by Ian Rankin
Only thing was, he was already in arrears for the week; for the whole month, truth be told.
Tom Jackson came out, lit one of his own. They didn’t speak for the first couple of minutes. Jackson scuffed his shoes on the tarmac and broke the silence.
‘I hear you took him in.’
Rebus blew smoke from his nose. ‘That’s right.’
‘Rescue act, let him stay the night.’
‘So?’
‘So not everyone would have been so charitable.’
‘I’m not sure it was charity.’
‘What then?’
What then? It was a good question.
‘Thing is,’ Jackson went on, ‘a few days back, you were all for stringing him up.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘You set that pack of wild dogs on him.’
‘You mean the papers or his neighbours?’
‘Both.’
‘Careful, Tom. You’re their community officer. That’s your flock you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about you: what happened?’
‘He only slept on my couch, Tom. It’s not like I gave him a gam or anything.’ Rebus flicked his third cigarette on to the ground, stubbed it out. Only half-smoked, so he’d count two and a half; round it down to two.
‘We still haven’t turned up the kid.’
‘How’s his mother doing?’
Jackson knew the question’s subtext, answered accordingly. ‘Nobody seems to think she’s a suspect.’
‘What’s her history?’
‘Billy’s her only kid. Had him at nineteen.’
‘Is the father around?’
‘Did the usual vanishing act before the baby was born. Ran off to Ulster to join the paramilitaries.’
‘He’ll be running for office now then.’
Jackson snorted. ‘She’s had half a dozen blokes since; been living with the latest for the past few weeks.’
‘The three of them in the flat together?’
Jackson nodded. ‘He’s being interviewed. We’re digging into his history.’
‘A fiver says he’s got form.’
‘What? Living in Greenfield?’ Jackson smiled. ‘Keep your money in your pocket.’ He paused. ‘You really don’t think this connects to our deceased friend?’
‘It might do, Tom. But just maybe not in the way we think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Be seeing you,’ Rebus said, moving away.
Thinking of an old Gravy Train song: ‘Won’t Talk About It’.
He told Patience he wouldn’t be seeing her. There must have been something in his tone of voice.
‘Out on the ran-dan?’ she said.
‘You know me too well.’ He put the receiver down before she could say anything else. He started at The Maltings, headed up Causewayside to Swany’s, then took a taxi to the Ox. His car was back at St Leonard’s: no problem, he could walk into work next morning. Salty Dougary, one of the Young Street regulars, had just been in hospital: a coronary; they’d operated, angioplasty or something like that. He was telling the bar all about it. For some reason Rebus couldn’t fathom, the operation had apparently started at Dougary’s groin.
‘Way to a man’s heart,’ Rebus commented, sinking another whisky. He was diluting them with water, but not overly so. He felt fine, as in not drunk; mellow, kind of. But he knew if he walked out of the bar, he’d start to feel the alcohol. A good excuse to stay put, like that character in Apocalypse Now: ‘Never get out of the boat.’ It was only when you left the boat that you got into trouble. The same thing, in Rebus’s experience, was true of pubs, which was why he was still in the Ox at half past midnight. The back room had been taken over by musicians, a dozen or more of them; guitars mostly, twelve-bar blues. One guy with a beard was playing the harmonica like he was in front of a Madison Garden crowd. Janis Joplin: ‘Buried Alive in the Blues’.
Rebus was talking with George Klasser, a doctor at the Infirmary. Klasser usually left early – sevenish or a little after. When he stayed late, it was a sign things were fraught at home. He’d started the evening advising Salty Dougary to regulate his alcohol intake.
‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ had been Dougary’s riposte. Dougary looking like he’d just been on holiday rather than in surgery: face tanned, ciggies cut down from forty a day to ten. Klasser with dark shadows under his eyes, a slight trembling to the hand when he picked up his glass. Rebus had had an uncle who’d smoked a pack of cigarettes every day of his life and lived to be eighty. His own father had died younger, having given up cigarettes two decades previously.
You never could tell.
