‘Being brought to the table as I speak.’
When he got to the table, Gill was checking the bill.
‘This is on me,’ Rebus said.
‘At least let me leave the tip. I ate most of the bread. And besides, my water cost more than your wine.’
‘You got the better deal. What’s it to be, Gill?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll tell him anything you like.’
25
Jack still had the power to surprise his old friend: wolfed the pizza. His only comment: ‘You didn’t eat much.’
‘Bit bland for me, Jack.’
Rebus was itching now: for a cigarette and Aberdeen both. There was something up there he wanted; he just didn’t know quite what it was.
The truth maybe.
He should have been itching for a drink too, but the wine had put him off. It slopped in his stomach, liquid heartburn. He sat at a desk and read through Shankley’s statement. The big man was in a cell downstairs. Jack had worked fast; Rebus couldn’t see anything missing.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m back from parole. How did I do?’
‘Let’s not make it a regular date, my heart couldn’t take it.’
Rebus smiled, picked up a phone. He wanted to check his machine at home, see if Ancram had plans for him. He did: nine tomorrow morning. There was another message. It was from Kayleigh Burgess. She needed to talk with him.
‘I’m seeing someone in Morningside at three, so how about four at that big hotel in Bruntsfield? We can have afternoon tea.’ She said it was important. Rebus decided to go out there and wait. He’d have preferred to leave Jack behind …
‘Know what, Jack? You’re severely cramping my style.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With women. There’s one I want to see, but I bet you’re going to tag along, aren’t you?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’ll wait outside the door if you like.’
‘It’ll be a comfort to know you’re there.’
‘It could be worse,’ stuffing his face with the last of the pizza, ‘just think, how do Siamese twins arrange their love lives?’
‘Some questions are best left unanswered,’ Rebus said.
He thought: Good question though.
It was a nice hotel, quietly upmarket. Rebus worked out a possible dialogue in his head. Ancram knew about the clippings in his kitchen, and Kayleigh was the only possible source. He’d been furious at the time, less angry now. It was her job after all: information, and using that information to elicit other information. It still rankled. Then there was the Spaven-McLure connection: Ancram had picked up on it; Kayleigh knew about it. And finally, above all, there was the break-in.
They waited for her in the lounge. Jack flicked through Scottish Field and kept reading out descriptions of estates for sale: ‘seven thousand acres in Caithness, with hunting lodge, stabling, and working farm’. He looked up at Rebus.
‘Some country this, eh? Where else could you lay your hands on seven thousand acres at knockdown prices?’
‘There’s a theatre group called 7:84 – know what it means?’
‘What?’
‘Seven per cent of the population controls eighty-four per cent of the wealth.’
‘Are we in the seven?’
Rebus snorted. ‘Not even close, Jack.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a taste of the high life, though.’
‘At what cost?’
‘Eh?’
‘What would you be willing to trade?’
‘No, I mean like winning the lottery or something.’
‘So you wouldn’t take back-handers to drop a charge?’
Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Come on, Jack. I was in Glasgow, remember? I saw good suits and jewellery, I saw something approaching the smug.’
‘They just like to dress nice, makes them feel important.’
‘Uncle Joe’s not doling out freebies?’
‘I wouldn’t know if he was.’ Jack lifted the magazine to shield his face: matter closed. And then Kayleigh Burgess walked in through the door.
She saw Rebus immediately, and a blush started creeping up her neck. By the time she’d walked over to where he was rising from his chair, it had climbed as far as her cheeks.
‘Inspector, you got my message.’ Rebus nodded, eyes unblinking. ‘Well, thanks for coming.’ She turned to Jack Morton.
‘DI Morton,’ Jack said, shaking her hand.
‘Do you want some tea?’
Rebus shook his head, gestured towards the free chair. She sat down.
‘So?’ he said, determined to make nothing easy for her, not ever again.
She sat with her shoulder-bag in her lap, twisting the strap. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I owe you an apology.’ She glanced up at him, then away, took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t tell CI Ancram about those cuttings. Or about Fergus McLure knowing Spaven, come to that.’
