‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus, expertly manoeuvring McCall out of the front door. ‘Let’s do that.’ And he locked the door behind him, figuring that Ronnie’s brother would know of the many easy ways in and out of the house. Everybody else seemed to know them, after all.
Everybody.
‘Where’ll it be?’ said Rebus. ‘I hope you didn’t drive here, Tony.’
‘Got a patrol car to drop me off.’
‘Fine. We’ll take my car then.’
‘We could drive down to Leith.’
‘No, I fancy something more central. There are a few good pubs in Regent Road.’
‘By Calton Hill?’ McCall was amazed. ‘Christ, John, I can think of better places to go for a drink.’
‘I can’t,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on.’
Nell Stapleton was Holmes’s girlfriend. Holmes had always preferred tall women, tracing the fixation back to his mother who had been five foot ten. Nell was nearly three quarters of an inch taller than Holmes’s mother, but he still loved her.
Nell was more intelligent than Holmes. Or, as he liked to think, they were more intelligent than one another in different ways. Nell could crack the Guardian cryptic crossword in under quarter of an hour on a good day. But she had trouble with arithmetic and remembering names: both strengths possessed by Holmes. People said they looked good together in public, looked comfortable with one another, which was probably true. They felt good together, too, living as they did by several simple rules: no talk of marriage, no thoughts of children, no hinting at living together, and definitely no cheating.
Nell worked as a librarian at Edinburgh University, a vocation Holmes found handy. Today, for example, he had asked her to find him some books on the occult. She had done even better, locating a thesis or two which he could read on the premises if he wished. She also had a printed bibliography of relevant materials, which she handed to him in the pub when they met that evening.
The Bridge of Sighs was at a mid-week and mid-evening cusp, as were most of the city centre bars. The just-one-after-work brigade had slung their jackets over their arms and headed off, while the revitalised night-time crowd had yet to catch their buses from the housing estates into the middle of town. Nell and Holmes sat at a corner table, away from the video games, but a bit too close to one of the hi-fi system’s loudspeakers. Holmes, at the bar to buy another half for himself, an orange juice and Perrier for Nell, asked if the volume could be turned down.
‘Sorry, can’t. The customers like it.’
‘We are the customers,’ Holmes persisted.
‘You’ll have to speak to the manager.’
‘Fine.’
‘He’s not in yet.’
Holmes shot the young barmaid a filthy look before turning towards his table. What he saw made him pause. Nell had opened his briefcase and was examining the photograph of Tracy.
‘Who is she?’ Nell said, closing the case as he placed her drink on the table.
‘Part of a case I’m working on,’ he said frostily, sitting down. ‘Who said you could open my briefcase?’
‘Rule seven, Brian. No secrets.’
‘All the same –’
‘Pretty, isn’t she?’
‘What? I haven’t really –’
‘I’ve seen her around the university.’
He was interested now. ‘You have?’
‘Mmm. In the library cafeteria. I remember her because she always seemed a little bit older than the other students she was with.’
‘She’s a student then?’
‘Not necessarily. Anybody can go into the cafe. It’s students only in the library itself, but I can’t recall having seen her there. Only in the cafe. So what’s she done?’
‘Nothing, so far as I know.’
‘So why is there a nude photo of her in your briefcase?’
‘It’s part of this thing I’m doing for Inspector Rebus.’
‘You’re collecting dirty pictures for him.’
She was smiling now, and he smiled too. The smile vanished as Rebus and McCall walked into the pub, laughing at some shared joke as they made for the bar. Holmes didn’t want Rebus and Nell to meet. He tried very hard to leave his police life behind him when he was spending the evening with her – favours such as the occult booklist notwithstanding. He was also planning to keep Nell very much up his sleeve, so that he could have a booklist ready to hand should Rebus ever need such a thing.
Now it looked as though Rebus was going to spoil everything. And there was something else, another reason he didn’t want Rebus to come sauntering across to their table. He was afraid Rebus would call him ‘Shoeleather’.
