by Ian Rankin
When they reached the junction between South Bridge and the High Street, Francis Gray suddenly veered left into the High Street itself and started heading downhill, towards the Canongate. They followed, asking him where he was headed.
“Maybe he knows a good boozer,” Barclay commented.
Rebus’s ears reddened slightly. It was true that he’d been sticking to the tourist route, keeping the group away from his more regular haunts. He wanted those pubs to remain his.
Gray had stopped in front of a kilt shop and was staring up at the building next to it.
“My mum brought me here when I was a kid,” he said.
“What is it?” Stu Sutherland asked.
“Right here, Stu.” Gray stamped his foot on the pavement. “This is everything that makes us what we are!”
Sutherland looked around. “I still don’t get it.”
“It’s John Knox’s house,” Rebus said. “It’s where he lived.”
“Bloody right, it is,” Gray said, nodding. “Anybody else’s mum bring them here?”
“I came with a school trip,” Jazz McCullough admitted.
“Aye, me too,” Allan Ward said. “Fucking boring it was, too.”
Gray wagged a finger. “That’s history you’re insulting, young Allan. Our history.”
Rebus wanted to say something about how women and Catholics might not agree. He didn’t know much about John Knox, but he seemed to recall the man hadn’t been too keen on either group.
“Knoxland,” Gray said, stretching out his arms. “That’s what Edinburgh is, wouldn’t you agree, John?”
Rebus felt he was being tested in some way. He offered a shrug. “Which Knox, though?” he asked, causing Gray to frown. “There was another: Doctor Robert Knox. He bought bodies from Burke and Hare. Maybe we’re more like him . . .”
Gray thought about this, then smiled. “Archie Tennant delivered us the body of Rico Lomax, and we’re cutting it open.” He began to nod slowly. “That’s very good, John. Very good.”
Rebus wasn’t sure it was exactly what he’d meant, but he accepted the compliment anyway.
The conversation had passed over Tam Barclay’s head. “I need a pee,” he said, turning towards the nearest close and disappearing down it.
Allan Ward was looking up and down the street. “Dumfries is Times Square compared to this place,” he complained. Then his eye caught a couple of women coming up the slope towards the group. “At last, our luck changes!” He made a move forward. “All right there, ladies? Listen, me and my pals are strangers in these parts . . . maybe we could buy you a drink . . . ?”
“No thanks,” one of the women said. Her eyes were on Rebus.
“Something to eat then?”
“We’ve just eaten,” the other woman said.
“Was it any good?” Ward asked. He had a conversation going, and wasn’t about to lose it. The first woman was still looking at Rebus. Stu Sutherland was standing beside the window of the kiltmaker’s, exclaiming at the prices.
“Come on, Denise,” the first woman said.
“Hey, Denise and me are talking here,” Ward snapped.
“Let them go, Allan,” Rebus said. “Jean, I —”
But Jean was tugging at Denise’s sleeve. She glowered at Rebus, then her eyes moved to his left as Tam Barclay appeared from the shadows, still zipping his fly.
Rebus started to say something, but her look stopped him. Ward was trying to prize Denise’s phone number out of her.
“Christ’s sake!” Barclay gasped. “I go for a slash and it all happens! Where are you headed, ladies?”
But the ladies were already on their way. Rebus stood there, mute, watching them go.
“You dog, Allan,” Barclay was saying. “Did you get her number?”
Ward just grinned and winked.
“She was old enough to be your mother,” Stu Sutherland commented.
“My auntie, maybe,” Ward conceded. “Some you win, some you lose . . .”
Rebus was suddenly aware of Gray standing by his side. “Someone you know, John?”
Rebus nodded.
“She didn’t look too happy with you. Jean, was that her name?”
Rebus nodded again.
Gray slid an arm around his shoulders. “John’s in the doghouse,” he announced. “Looks like he’s bumped into the one person he shouldn’t have.”
“That’s the trouble with this place,” Allan Ward stated. “It’s too bloody small! Capital city? Capital village, more like.”
“Cheer up, John,” Jazz McCullough said.
