ She was dry-eyed but her face was tense.

‘Did Damon Mee know Nicky wasn’t really a woman?’

‘How could he not?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Your brother’s pretty convincing.’

She allowed herself a brief smile. ‘He always said he should have been the girl and I the boy.’

Rebus knew Nicky had run away from home aged twelve. He’d been running ever since...

‘So what happened on the boat?’

‘We’d all been drinking.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what parties are like.’

She was trying to win him round to her side. Too late for that, but he nodded anyway.

‘Then Nicky brought this piece of rough below decks.’

‘Piece of rough?’

‘As in rough and ready. I’m not being a snob, Inspector.’

‘Of course not. I take it all of you knew Nicky’s... preferences?’

‘The gang of us, yes. A few couples were up dancing. Nicky and this Damon joined them.’ Her eyes went unfocused; she was picturing the scene. ‘Nicky had his head on Damon’s shoulder, and just for a moment our eyes met... and he looked so happy .’ She screwed shut her eyes.

‘Then what happened?’

She opened her eyes again, staring at the desk. ‘Alfie and Cherie were one of the other couples. Alfie was as drunk as I’ve ever seen him. For a joke, he leaned over and snatched Nicky’s wig. Nicky chased him round the room. And Damon just stood there, like he was thunderstruck. He looked... it really seemed hilarious at the time. His face was a picture. Then he ran for the stairs. Nicky saw what was happening and went after him...’

‘They had a fight?’

She looked at him. ‘Is that what he told you?’ She smiled. ‘Dear Nicky... You’ve seen him, Inspector. He couldn’t hurt a fly. No, by the time I came up on deck, this Damon person had Nicky down on the ground. He was strangling the life out of him, at the same time thumping his head against the deck. Lifting it... thudding it back down. I grabbed an empty wine bottle, swung it at the side of his head. It didn’t knock him cold or anything. The bottle didn’t even break, not like in the films. But he let go of Nicky, staggered to his feet.’

‘And?’

‘And seemed to lose his balance. He fell over the side and into the water. It’s funny... the deck’s not that high above the water line... he hardly made a sound as he fell.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I had to make sure Nicky was all right. I took him back down below. His throat hurt, but I got a brandy down him.’

‘I meant, what did you do about Damon?’

‘Oh, him...’ She thought it over. ‘Well, by the time I went back up, there was no sign of him. I assumed he’d swum ashore.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘Are you quite sure that’s what you assumed?’

‘To be honest... I’m not sure I thought anything at all. He was gone, and he couldn’t hurt Nicky, that was all that mattered. That’s all that ever matters to me. So you see, whatever Nicky’s told you, he only did in order to protect me. I’m the one you should put in the cell. Nicky should go home.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘You will let him go, won’t you?’

He stood up, leaned across the desk towards her. ‘I know Damon’s family. I’ve seen the way they’ve been suffering. Your precious brother doesn’t know the half of it.’

She glowered at him. ‘And why should he?’

He thought of a thousand answers, knew she’d rebut every one of them. Instead, he told her he’d need a written statement. He’d send someone in to take it. He made for the door.

‘And then you’ll let Nicky out, won’t you, Inspector?’

His one little victory: he left without saying a word.

Later that night, he found himself in Cowgate again, further to the east this time, past the mothballed mortuary, walking towards the building site on Holyrood. Behind it, he could make out a couple of the Greenfield tower-blocks, and behind those Salisbury Crags. The sun had set, but it wasn’t quite dark. The twilight could last an age at this time of year. Demolition work had stopped for the day. He couldn’t be sure where everything would go, but he knew there’d be a newspaper building, a theme park, and the Parliament building. They’d all be ready for the twenty-first century, or so the predictions went. Taking Scotland into the new millennium. Rebus tried to raise within himself a tiny cheer of hope, but found it stifled by his old cynicism.

No longer twilight now. Darkness had fallen. Shadows seemed to rise all around him as a bell tolled in the distance. The blood that had seeped into stone, the bones that lay twisting in their eternity, the stories and horrors of the city’s past and present... he knew they’d all come rising in the digger’s steel jaws, bubbling to the surface as the city began its slow ascent towards being a nation’s capital once again.

Forget it, John, he told himself. It’s the Old Town, that’s all.

Cary Oakes sat in the visitors’ room at Saughton Prison. They hadn’t put any cuffs on him, and there was just the one guard. One guard was almost demeaning. Then the door opened and his solicitor walked in. That’s what they were called here — solicitors. Cary smiled, bowed his head in greeting. The lawyer was young, looked eager but flustered. First time, probably, but that was OK. Youngsters, working hard to make the grade... they’d put in the hours for you, go the extra yard. Cary had nothing against fresh blood.

He waited till the guy was seated and ready, notepad out, pen held in his right hand. Then he began his spiel.

‘I’m innocent, man, so help me. And you’ve got to do that: you’ve got to help me. Between us, we can prove I didn’t do anything.’ He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table. ‘It’ll make your career. You’re my man, I can sense it.’

Gave a big open smile.