‘But you know he knows?’
She nodded. ‘Eamonn told him.’
‘And who told Eamonn?’
‘I did. I didn’t know what to make of it … I wanted to bounce it off someone. We’re a team, so I told Eamonn. I made him promise it’d go no further.’
‘But it did.’
She nodded. ‘He was straight on the phone to Ancram. See, Eamonn … he’s got a thing about police brass. If we’re investigating someone at Inspector level, Eamonn always wants to go over their heads, talk to their superiors, see what gets stirred up. Besides, you haven’t exactly made a favourable impression with my presenter.’
‘It was an accident,’ Rebus said. ‘I tripped.’
‘If that’s your story.’
‘What does the footage say?’
She thought about it. ‘We were shooting from behind Eamonn. Mostly, what we’ve got is his back.’
‘I’m off the hook then?’
‘I didn’t say that. Just stick to your story.’
Rebus nodded, getting her drift. ‘Thanks. But why did Breen go to Ancram? Why not my boss?’
‘Because Eamonn knew Ancram was to lead the inquiry.’
‘And how did he know that?’
‘The grapevine.’
A grapevine with few grapes attached. He saw Jim Stevens again, staring up at the window of his flat … Stirring it …
Rebus sighed. ‘One last thing. Do you know anything about a break-in at my flat?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Should I?’
‘Remember the Bible John stuff in the cupboard? Someone took a crowbar to my front door, and all they wanted was to rifle through it.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Not us.’
‘No?’
‘Housebreaking? We’re journalists, for Christ’s sake.’
Rebus had his hands up in a gesture of appeasement, but he wanted to push it a little further. ‘Any chance Breen would go out on a limb?’
Now she laughed. ‘Not even for a story the size of Watergate. Eamonn fronts the programme, he doesn’t do any digging.’
‘You and your researchers do?’
‘Yes, and neither of them seems the crowbar type. Does that leave me in the frame?’
As she crossed one leg over the other, Jack studied them. His eyes had been running all over her like a kid’s over a Scalextric set.
‘Consider the matter closed,’ Rebus said.
‘But it’s true? Your flat was broken into?’
‘Matter closed,’ he repeated.
She almost pouted. ‘How’s the inquiry going anyway?’ She held up a hand. ‘I’m not snooping, call it personal interest.’
‘Depends which inquiry you mean,’ Rebus said.
‘The Spaven case.’
‘Oh, that.’ Rebus sniffed, considering his response. ‘Well, CI Ancram is the trusting sort. He has real faith in his officers. If you plead innocent, he’ll take it at face value. It’s a comfort to have superiors like that. For instance, he trusts me so much he’s got a minder on me like a li
mpet on a rock.’ He nodded towards Jack. ‘Inspector Morton here is supposed to not let me out of his sight. He even sleeps at my flat.’ He held Kayleigh’s gaze. ‘How’s that sound?’
She could hardly form the words. ‘It’s scandalous.’
Rebus shrugged, but she was reaching into her bag, bringing out notebook and pen. Jack glowered at Rebus, who winked back. Kayleigh had to flick through a lot of pages to find a fresh sheet.
‘When did this start?’ she said.
‘Let’s see …’ Rebus pretended to be thinking. ‘Sunday afternoon, I think. After I’d been interrogated in Aberdeen and dragged back here.’
She looked up. ‘Interrogated?’
‘John …’ Jack Morton warned.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Rebus’s eyes widened. ‘I’m a suspect in the Johnny Bible case.’
On the drive back to the flat, Jack was furious.
‘What did you think you were up to?’
‘Keeping her mind off Spaven.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘She’s trying to make a programme about Spaven, Jack. She’s not doing one on policemen being nasty to other policemen, and she’s not doing one on Johnny Bible.’
‘So?’
‘So now her head’s swimming with everything I told her – and not a jot of it has to do with Spaven. It’ll keep her … what’s the word?’
‘Preoccupied?’
‘Good enough.’ Rebus nodded, looked at his watch. Five-twenty. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Those pictures!’