“Come on, let’s have a drink,” Sutherland mooted, pointing to the nearest pub.
“Good idea, Stu.” Gray gave Rebus a squeeze. “Maybe a drink would cheer you up, eh, John? Just the one . . .”
Rebus nodded slowly. “Just the one,” he repeated.
“Good man,” Francis Gray said, walking towards the door with his arm still around Rebus. Rebus felt a tightness across his shoulders which had nothing to do with the physical contact. He imagined himself after seven or eight pints, suddenly breaking down and yelling into Francis Gray’s ear the secret he’d kept all these years:
Rico Lomax’s murder . . . it’s all down to me . . .
And then asking Gray about Bernie Johns, a quid pro quo . . . and having Gray admit to nothing:
Smoke and mirrors, John, that’s all it ever was. You’re Strathern’s unfinished business, don’t you see?
Walking into the pub, Rebus was aware of Jazz and Ward directly behind him, as if to make sure he didn’t back out . . .
The taxi driver was loath to take six, but relented when a healthy tip was mentioned . . . that and the fact that they were cops. It was a tight squeeze but a short trip. They got out at Arden Street, and Rebus led them upstairs. He knew he had lager in the fridge, beer and whiskey in the cupboard. Plus tea and coffee. The milk might not be too healthy, but they could always do without.
“Nice stairwell,” Jazz McCullough commented. He meant the patterned wall tiles and mosaic floor, which Rebus hadn’t really paid any attention to in years. They climbed to the second floor and Rebus unlocked the door. There was some mail behind it, but not much.
“Living room’s down there,” he announced. “I’ll fetch the drinks.” He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, then opened the fridge. He could hear their voices, sounding strange to him. Almost no one visited the flat. Jean sometimes . . . a few others. But never so many people all at once . . . not since Rhona had moved out. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and gulped it down. Caught his breath and then downed another. What had possessed him to bring them back here? It was Gray who’d put forward the proposition: A wee nightcap at John’s. He tried to shake his head clear of the alcohol. Maybe . . . maybe having opened his home to them, they’d open up to him. It had been Gray’s idea. Was Francis Gray hoping to glean something about Rebus from the visit?
“Just be careful in there, John,” he muttered to himself.
Suddenly he heard music, becoming clearer as the volume was turned up. Well, that might give the students next door something to think about. It was Led Zeppelin, “Immigrant Song,” Robert Plant’s voice a wailing siren. By the time he arrived in the living room with the cans of beer and lager, Allan Ward was already asking for “that pish” to be turned off.
“It’s a classic,” Jazz McCullough informed him. McCullough, usually so poised in his movements, was down on all fours, arse to the group, as he scrutinized Rebus’s record collection.
“Ah, cheers, John,” Sutherland said, taking a beer. Ward snatched a lager with a nod of thanks. Tam Barclay asked where the toilet was.
“Some great stuff here, John,” McCullough said. “I’ve got a lot of it myself.” He’d pulled out Exile on Main Street. “Best album ever made.”
“What is it?” Gray asked. When told the title, he grinned. “Exiles on Arden Street, that’s us, eh?”
“I’ll drink to that,” Stu Sutherla
nd said.
“Speaking of which . . . ?” Rebus held the cans towards Gray, who wrinkled his nose.
“A wee whiskey maybe?” Gray said. Rebus nodded.
“I might join you.”
“Not driving us back then?”
“I’ve had five pints, Francis. Reckon I’ll spend the night in my own bed.”
“Might as well . . . not much chance of spending it in Jean’s, eh?” Gray saw the look on Rebus’s face, and lifted a hand, palm out. “That was out of order. Sorry, John.”
Rebus just shook his head, asked Jazz what he wanted. Coffee was the reply.
“If John’s staying put, we can all squeeze into my car,” he announced.
Rebus had located the bottle of Bowmore and a couple of glasses. He poured and handed one to Gray. “Any water with that?”
“Don’t be daft,” Gray said, toasting him. “Here’s to the Mild Bunch.” He got a laugh from Tam Barclay, who was coming back into the room, zipping his fly.
