'What is it, Cafferty?’
But Cafferty wasn't saying.
'What about gangs, was he in any gangs?’
'He wasn't the type.’
'He had the Red Hand of Ulster on his bedroom wall.’
'I've got a Pirelli calendar on mine, doesn't mean I use their tyres.’
Rebus walked towards the door. 'Not much fun being a victim, is it?’
Cafferty jumped to his feet. 'Remember,' he said, 'I'll be watching.’
'Cafferty, if one of your goons so much as asks me the time of day, I'll throw him in a cell.’
'You threw me in a cell,' Strawman. Where did it get you?’
Unable to bear Cafferty's smile, the smile of a man who had drowned people in pigshit and shot them in cold blood, a cold devious manipulator, a man without morals or remorse, unable finally to bear any of this, Rebus left the room.
The prison officer, Petrie, was standing outside, shuffling his feet. His eyes couldn't meet Rebus's.
'You're an absolute disgrace,' Rebus told him, walking away.
While he was in Glasgow, Rebus could have talked to the boy's mother, only the boy's mother was in Edinburgh giving an official ID to the top half of her dead son's face. Dr Curt would be sure she never saw the bottom half. As he'd said to Rebus, if Billy had been a ventriloquist's dummy, he'd never have worked again.
'You're a sick man, doctor,' John Rebus had said.
He drove back to Edinburgh weary and trembling. Cafferty had that effect on him. He'd never thought he'd have to see the man again, at least not until both of them were of pensionable age. Cafferty had sent him a postcard the day he'd arrived in Barlinnie. But Siobhan Clarke had intercepted it and asked if he wanted to see it.
'Tear it up,' Rebus had told her. He still didn't know what the message had been..
Siobhan Clarke was still in the Murder Room when he got back.
'You're working hard,' he told her.
'It's a wonderful thing, overtime. Besides, we're a bit short of hands.’
'You've heard then?’
'Yes, congratulations.’
'What?’
'SCS, it's like a lateral promotion, isn't it?’
'It's only temporary, like a run of good games to Hibs. Where's Brian?’
'Out at Cunningham's digs, talking to Murdock and Millie again.’
'Was Mrs Cunningham up to questioning?’
'Just barely.’
'Who talked to her?’
'I did, the Chief Inspector's idea.’
'Then for once Lauderdale's had a good idea. Did you ask her about religion?’
'You mean all that Orange stuff in Billy's room? Yes, I asked. She just shrugged like it was nothing special.’
'It is nothing special. There are hundreds of people with the same flag, the same music-tapes. Christ, I've seen them.’
And this was the truth. He'd seen them at close quarters, not just as a kid, hearing the Sash sung by drunks on their way home, but more recently. He'd been visiting his brother in Fife, just over a month ago, the weekend before July 12th. There'd been an Orange march in Cowdenbeath. The pub they were in seemed to be hosting a crowd of the marchers in the dance hall upstairs. Sounds of drums, especially the huge drum they called the lambeg, and flutes and penny whistles, bad choruses repeated time and again. They'd gone upstairs to investigate, just as the thing was winding down. God Save the Queen was being destroyed on a dozen cheap flutes.
And some of the kids singing along, sweaty brows and shirts open, some of them had their arms raised, hands straight out in front of them. A Nazi-style salute.
'Nothing else?’
he asked. Clarke shook her head. 'She didn't know about the tattoo?’
'She thinks he must have done it in the last year or so.’
'Well, that's interesting in itself. It means we're not dealing with some ancient gang or old flame. SaS was something recent in his life. What about Nemo?’
'It didn't mean anything to her.’
'I've just been talking to Cafferty, SaS meant something to him. Let's pull his records, see if they tell us anything.’
'Now?’
'We can make a start. By the way, remember that card he sent me?’
Clarke nodded. 'What was on it?’
'It was a picture of a pig in its sty.’
'And the message?’
'There wasn't any message,' she said.
On the way back to Patience's he dropped into the video store and rented a couple of movies. It was the only video store nearby that he hadn't turned over at one time or another with vice or Trading Standards, looking for porn and splatter and various bootleg tapes. The owner was a middle-aged fatherly type, happy to tell you that some comedy was particularly good or some adventure film might prove a bit strong for 'the ladies'. He hadn't commented on Rebus's selections: Terminator 2 and All About Eve. But Patience had a comment.
'Great,' she said, meaning the opposite.
'What's wrong?’
'You hate old movies and I hate violence.’
Rebus looked at the Schwarzenegger. 'It's not even an 18. And who says I don't like old films?’
'What's your favourite black and white movie?’
'There are hundreds of them.’
'Name me five. No, three, and don't say I'm not fair.’
He stared at her. They were standing a few feet apart in the living room, Rebus with the videos still in his hands, Patience with her arms folded, her back erect. He knew she could probably smell the whisky on his breath, even keeping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose. It was so quiet, he could hear the cat washing itself somewhere behind the sofa.
'What are we fighting about?’ he asked.
She was ready for this. 'We're fighting about consideration, as usual. To wit, your lack of any.’
'Ben Hur.’
'Colour.’
'Well, that courtroom one then, with James Stewart.’
She nodded. 'And that other one with Orson Welles and the mandolin.’
'It was a zither.’
'Shite,' said John Rebus, throwing down the videos and making for the front door.
Millie Docherty waited until Murdock had been asleep for a good hour. She spent the hour thinking about the questions the police had asked both of them, and thinking further back to good days and bad days in her life. She spoke Murdock's name. His breathing remained regular. Only then did she slip out of bed and walk barefoot to Billy's bedroom door, touching the door with her fingertips. Christ, to think he wasn't there, would never be there again. She tried to control her breathing, fast in, slow out. Otherwise she might hyperventilate. Panic attacks, they called them. For years she'd suffered them not knowing she was not alone. There were lots of people out there like her. Billy had been one of them.
She turned the doorknob and slipper into his room. His mother had been round earlier on, hardly in a state to cope with any of it. There had been a policewoman with her, the same one who'd come to the flat that first time. Billy's mum had looked at his room, but then shook her head.
'I can't do this. Another time.’
'If you like,' Millie had offered, 'I can bag everything up for you. All you'd have to do is have his things