He kept his eyes to the table as Rebus took in the bar with a single sweep of his head, and was relieved when the two senior officers, drinks purchased, wandered off towards the distant pool table, where they started another argument about who shouldn’t and should provide the two twenty-pence pieces for the game.
‘What’s wrong?’
Nell was staring at him. To do so, she had brought herself to his level, her head resting against the table.
‘Nothing.’ He turned towards her, offering the rest of the room a hard profile. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Good, me too.’
‘I thought you said you’d eaten.’
‘Not enough. Come on, I’ll treat you to an Indian.’
‘Let me finish my drink first.’ She did so in three swallows, and they left together, the door swinging shut silently behind them.
‘Heads or tails?’ Rebus asked McCall, flipping a coin.
‘Tails.’
Rebus examined the coin. ‘Tails it is. You break.’
As McCall angled his cue down onto the table, closing one eye as he concentrated on the distant triangle of balls, Rebus stared at the door of the bar. Fair enough, he supposed. Holmes was off duty, and had a girl with him, too. He supposed that gave him grounds for ignoring his senior officer. Perhaps there had been no progress, nothing to report. Fair enough again. But Rebus couldn’t help thinking that the whole thing was meant to be taken as a snub. He had given Holmes a mouthful earlier on, and now Holmes was sulking.
‘You to play, John,’ said McCall, who had broken without potting.
‘Right you are, Tony,’ said Rebus, chalking the tip of his cue. ‘Right you are.’
McCall came to Rebus’s side as he was making ready to play.
‘This must be just about the only straight pub in the whole street,’ he said quietly.
‘Do you know what homophobia means, Tony?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, John,’ said McCall, straightening up and watching Rebus’s chosen ball miss the pocket. ‘I mean, each to his own and all that. But some of those pubs and clubs.…’
‘You seem to know a lot.’
‘No, not really. It’s just what I hear.’
‘Who from?’
McCall potted one striped ball, then another. ‘Come on, John. You know Edinburgh as well as I do. Everybody knows the gay scene here.’
‘Like you said, Tony, each to his own.’ A voice suddenly sounded in Rebus’s mind: you’re the brother I never had. No, no, shut that out. He’d been there too often before. McCall missed on his next shot and Rebus approached the table.
‘How come,’ he said, completely miscuing, ‘you can drink so much and play so well?’
McCall chuckled. ‘Alcohol cures the shakes,’ he said. ‘So finish that pint and I’ll buy you another. My treat.’
James Carew felt that he deserved his treat. He had sold a substantial property on the outskirts of Edinburgh to the financial director of a company new to Scotland, and a husband and wife architects’ partnership – Scottish in origin, but now relocating from Sevenoaks in Kent – had just made a rather better offer than expected for an estate of seven acres in the Borders. A good day. By no means the best, but nevertheless worthy of celebration.
Carew himself owned a pied à terre in one o
f the loveliest of the New Town’s Georgian streets, and a farmhouse with some acreage on the Isle of Skye. These were good days for him. London was shifting north, it seemed, the incomers brimming with cash from properties sold in the south-east, wanting bigger and better and prepared to pay.
He left his George Street offices at six thirty, and returned to his split-level flat. Flat? It seemed an insult to term it such: five bedrooms, living room, dining room, two bathrooms, adequate kitchen, walk-in cupboards the size of a decent Hammersmith bedsit.… Carew was in the right place, the only place, and the time was right, too. This was a year to be clutched, embraced, a year unlike any other. He removed his suit in the master bedroom, showered, and changed into something more casual, but without shrugging off the mark of wealth. Though he had walked home, he would need the car for tonight. It was garaged in a mews to the rear of his street. The keys were hanging on their appointed hook in the kitchen. Was the Jaguar an indulgence? He smiled, locking the flat as he left. Perhaps it was. But then his list of indulgences was long, and about to grow longer.