“Mild Bunch,” he chuckled. “Good one, Francis.”
“Jesus, Tam,” Ward complained, “you ever think of zipping it shut before you leave the bathroom?”
Barclay ignored him, took one of the beers and opened it, then slumped on the sofa next to Sutherland. Rebus noticed that Gray was sitting in the chair he himself normally used. Gray looked at home in it, one leg slung over the side. Rebus’s phone and ashtray were on the floor beside him.
“Jazz,” Gray said, “you going to grace us with the pleasure of your backside’s company all night?”
McCullough half turned and sat himself down on the floor. Rebus had brought over one of the dining chairs for himself.
“Haven’t seen this one in years,” McCullough said, waving a copy of the first Montrose album.
“Jazz is like a pig in shit,” Gray announced. “One whole room of his house is full of records and tapes. Alphabetical order and everything.”
Rebus took a sip of whiskey, fixed a smile to his face. “You’ve been there then?” he asked.
“Where?”
“Jazz’s.”
Gray looked at McCullough, who looked back at him. “Cat’s out the bag,” Gray said with a smile. Then, turning to Rebus: “We go back a ways, me and Jazz. I mean, it falls a long way short of a ménage à trois, but I’ve been to the house a couple of times.”
“Managed to keep that quiet,” Sutherland said. Rebus was glad others were joining in.
“Aye, what’s the score here?” Barclay asked.
“There’s no ‘score,’ ” McCullough said determinedly. Which caused Allan Ward to burst out laughing.
“Going to share it, Allan?” Rebus asked. He was wondering if Ward had laughed precisely because there had been a score . . . At the same time, he wondered whether it really mattered one way or the other. A few grand . . . even a few hundred grand . . . pocketed with no comebacks, no harm done. What did it matter in the wider scheme? Maybe it mattered if it was drugs. Drugs meant misery. But Strathern had been vague about just what the “rip-off” had entailed.
Shit! Rebus had told Strathern he wanted the details of the Bernie Johns inquiry — tonight if possible. And here he was thirty-odd miles from Tulliallan, finishing a glass of malt and readying for a refill . . .
Ward was shaking his head. Gray was explaining that he’d been to McCullough’s house years back, and not since. Rebus hoped Sutherland or Barclay would run with it, keep up the questions, but they didn’t.
“Anything on the box?” Ward asked.
“We’re listening to the music,” Jazz chided him. He’d swapped the Led Zeppelin for a Jackie Leven CD: the very album Rebus would have chosen.
“Call that music?” Ward snorted. “Hey, John, got any videos? A bit of the old porn maybe?”
Rebus shook his head. “Not allowed in Knoxland,” he said, gaining a weak smile from Gray.
“How long you been here, John?” Sutherland asked.
“Twenty years plus.”
“Nice flat. Must be worth a few bob.”
“Over a hundred grand, I’d guess,” Gray said. Ward had lit a cigarette for himself and was now offering to Barclay and Rebus.
“Probably,” Rebus told Gray.
“You were married, weren’t you, John?” McCullough asked. He was studying the inner sleeve of Bad Company’s first album.
“For a time,” Rebus admitted. Was Jazz merely curious, or was there some agenda here?
“While since this place had a woman’s touch,” Gray added, looking around.
“Kids?” McCullough asked, putting the album back exactly where he’d found it, just in case Rebus had a system.
“I’ve got a daughter. She’s down in England. You’ve two sons, right?”
McCullough nodded. “Twenty and fourteen. . .” Thinking of them, his face broke into a smile.
I don’t want to put this man away, Rebus thought. Ward was a prick, and Gray as sly as they came, but Jazz McCullough was different. Jazz McCullough he liked. It wasn’t just the marriage and kids, or the taste in music: Jazz had an inner calm, a sense that he knew what his role was in the world. Rebus, who had spent much of his life confused and questioning, was envious.
“And are they wild like their dad?” Barclay was asking.
