And the door was opened from within.
“DS Hackman?”
“Who the hell wants to know?”
“DI Rebus.” Rebus showed his ID. “Can I have a word?”
“Not in here, there’s barely room to swing a cat. Place could do with a bit of fumigating, too. Hang on a sec...” As Hackman retreated into his room, Rebus made a quick examination: clothes strewn everywhere; empty cigarette packs; girlie mags; a personal stereo; can of cider sitting on the floor by the bed. Sound of horse racing from the TV. Hackman had picked up a phone and lighter. Patted his pockets till he found his key. Back out into the hall again. “Outside, yeah?” he suggested, leading the way whether Rebus liked it or not.
He was stocky: huge neck and close-cropped fair hair. Maybe early thirties, the face pitted and pockmarked, nose squashed to one side by a brawl too many. His white T-shirt had suffered too many washes. It rode up at the back, revealing the top of its owner’s underpants. He wore jeans and sneakers.
“Been working?” Rebus asked.
“Just back.”
“Undercover?”
Hackman nodded. “Ordinary man in the street.”
“Any trouble getting in character?”
Hackman’s mouth twitched. “Local cop?”
“That’s right.”
“I could do with a few tips.” Hackman glanced around at Rebus. “Lap bars are on Lothian Road, right?”
“There and thereabouts.”
“Which one should I grace with my hard-earned cash?”
“I’m not an expert.”
Hackman looked him up and down. “Sure about that?” he asked. They were outside now. Hackman offered Rebus a cigarette—readily received—and flicked his lighter open.
“Leith’s got its share of whorehouses, too, right?”
“Right.”
“And it’s legalized here?”
“We tend to turn a blind eye, so long as it’s kept indoors.” Rebus paused to inhale. “I’m glad to see it’s not all work and no play...”
Hackman gave a rasping laugh. “We’ve got better-looking women at home, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Your accent’s not Newcastle though.”
“Grew up near Brighton. Been in the northeast eight years.”
“See any action yesterday?” Rebus was making a show of studying the view before them—Arthur’s Seat rising skyward.
“Is this my debriefing?”
“Just wondering.”
Hackman narrowed his eyes. “What can I do for you, DI Rebus?”
“You worked the Trevor Guest murder.”
“That was two months back; plenty more in my in-box since.”
“It’s Guest I’m interested in. His trousers have turned up near Gleneagles, cash card in the pocket.”
Hackman stared at him. “He wasn’t wearing any when we found him.”
“Now you know why: killer’s been taking trophies.”
Hackman wasn’t slow. “How many?”
“Three victims so far. Two weeks after Guest, he struck again. Identical MO, and a little souvenir left at the same location.”
“Bloody hell...” Hackman drew hard on his cigarette. “We had it down as...well, lowlife like Guest makes plenty enemies. He was a druggie, too, hence the heroin—sending a message.”
“It went to the bottom of your in-box?” Rebus watched the big man shrug. “Any leads at all?”
“Interviewed those who owned up to knowing him. Traced his last night on earth, but didn’t come up with any startling conclusions. I can have all the paperwork sent—”
“Already in hand.”
“Guest was two months back. You say he struck again a couple of weeks later?” Hackman watched Rebus nod agreement. “And the other vic?”
“Three months ago.”
Hackman thought it through. “Twelve weeks, eight, then six. What you expect of killers once they get a taste for it—they speed up. Each new fix satisfies them that bit less than the one before. So what’s happened between then and now? Six weeks without another killing?”
“Sounds unlikely,” Rebus agreed.
“Unless we’ve caught him for something else; or he’s moved his business elsewhere.”
“I like the way you think,” Rebus admitted.
Hackman looked at him. “You’ve already figured out everything I’ve just said, haven’t you?”
“That’s why I like your thinking.”
Hackman gave a scratch to his crotch. “All I’ve been thinking about the past few days is pussy—now you go and do this to me.”
“Sorry about that.” Rebus stubbed the remains of his cigarette. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Trevor Guest—anything that sticks in your mind.”
“For the price of a cold beer, my head is your oyster.”
Problem with oysters, Rebus considered as they walked to the cafeteria, was that you were more likely to get a load of old grit than a pearl.
The place had quieted a little, and they found a table to themselves—though not before Hackman had made an effort to introduce himself to the female officers, formally taking each one by the hand.
“Lovely,” he announced as he returned to Rebus’s table. He clapped his palms together and was rubbing them as he sat down. “Bottoms up,” he said, raising his bottle. Then he gave a little chuckle. “Should be the name of a lap-dancing club.”
Rebus refrained from revealing that it already was. Instead, he repeated Trevor Guest’s name.
Hackman drank half his lager straight off. “Like I said, lowlife. In and out of jail—burglaries, selling the stuff he’d stolen, some other petty stuff and a bit of grievous bodily. He was up here for a time, few years back. Kept his nose clean, far as we could tell.”
“By here you mean Edinburgh?”
Hackman stifled a belch. “Jockland generally...no offense.”
