`Not from this angle.’
`Any passengers?’
`Couldn't tell.’
He wears glasses, Rebus thought. How reliable is he? `When you saw it happen, you didn't go down?’
`I'm not a medical student or anything.’
He nodded towards an easel in the corner, and Rebus noticed a shelf of paints and brushes. `Someone ran to the phone box, so I knew help was coming.’
Rebus nodded. `Anyone else see it?’
`They were in the kitchen.’
Renton paused. `I know what you're thinking.’
Rebus doubted it. `You're thinking I wear specs, so maybe I didn't see it right. But he definitely swerved. You know… deliberately. I mean, like he was aiming for her.’
He nodded to himself.
`Aiming for her?’
Renton made a movement with his hand, imitating a car gliding off one course and on to another. `He steered straight for her.’
`The car didn't lose control?’
`That would have been jerkier, wouldn't it?’
`What colour was the car?’
`Dark green.’
`And the make?’
Renton shrugged. `I'm hopeless with cars. Tell you what though…’
`What?’
Renton took off his glasses, started polishing them. `Why don't I try sketching it for you?’
He moved the easel over to the window and got to work. Rebus went into the hall and called the hospital. The person he got through to didn't sound too surprised.
`No change, I'm afraid. She's got a couple of visitors with her.’
Mickey and Rhona. Rebus terminated the call, made another to Pryde's mobile.
`I'm in one of the flats over Remnant Kings. I've got an eyewitness.’
`Yes?’
`He saw the whole thing. And he's an art student.’
`Yes?’
`Come on, Bill. Do you want me to draw it for you?’
There was silence for a moment, then Pryde said `Ah'.
13
Rebus held the mobile to his ear as he walked through the hospital.
`Joe Herdman's put together a list,' Bill Pryde was saying. `Rover 600 series, the newer Ford Mondeos, Toyota Celica, plus a couple of Nissans. Rank outsider is the BMW 5-series.’
`It narrows things down a bit, I suppose.’
`Joe says the Rover, Mondeo and Celica are favourites. He's given me a few more details – chrome around the numberplates, stuff like that. I'm going to call our artist friend, see if anything clicks.’
A nurse was glaring at Rebus as he walked towards her.
`Let me know what he says. Talk to you later, Bill.’
Rebus slipped the phone back into his pocket.
`You're not supposed to use those things in here,' the nurse snapped.
`Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry…’
`They can interfere with the machines.’
Rebus pulled up, colour leaving his face. `I forgot,' he said. He put a shaking hand to his forehead.
`Are you all right?’
`Fine, fine. Look, I won't do it again, okay?’
He started to move off. `You can rely on that.’
Rebus took a photocopy of Renton 's drawing from his pocket. Joe Herdman was a desk sergeant who knew everything about cars. He'd been useful before, turning a vague description into something more concrete. Rebus looked at the drawing as he walked. All the details were there: buildings in the background, the hedge, the onlookers. And Sammy, caught at the point of impact. She'd half-turned, was' stretching out her hands as if she could push the car to a stop. But Renton had drawn fine lines issuing from the back of the car, representing the air being pushed, representing speed. Where there should have been a face, he had left a blank oval. The back half of the car was very clearly defined, the front a blur of disappearing perspective. Renton said he'd left out anything he couldn't be sure of. He promised he hadn't let his imagination fill in the blanks.
It was the face, or the lack of it… it disturbed Rebus more than anything else in the picture. He drew himself into the scene, wondered what he'd have done. Would he have concentrated on the car, caught its licence plate? Or would his attention have been focused on Sammy? Which would have prevailed: cop instincts or fatherhood? Someone at the station had said, `Don't worry, we'll get him.’
Not, `Don't worry, she'll be all right.’
Which brought it all down to two things: him – meaning the driver – and retribution, rather than her – the victim – and recovery.
`I'd just have been another witness,' Rebus said quietly. Then he folded the drawing and put it away.
Sammy had a room to herself, all tubes and machinery, the way he'd seen it in films and on TV. Only here the room was dingier, paint flaking from the walls and around the window-frames. The chairs had metal legs and rubber feet and moulded plastic seats. A woman rose as he came in. They embraced. He kissed the side of her forehead.
Aiming for her. Didn't anyone say that? `Hello, Rhona.’
`Hello, John.’
She looked tired, of course, but her hair was stylishly cut and dyed the colour of a dull golden harvest. Her clothes were smart and she wore jewellery. He studied her eyes. Their colour was wrong. Coloured contacts. Not even her eyes were going to betray her past.
`Christ, Rhona, I'm sorry.’
He was whispering, not wanting to disturb Sammy. Which was ludicrous, because right now all he wanted in the world was for her to wake up.
`How is she?’ he asked.
`Much the same.’
Mickey stood up. There were three chairs arranged in a sort of semi-circle. Mickey and Rhona had been sitting with an empty chair between them. As Rhona broke from Rebus's embrace, his brother took her place.
`This is so fucking awful,' Mickey said, his voice low. He looked the same as ever: a party animal who'd stopped getting the invites.
Niceties dispensed with, Rebus went to Sammy's bedside. Her face was still bruised, and now he could place the probable cause of each abrasion: hedge, wall, pavement. One leg was broken, both arms heavily bandaged. A teddy bear, missing one ear, lay by her head. Rebus smiled.
`You brought Pa Broon.’
`Yes.’
`Do they know yet if there's any…?’
His eyes were on Sammy as he spoke.
`What?’
Rhona wanted him to spell it out. No hiding place.
`Brain damage,' he said.