McCullough didn’t bother answering. Stu Sutherland pulled himself forward on the sofa. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, Jazz, but you don’t seem the type to get himself in trouble with the High Hiedyins.” He looked around the room for confirmation.
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch, though,” Francis Gray said. “Wouldn’t you agree, John?”
“The thing is, Stu,” Jazz answered, “someone gives me an order I don’t agree with, I just nod and say, ‘Yes, sir,’ then go on with my own way of doing things. Most of the time, they don’t even notice.”
Gray nodded. “Like I say, that’s the way to get away with it: keep smiling and kowtowing, but go your own way nevertheless. Kick up a big stink and they’ll fillet you like the day’s catch.” Gray’s eyes were on Allan Ward as he spoke. Not that Ward noticed. He was stifling a belch and reaching for a second can. Rebus got up to refill Gray’s glass.
“Sorry, Jazz,” he said, “you never got that coffee.”
“Black, one sugar, please, John.”
Gray frowned. “Since when did you stop taking milk?”
“Since the moment I realized there’s probably no milk in the house.”
Gray laughed. “We’ll make a detective of you yet, McCullough, mark my words.”
Rebus went to fetch the coffee.
They finally left just after one, Rebus calling a cab to take them back to Jazz’s car. He watched from the window as Barclay tripped over the curb and nearly head-butted the taxi’s passenger-side window. His living room smelled of beer and cigarettes: no mystery there. The last thing they’d listened to on the hi-fi was Saint Dominic’s Preview. The TV was playing silently — a sop to Allan Ward. Rebus turned it off, but put the Van Morrison album back on, turning the volume down until it was just audible. He wondered if it was too late to phone Jean.
He knew it was too late, but wondered if he should do it anyway. He had the phone in his hand, stared at it for a while. When it started ringing, he nearly dropped it. It would be one of those silly buggers, calling from Jazz’s car. Maybe they’d forgotten something . . . His eyes strayed to the sofa as he held the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Who’s speaking?”
“You are,” Rebus said.
“What?”
“Never mind: it’s an old Tommy Cooper line. What can I do for you, Siobhan?”
“I just thought maybe someone had broken in.”
“Broken in where?”
“When I saw your lights on.”
Rebus went to the window and looked out. Her car was double-parked, engine still running.
“Is this some new kind of Neighborhood Watch?”
“I was just passing.”
“If you like.”
“On you come then.”
When he opened the door to her, she sniffed the air. “Mmm, testosterone,” she said. “Did you do that all by yourself?”
“Not quite. Some of the lads from the college . . .”
She wafted her hand in front of her as she entered the living room. “Maybe if you opened a window . . . ?”
“Late-night tips on housekeeping . . . ,” Rebus muttered, but he opened the window a couple of inches anyway. “What the hell are you doing out at this hour?”
“Just driving around.”
“Arden Street’s a bit off anyone’s route.”
“I was on the Meadows . . . thought I’d take a look.”
“The lads wanted me to show them the sights.”
“And were they duly impressed?”
“I think the city fell a bit short.”
“That’s Edinburgh for you.” She settled on the sofa. “Ooh, still warm,” she said, wriggling her bottom. “I feel like Goldilocks.”
“Sorry I can’t offer any porridge.”
“I’ll settle for coffee.”
“Black?”
“Something tells me I better say yes.”
When he came back through with the mugs, she’d swapped the Van Morrison for Mogwai.
“That’s the album you gave me,” he said.
“I know. I was wondering what you thought.”
“I like the lyrics. How’s the Marber case?”
“I had a very interesting talk this afternoon with your friend Cafferty.”
“People keep calling him my ‘friend.’ ”
“And he’s not?”
“Take away the r and you’re getting close.”
“He was giving his lieutenant a bollocking when we arrived.”
Rebus, who’d just got comfortable in his chair, leaned forward. “The Weasel?” She nodded. “What for?”
“Couldn’t tell. I get the feeling Cafferty’s that way inclined with all his staff. His secretary was so jumpy, her nickname’s probably Skippy.” Siobhan squirmed. “This coffee’s awful.”