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`A few days. Had to be sure we had the right one, didn't we?’
`And now you're sure?’
`Absolutely positive.’
Rebus looked out of the window at the passing parade of shops, pedestrians, buses. The car was heading down towards Newhaven and Granton. `You wouldn't be setting up some loser to take the blame?’
`He's genuine.’
`You could have spent the past few days making sure he was going to say the right things.’
The Weasel seemed amused. `Such as?’
`Such as that he was in Telford's pay.’
`Rather than Mr Cafferty's, you mean?’
Rebus glared at the Weasel, who laughed. `I think you'll find him a pretty convincing candidate.’
The way he said it made Rebus shiver. `He's still alive, isn't he?’
`Ah, yes. How long he remains so is entirely up to you.’
`You think I want him dead?’
`I know you do. You didn't go to Mr Cafferty because you wanted justice. You went out of revenge.’
Rebus stared at the Weasel. `You don't sound like yourself.’
`You mean I don't sound like my persona – different thing entirely.’
`And do many people get behind the persona?’
The Who: `Can You See the Real Me?’
The Weasel smiled again. `I thought you deserved it, after all the trouble you've gone to.’
`I didn't break Telford just to please your boss.’
`Nevertheless…’
The Weasel slid across his seat towards Rebus. `How's Sammy, by the way?’
`She's fine.’
`Recuperating?’
`Yes.’
`That's good news. Mr Cafferty will be pleased. He's disappointed you haven't been to see him.’
Rebus took a newspaper from his pocket. It was folded at a story: FATAL STABBING AT JAIL.
`Your boss?’ he said, handing the paper over.
The Weasel made show of reading it. "`Aged twenty-six, from Govan… stabbed through the heart in his cell… no witnesses, no weapon recovered despite a thorough search.”
'He tutted. `Bit careless.’
`He'd taken up the contract on Cafferty?’
`Had he?’
The Weasel looked amazed.
`Fuck off,' Rebus said, turning back to his window.
`By the way, Rebus, if you decide not to go to trial with the driver…’
The Weasel was holding something out. A homemade screwdriver, filed to a point, grip covered in packing-tape. Rebus looked at it in disgust.
`I washed the blood off,' the Weasel assured him. Then he laughed again. Rebus felt like he was being ferried straight to hell. In front of him he could see the grey expanse of the Firth of Forth, and Fife beyond it. They were coming into an area of docks, gas-plant and warehouses. It had been earmarked for a development spill-over from Leith. The whole city was changing. Traffic routes and priorities were altered overnight, cranes were kept busy on buildingsites, and the council, who always complained about being broke, had all ma
`Nearly there,' the Weasel said.
Rebus wondered if there'd be any turning back.
They stopped at the gates to a warehouse complex. The driver undid the padlock, pulled the chain free. The gates swung open. In they went. The Weasel ordered the driver to park around the back. There was a plain white van there, more rust than metal. Its back windows had been painted over, turning it into a suitable hearse should occasion demand.
They got out into a salt wind. The Weasel shuffled over towards a door and banged once. The door was pushed open from within. They stepped inside.
A huge open space, filled with only a few packing cases, a couple of pieces of machinery covered with oil-cloth. And two men: the one who'd let them in, and another at the far end. This man was standing in front of a wooden chair. There was a figure tied to the chair, half-hidden by the man. The Weasel led the procession. Rebus tried to control his breathing, which was growing painfully shallow. His heart was racing, nerves jangling. He pushed back the anger, wasn't sure he could hold it.
When they were eight feet from the chair, the Weasel nodded and the man stood away, revealing to Rebus the terrified figure of a kid.
A boy.
Nine or ten, no older.
One black eye, nose caked with blood, both cheeks bruised and a graze on his chin. Burst lip begi
And a smell, as if he'd wet himself, maybe even worse.
`What the hell is this?’ Rebus asked.
`This,' the Weasel said, `is the little bastard who stole the car. This is the little bastard who lost his nerve at a red light and gu
The Weasel stepped forward, planted a hand on the kid's shoulder. `This is the culprit.’
Rebus looked at the faces around him. `Is this your idea of a joke?’
`No joke, Rebus.’
He looked at the boy. Dried tear-tracks. Eyes bloodshot from crying. Shoulders trembling. They'd tied his arms behind him. Tied his ankles to the chair-legs.
`Puh-please, mister…’
Dry, cracked voice. `I… please…’
`Nicked the car,' the Weasel recited, `then did the hit and run, got scared, and dumped the car near where he lives. Took the cassette and the tapes. He wanted the car for a race. That's what they do, race cars around the schemes. This little runt can start an engine in ten seconds flat.’
He rubbed his hands together. `So… here we all are.’
`Help me…’
Rebus recalling the city's graffiti: Won't Anyone Help? The Weasel nodding towards one of his men, the man producing a pickaxe-handle.
`Or the screwdriver,' the Weasel said. `Or whatever you like, really. We are at your command.’
And he gave a little bow.
Rebus could hardly speak. `Cut the ropes.’
Silence in the warehouse.
`Cut those fucking ropes!' A sniff from the Weasel. `You heard the man, Tony.’
Ca-chink of a flick-knife opening. Ropes severed like through butter. Rebus walked to within inches of the boy.
`What's your name?’
`J Jordan.’
`Is that your first name or your second?’
The boy looked at him. `First.’
`Okay, Jordan.’
Rebus leaned down. The boy flinched, but did not help me, puh cutting resist as Rebus picked him up. He weighed almost nothing. Rebus started walking with him.
`What now, Rebus?’ the Weasel asked. But Rebus didn't answer. He carried the boy to the threshold, kicked open the door, stepped out into sunshine.
`I'm… I'm really sorry.’
The boy had a hand across his eyes, unused to the light. He was starting to cry.
`You know what you did?’
Jordan nodded. `I've been… ever since that night. I knew it was bad…’
Now the tears came.
`Did they say who I was?’
`Please don't kill me.’
`I'm not going to kill you, Jordan.’
The boy blinked, trying to clear tears from his eyes, the better to know whether he was being lied to.
`I think you've been through enough, pal,' Rebus said. Then added: `I think we both have.’
So after everything, it had come to this. Bob Dylan: `Simple Twist of Fate'. Segue to Leonard Cohen: `Is This What You Wanted?’
Rebus didn't know the answer to that.