The hand stretched out towards John Rebus and he gripped it, returning the firm shake.
‘As good as, Jerry.’ Rebus gave a thin smile. He was at the bar in the Police Club on York Place. ‘Get you one?’
‘Gin and slim.’ Jerry Calder made a show of patting his stomach.
‘You’ve lost a bit of weight,’ Rebus agreed.
Calder looked Rebus up and down. ‘Same goes—you’re not ill, are you?’
‘Funny how often people ask that.’ Rebus took a sip from his pint glass. The barman had heard the order and was placing the drink in front of Calder. Rebus paid the man. They were in the downstairs room. No natural light. Trestle tables topped with paper tablecloths. Bowls of nibbles rapidly depleting. A DJ had set up his rig in the far corner but wasn’t due to start till the top of the hour. Rebus would be gone by then. He’d only popped in for one.
This week’s retiree was Babs Elliot. She’d risen to the ‘giddy depths’—as she’d put it to Rebus himself not five minutes back—of Detective Constable, back in Rebus’ St Leonard’s days. A good twenty years his junior but on her way out while she still had ‘a vestige of life left in me.’ Husband worked at HMP Saughton, and Babs was minded to pick up a bit of work—part-time; as mindless as possible.
‘Job’s gone to shit, John,’ she’d confided in a stage whisper.
‘I keep hearing that,’ Rebus had obliged, not bothering to add: but I still miss it like hell.
Babs was at the centre of the room, receiving new arrivals with a peck on the cheek or a more fulsome hug. Some people had brought gifts and cards, and Rebus wished he’d done the same. He’d dropped by on a whim, reminded by a text from DI Siobhan Clarke, who’d followed up just after he’d crossed the threshold with another message to say something had come up and she might not make it.
There were plenty of faces he knew in the room, and others he didn’t. The youngsters looked idealistic and full of zest. They liked the job. Liked it, too, when their elders retired—more chance of that sought-after promotion.
‘I feel like Methuselah,’ Jerry Calder muttered, scanning the room.
‘What does that make me?’ Rebus asked him. ‘Methuselah’s grandpa?’
‘You’re still here, though, that’s what counts.’ Calder had finished his drink and was gesturing across the bar for another round.
‘I’ve still half a pint here,’ Rebus complained.
‘Time was, you drank quicker.’
‘I did a lot of things quicker, Jerry. Just not necessarily better.’
Calder gave a snort and rubbed a finger across the bridge of his nose. ‘I didn’t see you at Rab Merrilees’s funeral.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I couldn’t make it. Heard it was a decent turnout, though.’
‘Better than the old shitbag deserved. Mini sausage rolls at the reception after. Mini! Stone-cold they were, too.’
‘It’s what he would have wanted.’
‘No word of a lie there—mean old sod that he was. Not that I’m one to speak ill of the dead.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Know what music he wanted as the coffin was lowered?’
‘Surprise me.’
“‘The Sash”!’
Rebus couldn’t help but laugh.
‘The bloody Sash,’ Calder confirmed. ‘Talk about old school. Sevco scarf draped over the coffin, too. Wouldn’t have surprised me if an Orange Marching Band had come parading down the aisle.’
Rab Merrilees had been one of those coppers—ruddy-cheeked Protestants raised on stories of the Old Firm and Ulster. Only a handful of years older than Rebus, but a generation apart. Rebus had served in Northern Ireland in the Army, had witnessed firsthand how those old stories twisted young men’s minds. He could see Merrilees now—a barn-door of a man in a uniform just too small for him. Handy with a truncheon and his fists when it kicked off on a Saturday night. Nothing Big Rab liked better than to wade in, hauling brawlers out of High Street howffs and dispensing some pavement justice in the halcyon days before CCTV and camera-phones.
‘He saved your skin once, didn’t he?’ Calder was remembering.
‘I was off duty. One for the road when some bawbag clocked me and decided to arrange a meeting between a bar stool and my head. Big Rab happened to be passing.’ Rebus toasted the memory before taking a slug from the fresh glass.
