button at shoulder height behind it. A video camera was trained on the room from a bracket above the door.
But there’d be no recording today. These interviews were informal, goodwill a priority. Pettifer carried nothing into the room but a couple of sheets of blank paper and a cheap pen. He would have studied the file on Johnson but wasn’t about to brandish it.
“Take a seat, please,” Pettifer said. Johnson brushed the chair’s surface with a bright red handkerchief before lowering himself onto it with showy deliberation.
Pettifer sat down opposite, then realized there was no chair for Rebus. He made to stand up again, but Rebus shook his head.
“I’ll just stand here, if that’s okay,” he said. He was leaning against the wall opposite, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting in his jacket pockets. He’d found a spot where he was in Pettifer’s line of vision but where Johnson would have to turn to see him.
“You’re sort of like a guest star, Mr. Rebus?” Johnson obliged with a grin.
“VIP treatment for you, Peacock.”
“The Peacock always travels first-class, Mr. Rebus.” Johnson sounded satisfied, resting against the back of the chair, arms folded. His hair was jet-black, slicked back from the brow, curling where it met the nape of his neck. He’d been known to keep a cocktail stick in his mouth, working it like a lollipop. Not today, though. Today he was chewing a piece of gum.
“Mr. Johnson,” Pettifer began, “I assume you know why you’re here?”
“You’re asking all us cats about the shooter. I told the other cop, told anyone who’d listen, the Peacock doesn’t do that sort of thing. Shooting kids, man, that’s pure evil.” He shook his head slowly. “I’d help you if I could, but you’ve got me here under false pretexts.”
“You’ve been in a spot of trouble before over firearms, Mr. Johnson. We just wondered if you might be the sort of man who’d have his ear to the ground. Could be you’ve heard something. Maybe a rumor, someone new in the marketplace…”
Pettifer sounded confident. It could be 90 percent front; inside he could be shivering like the last leaf on autumn’s tree, but he sounded okay, and that was what mattered. Rebus liked what he saw.
“The Peacock isn’t what you’d call a snitch, Your Honor. But in this case, it’s a definite. If I hear something, I come straight to you. No worries on that bulletin board. And for the record, I deal in replica weapons-collectors’ market, respectable gentlemen of industry and suchlike. When the powers above make such trade illegal, you can be sure the Peacock will cease operations.”
“You’ve never sold illegal firearms to anyone?”
“Never.”
“And don’t happen to know of anyone who might?”
“As I said in a previous answer, the Peacock is not a snitch.”
“What about reactivating these collectors’ guns of yours: know anyone who’d be able to do that?”
“Not a scooby, m’lud.”
Pettifer nodded and looked down at the sheets of paper, which were just as blankly white as they’d been when he’d placed them on the table. During the lull, Johnson turned his head to check on Rebus.
“What’s it like back in cattle class, Mr. Rebus?”
“I like it. The people tend to be that bit cleaner in their habits.”
“Now, now…” Another grin, this time accompanied by a wagging finger. “I won’t have uppity public servants soiling my VIP suite.”
“You’re going to love it in Barlinnie, Peacock,” Rebus said. “Put it another way: the guys in there are going to love you to absolute bits. Dressing up always tends to go down well in the Bar-L.”
“Mr. Rebus…” Johnson lowered his head and produced a sigh. “Vendettas are ugly things. Ask the Italians.”
Pettifer shifted in his chair, its legs scraping the floor. “Maybe if we could get back to the question of where you think Lee Herdman could have scored those guns…?”
“They’re mostly made in China these days, aren’t they?” Johnson said.
“I mean,” Pettifer went on, an edge creeping into his voice, “how would someone go about getting hold of them?”
Johnson gave an exaggerated shrug. “By the grip and the trigger?” He laughed at his own joke, laughed alone into the room’s silence. Then he shifted in his seat, tried for a solemn face. “Most gun sellers are Glasgow-based. They’re the cats you should be talking to.”
“Our colleagues in the west are doing just that,” Pettifer said. “But meantime, you can’t think of anyone in particular we should be asking?”
Johnson shrugged. “Search me.”
“You should do that, DC Pettifer,” Rebus said, making for the door. “You should definitely take him up on that…”
Outside, the situation was no calmer and there was no sign of Siobhan. Rebus guessed she’d retreated to the cafeteria, but instead of looking for her, he headed upstairs, glancing in on a couple of rooms before finding Evil Bob, who was being interviewed by a shirt-sleeved DS named George Silvers. Around St. Leonard’s, Silvers was known as “Hi-Ho.” He was a time-server, awaiting the oncoming pension with all the anticipation of a hitchhiker at a truck stop. He didn’t so much as nod when Rebus entered the room. There were a dozen questions on his list, and he wanted them asked and answered so that the specimen in front of him could be deposited back on the street. Bob watched as Rebus pulled a chair between the two men and sat down, his right knee only inches from Bob’s left. Bob squirmed.
“I’ve just been in with Peacock,” Rebus said, ignoring that he was interrupting one of Silvers’s questions. “He should change his name to canary.”
Bob stared at him dully. “Why’s that, then?”
“Why do you think?”
“Dunno.”
“What do canaries do?”
“Fly around… live in trees.”
“They live in your grannie’s fucking birdcage, you moron. And they sing.”
Bob thought about this; Rebus could almost hear the cogs grinding. With a lot of lowlifes, it was an act. Many of them were clever enough, wise not just in the ways of the street. But either Bob was Robert De Niro in full method mode, or else he was no actor at all.
“What sort of stuff?” he asked. Then he saw Rebus’s look. “I mean, what sort of stuff do they sing?”
Not De Niro, then…
“Bob,” Rebus said, elbows on knees, leaning close to the squat young man, “you hang around with Johnson, you’re going to spend half your life behind bars.”
“So?”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
Stupid question, Rebus realized as the words came out. The arch look from Silvers told him as much. Prison would be just another sleepwalking session for Bob. It would have no effect on him whatsoever.
“Peacock and me, we’re partners.”
“Oh, aye, and I’m sure he’s splitting it right down the middle. Come on, Bob…” Rebus smiled conspiratorially. “He’s ripping you off. Big grin on his face, blinding you with dental work. But he’s framing you. And when things start going wrong, guess who’ll be taking the fall? That’s why he keeps you around. You’re the guy in the panto who gets the custard pie in his face every performance. The pair of you buy and sell guns, for Christ’s sake! Think we’re not on to you?”
“Replicas,” Bob stated, as if remembering a lesson and repeating it rote. “For collectors to hang on their walls.”
“Oh, aye, everybody wants a bunch of fake Glock 17s and Walther PPKs above the fireplace…” Rebus straightened up. He didn’t know if it was possible to get through to Bob. There had to be something, a weakness to be exploited. But the guy was like so much wet dough. You could knead him, twist him all out of shape… you’d only ever end up with a spongy mass. He decided on one last try.
“One of these days, Bob, a kid’s going to draw one of your replicas and someone’ll take him down, thinking the
