10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (377 page)

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.’

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 wiping 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.

‘They’re on their way,’ he told the minder.

‘Cheers.’

‘That’s one you owe me,’ Rebus said, waiting till the minder had nodded. ‘To square things, I want you to tell me what Archie Frost has to do with Billy Preston.’

‘He just works for him, same as I do.’

‘But he runs Gaitano’s for Charmer Mackenzie.’

The minder was nodding. ‘That’s right.’

‘No conflict of interests?’

‘Should there be?’

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Mackenzie owns this boat?’

The minder licked his lips. ‘Part-owns. Mr Preston has the other half.’

Charmer Mackenzie had a half-share in the Clipper. And he owned Gaitano’s. Damon had been at Gaitano’s, and was last seen near the Clipper. Rebus was beginning to wonder . . .

‘That’s us quits,’ the minder said, as the party-goers did a conga towards the gangway.

He went back to his flat but couldn’t sleep. The blanket Darren Rough had slept under was still folded on the sofa. He couldn’t bring himself to move it. Instead, he sat in his chair, waiting for the ghosts to come. Maybe Darren would be with them, or maybe he’d have other souls to haunt.

But no ghosts came. Rebus dozed, came awake with a start. Decided he’d be better off out of doors. He cut through The Meadows, past the Infirmary. It was due to move out of town, south to Little France. There was talk the old Infirmary site would be turned into upmarket flats, or maybe a hotel. Prime city-centre site, but who’d want a flat where a hospital ward had been?

He paused at the statue of Greyfriars Bobby. When you thought of it, Bobby was just a dog with nowhere better to
go, nothing better to be doing. Rebus reached out and patted the statue’s head.

‘Stay,’ he said, heading down George IV Bridge. A couple of taxis slowed beside him, touting for custom, but he waved them on, took the Playfair Steps down to the National Gallery and Royal Academy. He passed a couple of people sleeping rough, watched the Castle beginning to assume shape again against the sky as night segued into morning. He thought of his grandfathers, whose names were buried somewhere in the Castle’s Books of Remembrance. He couldn’t even recall what regiments they’d served in. Both had died in the 1914–18 campaign, long before Rebus’s parents had even met.

Princes Street had the usual haphazard look to it. The pavements seemed plenty wide when there was no one else about. He nipped up the side of Burger King and into the Penny Black, which opened for business at five. There were a couple of drinkers already in. Rebus ordered a whisky, added plenty of water.