‘The point is, you really have got him. He’s in Edinburgh.’
‘So?’
‘Christ, John, I thought you’d know. He buggered off to Canada after that last time we hassled him. Set himself up as a photographer, doing shots for fashion catalogues. He’d approach the parents of kids he fancied. He had business cards, camera equipment, the works, rented a studio and used to take shots of the children, promising they’d be in some catalogue or other. They’d get to dress up in fancy dresses, or sometimes maybe just in underwea…’
‘I get the picture, Jack.’
‘Well, they nabbed him. He’d been touching the girls, that was all. A lot of girls, so they put him inside.’
‘And?’
‘And now they’ve let him out. But they’ve also deported him.’
‘He’s in Edinburgh?’
‘I started checking. I wanted to find out where he’d ended up, because I knew if it was anywhere near my patch I’d pay him a visit some dark night. But he’s on your patch instead. I’ve got an address.’
‘Wait a second.’ Rebus found a pen and copied it down.
‘How did you get his address anyway? The DSS?’
‘No, the files said he had a sister in Ayr. She told me he’d had her get a phone number for him, a boarding house. Know what else she said? She said we should lock him in a cellar and forget about the key.’
‘Sounds like a lovely lass.’
‘She’s my kind of woman, all right. Of course, he’s probably been rehabilitated.’
That word-rehabilitated. A word Vanderhyde had used about Aengus Gibson. ‘Probably,’ said Rebus, believing it about as much as Morton himself. They were professional disbelievers, after all. It was a policeman’s lot.
‘Still, it’s good to know about. Thanks, Jack.’
‘You’re welcome. Any chance we’ll be seeing you in Falkirk some day? It’d be good to have a drink.’
‘Yes, it would. Tell you what, I might be over that way soon.’
‘Oh?’
‘Dropping McPhail off in the town centre.’
Morton laughed. ‘Ya shite, ye.’ And with that he put down the phone.
Jack Morton stared at the phone for the best part of a minute, still grinning. Then the grin melted away. He unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and started gnawing it. It’s better than a cigarette, he kept telling himself. He looked at the scribbled sheet of notes in front of him on the desk. The girl McPhail had assaulted was called Melanie Maclean these days. Her mother had married, and Melanie lived with the couple in Haddington, far enough from Edinburgh so that she probably wouldn’t bump into McPhail. Nor, in all probability, would McPhail be able to find her. He’d have to know the stepfather’s name, and that wouldn’t be easy for him. It hadn’t been
He knew too that Alex Maclean was a carpenter, and Haddington police were able to inform him that Maclean had a temper on him, and had twice (long before his marriage) been arrested after some flare-up or other. He wondered, but he knew he was going to do it. He picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers. Then waited.
‘Hello, can I speak to Mr Maclean please? Mr Maclean? You don’t know me, but I have some information I’d like to share with you. It concerns a man called Andrew McPhai…’
Matthew Vanderhyde too made a telephone call that afternoon, but only after long thought in his favourite armchair. He held the cordless phone in his hand, tapping it with a long fingernail. He could hear a dog outside, the one from down the street with the nasal whine. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, the tick seeming to slow as he concentrated on it. Time’s heartbeat. At last he made the call. There was no preamble.
‘I’ve just had a policeman here,’ he said. ‘He was asking about the night the Central Hotel caught fire.’ He hesitated slightly. ‘I told him about Aengus.’ He could pause now, listening with a weary smile to the fury on the other end of the line, a fury he knew so well. ‘Broderick,’ he interrupted, ‘if any skeletons are being uncloseted,
When the fury began afresh, Matthew Vanderhyde terminated the call.
7
Rebus noticed the man for the first time that evening. He thought he’d seen him outside St Leonard’s in the afternoon. A young man, tall and broad-shouldered. He was standing outside the entrance to Rebus’s communal stairwell in Arden Street. Rebus parked his car across the street, so that he could watch the man in his rearview mirror. The man looked agitated, pumped up about something. Maybe he was only waiting for his date. Maybe.
Rebus wasn’t scared, but he started the car again and drove off anyway. He’d give it an hour and see if the man was still there. If he was, then he wasn’t waiting on any date, no matter how bonny the girl. He drove along the Meadows to Tollcross, then took a right down Lothian Road. It was slow going, as per. The number of vehicles needing to get through the city of an evening seemed to grow every week. Edinburgh in the twilight looked much the same as any other place: shops and offices and crowded pavements. Nobody looked particularly happy.
He crossed Princes Street, cut into Charlotte Square, and began the crawl along Queensferry Street and Queensferry Road until he could take a merciful (if awkward) right turn into Oxford Terrace. But Patience wasn’t home. He knew Patience’s sister was expected this week, staying a few days then taking the girls home. Patience’s cat, Lucky, sat outside, demanding entry, and Rebus for once was almost sympathetic.
‘Nae luck,’ he told it, before starting back up the steps.
When he got back to Arden Street, there was no sign of the skulking hulk. But Rebus would recognise him if he saw him again. Oh yes, he’d know him, all right.
Indoors, he had another argument with Michael, the two of them in the living room, everyone else in the kitchen. That was another thing: how many tenants did he have? There seemed to be a shifting population of about a dozen, where he’d rented to three with a possible fourth. He could swear he saw different faces every morning, and as a result could never remember anyone’s name.
So there was another row about that, this time with the students in the kitchen while Michael sat in the box room, at the end of which Rebus said, ‘Away to hell,’ and proceeded to follow his own instructions by getting back in his car and making for one of the city’s least respectable quarters, there to dine on pies and pints while staring at a soundless TV. He spoke with a few of his contacts, who had nothing to report regarding the assault on Brian Holmes.
So it was just another evening, really.
He got back purposely. late, hoping everyone else would have gone to bed. He fumbled with the door-catch of the tenement and let the door swing shut loudly behind him, searching in his pockets for the flat key, eyes to the ground. So he didn’t see the man, who must have been sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.
‘Hello there.’
Rebus looked up, startled, recognised the figure, and sent small change and keys scattering as he threw a punch. He wasn’t that drunk, but then his target was stone cold sober and twenty years younger. The man palmed the punch easily. He looked surprised at the attack, but also somehow excited by it. Rebus cut short the thrill of it all by sharply raising his knee into unprotected groin. The man expelled air noisily, and started to double over, which gave Rebus the opportunity to punch down onto the back of his neck. He felt his knuckles crackle with the force of the blow.
‘Jesus,’ the man gasped. ‘Stop it.’
Rebus stopped it and wagged his aching hand. But he wasn’t about to offer help. He kept his distance, and asked ‘Who are you?’
The man managed to stop retching for a moment. ‘Andy Steele.’
‘Nice to meet you, Andy. What the fuck do you want?’
The man looked up at Rebus with tears in his eyes. It took him a while to catch his breath. When he spoke, Rebus either couldn’t understand the accent or else just didn’t believe what he was saying. He asked Steele to