There were only four of them in the front bar, five including Harry. Dougary, who’d drunk in every pub in the city, reckoned Harry was Edinburgh’s rudest barman, which was quite a feat, considering the competition.
‘I wish youse lot would bugger off home,’ Harry said, not for the first time that evening.
‘Night’s young yet, Harry,’ Dougary said.
‘How come they let you out of intensive care?’
Dougary winked. ‘Intensive care’s what I come in here for.’ He toasted them with his glass and raised it to his lips. Twenty minutes before, Rebus had told Klasser about Darren Rough. Now Klasser turned to him, eyes heavy-lidded.
‘There was a famous murder case. Turn of the century, I think it was. German couple came here on their honeymoon, only it turned out he wanted her money rather than love. He planned to kill her, make it look like suicide. So they went for a walk up on Arthur’s Seat, and he pushed her off the Crags.’
‘But he didn’t get away with it?’
‘Obviously not, or there’d be no story to tell.’
‘So how was he caught?’
Klasser stared into his glass. ‘I can’t recall.’
Dougary laughed. ‘Don’t let him start telling any jokes, he always forgets the punchline.’
‘I’ll punch you in a minute, Salty.’
‘Get in the queue,’ Harry commented.
Some nights it was like that in the Oxford Bar. When the guitar-players packed up, Rebus put his coat on. There was a stiff breeze outside, and it had been raining again, the streets black and shiny as a beetle’s back. He’d meant to phone Janice, but what would he have said? There was no news of Damon. He walked along Princes Street, deciding he liked the city best like this: all the visitors tucked up in bed. Outside the Balmoral Hotel, a line of Jags and Rovers sat, their chauffeurs waiting for some function to finish. A young couple walked past, sharing a bottle of cheap cider. The male wore a jacket with a badge on it. The badge said Stockholm Film Festival. Rebus had never heard of it. Maybe it was the name of a band: you couldn’t be sure these days.
He walked up the Bridges, stopped at some railings so he could look down on to the Cowgate. There were clubs still open down there, teenagers spilling on to the road. The police had names for the Cowgate when it got like this: Little Saigon; the blood bank; hell on earth. Even the patrol cars went in twos. Whoops and yells: a couple of girls in short dresses. One lad was down on his knees in the road, begging to be noticed.
Pretty Things: ‘Cries from the Midnight Circus’.
In Edinburgh, sometimes it could be midnight in the middle of the day . . .
He didn’t know where he was going, what he was doing. If he was going home, he was doing so only by degrees. When a taxi came, he flagged it down. On sudden impulse, he named his destination.
‘The Shore.’
29
The idea was . . .
The idea was to stand in the freezing cold outside the hotel, call up to Oakes’s room on the mobile. Get him downstairs . . . no crack to the back of the head this time. Face to face. But it was the drink, that was all. Rebus knew he wouldn’t do it; knew Oakes wouldn’t fall for it anyway. Looking across from The Shore, he saw there were lights from the Clipper, and a minder on the door. So Rebus crossed the bridge, introduced himself. The minder was wi
ping sweat from his face. From within, Rebus could hear raised voices, laughter.
‘Party?’ he asked.
‘Don’t tell me there’ve been complaints,’ the minder growled. His accent was Liverpudlian. From his size, Rebus would bet his family had worked dockside. ‘That’s all I need right now.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Buggers don’t want to leave, do they?’
‘Have you tried asking nicely?’
The man snorted.
‘Nobody here to help you?’
‘When we turned the music off, looked like they weren’t going to stick around. DJ packed up and sodded off home. So did Mr Frost – my boss. Told me all I had to do was switch off the lights and lock up after me.’
‘You’re new to this game.’
The bouncer smiled. ‘Does it show?’
‘I take it you’ve got a mobile about your person. Why not call Mr Frost?’
‘Don’t have his home number.’
Rebus rubbed his chin. ‘Is that as in Archie Frost?’
‘That’s him.’
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Want me to talk to them?’ He nodded towards the boat. ‘See if I can get them to pack up?’