‘You heard what happened on his deathbed?’ Calder leaned in a little closer. ‘He was in hospital. Third or fourth heart attack. Few of the old boys paid him a visit. The inevitable came up…’ Calder’s voice drifted away. It took Rebus a moment to recollect which ‘inevitable’ he might be meaning.
‘Garrison’s the Jeweller’s?’ He watched Calder nod.
A shop on Rose Street. Someone had got in through the ceiling, having broken into the empty flat upstairs. Safe emptied, thousands missing. Mostly necklaces and earrings, a few high-end watches, a wedge of cash. Not many names in the frame when it came to getting into a safe. The second house they’d tried, firm questioning back at the station had led to an admission. The stuff was stashed in the culprit’s kid’s wardrobe. But there’d been nothing there. The wife was suspected of moving it, but swore blind she had done nothing of the sort. Then a few weeks later, Big Rab had been spotted on a weekend jaunt in his shiny new BMW. Nice car, just slightly out of his league. People remembered he’d been present at the initial arrest. People seemed to think he had lingered after everyone else had left. Those same people knew he had a bit of form—prisoners turning up for processing lacking the funds they swore had been on them when they’d been cuffed. Blind eyes turned. Whispers and winks.
‘He owned up?’ Rebus guessed, raising an eyebrow.
‘Not exactly.’ Calder’s smile was wry. He moved to let new arrivals get to the bar. Rebus had no option but to follow him to one of the tables, where Calder was already getting comfortable, sweeping a handful of crisps into his mouth.
‘Go on, then,’ Rebus prompted him.
‘Well, Jazz Helmsley—you know Jazz? He was in Drylaw for a while but works at the airport now?’
Rebus shook his head.
‘You sure?’ Calder persisted. ‘Sandy hair and freckles? Used to play rugby?’
‘I swear, Jerry, I’m going to be in my box before you finish this bloody story.’
Calder ignored the glower Rebus was giving him. In fact, he smiled.
‘Funny you should say that, John, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when Jazz asked Big Rab if he’d lifted all that stuff, Rab told him: “You’re not thinking inside the box, son.”’
‘You mean outside the box,’ Rebus corrected him.
Calder offered a shrug. ‘Inside is the way Jazz told it to me. He probed a bit but Big Rab wasn’t giving any more than that.’
Rebus considered. ‘What do you think he meant?’
‘You know Rab, John—bloody joker at the best of times. Number of people in this room he played a trick on. Phoning, pretending to be somebody-or-other’s boss. Handcuffing Bert Jackson to the steering wheel when he fell asleep in his patrol car…’
‘That, I remember,’ Rebus said. ‘Bert woke to an emergency call and had to try driving with the cuffs still on.’ The two men shared a chuckle.
‘Funny thing is, of course,’ Calder said, lifting his glass, ‘a box is exactly where Rab ended up. He’s buried out near the Hearts ground.’
‘You don’t think…?’
‘Taking it with him, you mean?’ Calder thought for a moment then shrugged. ‘Not possible, is it? The undertakers would have it. But, that car apart, I never heard tell of him living the high life. Though his widow didn’t look too unhappy at the funeral.’
‘He left her provided for, then?’
‘Or she was just glad to see the back of him. Your shout.’ Calder slid his
empty glass towards Rebus.
‘This’ll be the last one for me,’ Rebus warned him.
‘Getting out before the disco—can’t say I blame you. I’m staying for the buffet, though. Babs has promised sausage rolls—full-size and piping hot…’
Rebus’s dog Brillo kept staring up at him.
‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘Longer walk than usual. Try not to get used to it.’
