Dead Souls by Ian Rankin Page B

mumbled an apology.
    ‘No problem, sir. I’ll just …’ Rebus headed for the door.
    ‘Sit down,’ the Farmer ordered. ‘Now you’re here, let’s see if you can come up with any clever ideas.’
    Rebus sat down. ‘To do with what, sir?’
    The Farmer sat too, then noticed that his mug was empty. He got up again to fill it from the pot, pouring for Rebus too. Rebus examined the dark liquid suspiciously. Over the years, the Farmer’s coffee had definitely improved, but there were still days …
    ‘To do with Cary Dennis Oakes.’
    Rebus frowned. ‘Should I know him?’
    ‘If you don’t, you soon will.’ The Farmer tossed a newspaper in Rebus’s direction. It fell to the floor. Rebus picked it up, saw that it was folded to a particular story, a story Rebus had missed because it wasn’t the one he’d been looking for.
    KILLER IS SENT ‘HOME’.
    ‘Cary Oakes,’ Rebus read, ‘convicted of two murders in Washington State, USA, will today board a flight back to the United Kingdom after serving a fifteen-year sentencein a maximum-security prison in Walla Walla, Washington. It is believed that Oakes will make his way back to Edinburgh, where he lived for several years before going to the United States.’
    There was a lot more. Oakes had flown to the States toting a rucksack and a tourist visa, and then had simply stayed put, taking a series of short-term jobs before embarking on a mugging and robbery spree which had climaxed with two killings, the victims clubbed and strangled to death.
    Rebus put down the paper. ‘Did you know?’
    The Farmer slammed his fists down on the table. ‘Of course I didn’t know!’
    ‘Shouldn’t we have been told?’
    ‘Think about it, John. You’re a cop in Wallumballa or whatever it’s called. You’re sending this murderer back to Scotland . Who do you tell?’
    Rebus nodded. ‘Scotland Yard.’
    ‘Not realising for one minute that Scotland Yard might actually be in another country altogether.’
    ‘And the brainboxes in London decided not to pass the message on?’
    ‘Their version is, they got their wires crossed, thought Oakes was only travelling as far as their patch. In fact, his ticket only goes as far as London.’
    ‘So he’s their problem.’ But the Farmer was shaking his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve had a whip-round and added the fare to Edinburgh?’
    ‘Bingo.’
    ‘So when does he get here?’
    ‘Later on today.’
    ‘And what do we do?’
    The Farmer stared at Rebus. He liked that we . A problem shared – even if with a thorn like Rebus – was a problem that could be dealt with. ‘What would you suggest?’
    ‘High-visibility surveillance, let him know we’re watching. With any luck he’ll get fed up and slope off somewhere else.’
    The Farmer rubbed at his eyes. ‘Take a look,’ he said, sliding a folder across the desk. Rebus looked: sheets of fax paper, about twenty of them. ‘The Met took pity on us at the last, sent what they’d been sent by the Americans.’
    Rebus started reading. ‘How come he’s been released? I thought in America “life” meant till death.’
    ‘Some technicality to do with the original trial. So arcane, even the American authorities aren’t sure.’
    ‘But they’re letting him go?’
    ‘A retrial would cost a fortune, plus there’s the problem of tracing the original witnesses. They offered him a deal. If he gave it up, signed away the right to any retrial or compensation, they’d fly him home.’
    ‘In the news story, “home” had inverted commas.’
    ‘He hasn’t spent much time in Edinburgh.’
    ‘So why here?’
    ‘His choice, apparently.’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘Maybe the fax will tell you.’
    The message of the fax was clear and simple. It said Cary Oakes would kill again.
    The psychologist had warned the authorities of this. The psychologist said, Cary Oakes has little concept of right and wrong. There were lots of psychological terms applied to this. The word