Rebus waited with McCall until the taxi arrived. He gave the driver McCall’s address, and watched the cab pull away. Damn, he felt a little groggy himself. He went back into the pub and headed for the toilets. The bar was busier now, the jukebox louder. The bar staff had grown in strength from one to three, and they were working hard to cope. The toilets were a cool tiled haven, free from much of the bar’s cigarette smoke. Pine disinfectant caught in Rebus’s nostrils as he leaned over into one of the sinks. Two fingers sought out his tonsils, pausing there at the back of his throat until he retched, bringing up half a pint of beer, then another half. He breathed deeply, feeling a little better already, then washed his face thoroughly with cold water, drying himself off with a fistful of paper towels.
‘You all right?’ The voice lacked real sympathy. Its owner had just pushed open the door to the gents’ and was already seeking the closest urinal.
‘Never felt better,’ said Rebus.
‘That’s good.’
Good? He didn’t know about that, but at least his head was clearer, the world more in focus. He doubted if he’d fail a breathalyser, which was just as well, since his next port of call was his car, parked on a darkened side road. He was still wondering how Tony McCall, shaky on his pins after half a dozen pints, had managed to play pool with such a steady eye and steady hand. The man was miraculous. He’d beaten Rebus six straight games. And Rebus had been trying. By the end he’d really been trying. After all, it didn’t look good when a man barely able to stand upright could pot ball after ball, cleaning up and roaring to yet another victory. It didn’t look good. It hadn’t felt good.
It was eleven o’clock, perhaps a little early yet. He allowed himself one cigarette in the stationary car, window open, picking up the sounds from the world around him. The honest sounds of the late evening: traffic, heightened voices, laughter, the clatter of shoes on cobblestones. One cigarette, that was all. Then he started the car, and slowly drove the half mile or so to his destination. There was still some light in the sky, typical of the Edinburgh summer. Further north he knew it never got truly dark at this time of year.
But the night could be dark in other ways.
He spotted the first one on the pavement outside the Scottish Assembly building. There was no reason for the teenager to be standing there. It was an unlikely time of night to have arranged to meet friends, and the nearest bus stop was a hundred yards further up Waterloo Place. The lad stood there, smoking, one foot up behind him resting against the stone wall. He watched Rebus as the car slowly went past, and even lowered his head forward a little so that he could peer in, as though inspecting the driver. Rebus thought there was a smile there, but couldn’t be sure. Further along the road, he turned the car and came back. Another car had stopped beside the boy, and a conversation was taking place. Rebus kept driving. Two young men were talking together outside the Scottish Office building on this side of the road. A little way past them, a line of three cars stood outside Calton Cemetery. Rebus cruised one more circuit, then parked near these cars, and walked.
The night was fresh. No cloud cover. There was a slight breeze, nothing more. The lad outside the Assembly building had gone off in the car. No one stood there now. Rebus crossed the road, stopped by the wall, and waited, biding his time. He watched. One or two cars drove past him slowly, the drivers turning to stare at him. But nobody stopped. He tried memorising the number plates, unsure why.
‘Got a light, mister?’
He was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Dressed in jeans, training shoes, a shapeless T-shirt and denim jacket. His hair had been razored short, face clean-shaven but scarred with acne. There were two gold studs in his left ear.
‘Thanks,’ he said as Rebus held out a box of matches. Then: ‘What’s happening then?’, with an amused glance towards Rebus before lighting the cigarette.
‘Not much,’ Rebus said, taking back the matchbox. The young man blew smoke out through his nostrils. He didn’t seem about to go. Rebus wondered if there were any codes he should be using. He felt clammy beneath his thin shirt, despite the gooseflesh.
‘Nah, there’s never much happens around here. Fancy a drink?’
‘At this time? Whereabouts?’
The young man nodded a vague direction. ‘Calton Cemetery. You can always get a drink there.’
