Dead Souls, Page 3

  Behind and above him, a few hardy souls had achieved the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Their reward: the panoramic view, plus ears that would sting for hours. With his fear of heights, Rebus didn’t get too close to the edge. The landscape was extraordinary. It was as though God had slapped his hand down on to Holyrood Park, flattening part of it but leaving this sheer face of rock, a reminder of the city’s origins.

  Jim Margolies had jumped from here. Or a sudden gust had taken him: that was the less plausible, but more easily digested alternative. His widow had stated her belief that he’d been ‘walking, just walking’, and had lost his footing in the dark. But this raised unanswerable questions. What would take him from his bed in the middle of the night? If he had worries, why did he need to think them out at the top of Salisbury Crags, several miles from his home? He lived in The Grange, in what had been his wife’s parents’ house. It was raining that night, yet he didn’t take the car. Would a desperate man notice he was getting soaked … ?

  Looking down, Rebus saw the site of the old brewery, where they were going to build the new Scottish parliament. The first in three hundred years, and sited next to a theme park. Nearby stood the Greenfield housing scheme, a compact maze of high-rise blocks and sheltered accommodation. He wondered why the Crags should be so much more impressive than the man-made ingenuity of high-rises, then reached into his pocket for a folded piece of paper. He checked an address, looked back down on to Greenfield, and knew he had one more detour to make.

  Greenfield’s flat-roofed tower blocks had been built in the mid-1960s and were showing their age. Dark stains bloomed on the discoloured harling. Overflow pipes dripped water on to cracked paving slabs.

  Rotting wood was flaking from the window surrounds. The wall of one ground-floor flat, its windows boarded up, had been painted to identify the one-time tenant as ‘Junky Scum’.

  No council planner had ever lived here. No director of housing or community architect. All the council had done was move in problem tenants and tell everyone central heating was on its way. The estate had been built on the flat bottom of a bowl of land, so that Salisbury Crags loomed monstrously over the whole. Rebus rechecked the address on the paper. He’d had dealings in Greenfield before. It was far from the worst of the city’s estates, but still had its troubles. It was early afternoon now, and the streets were quiet. Someone had left a bicycle, missing its front wheel, in the middle of the road. Further along stood a pair of shopping trolleys, nose to nose as though deep in local gossip. In the midst of the six eleven-storey blocks stood four neat rows of terraced bungalows, complete with pocket-handkerchief gardens and low wooden fences. Net curtains covered most of the windows, and above each door a burglar alarm had been secured to the wall.

  Part of the tarmac arena between the tower blocks had been given over to a play area. One boy was pulling another along on a sledge, imagining snow as the runners scraped across the ground. Rebus called out the words ‘Cragside Court’ and the boy on the sledge waved in the direction of one of the blocks. When Rebus got up close to it, he saw that a sign on the wall identifying the building had been defaced so that ‘Cragside’ read ‘Crap-site’. A window on the second floor swung open.

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ a woman’s voice boomed. ‘He’s not here.’ Rebus stood back and angled his head upwards.

  ‘Who is it I’m supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘Trying to be smart?’

  ‘No, I just didn’t know there was a clairvoyant on the premises. Is it your husband or your boyfriend I’m after?’

  The woman stared down at him, made up her mind that she’d spoken too soon. ‘Never mind,’ she said, pulling her head back in and closing the window.

  There was an intercom system, but only the numbers of flats, no names. He pulled at the door; it was unlocked anyway. He waited a couple of minutes for the lift to come, then let it shudder its way slowly up to the fifth floor. A walkway, open to the elements, led him past the front doors of half a dozen flats until he was standing outside 5/14 Cragside Court. There was a window, but curtained with what looked like a frayed blue bedsheet. The door showed signs of abuse: failed break-ins maybe, or just people kicking at it because there was no bell or knocker. No nameplate, but that didn’t matter. Rebus knew who lived here.

  Darren Rough.