The minder stared at him. He was well-educated in the relationship that should exist between his profession and Rebus’s: a favour done now might mean a favour asked later. He turned towards a noise. One of the revellers had come up on deck and was preparing to urinate off the side. He sighed.
‘Why not?’ he said.
And Rebus was in.
One guy had pegged out on the deck, champagne bottle held to his chest. His bow tie was hanging from his neck; his watch was a gold Rolex. The guest using the Albert Basin as his own private loo rocked to and fro on his heels. He was humming the chorus of some pop song. Seeing Rebus, he beamed a smile. Rebus ignored him, headed down the steps into the main body of the boat. It was set up for a party: chairs and tables around a long narrow dancefloor. Bar at one end, makeshift stage at the other. There was a lighting rig, a mirror-ball over the dancefloor. Shutters had been brought down across the bar and fixed with a padlock, which another drunk was trying to pick with a plastic toothpick. A couple of the tables had been knocked over, along with a dozen or so chairs. There were forgotten items of clothing strewn across the floor, along with crisps, peanuts, empty bottles, and bits of sandwich and squashed quiche. The main action was centred on two tables which had been pushed together. Fourteen or fifteen people sat here. Women sat on men’s laps, kissing deeply. A few couples were indulging in muted conversations. One or two individuals were fast asleep. A hard core of five – three men, two women – were telling slurred stories, detailing the party highlights, mostly involving drink, vomit and snogging.
‘Hello again,’ Rebus said to Ama Petrie. ‘This your do, is it?’
She had her head on the shoulder of the young man next to her. Her mascara was smeared, making her look tired. Her short dress was a meshing of black gauzy layers. Her bare feet were in the lap of the man on the other side of her. He was playing with her toes.
‘Oh, Christ,’ this man said, eyes drooping, ‘they’ve sent in the heavy brigade. Look, my good man, we’ve paid for this evening – cash, and upfront. So kindly bugger off and—’
‘Oscar, you arse, he’s a policeman,’ Ama Petrie said. Then, to Rebus: ‘Nice to see you again.’ It was an automatic greeting, something she couldn’t help but say, even though her eyes told a different story. Her eyes told Rebus she wasn’t in the least pleased to see him.
‘Well,’ Oscar said, smiling to the assembly, ‘in that case, it’s a fair cop, guv, but society’s to blame. I never had a chance.’ He slipped into the role effortlessly, drawing smiles and laughter from his audience. Rebus looked at the faces around him: the faces of Edinburgh’s rich young things. They’d have their own flats in the New Town, gifts from indulgent parents. They had their parties and their nights out. Maybe by day they shopped or lunched or attended a couple of lectures at the university. Maybe they drove their sports cars out to the country. Their lives were predestined: a job in the family business, or something ‘arranged’ – a position they could cope with, something requiring inbred charm and minimal effort. Everything would fall into their laps, because that’s the way the world was.
‘Shame he’s not in uniform, eh, Nicky?’
‘What have we done, Officer?’ another of the men asked.
‘Well, you’ve overstayed your welcome,’ Rebus said. ‘But that doesn’t really concern me. Might I ask whose party this is?’ He was looking at Ama.
‘Mine, actually,’ the man with the toothpick said, turning away from the bar. He pushed his thick fair hair back from his forehead. A thin face, soft-featured. ‘I’m Nicol Petrie, Ama’s brother.’ Rebus guessed this was ‘Nicky’: Shame he’s not in uniform, eh, Nicky?
He was in his early twenties, fashionably unshaven so his face shone a spiky gold. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll move this lot off the boat, promise.’ And to his friends: ‘We’ll go back to my place. Plenty of drink there.’
‘I want to go to a casino,’ one woman complained. ‘You said we’d go.’
‘Darling, he only said that so you’d give him a blow job.’
Hoots of laughter, pointed fingers. Ama had her eyes closed but was chuckling, her feet grinding against her companion’s groin.
Everyone seemed to have forgotten Rebus. The conversations were starting up again. He reached into his pocket, handed two photographs to Nicol Petrie.
