Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘Orphaned,’ Rebus said.

She nodded. ‘Then institutionalised.’ She paused. ‘Then abused. He said there were times he’d thought of coming forward, telling people, but after all this time... he wondered what good it would do.’ She shook her head, tears forming. ‘He was the most unselfish person I’ve ever met. But inside, it was like he was eaten away, and Jesus, I know that feeling.’

Rebus got it. ‘Your father?’

She sniffed. ‘They call him “an institution” in the oil world. Me, I was institutionalised...’ A deep breath, nothing theatrical about it: a necessity. ‘And then abused.’

‘Christ,’ Jack said quietly. Rebus’s heart was racing; he had to fight to keep his voice level.

‘For how long, Jo?’

She looked up angrily. ‘You think I’d let the prick get away with it twice ? I ran as soon as I could. Kept running for years, then thought: fuck it, I’m not to blame. I’m not the one who should be doing this.’

Rebus nodded understanding. ‘So you saw a bond between Mitch and you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you told him your own story?’

‘Quid pro quo.’

‘Including your father’s identity?’ She started to nod, but stopped, swallowed instead. ‘That’s what he was blackmailing your father with — the incest story?’

‘I don’t know. Mitch was dead before I could find out.’

‘But that was his intention?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

‘Jo, I think we’ll need a statement from you. Not now, later. All right?’

‘I’ll think about it.’ She paused. ‘We can’t prove anything, can we?’

‘Not yet.’ Maybe not ever, he was thinking. He slid out of the seat, Jack following.

Outside, there were more songs around the camp-fire. Candles danced inside Chinese lanterns strung from the trees. Faces had turned shiny orange, like pumpkins. Joanna Bruce watched from her doorway, leaning against the bottom half of the door as before. Rebus turned to say goodbye.

‘Will you be camped here a while?’

She shrugged. ‘The way we live, who knows?’

‘You like what you’re doing?’

She gave the question serious thought. ‘It’s a life.’

Rebus smiled, moved away.

‘Inspector!’ she called. He turned back to her. Kohl was dribbling down her cheeks. ‘If everything’s so wonderful, how come everything’s so fucked up?’

Rebus didn’t have an answer to that. ‘Don’t let the sun catch you crying,’ he told her instead.

On the drive back, he tried answering her question for himself, found he couldn’t. Maybe it all had to do with balance, cause and effect. Where there was light, there must needs be dark. It sounded like the start of a sermon, and he hated sermons. He tried out his own personal mantra instead: Miles Davis, ‘So What?’ Only, it didn’t sound so clever now.

It didn’t sound clever at all.

Jack was frowning. ‘Why didn’t she come forward with any of this?’ he asked.

‘Because as far as she’s concerned, it’s got nothing to do with us. It didn’t even have anything to do with Mitch, he just blundered in.’

‘Sounded more like he was invited.’

‘An invitation he should have refused.’

‘You think Major Weir did it?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure it matters. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s in this little private hell she’s constructed for the two of them. As long as he knows she’s out there, demonstrating against everything he holds dear... that’s his punishment and her revenge. No getting away from it for either of them.’

‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’

‘Fathers and daughters,’ Rebus agreed. And past misdemeanours. And the way they refused to go away...

They were beat when they got back to the hotel.

‘Round of golf?’ Jack suggested.

Rebus laughed. ‘I could just about manage coffee and a round of sarnies.’

‘Sounds good to me. My room in ten minutes.’

Their rooms had been made up, fresh chocolates on the pillows, clean bathrobes laid out. Rebus changed quickly, then phoned reception to ask if there were any messages. He hadn’t checked before — hadn’t wanted Jack to know he was expecting one.

‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist trilled. ‘I’ve a phone message for you here.’ Rebus’s heart rose: she hadn’t just upped and run. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

‘Please.’

‘It says, “Burke’s, half an hour after closing. Tried another time, another place, but he wasn’t having any.” There’s no name.’

‘That’s fine, thanks.’

‘You’re welcome, sir.’

Of course he was welcome: business account. The whole world sucked up to you if you were corporate. He got the outside line, tried Siobhan at home, got her machine again. Tried St Leonard’s, was told she wasn’t there. Tried her at home again, deciding this time to leave his telephone number on her machine. Halfway through, she picked up.

‘What’s the use of an answering machine when you’re home?’ he asked.

‘Call filtering,’ she said. ‘I get to check if you’re a heavy breather or not before I talk to you.’

‘My breathing’s under control, so talk to me.’

‘First victim,’ she said. ‘I spoke to someone at Robert Gordon’s. Deceased was studying geology, and it included time spent offshore. People who study geology up there almost always get a job in the oil industry, the whole course is geared towards it. Because she spent time offshore, deceased did a survival module.’

Rebus was thinking: chopper simulator, ducked in a swimming pool.

‘So,’ Siobhan went on, ‘she spent time at OSC.’

‘The Offshore Survival Centre.’

‘Which deals with nothing but oil people. I got them to fax me staff and student rolls. So much for the first victim.’ She paused. ‘Victim two seemed completely different: older, different set of friends, different city. But she was a prostitute, and we know that a lot of businessmen use that sort of service when they’re away from home.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Victim four worked closely with the oil industry, which left Judith Cairns, the Glasgow victim. Variously employed, including part-time cleaning at a city-centre hotel.’

‘Businessmen again.’

‘So tomorrow they begin faxing me names. They weren’t keen, client confidentiality and all that.’

‘But you can be persuasive.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what are we hoping for? A guest at the Fairmount who’s got a connection with Robert Gordon’s?’

‘It’ll be in my prayers.’

‘How soon tomorrow will you know?’

‘That’s down to the hotel. I may have to drive over there and gee them up.’

‘I’ll phone you.’

‘If you get the machine, leave a number where I can reach you.’

‘Will do. Cheers, Siobhan.’ He put the telephone down, went along to Jack’s room. Jack was wearing his robe.

‘I might have to splash out on one of these,’ he said. ‘Sarnies are on their way up, ditto a big pot of coffee. I’m just going to take a shower.’

‘Fine. Listen, Siobhan might be on to something.’ He filled Jack in.

‘Sounds promising. Then again...’ Jack shrugged.

‘Christ, and I thought I was cynical.’

Jack winked, went into the bathroom. Rebus waited till he could hear the shower running, and Jack humming what sounded like ‘Puppy Love’. Jack’s clothes were on a chair. Rebus fished in the jacket pockets, came up with car keys, pocketed them for himself.

He wondered what time Burke’s closed on a Thursday night. He wondered what he was going to say to Judd Fuller. He wondered how badly Fuller would take it, whatever it was.