  The address was new to Rebus. When he’d helped build the case against Rough four years before, Rough had been living in a flat on Buccleuch Street. Now he was back in Edinburgh, and Rebus was keen for him to know just how welcome he was. Besides, he had a couple of questions for Darren Rough, questions about Jim Margolies …

  The only problem was, he got the feeling the flat was empty. He tried one half-hearted thump at both door and window. When there was no response, he leaned down to peer through the letterbox, but found it had been blocked from inside. Either Rough didn’t want anyone looking in, or else he’d been getting unwelcome deliveries. Straightening up, Rebus turned and rested his arms on the balcony railing. He found himself staring straight down on to the kids’ playground. Kids: an estate like Greenfield would be full of kids. He turned back to study Rough’s abode. No graffiti on walls or door, nothing to identify the tenant as ‘Pervo Scum’. Down at ground level, the sledge had taken a corner too fast, throwing off its rider. A window below Rebus opened noisily.

  ‘I saw you, Billy Horman! You did that on purpose!’ The same woman, her words aimed at the boy who’d been pulling the sledge. ‘Never did!’ he yelled back.

  ‘You fucking did! I’ll murder you.’ Then, tone changing: ‘Are you all right, Jamie? I’ve told you before about playing with that wee bastard. Now get in here!’

  The injured boy rubbed a hand beneath his nose—as close as he was going to get to defiance—then made his way towards the tower block, glancing back at his friend. Their shared look lasted only a second or two, but it managed to convey that they were still friends, that the adult world could never break that bond.

  Rebus watched the sledge-puller, Billy Horman, shuffle away, then walked down three floors. The woman’s flat was easy to find. He could hear her shouting from thirty yards away. He wondered if she constituted a problem tenant; got the feeling few would dare to complain to her face …

  The door was solid, recently painted dark blue, and boasting a spy-hole. Net curtains at the window. They twitched as the woman checked who her caller was. When she opened the door, her son darted back out and along the walkway.

  ‘Just going to the shop, Mum!’

  ‘Come back here, you!’

  But he was pretending not to have heard; disappeared around a corner.

  ‘Give me the strength to wring his neck,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you love him really.’

  She stared hard at him. ‘Do we have any business?’

  ‘You never answered my question: husband or boyfriend?’ She folded her arms. ‘Eldest son, if you must know.’

  ‘And you thought I was here to see him?’

  ‘You’re the police, aren’t you?’ She snorted when he said nothing.

  ‘Should I know him then?’

  ‘Calumn Brady,’ she said.

  ‘You’re Cal’s mum?’ Rebus nodded slowly. He knew Cal Brady by reputation: regal chancer. He’d heard of Cal’s mother, too.

  She stood about five feet eight in her sheepskin slippers. Heavily built, with thick arms and wrists, her face had decided long ago that make-up wasn’t going to cure anything. Her hair, thick and platinum-coloured, brown at the roots, fell from a centre parting. She was dressed in regulation satin-look shell suit, blue with a silver stripe up the arms and legs.

  ‘You’re not here for Cal then?’ she said.

  Rebus shook his head. Not unless you think he’s done something.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Ever have any dealings with one of your neighbours, youngish lad called Darren Rough?’

  Which flat’s he in?’ Rebus didn’t answer. ‘We get a lot o
f coming and going. Social Work stuff them in here for a couple of weeks. Christ knows what happens to them, they go AWOL or get shifted.’ She sniffed. ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said. Jamie was back down in the playground, no sign of his friend. He ran in circles, pulling the sledge. Rebus got the idea he could run like that all day.

  ‘Jamie’s not in school today?’ he asked, turning back towards the door.

  ‘None of your bloody business,’ Mrs Brady said, closing it in his face.

  4

  Back at St Leonard’s police station, Rebus looked up Calumn Brady on the computer. At age seventeen, Cal already had impressive form: assault, shoplifting, drunk and disorderly. There was no sign as yet that Jamie was following in his footsteps, but the mother, Vanessa Brady, known as Tan’, had been in trouble. Disputes with neighbours had become violent, and she’d been caught giving Cal a false alibi for one of his assault charges. No mention anywhere of a husband. Whistling ‘We Are Family’, Rebus went to ask the desk sergeant if he knew who the community officer was for Greenfield.