‘No, thanks anyway.’ Rebus was appalled to find himself blushing. He hoped the street lighting would disguise it.
‘Fair enough. See you around then.’ The young man was moving off.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said, relieved. ‘See you.’
‘And thanks for the light.’
Rebus watched him go, walking slowly, purposefully, turning from time to time at the sign of an approaching car. A hundred yards or so on, he crossed the road and began walking back, paying Rebus no attention, his mind on other things. It struck Rebus that the boy was sad, lonely, certainly no hustler. But no victim either.
Rebus stared at the wall of Calton Cemetery, broken only by its metal gates. He’d taken his daughter in there once to show her the graves of the famous – David Hume, the publisher Constable, the painter David Allan – and the statue of Abraham Lincoln. She’d asked him about the men who walked briskly from the cemetery, their heads bowed down. One older man, two teenagers. Rebus had wondered about them, too. But not too much.
No, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go in there. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Jesus, no, not that, not for one minute. He was just … he didn’t know what. But he was feeling giddy again, unsteady on his pins. I’ll go back to the car, he thought.
He went back to the car.
He had been sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking another cigarette thoughtfully for about a minute before he caught sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned and looked towards where the boy was seated; no, not seated, crouching against a low wall. Rebus turned away and resumed smoking. Only then did the boy rise to his feet and walk towards the car. He tapped on the passenger side window. Rebus took a deep breath before unlocking the door. The boy got in without a word, closing the door solidly behind him. He sat there, staring out through the windscreen, silent. Rebus, unable to think of a single sensible thing to say, stayed silent, too. The boy cracked first.
‘Hiya.’
It was a man’s voice. Rebus turned to examine the boy. He was maybe sixteen. Dressed in leather jacket, open-necked shirt. Torn jeans.
‘Hello,’ he said in reply.
‘Got a cigarette?’
Rebus handed over the packet. The boy took one and swopped the packet for a box of matches. He inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply, holding it for a long time, then exhaling almost nothing of it back into the atmosphere. Take without give, thought Rebus. The creed of the street.
‘So what are you up to tonight then?’ The question had been on Rebus’s own lips, but the boy had given voice to it.
‘Just killing time
,’ said Rebus. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
The boy laughed harshly. ‘Yeah, couldn’t sleep, so you came for a drive. Got tired driving so you just happened to stop here. This particular street. This time of night. Then you went for a walk, a stretch of the legs, and came back to the car. Right?’
‘You’ve been watching me,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I didn’t need to watch you. I’ve seen it all before.’
‘How often?’
‘Often enough, James.’
The words were tough, the voice was tough. Rebus had no cause to doubt the teenager. Certainly he was as dissimilar to the first boy as chalk to cheese.
‘The name’s not James,’ he said.
‘Of course it is. Everybody’s called James. Makes it easier to remember a name, even if you can’t recall the face.’
‘I see.’
The boy finished the cigarette in silence, then flicked it out of the window.
‘So what’s it to be?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rebus sincerely. ‘A drive maybe?’
‘Fuck that.’ He paused, seeming to change his mind. ‘Okay, let’s drive to the top of Calton Hill. Take a look out over the water, eh?’
‘Fine,’ said Rebus, starting the car.
They drove up the steep and winding road to the top of the hill, where the observatory and the folly – a copy of one side of Greece’s Parthenon – sat silhouetted against the sky. They were not alone at the top. Other darkened cars had parked, facing across the Firth of Forth towards the dimly lit coast of Fife. Rebus, trying not to look too closely at the other cars, decided to park at a discreet distance from them, but the boy had other ideas.
‘Stop next to that Jag,’ he ordered. ‘What a great-looking car.’
Rebus felt his own car take the insult with as much pride as it could muster. The brakes squealed in protest as he pulled to a halt. He turned off the ignition.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Whatever you want,’ said the boy. ‘Cash on delivery, of course.’
‘Of course. What if we just talk?’