They had passed through the cemetery gates and were heading for what Rebus always thought of as the ‘arrivals section.’ The grave wasn’t hard to find. The polished black headstone was brand new, its gold lettering unweathered. Most of the floral tributes were beginning to wilt. Rebus crouched in front of them and focused on something placed in their midst. A child’s plastic toy. He recognised it as Doctor Who’s Tardis and knew at once why it was there. Merrilees, the old beat cop, had secured his own fiefdom once upon a time—a police box towards the foot of the Canongate. Such boxes had been a feature of policing back in the day. You could boil a kettle, settle back and eat your sandwiches, and then pee in the tiny sink. Big Rab, always the joker, would go further, however. He would watch through the tiny window as tourists traipsed past on their way to Holyrood Palace, then would drop a few coins on the stone floor of the interior, chuckling to himself as the tourists stopped and checked the ground around them, wondering if they had a hole in a pocket, baffled by the lack of any money on either pavement or roadway. Rebus lifted the Tardis and examined it. There was no note to say who had left it, but he didn’t suppose that mattered. What did matter were the words that had started to dance around the inside of his head: thinking inside the box.
‘Aye, maybe,’ he muttered to himself. Brillo was looking to him for instructions. ‘Walk’s not quite finished yet,’ Rebus obliged, rising to his full height.
So: Fountainbridge to the Grassmarket and then along the Cowgate and Holyrood Road, dog and owner both panting with the effort. Cutting up Gentle’s Entry to the Canongate, with a pause to look in the window of the secondhand record shop. There was a pub hard by the old police box with a bowl of water placed at its door. Brillo slaked his thirst while Rebus studied the battle-scarred box with its faded blue paint. He had noted a trend in the city for these old boxes to be reconditioned and used to sell coffee and hot food, their cramped interiors just about able to accommodate a single barista and some rudimentary catering equipment. This particular box, however, had yet to undergo any kind of gentrification. It was securely locked, glass panels boarded over, and festooned with graffiti and ragged flyers for music venues. Rebus studied as much of the exterior as he could, even picking away at some of the flyers, but he found no clues. Nor did giving the door a good shove do anything other than remind him he was not a young man anymore.
‘They don’t like it when you tear off their adverts,’ a voice called. Rebus turned towards the pub doorway. A young man was standing there, lighting a cigarette. He bent down to give Brillo a rub behind the ears.
‘You work here?’ Rebus gestured towards the pub.
‘Behind the bar,’ the man explained. ‘That thing’s an eyesore, but what can you do?’
‘Any idea who owns it?’
The barman stood up and stared at him. ‘Thinking of buying?’
‘It’s not yours, is it?’
He snorted. ‘Wouldn’t mind it for my back garden, though, if I had a back garden. My son’s daft on Doctor Who.’
‘Never really saw the appeal,’ Rebus said. ‘If I want to meet alien life forms, I’ll walk down the Cowgate at closing time.’ An open-top tour bus crawled past, offering commentary on the nearby Scottish Parliament. ‘Get many MSPs in?’
‘The odd one or two. So what’s your interest?’ The barman nodded past him to the police box.
‘Old pal of mine used to walk this beat. We just buried him. He used to rest up inside.’
‘Memory lane, eh?’
Rebus patted the box’s door. ‘I just fancied a keek at the interior.’
‘I can maybe help with that.’ The barman took one last draw on his depleted cigarette. ‘And dogs are almost as welcome as paying customers…’
So Rebus followed him inside.
‘What did you buy?’ The woman standing in front of Rebus gestured towards the carrier bag on the seat next to him.
‘A Nazareth LP. Had to do something while I waited.’
‘Probably one reason I don’t come down this way very often—I spend too much at Unknown Pleasures.’
Her name was Camille Riordan, just a hint of Ireland left in her accent. She was in her mid-thirties, dressed in a leather biker jacket. Shoulder-length dark hair with streaks of silver. Upon entering, she had waved a greeting towards the barman.
‘Nice mutt, by the way,’ she added. Brillo was lying on the pub’s wooden floor, tired out by the day’s exertions.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Rebus asked. She shook her head but settled on a low stool at Rebus’s table.
‘But you can tell me the story again.’
As he went through it, she watched him so intently he began to feel like a specimen in her laboratory.
‘So you were a cop?’ she commented when he finished. ‘And that’s all there is to this? An old pal gone, a pilgrimage to his wee man-cave?’
Rebus offered a shrug. ‘Your business,’ he stated, ‘is buying these boxes and opening them as going concerns. Makes me wonder why this one’s been left to rot.’