  ‘Tom Jackson,’ he was told. ‘And I know where he is, because I saw him not two minutes ago.’

  Tom Jackson was in the car park at the back of the station, finishing a cigarette. Rebus joined him, lit one for himself and made the offer. Jackson shook his head.

  ‘Got to pace myself, sir,’ he said.

  Jackson was in his mid-forties, barrel-chested and silver-haired with matching moustache. His eyes were dark, so that he always looked sceptical. He saw this as a decided bonus, since all he had to do was keep quiet and suspects would offer up more than they wanted to, just to appease that look.

  ‘I hear you’re still working Greenfield, Tom.’

  ‘For my sins.’ Jackson flicked ash from his cigarette, then brushed a few flecks from his uniform. ‘I was due a transfer in January.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The locals needed a Santa for their Christmas do. They have one every year at the church. Underprivileged kids. They asked muggins here.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I did it. Some of those kids … poor wee bastards. Almost had me in tears.’ The memory stopped him for a moment. ‘Some of the -locals came up afterwards, started whispering.’ He smiled. ‘It was like the confessional. See, the only way they could think to thank me was to furnish a few tip-offs.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Shopping their neighbours.’

  ‘As a result of which, my clear-up rate got a sudden lift. Bugger is, they’ve decided to keep me there, seeing how I’m suddenly so clever.’

  ‘A victim of your own success, Tom.’ Rebus inhaled, holding the smoke as he examined the tip of his cigarette. Exhaling, he shook his head. ‘Christ, I love smoking.’

  ‘Not me. Interviewing some kid, warning him off drugs, and all the time I’m gasping for a draw.’ He shook his head. ‘Wish I could give it up.

  ‘Have you tried patches?’

  ‘No good, they kept slipping off my eye.’

  They shared a laugh at that.

  ‘I’m assuming you’ll get round to it eventually,’ Jackson said. ‘What, trying a patch?’

  ‘No, telling me what it is you’re after.’

  ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just my finely honed intuition.’

  Rebus flicked ash into the breeze. ‘I was out at Greenfield earlier. You know a guy called Darren Rough?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘I had a run-in with him at the zoo.’

  Jackson nodded, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I heard about it. Paedophile, yes?’

  ‘And living in Cragside Court.’

  Jackson stared at Rebus. ‘That I didn’t know.’

  ‘Neighbours don’t seem to know either.’

  ‘They’d murder him if they did.’

  ‘Maybe someone could have a word …

  Jackson frowned. ‘Christ, I don’t know about that. They’d string him up.’

  ‘Bit of an exaggeration, Tom. Run him out of town maybe.’

  Jackson straightened his back. ‘And that’s what you want?’

  ‘You really want a paedophile on your beat?’

  Jackson thought about it. He brought out his pack of cigarettes and was reaching into it when he checked his watch: ciggie break over. ‘Let me think on it.’

  ‘Fair enough, Tom.’ Rebus flicked his own cigarette on to the tarmac. ‘I bumped into one of Rough’s neighbours, Van Brady.’

  Jackson winced. ‘Don’t get on the wrong side of that one.’

  ‘You mean she has a right side?’

  ‘Best seen when retreating.’

  Back at his desk, Rebus put a call in to the council offices and was eventually put through to Darren Rough’s social worker, a man called Andy Davies.

  ‘Do you think it was a wise move?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Care to give me some clue what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Convicted paedophile, council flat in Greenfield, nice view of the children’s playground.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ Sounding suddenly tired.

  ‘Nothing I can pin him for.’ Rebus paused. ‘Not yet. I’m phoning while there’s still time.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘To move him.’

  ‘Move him where exactly?’

  ‘How about Bass Rock?’

  ‘Or a cage at the zoo maybe?’

  Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘He’s told you.’

  ‘Of course he’s told me. I’m his social worker.’

  ‘He was taking photos of kids.’

  ‘It’s all been explained to Chief Superintendent Watson.’

  Rebus looked around the office. ‘Not to my satisfaction, Mr Davies.’ Then I suggest you take it up with your superior, Inspector.’ No hiding the irritation in the voice.

