any more.’
'What do you mean?’
But Abernethy just winked and tapped his nose. 'Enemies,' he said.
Rebus had pulled Siobhan Clarke off the Moncur surveillance and put her on to Frankie Bothwell. But Frankie Bothwell had disappeared. She apologised, but Rebus only shrugged. Holmes had kept with Clyde Moncur, but Moncur and his wife were off on some bus tour, a two-day trip to the Highlands. Moncur could always get off the bus and double back, but Rebus discontinued the tail anyway.
'You seem a bit glum, sir,' Siobhan Clarke told him. Maybe she was right. The world seemed upside down. He'd seen bad cops before, of course he had. But he had never before seen anything like Kilpatrick's lack of an explanation or a decent defence. It was as if he didn't feel he needed one, as if he'd just been doing the right thing; in the wrong way perhaps, but the right thing all the same.
Abernethy had told him how deep the suspicions went, how long they'd been accumulating. But it was hard to investigate a policeman who, on the surface, seemed to be doing nearly everything right. Investigation required cooperation, and the co-operation wasn't there. Until Rebus had come along.
At the Gar-B lock-ups, outside the blocks of flats, police and Army experts were opening doors, just in case the stolen cache was inside one of the garages. Door to door inquiries were going on, trying to pin down Davey's friends, trying to get someone to talk or to admit they were hiding him. Meantime, Jamesie MacMurray was already being charged. But they were minnows, their flesh not enough to merit the hook. Kilpatrick, too, had disappeared, Rebus had phoned Ormiston and found that the CI hadn't returned to his office, and no one answered at his home.
Holines and Clarke returned from the warrant search of Soutar's home, Holmes toting a plain cardboard box, obviously not empty. Holmes put the box on Rebus's desk.
‘Let's start,' Holmes said, 'with a jar of acid, carefully concealbd under Soutar's bed.’
'His mother says he never lets her in to clean his room,' Clarke explained. 'He's got a padlock on the door to prove it. We had to break the lock. His mum wasn't best pleased.’
'She's a lovely woman, isn't she?’ said Rebus. 'Did you meet the dad?’
'He was at the bookie's.’
'Lucky for you. What else have you got?’
'Typhoid probably,' Holmes complained. 'The place was like a Calcutta rubbish tip.’
Clarke dipped in and pulled out a few small polythene bags; everything in the box had been wrapped first and labelled. 'We've got knives, most of them illegal, one still with what looks like dried blood on it.’
Some of it Calumn Smylie's blood, Rebus didn't doubt. She dipped in again. 'Mogadon tablets, about a hundred of them, and some unopened cans of cola and beer.’
'The Can Gang?’
Clarke nodded. 'Looks like it. There are wallets, credit cards… it'll take us two minutes to check. Oh, and we found this little booklet.’
She held it up for him. It was poorly Xeroxed, with its A4-sized sheets folded in half and stapled. Rebus read the title.
'The Total Anarchy Primer. Wonder who gave him this?’
'Looks like it's been translated from another language, maybe German. Some of the words they couldn't find the English for, so they've left them in the original.’
'Some primer.’
'It tells you how to make bombs,' said Clarke, 'in case you were wondering. Mostly fertiliser bombs, but there's a section on timers and detonators, just in case you found yourself with any plastique.’
'The perfect Christmas gift. Are they checking the bedroom for traces?’
Holmes nodded. 'They were at it when we left.’
Rebus nodded. A special forensic unit had been sent in to test for traces of explosive materials. The same unit had been working at the MacMurray lock-up. They knew now that the garage had held a quantity of plastic explosive, probably Semtex. But they couldn't say how much. Usually, as one of the team had explained, Semtex was quite difficult to prove, being colourless and fairly scentless. But it looked like Soutar had been playing with his toys, unwrapping at least one of the packages the better to have a look at it. Traces had been left on the surface of the workbench.
'Were there detonators in the cache?’ Rebus asked. 'That's the question.’
Holmes and Clarke looked at one another.
'A rhetorical one,' Rebus added.
29
The city was definitely coming out to play.
It was the start of September, and therefore the beginning of that slow slide into chill autumn and long dark winter. The Festival was winding down for another year, and everyone was celebrating. It was on days like this that the city, so often submerged like Atlantis or some sub aqua Brigadoon, bubbled to the surface. The buildings seemed less dour and the people smiled, as though cloud and rain were unknowns.
Rebus might have been driving through a thunderstorm for all the notice he took. He was a hunter, and hunters didn't smile. Abernethy had just admitted being Marie's anonymous caller, the one who'd put her on to Calumn Smylie.
'You knew you were putting his life in danger?’ Rebus asked.
'Maybe I thought I was saving it.’
'How did you know about Mairie anyway? I mean, how did you know to contact her?’
Abernethy just smiled.
'You sent me that stuff about Clyde Moncur, didn't you?’
'Yes.’
'You could have warned me what I was getting into.’
'You were more effective the way you were.’
'I've been a walking punch-bag.’
'But you're still here.’
'I bet you'd lose a lot of sleep if I wasn't.’
The sun had finally given up. The street lights were on. There were a lot of people on the streets tonight. Hogmanay apart, it was the city's biggest night of the year. The traffic was all headed into town, where most of the parking spaces had been grabbed hours ago.
'Families,' Rebus explained, 'on their way to the fireworks.’
'I thought we were on our way to the fireworks,' Abernethy said, smiling again.
'We are,' said Rebus quietly.
There were never signposts to places like the Gar-B, the inference being that if you wanted to go there, you must already know the place. People didn't just visit on a whim. Rebus took the slip-road past the gable end – ENJOY YOUR VISIT TO THE GAR-B – and turned into the access road.
'Nine o'clock, he said.’
Abernethy checked his watch. 'Nine it is.’
But Rebus wasn't listening. He was watching a van roaring towards them. The road was barely wide enough for two vehicles, and the van driver didn't seem to be paying much attention. He was crouched down, eyes on his wing mirror. Rebus slammed on the brakes and the horn and whipped the steering wheel around. The rust bucket slew sideways like it was on ice. That was the problem with bald tyres.
Out!' Rebus called. Abernethy didn't need telling twice. The driver had finally seen them. The van was skidding to an uncertain stop. It hit the driver's side door, shuddered, and was still. Rebus pulled open the van door and hauled out Jim Hay. He'd heard of people looking white as a sheet, white as a ghost, but Jim Hay looked whiter than that. Rebus held him upright.
'He's gone off his fucking headl' Hay yelled.