“None taken,” Rebus lied. “I wonder if there’s any way he could have met the third victim—club bouncer called Cyril Colliar, got out of jail three months back.”
“Name doesn’t register. Want another of these?”
“I’ll get them.” Rebus was halfway out of his chair, but Hackman waved him back. Rebus watched as he first approached the women’s table, asking if they were all right for drinks. He made one of them laugh, which probably counted as a result in his book. He carried four bottles back to the table.
“Pissy little things,” he explained, sliding two across toward Rebus. “Besides, got to spend the loot somehow, eh?”
“I notice no one’s paying for bed and board.”
“No one except the local taxpayer.” Hackman’s eyes widened. “I suppose that’s you. So thanks very much.” He toasted Rebus with a fresh bottle. “Don’t suppose you’re free tonight to act as the tour guide?”
“Sorry.” Rebus shook his head.
“I’d be buying...hard offer for a Jock to turn down.”
“I’m turning it down anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” Hackman said with a shrug. “This killer you’re looking for...got any leads?”
“He targets scum; maybe gets them from a victim-support Web site.”
“Vigilante, eh? Meaning someone with a grudge.”
“That’s the theory.”
“Clever money would say the connection’s to the first victim. Should have been the beginning and end, but he caught the bug.”
Rebus nodded slowly, having considered the same conclusion. Fast Eddie Isley, attacker of prostitutes. Isley’s killer maybe a pimp or boyfriend...tracked Isley using BeastWatch, then asked himself a question—why stop with just one?
“How hard do you really want to find this guy?” Hackman asked. “That’s what I’d be wrestling with...sounds like he’s on our side.”
“You don’t believe people can change? All three victims had served their sentences, no sign of reoffending.”
“You’re talking about redemption.” Hackman mimed the
act of spitting. “Could never stand that goody-good bullshit.” He paused. “What are you smiling at?”
“It’s a line from a Pink Floyd song.”
“Is it? I could never stand them either. A bit of Tamla or Stax, songs to seduce the chicks by. Our Trev was a bit of a ladies’ man.”
“Trevor Guest?”
“Liked them a bit on the young side, judging by the girlfriends we dug up.” Hackman snorted. “Believe me, if they’d been any younger, we’d’ve been using a nursery school and not an interview room.” He enjoyed this joke so much, he found it hard to take his next slug of lager. “I like my meat a bit more mature,” he said finally, smacking his lips, seeming lost in thought. “A lot of the escorts in the back of your local paper, they call themselves mature, too. How old do you figure that makes them? I mean, I’m not one for geriatrics...”
“Guest attacked a babysitter, didn’t he?” Rebus asked.
“Broke into a house, happened to find her there on the couch. Far as I remember, all he wanted was a blow job. She hollered and he scampered.” He offered a shrug.
Rebus’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. “I need to be going,” he said.
“Finish your drink.”
“I’m driving.”
“Something tells me you might get away with a misdemeanor or two this week. Still, waste not, want not.” Hackman slid the untouched bottle toward himself. “What about a pint later on? I need a sherpa to show me the way.” Rebus ignored him, kept walking. Back in the fresh air, he risked a glance through the window, saw Hackman doing a little improvised shuffle as he headed toward the women.
14
The so-called Camp Horizon on the edge of Stirling, sandwiched between a soccer field and a trading estate, reminded Siobhan of some of the temporary encampments she’d seen around the Greenham Common Air Base in the 1980s, when she’d hitched there as a teenager to protest about nuclear missiles. There weren’t just tents here, but elaborate wigwams and structures made of osiers, resembling willow igloos. Canvases had been strung between the trees, daubed with rainbows and peace signs. Smoke was rising from campfires, and there was the pungent scent of cannabis in the air. Solar panels and a small wind turbine seemed to be providing electricity for strings of multicolored lightbulbs. A trailer was supplying legal advice and free condoms, while discarded leaflets provided additional information on everything from HIV to third world debt.
She had been stopped at five separate checkpoints on the route from Edinburgh. Despite her showing ID, one security man had even insisted she open the trunk of her car.
“These people have all kinds of sympathizers,” he’d explained.
“They’re well on their way to getting another,” Siobhan had muttered in response.
The inhabitants of the camp seemed to have split into distinct tribes, with the anti-poverty contingent remaining separate from the hard-core anarchists. Red flags seemed to be acting as a border between the two. Old-time hippies formed another subgroup, one of the wigwams their epicenter. Beans were cooking on a stove, while a makeshift sign announced reiki and holistic healing between the hours of five and eight with “special rates for unwaged/students.”
Siobhan had asked one of the guards at the entrance about Santal. He’d shaken his head.
“No names, no problems.” He’d looked her up and down. “Mind a word of warning?”
“What?”
“You look like a cop working undercover.”
She’d followed his eyes. “Is it the overalls?”
He’d shaken his head again. “The clean hair.”
So she’d ruffled it a bit, without seeming to convince him. “Anyone else in there undercover?”
“Bound to be,” he’d said with a smile. “But I’m not going to spot the good ones, am I?”
