‘Passed them as I came in.
‘Bloody orange juices all round, then a quick handshake before home.’ The Farmer was concentrating on not slurring his words, overcompensating as a result. ‘Never really understood the phrase “biscuit-ersed” before, but that’s what those lot were: biscuit-ersed to a man!’
Rebus smiled, told the barman to make it an Ardbeg.
‘A bloody double, mind,’ the Farmer ordered.
‘Been enjoying a drink yourself, sir?’ Rebus asked.
The Farmer blew out his cheeks. ‘Few old pals came to see me off.’ He nodded in the direction of the table. Rebus looked, too. He saw a posse of drunks. Beyond them stood tables spread with a buffet: sandwiches, sausage rolls, crisps and peanuts. He saw faces he knew from all the Lothian and Borders Divisional HQs. Macan, AIlder, Shug Davidson, Roy Frazer. Bill Pryde was in conversation with Bobby Hogan. Grant Hood was standing next to a couple of Crime Squad officers called Claverhouse and Ormiston, and trying not to look as though he was sucking up to them. George ‘Hi-Ho’ Silvers was finding that DC Phyllida Hawes and DS Ellen Wylie weren’t about to fall for his chat-up lines. Jane Barbour from the Big House was exchanging gossip with Siobhan Clarke, who’d at one time been attached to Barbour’s Sex Offences Unit.
‘If anyone knew about this,’ Rebus said, ‘the bad guys would have a field day. Who’s left to mind the store?’
The Farmer laughed. ‘It’s a skeleton crew at St Leonard’s, all right.’
‘Good turn-out. Wonder if I’d get as many at mine.’
‘More, I’d bet.’ The Farmer leaned close. ‘The brass would all be there for a start, just to make sure they weren’t dreaming.’
It was Rebus’s turn to smile. He lifted his glass, toasted his boss. They both savoured their drinks, then the Farmer smacked his lips.
‘How long d’you think?’ he asked.
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’ve not got my thirty yet.’
‘Can’t be long though, can it?’
‘I’m not counting.’ But he was lying: most weeks he thought about it. ‘Thirty’ meant thirty years of service. That was when your pension hit the max. It was what a lot of officers lived for: retirement in their fifties and a cottage by the sea.
‘Here’s a story I don’t often tell,’ the Farmer said. ‘My first week on the force, they had me working the front desk, graveyard shift. This young lad—not even in his teens—comes in, walks straight up to the desk. “I’ve broke my wee sister,” he says.’ The Farmer’s eyes were staring into space. ‘I can see him now, the way he looked, the exact words … “I’ve broke my wee sister.” I hadn’t a clue what he meant. Turned out he’d pushed her down the stairs, killed her.’ He paused, took another gulp of whisky. ‘My first week on the force. Know what my sergeant said? “It can only get better.”’ He forced a smile. ‘I’ve never been sure he was right … ’ Suddenly his arms went into the air, the smile broadening into a grin. ‘Here she is! Here she is! Just when I thought I was being stood up.’
His embrace almost swamped DCI Gill Templer. The Farmer planted a kiss on her cheek. 'You’re not the floor-show by any chance?’ he asked. Then he mimed a slap to his forehead. ‘Sexist language—are you going to report me?’
‘I’ll let it go this time,’ Gill said, ‘in exchange for a drink.’
‘My shout,’ Rebus said. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Long vodka.’
Bobby Hogan was yelling for the Farmer to go settle an argument.
‘Duty calls,’ the Farmer said by way of an apology, before heading unsteadily across the floor.
‘His party piece?’ Gill guessed.
Rebus shrugged. The Farmer’s speciality was naming all the books of the Bible. His record was just under a minute; no way would it be challenged tonight.
‘Long vodka,’ Rebus told the barman. He raised his whisky glass. ‘And a couple more of these.’ He saw Gill’s look. ‘One’s for the Farmer,’ he explained.
‘Of course.’ She was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Fixed a date for your own bash?’ Rebus asked.
‘Which one is that?’
‘I just thought, first female DCS in Scotland … got to be worth a night out, hasn’t it?’
‘I drank a Babycham when I heard.’ She watched the barman dribble angostura into her glass. ‘How’s the Balfour case?’