Traffic was at a crawl as they detoured into the centre of town. Rush-hour Edinburgh was a nightmare these days. Red lights and chugging exhausts, frayed nerves and drumming fingers. By the time they reached the shop it had closed for the night. Rebus checked the opening hours: nine tomorrow. He could pick up the photos on his way to Fettes and only be a little late for Ancram. Ancram: the very thought of the man was like voltage passing through him.
‘Let’s go home,’ he told Jack. Then he remembered the traffic. ‘No, second thoughts: we’ll stop off at the Ox.’ Jack smiled. ‘Did you think you’d cured me?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I sometimes come off for a couple of days at a stretch, it’s no big thing.’
‘It could be though.’
‘Another sermon, Jack?’
Jack shook his head. ‘What about the ciggies?’
‘I’ll buy a packet from the machine.’
He stood at the bar, resting one shoe on the foot-rail, one elbow on the polished wood. In front of him sat four objects: a packet of cigarettes with seal unbroken; a box of Scottish Bluebell matches; a thirty-five millilitre measure of Teacher’s whisky; and a pint of Belhaven Best. He was staring at them with the concentration of a psychic willing them to move.
‘Three minutes dead,’ a regular commented from along the bar, like he’d been timing Rebus’s resistance. A profound question was running through Rebus’s mind: did he want them, or did they want him? He wondered how David Hume would have got on with that. He picked the beer up. No wonder you called it ‘heavy’: that’s just what it was. He sniffed it. It didn’t smell too enticing; he knew it would taste OK, but other things tasted better. The aroma of the whisky was fine though – smoky, filling nostrils and lungs. It would sear his mouth, burn going down, and melt through him, the effect lasting not long.
And the nicotine? He knew himself that when he took a few days off the ciggies, he could sense how bad they made you smell – your skin, clothes, hair. Disgusting habit really: if you didn’t give yourself cancer, chances were you were giving it to some poor bastard whose only misfortune was in getting too close to you. Harry the barman was waiting for Rebus to act. The whole bar was. They knew something was happening; it was written on Rebus’s face – there was almost pain there. Jack stood beside him, holding his breath.
‘Harry,’ Rebus said, ‘take those away.’ Harry lifted the two drinks, shaking his head.
‘I wish we could get a picture of this,’ he said.
Rebus slid the cigarettes along the bar towards the smoker. ‘Here, take them. And don’t leave them lying too close to me, I might change my mind.’
The smoker lifted the packet, amazed. ‘Payback for the singles you’ve nicked off me in the past.’
‘With interest,’ Rebus said, watching Harry pour the beer down the sink.
‘Does it go straight back into the barrel, Harry?’
‘So, do you want anything else, or did you just come in for a seat?’
‘Coke and crisps.’ He turned to Jack. ‘I’m allowed crisps, right?’
Jack was resting a hand on his back, patting him softly. And he was smiling.
They stopped in at a shop on the way to the flat, came out again with the makings of a meal.
‘Can you remember the last time you cooked?’ Jack asked.
‘I’m not that cack-handed.’ The answer to the question was ‘no’.
Jack, it turned out, enjoyed cooking, but he found Rebus’s kitchen lacking the finer tools of his craft. No lemon zester, no garlic crusher.
‘Give the garlic here,’ Rebus offered, ‘I’ll stamp on it.’
‘I used to be lazy,’ Jack said. ‘When Audrey left, I tried cooking bacon in the toaster. But cooking’s a doddle once you get your head round it.’
‘What’s it going to be anyway?’
‘Low-fat spagbog, with salad if you’ll get your arse in gear.’
Rebus got his arse in gear, but found he had to nip out to the deli for the makings of the dressing. He didn’t bother with a jacket: it was mild out.
‘Sure you can trust me?’ he said.
Jack tasted the sauce, nodded. So Rebus went out on his own, and thought about not going back. There was a pub on the next corner, its doors open. But of course he was going back: he hadn’t eaten yet. The way Jack slept, if Rebus ever wanted to high-tail it that would be the time.