‘His name’s Damon Mee. He left a nightclub with the blonde woman. We think they were on their way to a party on this boat, hosted by your sister.’
‘Yes,’ Nicol Petrie said, ‘Ama told me.’ He studied the photos, shook his head. ‘Sorry.’ Handed them back.
‘You were at the party in question?’ Petrie nodded. ‘All of you?’
They looked to Ama, who told them which party it had been. A couple hadn’t been present – previous commitments. Rebus handed the photos out anyway. Nobody paid much attention to them; they kept talking to each other as they passed them round.
‘I could just go some smoked salmon.’
‘Alison’s bash next Friday: are you going?’
‘Hair extensions, they change your whole face instantly . . .’
‘Thought about putting a consortium together, buy a racehorse . . .’
Ama Petrie didn’t even glance at the pictures, just passed them along.
‘Sorry,’ the last of the group said, handing them back to Rebus before continuing a conversation. Nicol Petrie looked apologetic.
‘I promise we’ll leave soon, assemble some taxis.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help.’
‘Not to worry.’
‘I ran away from home once . . .’
‘Nick, you were only twelve,’ Ama Petrie drawled.
‘All the same, I know how much it hurt our mother and father.’
Ama disagreed. ‘They hardly noticed you were gone.’ She looked up at him. ‘It was me who called the police.’
‘What happened?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’d been staying at a friend’s house,’ Nicol Petrie explained. ‘When his parents heard I was supposed to be missing, they drove me home.’ He shrugged. A couple of his friends laughed.
‘Right,’ he said, raising his voice slightly. ‘Back to my place. The night is still young, and so are we!’
There were cheers at this. Rebus got the feeling Nicol had roused the troops like this before.
‘Where’s Alfie?’ Ama asked.
‘Taking a leak,’ she was told.
Rebus made for the stairs. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said to her brother. Nicol Petrie shot out a hand, which Rebus shook.
Shame he’s not in uniform . . . What the hell had that meant? Some private joke? Rebus climbed back up into fresh air. The man who’d been relieving himself – Alfie – was sitting on the floor of the
boat, legs splayed. He’d forgotten to button his flies.
‘Leaving so soon?’ he asked.
‘Everyone’s going back to Nicky’s,’ Rebus said, like he was one of the gang.
‘Good old Nicky,’ Alfie said.
‘You’re Alfie, aren’t you?’
The young man looked up, trying to place Rebus. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘can’t seem to . . .’
‘John,’ Rebus said.
‘Of course, John.’ Nodding briskly. ‘Never forget a face. You’re in the finance sector?’
‘Securities.’
‘Never forget a face.’ Alfie started to get up. Rebus helped him. He still had his photos in one hand.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take a look.’ Didn’t say any more than that, just handed them over.
‘Photographer must have been pissed,’ Alfie said.
‘Not very good, are they?’
‘Bloody awful. I’ve got a friend who’s a photographer. Let me give you his number.’ Reaching into his jacket.
‘You’ll know his face, though,’ Rebus said, tapping the holiday snap of Damon.
Alfie squinted at the photo, brought it close to his nose, moved it to pick up the available light.
‘I pride myself,’ he said, ‘on never forgetting a face. But in this chap’s case, I’ll make an exception.’ Smiled crookedly at his own little joke. ‘Now the lady, on the other hand . . .’
‘Alfie!’ Ama Petrie was standing at the top of the stairs, arms folded against the chill. ‘Come on, we’re getting ready to go.’
‘Super idea, Ama.’ Alfie blinked so slowly, Rebus thought he’d nodded off.
‘About the blonde . . .’ Rebus persisted.
Ama had come up to them, was tugging on Alfie’s sleeve. Alfie patted Rebus’s arm. ‘See you at Nicky’s, old boy.’
‘Come on, Alfie.’ Ama pecked his cheek, led him to the stairs. A quick backward glance towards Rebus. Looking . . . angry? Relieved? A mix of the two? When they disappeared from view, Rebus walked off the boat.