Rebus looked at her. ‘Is this my new Chief Super asking?’
‘John … '
Funny how that single word could say so much. Rebus wasn’t sure he caught all the nuances, but he caught enough.
John, don’t push this.
John, I know there’s a history between us, but that’s long-dead.
Gill Templer had worked her arse off to get where she was now, but she was also under the microscope—plenty of people would want her to fail, including some she probably counted as friends.
Rebus just nodded and paid for the drinks, tipping one of the whiskies into the other glass.
‘Saving him from himself,’ he said, nodding towards the Farmer, who was already on to the New Testament.
‘Always the willing martyr,’ Gill said.
A cheer went up as the Farmer’s recitation finished. Someone said it was a new record, but Rebus knew it wasn’t. It was just another gesture, another version of the gold watch or mantel-clock. The malt tasted of seaweed and peat, but Rebus knew that whenever he drank Ardbeg from now on, he’d think of a small boy walking through the doors of a police station …
Siobhan Clarke was making her way across the room.
‘Congratulations,’ she said.
The two women shook hands.
‘Thanks, Siobhan,’ Gill said. ‘Maybe it’ll be you one day.’
‘Why not?’ Siobhan agreed. ‘Glass ceiling’s what truncheons are for.’ She punched her fist into the air above her head.
‘Need a drink, Siobhan?’ Rebus asked.
The two women shared a look. ‘About all they’re good for,’ Siobhan said with a wink. Rebus left the pair of them laughing.
The karaoke started at nine. Rebus went to the toilets and felt the sweat cooling on his back. His tie was already off and in his pocket. His jacket was slung over one of the chairs near the bar. Personnel at the party changed as some headed off, either to prepare for the night shift or because their mobile or pager had news for them. Others arrived, having been home to change out of work clothes. A female officer from the St Leonard’s comms room had turned up in a short skirt, the first time Rebus had seen her legs. A rowdy quartet from one of the Farmer’s postings in West Lothian arrived bearing photos of the Farmer from a quarter-century before. They’d slipped a few doctored prints into the mix, grafting the Farmer’s head on to beefcake bodies, some of them in positions which went several leagues beyond compromising.
Rebus washed his hands, splashing some of the water on to his face and the back of his neck. Then of course there was only an electric hand-drier, so he had to use his handkerchief as a towel. Which was when Bobby Hogan walked in.
‘See you’re bottling it too,’ Hogan said, making for the urinals.
‘Ever heard me sing, Bobby?’
‘We should do a duet: “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”.’
‘We’d be about the only buggers who knew it.’
Hogan chuckled. ‘Remember when it was us that were the young turks?’
‘Long dead,’ Rebus said, half to himself. Hogan thought he’d misheard, but Rebus just shook his head.
‘So who’s next for the golden cheery-bye?’ Hogan asked, ready to head out again.
‘Not me,’ Rebus stated.
‘No?’
Rebus was wiping at his neck again. ‘I can’t retire, Bobby. It would kill me.’
Hogan snorted. ‘Same here. But then the job’s killing me too.’ The two men studied one another, then Hogan winked and yanked open the door. They walked back out into the heat and noise, Hogan opening his arms wide to greet an old
friend. One of the Farmer’s cronies pushed a glass towards Rebus.
‘Ardbeg, right?’
Rebus nodded, sucked at where some had spilled on to the back of his hand, then, picturing a small boy with news to impart, raised the glass and downed it.
He took the set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the main door of the tenement block. The keys were shiny new, cut just that day. His shoulder rubbed against the wall as he headed for the stairs, and he kept a tight grip on the banister as he climbed. The second and third shiny keys unlocked the door to Philippa Balfour’s flat.
There was no one inside, and the alarm hadn’t been set. He switched on the lights. The loose rug underfoot seemed to want to wrap itself around his ankles, and he had to fight his way loose, holding on to the wall. The rooms were just as he’d left them, except that the computer was now missing from its desk, having been transferred to the station, where Siobhan was certain someone from Balfour’s Internet service provider could help bypass the password.
