No mugging, just as Ormiston had said. Rebus replaced the wallet. Handkerchief, small change, belt, watch — this last with its face smashed. He closed the cabinet again and leaned forward, so his mouth was inches from Robertson’s ear.
‘Tommy?’ he said. ‘Remember me?’ He reached out a finger and pressed it against the sleeping man’s temple. Robertson’s eyes fluttered and he gave a low moan. ‘Tommy,’ Rebus repeated. ‘Time to wake up.’
Robertson did so with a jolt, which quickly turned into a wince of pain, his whole body seeming to spasm.
‘Evening,’ Rebus said by way of greeting.
It took Robertson a few moments to get his bearings. He licked dry lips before fixing his puffy eyes on his visitor.
‘Who are you?’ he asked in a dry croak.
Rebus refilled the glass with water and held it to Robertson’s lips so he could sip.
‘The cop shop in Perth,’ Rebus reminded him. ‘I was the one standing by the wall.’ He placed the glass back on the cabinet.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve just got a couple of questions about Frank Hammell.’
‘Who?’
Rebus described Hammell and waited. Robertson blinked and tried to shake his head.
‘No?’ Rebus said. ‘So maybe he’s telling the truth for once when he says he doesn’t know you either. Thing is, though,
‘I was jumped, that’s all there is to it.’ There was a lot of sibilance when he spoke, the air whistling through the freshly made gap where a tooth used to be.
‘Jumped?’
‘Some wee bastards.’
‘Wee bastards who didn’t bother taking any of your stuff? And this happened down by the docks?’
‘Docks?’
‘Where do you think you are, Tommy?’ Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘You don’t know, do you? They lifted you from behind the pub in Pitlochry and took you somewhere. Kept you there until they were sure you had nothing to do with Annette McKie — that’s a bit of news for you, by the way: they’ve found her body in some woods up past Inverness. Four other bodies next to her. So you’re off our list of contenders. Might explain why you’re here rather than in a shallow grave somewhere.’
Rebus saw that he’d hit a chord. Robertson’s eyes were suddenly fearful.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ Robertson said, trying to shake his head. ‘I keep telling you — I got jumped.’
‘And which city did you get jumped in, Tommy? No, you were brought here and dumped here.’ Rebus paused. ‘Anyway, Hammell’s probably finished with you now. But as a wee insurance policy, you need to tell me it was him.’
‘How many times do I have to say it? I’ve never heard of the guy.’
The nurse was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked in a stage whisper.
‘I need to sleep,’ Robertson told her.
‘Of course you do.’
‘Am I due another painkiller?’
‘In two hours.’
‘If I had it now, maybe I’d sleep through till morning.’
The nurse had placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘You have to be leaving now, before you wake the other patients.’
‘Five more minutes.’
But she was shaking her head.
‘Off you go,’ Robertson said.
‘I can come back tomorrow.’
‘Come back as often as you like. I’ll tell you the exact same thing you heard tonight.’ Robertson focused his attention on the nurse. ‘It isn’t right I’m being grilled like this. Not when I’m in so much pain. .’
‘I’ve driven a long way to see you, you little shite-bag.’
‘You’re leaving
Rebus debated whether it was worth standing his ground. Instead, he got to his feet.
‘I’ll see you around,’ he told Robertson, pressing down on the back of the man’s hand, the hand with the two strapped fingers. Robertson let out a wail loud enough to silence the snorer and wake the other patients.
‘He might be needing that medication early after all,’ Rebus informed the nurse, before making for the lifts.
That night, in a hotel room provided and paid for by Northern Constabulary, Darryl Christie sat at a desk with his laptop plugged in and his phone charging. He had already spoken to his mother and brothers, plus a neighbour who was keeping an eye on all three of them. Afterwards, he had called his father, telling him about the identification without bothering to add that Frank Hammell had also been present. Eventually it was the turn of Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘How are you holding up?’ Cafferty asked.
‘Never mind that. This blows a hole in your notion that it has anything to do with Frank.’
‘Granted.’
‘So why am I even talking to you?’
‘Because whatever happens, you’re still a kid with ambition.’
‘I’m not a “kid”. And all that stuff you told me about Frank’s enemies — what made you think I wouldn’t rank you among them?’
‘Abduction’s not my style, Darryl. Nobody innocent ever gets hurt.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Other people might disagree, but I like to think I have standards.’
‘I’m not sure that squares with some of the stories about you.’
‘Stories told by Hammell, no doubt.’
‘Not just Frank, though. Lots of disappearances; lots of the wrong people ending up behind bars. .’
‘These are changed days, Darryl.’
‘Exactly my point. You belong in the history books, Cafferty.’
‘Easy, son. .’
‘I’m not your son — I’m not your son and I’m not a kid!’
‘Whatever you say, Darryl. I know you’re under a lot of strain and all.’
‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’
Christie ended the call and ignored the phone when Cafferty tried ringing back. He busied himself with his laptop, slotting home the memory stick, Cafferty’s words echoing in his head.
Tell that to Thomas Robertson.
49
‘You don’t look like you slept much,’ Clarke said next morning at breakfast.
Rebus was last down, having managed a rudimentary shave and a shower under a dribble of tepid water.
‘Where’s Page?’ he asked.
‘Already gone to HQ.’ Clarke was trying not to bristle.
‘I take it your services were not required.’