Her car was parked in the city center. If worse came to the worst, she’d sleep in the car rather than under the stars. The site was a lot bigger than the one in Edinburgh, the tents more densely grouped. As dusk encroached, she had to watch out for tent pegs and guy ropes. Twice she passed a young man with a straggly beard who was trying to interest people in “herbal relaxation.” Third time, their eyes met.
“Lost somebody?” he asked.
“Friend of mine called Santal.”
He shook his head. “Not a great one for names.” So she gave a brief description. He shook his head again. “If you just sit and chill, maybe she’ll come to you.” He held out a ready-rolled joint. “On the house.”
“Only available to new customers?” she guessed.
“Even the forces of law and order need to relax at day’s end.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I’m impressed. Is it the hair?”
“The bag doesn’t help,” he commented. “What you really want is a muddy backpack. That thing”—indicating the guilty item—“makes you look like you’re off to the gym.”
“Thanks for the advice. You weren’t scared I might want to bust you?”
He shrugged. “You want a riot, go right ahead.”
She gave a brief smile. “Maybe another time.”
“This ‘friend’ of yours, any chance she might have been part of the advance guard?”
“Depends what you mean.”
He had paused to light the joint, inhaling deeply, then exhaling and speaking at the same time. “Stands to reason there’ll be blockades from first light, your lot trying to stop us getting near the hotel.” He offered her a hit, but she shook her head. “You’ll never know till you try,” he teased.
“Believe it or not, I was a teenager once...So the advance guard headed out of here earlier?”
“Ordnance survey maps in hand. Only the Ochil Hills between us and victory.”
“Cross-country in the dark? Isn’t that a bit risky?”
He offered a shrug, then drew on the joint again. A young woman was hovering nearby. “Get you anything?” he asked her. The transaction took half a minute: a tiny shrink-wrapped package for three ten-pound notes.
“Cheers,” the woman said. Then, to Siobhan: “Evening, Officer.” She was giggling as she left them. The dealer was looking at Siobhan’s overalls.
“I know when I’m beaten,” she admitted.
“So take my advice: sit and chill for a while. You might find something you didn’t know you were looking for.” He stroked his beard as he spoke.
“That’s...deep,” Siobhan told him, her tone letting him know she was thinking the exact opposite.
“You’ll see,” he retorted, moving past her into the gloom. She walked back to the fence and decided to phone Rebus. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message.
“Hi, it’s me. I’m in Stirling, no sign of Santal. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you need me in the meantime, feel free to call.”
An exhausted but excited-looking group was entering the compound. Siobhan snapped shut her phone and moved to within earshot of them as they were met by some of their comrades.
“Heat-seeking radar...dogs...”
“Armed to the teeth, man...”
“American accents...marines, if you ask me...no ID...”
“Choppers...searchlights...”
“Had us for dead...”
“Tracked us halfway back to base camp...”
Then the questions started. How close did they get? Any weak points in the security? Did they reach the fence? Was anyone still out there?
“We split up...”
“Submachine guns, I figure...”
“Weren’t messing...”
“Split into ten groups of three...easier to lie low...”
“State of the art...”
More questions flew at them. Siobhan started counting heads, stopped at fifteen. Meaning a further fifteen were still out on the Ochils somewhere. In the hubbub, she launched her own question.
“Where’s Santal?”
A shake of the head. “Didn’t see her after we split up.”
One of them had unfolde
d a map, to show how far they’d gotten. He had a flashlight strapped to his forehead and was tracing the route with a muddied finger. Siobhan squeezed closer.
“It’s a total-exclusion zone...”
“Has to be a weak spot...”
“Force of numbers, that’s all we’ve got...”
“We’ll be ten thousand strong by morning.”
“Herbal cigarettes for all our brave soldiers!” As the dealer started handing them out, there were bursts of laughter from the crowd—a release of tension. Siobhan retreated to the back of the throng. A hand grasped her arm. It was the young woman who’d bought from the dealer earlier.
“Pigs better get wings,” she hissed.
Siobhan glared at her. “Or what?”
The young woman offered a malevolent smile. “Or I might have to squeal.”
Siobhan said nothing, just hoisted her bag and backed away. The young woman waved her off. The same guard was on duty at the gate.
“Did the disguise hold?” he asked with something just shy of a smirk.
All the way back to her car, Siobhan tried to think of a comeback...
Rebus had acted the gentleman: returned to Gayfield Square bearing cup noodles and chicken tikka wraps.
“You’re spoiling me,” Ellen Wylie said as he switched on the kettle.
“You also get first choice—chicken and mushroom or beef curry?”
“Chicken.” She watched him peel open the plastic containers. “So how did it go?”
“I found Hackman.”
“And?”
“He wanted a tour of the fleshpots.”
“Yuck.”
“I told him I couldn’t oblige, and in return he told me very little we don’t already know.”
“Or couldn’t have guessed?” She’d come over to join Rebus at the kettle. Picked up one of the wraps and examined its sell-by date: July 5. “Half-price,” she commented.