  ‘So you’re going to do nothing?’

  ‘It was your lot wanted him here in the first place!’

  Silence on the line, then Rebus: ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Look, I’ve nothing to add. Take it up with your Chief Superintendent. OK?’

  The connection was broken. Rebus tried Watson’s office, but his secretary said he was out. He chewed on his pen, wishing plastic had a nicotine content.

  It was your lot wanted him here.

  DC Siobhan Clarke was at her desk, busy on the phone. He noticed that on the wall behind her was pinned up a postcard of a sea-lion. Walking up to it, he saw someone had added a speech balloon, issuing from the creature’s mouth: ‘I’ll have a Rebus supper, thanks.’

  ‘Ho ho,’ he said, pulling the card from the wall. Clarke had finished her call.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said.

  He scanned the room. DC Grant Hood reading a tabloid, DS George Silvers frowning at his computer screen. Then DI Bill Pryde walked into the office, and Rebus knew he had his man. Curly fair hair, ginger moustache: a face just made for mischief. Rebus waved the card at him and watched Pryde’s face take on a look of false wounded innocence. As Rebus walked towards him, a phone began sounding.

  ‘That’s yours,’ Pryde said, retreating. On his way to the phone, Rebus tossed the card into a bin.

  ‘DI Rebus,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, hello. You probably won’t remember me.’ A short laugh on the line. ‘That used to be a bit of a joke at school.’

  Rebus, immune to every kind of crank, rested against the edge of the desk. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, wondering what kind of punch-line he was walking into.

  ‘Because it’s my name: Mee.’ The caller spelled it for him. ‘Brian Mee.’

  Inside Rebus’s head, a fuzzy photograph began to develop—mouthful of prominent teeth; freckled nose and cheeks; kitchen-stool haircut.

  ‘Barney Mee?’ he said.

  More laughter on the line. ‘I never knew why everyone called me that.’

  Rebus could have told him: after Barney Rubble in The Flintstones. He could hav
e added: because you were a dense wee bastard. Instead, he asked Mee what he could do for him.

  ‘Well, Janice and me, we thought … well, it was my mum’s idea actually. She knew your dad. Both my parents knew him, only my dad passed away, like. They all drank at the Goth.’

  ‘Are you still in Bowhill?’

  ‘Never quite escaped. I work in Glenrothes though.’

  The photo had become clearer: decent footballer, bit of a terrier, the hair reddish-brown. Dragging his satchel along the ground until the stitching burst. Always with some huge hard sweet in his mouth, crunching down on it, nose running.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Brian?’

  ‘It was my mum’s idea. She remembered you were in the police in Edinburgh, thought maybe you could help.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘It’s our son. Mine and Janice’s. He’s called Damon.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s vanished.’

  ‘Run away?’

  ‘More like a puff of smoke. He was in this club with his pals, see—’

  ‘Have you tried calling the police?’ Rebus caught himself. ‘I mean Fife Constabulary.’

  ‘Thing is, the club’s in Edinburgh. Police there say they looked into it, asked a few questions. See, Damon’s nineteen. They say that means he’s got a right to bugger off if he wants.’

  ‘They’ve got a point, Brian. People run away all the time. Girl trouble maybe.’

  ‘He was engaged.’

  ‘Maybe he got scared.’

  ‘Helen’s a lovely girl. Never a raised voice between them.’

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘I went through this with the police. No note, and he didn’t take any clothes or anything.’

  ‘You think something’s happened to him?’

  ‘We just want to know he’s all right …’ The voice fell away. ‘My mum always speaks well of your dad. He’s remembered in this town.’

  And buried there, too, Rebus thought. He picked up his pen. ‘Give me a few details, Brian, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  A little later, Rebus visited Grant Hood’s desk and retrieved the discarded newspaper from the bin. Turning the pages, he found the editorial section. At the bottom, in bold script, were the words ‘Do you have a story for us? Call the newsroom day or night.’ They’d printed the telephone number. Rebus jotted it into his notebook.