In the bedroom, someone had removed the neat pile of David Costello’s clothes from the chair. Rebus presumed the culprit to be Costello himself. He wouldn’t have done so without permission—nothing left the flat unless okayed by the bosses. Forensics would have checked the clothes first, maybe taken samples from them. Already there were rumours of belt-tightening. A case like this, the cost could spiral skywards like smoke.
In the kitchen, Rebus poured himself a big glass of water and went through to sit in the drawing room, pretty much where David Costello had sat. A little of the water dribbled down his chin. The paintings on the walls—framed abstracts—were playing tricks, moving with him as he moved his eyes. He bent down to place the empty glass on the floor, and ended up on his hands and knees. Some bastard had spiked the drinks, only explanation. He turned and sat down, closed his eyes for a moment. MisPers: sometimes you worried in vain; they either turned up, or didn’t want to be found. So many of them … photos and descriptions were always passing through the office, the faces slightly out of focus as though they were in the process of becoming ghosts. He blinked open his eyes and raised them to the ceiling, with its ornate cornicing. Big flats, the New Town had, but Rebus preferred it where he lived: more shops, not quite so smug …
The Ardbeg, it had to’ve been spiked. He probably wouldn’t drink it again. It would come with its own ghost. He wondered what had happened to the boy: had it been accident or design? The boy would be a parent himself these days, maybe even a grandparent. Did he still dream about the sister he’d killed? Did he remember the young, nervous uniform standing behind the reception desk? Rebus ran his hands over the floor. It was bare wood, sanded and sealed. They hadn’t taken the boards up, not yet. He felt for a gap between two planks and dug his nails in, but couldn’t get any purchase. Somehow he knocked the glass and it started rolling, the noise filling the room. Rebus watched it until it stopped in the doorway, progress blocked by a pair of feet.
‘What in the hell’s going on?’
Rebus stood up. The man in front of him was in his mid-forties, hands in the pockets of a three-quarter-length black woollen overcoat. The man opened his stance a little, filling the doorway.
‘Who are you?’ Rebus asked.
The man slid a hand from his pocket, angled it towards his ear. He was holding a mobile phone. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.
‘I’m a police officer.’ Rebus reached into his own pocket, brought out his warrant card. ‘DI Rebus.’
The man studied the card and handed it back. ‘I’m John Balfour,’ he said, his voice losing a little of its edge. Rebus nodded; he’d already figured as much.
‘Sorry if I …’ Rebus didn’t finish the sentence. As he put the warrant card away, his left knee unlocked for a second.
'You’ve been drinking,’ Balfour said.
‘Sorry, yes. Retirement do. Not on duty or anything, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then might I ask what you’re doing in my daughter’s flat?’
'You might,’ Rebus agreed. He looked around. ‘Just wanted to … well, I suppose I …’ But he couldn’t find the words.
‘Will you leave, please?’
Rebus bowed his head a little. ‘Of course.’ Balfour moved so that Rebus could pass him without any contact. Rebus stopped in the hallway, half turned, ready with a further apology, but Philippa Balfour’s father had walked over to the drawing-room window and was staring out at the night, hands gripping the shutters at either side.
He walked downstairs quietly, halfway sober now, closed the main door after him, not looking back, not looking up at the first- floor window. The streets were deserted, pavements glistening from an earlier downpour, street light reflected in them. Rebus’s shoes were the only noise to be heard as he started the climb back up the slope: Queen Street, George Street, Princes Street, and then North Bridge. People were heading home from pubs, seeking taxis and lost friends. Rebus took a left at the Tron Kirk and headed down the Canongate. A patrol car was parked kerbside, two bodies inside: one awake, the other asleep. They were detective constables from Gayfleld, and had either drawn the short straw or were disliked by their boss: no other way to explain this thankless night-shift. Rebus was just another passer-by to the one who was awake. He had a newspaper folded in front of him, angled towards what light there was. When Rebus thumped the roof of the patrol car, the paper flew, landing on the head of the sleeper, who jerked awake and clawed at the smothering sheets.
As the passenger-side window was wound down, Rebus leaned on the sill. your one o’clock alarm call, gentlemen.’