‘It was a job lot. Most turn a profit. A few don’t. The footfall here isn’t all that great. Tourists tend to arrive by coach and anyone heading to the palace or the parliament knows there are cafés inside both.’ She gave a shrug of her own. ‘We might try it eventually as a taco stand, see if we can grab the lunchtime trade.’
‘Great,’ the barman said, coming to clear Rebus’s empty glass. ‘As if this place wasn’t dead enough…’
Riordan gave a smile that could have passed for apologetic. Then she lifted a jangling keychain from her shoulder bag, waving it at Rebus. ‘So shall we go finish your little quest?’ Rebus was about to speak but she got in first. ‘Not that I believe that’s all there is to it.’ Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘And that means you’re going to have to promise me something.’
‘What?’
‘The real story. Sometime. Whenever you’re ready…’
Rebus nodded slowly and they headed out on to the pavement. The first key she tried was the right one. She pushed open the door and peered inside. ‘No skeletons, anyway,’ she concluded, moving to one side so Rebus could squeeze past. He motioned for her to take Brillo’s lead and then headed in. The interior was bare. Even the tap from the sink had been stripped out. No clutter; just dust and grime. There were a few scraps of paper on the floor and Rebus scooped them up. They were tattered remnants of old flyers, probably blown in from outside through the gap at the bottom of the door. There was a flue to let fresh air in—and the smell of cigarette- and pipe-smoke out. Rebus inserted his hand but could feel nothing other than cobwebs. Riordan was smiling in the doorway, hunch confirmed.
‘Once a detective,’ Rebus said with a wink. But he was stumped. He stood in the small space and shuffled three hundred and sixty degrees. Then studied the floor again. And ran his fingers around the underside of the corner sink. If he’d had a screwdriver, he might have been tempted to open the electrical socket. Instead, he wiggled its casing. The screws were brown with rust. Not enough room in there for a pocket-watch, never mind anything bigger.
Exasperated, he raised his eyes to the ceiling. The light bulb had long gone and the cream-coloured paintwork was peeling. But he could make out scratches. He took out his mobile phone and switched on its torch function, angling it upwards, standing on tiptoe to get a better view.
‘Is that writing?’ Riordan was asking.
‘Looks like.’
‘A dirty limerick?’
‘An address,’ Rebus said. Scored into the paint in blue ink. Blue: the colour of preference for coppers of the old school…
Back home, Rebus phoned Jerry Calder and asked for Merrilees’s address.
‘What for?’
‘I was going to send condolences to the widow.’
‘I can probably get it for you. All I remember is, it’s on the main road as you drive into Balerno.’
Rebus looked at the address he had written on the back of one of the police box flyers. ‘How about before that?’
‘Eh?’
‘Where did he live before Balerno?’
‘This is about the jeweller’s, isn’t it? I saw that wee twinkle in your eye.’
‘Maybe I was just emotional, Jerry.’
‘Aye, and maybe I’m the tooth fairy.’ Calder paused. ‘There’ll be a finder’s fee, I dare say?’
‘I’ll have to think about that.’
‘Well, he was in Balerno the best part of twenty years and before then I think it was the mean streets of Uphall.’
‘So if I said the words Mountcastle Terrace to you…?’
‘Mountcastle Terrace out by Willowbrae?’
‘That’s the only one I know.’
‘And it’s connected to Big Rab?’
‘Maybe a relative lives there…’
‘How did you come by it anyway?’
‘Thinking inside the box, Jerry,’ Rebus said, ending the call.
Having fed himself and Brillo, he decided to take the Saab out to Mountcastle Terrace. It was part of a drab housing scheme between Holyrood Park and the coast. Dogs barked from behind fences, and he was glad he’d left Brillo sleeping at home. The house he approached looked identical to its neighbours. A handkerchief-sized garden; door needing a new coat of paint. The curtains were partially open and there were lights on within. Seeing no doorbell, he knocked with a fist, taking a step back and waiting. When the door was yanked open, he could smell cooking fat and hear a television. A stocky man in a faded t-shirt demanded to know what he wanted.
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