head.
‘You must make a pretty bad copper, John. I had around a hundred and fifty witnesses. Iron-clad.’
Rebus could not pull his attention away from the design in the carpet.
‘Plenty of people believe in past lives, John.’
Past lives . . . Yes, he believed in some things . . . In God, certainly . . . But past lives . . . Without warning, a face screamed up at him from the carpet, trapped in its cell.
He dropped his glass.
‘John? Is anything wrong? Christ, you look as if you’ve seen . . .’
‘No, no, nothing’s the matter.’ Rebus retrieved the glass and stood up. ‘I just . . . I’m fine. It’s just that,’ he checked his watch, a watch with numbers, ‘well, I’d better be going. I’m on duty this evening.’
Michael was smiling weakly, glad that his brother was not going to stay, but embarrassed at his relief.
‘We’ll have to meet again soon,’ he said, ‘on neutral territory.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, tasting once again the tang of toffee-apples. He felt a little pale, a little shaky, as though he were too far out of his territory. ‘Let’s do that.’
Once or twice or three times a year, at weddings, funerals, or over the telephone at Christmas, they promised themselves this get-together. The mere promise now was a ritual in itself, and so could be safely proffered and just as safely ignored.
‘Let’s do that.’
Rebus shook hands with Michael at the door. Escaping past the BMW to his own car, he wondered how alike they were, his brother and him. Uncles and aunts in their funeral-cold rooms occasionally commented, ‘Ah, you’re both the spitting image of your mother.’ That was as far as it went. John Rebus knew that his own hair was a shade of brown lighter than Michael’s, and that his eyes were a shade of green darker. He knew also, however, that the differences between them were such that any similarities were made to look unutterably superficial. They were brothers without any sense of brotherhood. Brotherhood belonged to the past.
He waved once from the car and was gone. He would be back in Edinburgh within the hour, and on duty another half-hour after that. He knew that the reason he could never feel comfortable in Michael’s house was Chrissie’s hatred of him, her unshakeable belief that he alone had been responsible for the break-up of his marriage. Maybe she was right at that. He tried ticking off in his mind the definite chores of the next seven or eight hours. He had to tidy up a case of burglary and serious assault. A nasty one that. The CID was undermanned as it was, and now these abductions would stretch them even more. Those two young girls, girls his own daughter’s age. It was best not to think about it. By now they would be dead, or would wish that they were dead. God have mercy on them. In Edinburgh of all places, in his own dear city.
A maniac was on the loose.
People were staying in their homes.
And a screaming in his memory .
Rebus shrugged, feeling a slight sensation of attrition in one of his shoulders. It was not his business after all. Not yet.
Back in his living-room, Michael Rebus poured himself another whisky. He went to the stereo and turned it all the way up, then reached underneath his chair and, after a little fumbling, pulled out an ashtray that was hidden there.
1
On the steps of the Great London Road police station in Edinburgh, John Rebus lit his last legitimate cigarette of the day before pushing open the imposing door and stepping inside.
The station was old, its floor dark and marbled. It had about it the fading grandeur of a dead aristocracy. It had character.
Rebus waved to the duty sergeant, who was tearing old pictures from the notice-board and pinning up new ones in their place. He climbed the great curving staircase to his office. Campbell was just leaving.
‘Hello, John.’
McGregor Campbell, a Detective Sergeant like Rebus, was donning coat and hat.
‘What’s the word, Mac? Is it going to be a busy night?’
‘You must make a pretty bad copper, John. I had around a hundred and fifty witnesses. Iron-clad.’
Rebus could not pull his attention away from the design in the carpet.
‘Plenty of people believe in past lives, John.’
Past lives . . . Yes, he believed in some things . . . In God, certainly . . . But past lives . . . Without warning, a face screamed up at him from the carpet, trapped in its cell.
He dropped his glass.
‘John? Is anything wrong? Christ, you look as if you’ve seen . . .’
‘No, no, nothing’s the matter.’ Rebus retrieved the glass and stood up. ‘I just . . . I’m fine. It’s just that,’ he checked his watch, a watch with numbers, ‘well, I’d better be going. I’m on duty this evening.’
Michael was smiling weakly, glad that his brother was not going to stay, but embarrassed at his relief.
‘We’ll have to meet again soon,’ he said, ‘on neutral territory.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, tasting once again the tang of toffee-apples. He felt a little pale, a little shaky, as though he were too far out of his territory. ‘Let’s do that.’
Once or twice or three times a year, at weddings, funerals, or over the telephone at Christmas, they promised themselves this get-together. The mere promise now was a ritual in itself, and so could be safely proffered and just as safely ignored.
‘Let’s do that.’
Rebus shook hands with Michael at the door. Escaping past the BMW to his own car, he wondered how alike they were, his brother and him. Uncles and aunts in their funeral-cold rooms occasionally commented, ‘Ah, you’re both the spitting image of your mother.’ That was as far as it went. John Rebus knew that his own hair was a shade of brown lighter than Michael’s, and that his eyes were a shade of green darker. He knew also, however, that the differences between them were such that any similarities were made to look unutterably superficial. They were brothers without any sense of brotherhood. Brotherhood belonged to the past.
He waved once from the car and was gone. He would be back in Edinburgh within the hour, and on duty another half-hour after that. He knew that the reason he could never feel comfortable in Michael’s house was Chrissie’s hatred of him, her unshakeable belief that he alone had been responsible for the break-up of his marriage. Maybe she was right at that. He tried ticking off in his mind the definite chores of the next seven or eight hours. He had to tidy up a case of burglary and serious assault. A nasty one that. The CID was undermanned as it was, and now these abductions would stretch them even more. Those two young girls, girls his own daughter’s age. It was best not to think about it. By now they would be dead, or would wish that they were dead. God have mercy on them. In Edinburgh of all places, in his own dear city.
A maniac was on the loose.
People were staying in their homes.
And a screaming in his memory .
Rebus shrugged, feeling a slight sensation of attrition in one of his shoulders. It was not his business after all. Not yet.
Back in his living-room, Michael Rebus poured himself another whisky. He went to the stereo and turned it all the way up, then reached underneath his chair and, after a little fumbling, pulled out an ashtray that was hidden there.
1
On the steps of the Great London Road police station in Edinburgh, John Rebus lit his last legitimate cigarette of the day before pushing open the imposing door and stepping inside.
The station was old, its floor dark and marbled. It had about it the fading grandeur of a dead aristocracy. It had character.
Rebus waved to the duty sergeant, who was tearing old pictures from the notice-board and pinning up new ones in their place. He climbed the great curving staircase to his office. Campbell was just leaving.
‘Hello, John.’
McGregor Campbell, a Detective Sergeant like Rebus, was donning coat and hat.
‘What’s the word, Mac? Is it going to be a busy night?’
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