‘I nearly shat myself,’ the passenger said, trying to gather up his newspaper. His name was Pat Connolly, and he’d spent his first few years in CID waging a campaign against the nickname ‘Paddy’. His colleague was Tommy Daniels, who seemed at ease—as he did in all things—with his own nickname of ‘Distant’. Tommy to Tom- Tom to Distant Drums to Distant was the logic behind the name, but it also said much about the young man’s character. Having been so rudely awakened from sleep, upon seeing and recognising Rebus all he’d done was roll his eyes.
‘Could’ve fetched us a coffee,’ Connolly was complaining.
‘Could have,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Or maybe a dictionary.’ He glanced towards the newspaper crossword. Less than a quarter of the grid had been filled in, while the puzzle itself was ringed by doodles and unsolved anagrams. ‘Quiet night?’
‘Apart from foreigners asking directions,’ Connolly said. Rebus smiled and looked up and down the street. This was the heart of tourist Edinburgh. A hotel up by the traffic lights, a knitwear shop across the road. Fancy gifts and shortbread and whisky decanters. A kiltmaker’s only fifty yards away. John Knox’s house, hunched against its neighbours, half hidden in scowling shadow. At one time, the Old Town had been all there was of Edinburgh: a narrow spine running from the Castle to Holyrood, steep vennels leading off like crooked ribs. Then, as the place became ever more crowded and insanitary, the New Town had been built, its Georgian elegance a calculated snub to the Old Town and those who couldn’t afford to move. Rebus found it interesting that while Philippa Balfour had chosen the New Town, David Costello had elected to live in the heart of the Old.
‘Is he home?’ he said now.
‘Would we be here if he wasn’t?’ Connolly’s eyes were on his partner, who was pouring tomato soup from a thermos. Distant sniffed the liquid hesitantly, then took a quick gulp. ‘Actually, You could be the very man we want.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘Oh aye?’
‘Settle an argument. Deacon Blue, Wage's Day—first album or second?’
Rebus smiled. ‘It has been a quiet night.’ Then, after a moment’s reflection: ‘Second.’
‘Ten notes you owe me,’ Connolly told Distant.
‘Mind if I ask one?’ Rebus had crouched down, felt his knees crack with the effort.
‘Fire away,’ Connolly said.
‘What do you do if you need a pee?’
&nb
sp; Connolly smiled. ‘If Distant’s asleep, I just use his thermos.’
The mouthful of soup almost exploded from Distant’s nostrils. Rebus straightened up, feeling the blood pound in his ears: weather warning, force-ten hangover on its way.
'You going in?’ Connolly asked. Rebus looked at the tenement again.
‘Thinking about it.’
‘We’d have to make a note.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Just come from the Farmer’s leaving do?’
Rebus turned towards the car. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Well, you’ve had a drink, haven’t you? Might not be the best time for a house call … sir.’
'You’re probably right … Paddy,’ Rebus said, making for the door.
‘Remember what you asked me?’
Rebus had accepted a black coffee from David Costello. Popped two paracetamol from their foil shroud and washed them down. Middle of the night, but Costello hadn’t been asleep. Black T-shirt, black jeans, bare feet. He’d made an off-licence run at some point: the bag was lying on the floor, the half-bottle of Bell’s sitting not far from it, top missing but only a couple of decent measures down. Not a drinker then, Rebus surmised. It was a non-drinker’s idea of how you handled a crisis—you drank whisky, but had to buy some first, and no point lashing out on a whole bottle. A couple of drinks would do you.
The living room was small, the flat itself reached from a turreted stairwell, winding ever upwards, the stone steps worn concave. Tiny windows. They’d planned this building in a century where heat was a luxury. The smaller the windows, the less heat you lost.
The living room was separated from the kitchen only by a step and what looked like partition walls. An open doorway, double- width. Signs that Costello liked to cook: pots and pans hanging from butcher’s hooks. The living area was all books and CDs. Rebus had trawled the latter: John Martyn, Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell. Laid-back but cerebral. The books looked like stuff from Costello’s English Literature course.
Costello was seated on a red futon; Rebus had chosen one of two straight-backed wooden chairs. They looked like the stuff he saw on Causewayside, placed outside shops for which the description ‘antique’ encompassed school desks from the sixties and green filing cabinets salvaged from office refits.