They set the table in the living room – the first time it had been used for a meal since Rebus’s wife had left. Could that be true? Rebus paused, a fork and spoon in his hand. Yes, it was true. His flat, his refuge, suddenly seemed emptier than ever.
Maudlin again: another reason he drank.
They shared a bottle of Highland spring water, chinked glasses.
‘Shame it’s not fresh pasta,’ Jack said.
‘It’s fresh food,’ Rebus replied, filling his mouth. ‘Rare enough in this flat.’
They ate the salad afterwards – French-style, Jack said. Rebus was reaching for seconds when the phone rang. He picked it up.
‘John Rebus.’
‘Rebus, it’s CI Grogan here.’
‘CI Grogan,’ Rebus looked to Jack, ‘what can I do for you, sir?’ Jack came to the phone to listen.
‘We’ve run preliminary tests on your shoes and clothing. Thought you’d like to know you’re in the clear.’
‘Was there ever any doubt?’
‘You’re a copper, Rebus, you know there are procedures.’
‘Of course, sir. I appreciate you phoning.’
‘Something else. I had a word with Mr Fletcher.’ Hayden Fletcher: PR at T-Bird. ‘He admitted knowing the latest victim. Gave us a detailed breakdown of his movements the night she was killed. He even offered blood for DNA analysis if we thought it would help.’
‘He sounds cocky.’
‘That just about sums him up. I took an instant dislike to the man, something I don’t often do.’
‘Not even with me?’ Rebus smiled at Jack. Jack mouthed the words ‘Go easy’.
‘Not even with you,’ Grogan said.
‘So that’s two suspects eliminated. Doesn’t get you much further, does it?’
‘No.’ Grogan sighed. Rebus could imagine him wiping tired eyes.
‘What about Eve and Stanley, sir? Did you heed my advice?’
‘I did. Mindful of your mistrust of DS Lumsden – an excellent officer, by the way – 1 set two men on it off my own bat, reporting directly to me.’
‘Thank yo
u, sir.’
Grogan coughed. ‘They were staying in a hotel near the airport. Five-star, usually an oil company hang-out. Driving a BMW.’ The one from Uncle Joe’s cul-de-sac no doubt. ‘I’ve a description of the car and licence details.’
‘Not needed, sir.’
‘Well, my men followed them to a couple of nightclubs.’
‘During business hours?’
‘Daylight hours, Inspector. They went in carrying nothing, and came out the same way. However, they also paid visits to several banks in the city centre. One of my men got close enough in one bank to see that they were making a cash deposit.’
‘In a bank?’ Rebus frowned. Was Uncle Joe the type to trust to banks? Would he let strangers get within a mile of his ill-gained assets?
‘That’s about it, Inspector. They ate a few meals together, went for a drive down to the docks, then left town.’
‘They’ve gone?’
‘Left tonight. My men followed them as far as Banchory. I’d say they were headed for Perth.’ And after that, Glasgow. ‘The hotel confirms they’ve checked out.’
‘Did you ask the hotel if they’re regulars?’
‘We did and they are. They started using it about six months ago.’
‘How many rooms?’
‘They always book two.’ There was a smile in Grogan’s voice. ‘But the story is, the maids only ever had to clean one of them. Seems they were sharing one room, and leaving the other untouched.’
Bingo, Rebus thought. Housey-housey and fucking click-ety-click.
‘Thanks, sir.’
‘Does this help you in something?’
‘It might help a lot, I’ll be in touch. Oh, something I meant to ask …’
‘Yes?’
‘Hayden Fletcher: did he say how he came to know the victim?’
‘A business acquaintance. She organised the stand for T-Bird Oil at the North Sea Convention.’
‘Is that what “corporate presentations” means?’
‘Apparently. Ms Holden designed a lot of the stands, then her company did the actual construction and setting-up. Fletcher met her as part of that process.’
‘Sir, I appreciate all of this.’
‘Inspector … if you’re coming north again any time, call to let me know, understood?’