10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (365 page)

He stood up straight afterwards, got his breathing under control. Looked around at the houses he remembered so well. No one had moved from bed. No one had seen him in his moment of victory. He wiped the toes of his shoes against the prone figure’s shirt, examined them to make sure they hadn’t been scuffed in the fight. Walked over to Eardrum and pulled him up by the hair. Another squeal. Oakes put his lips close to the ear that wasn’t bleeding.

‘This is
my
place now, understood? Anyone fucks with me gets tenfold back.’

‘We didn’t—’

Oakes pressed his thumb hard against the bleeding ear.

‘None of you would ever listen.’ He was looking towards the gap in the terrace, where his aunt’s house stood. He threw the youth’s head hard against the ground. Patted it once, then turned to walk away.

At twenty past six, Rebus crept into Patience’s flat on Oxford Terrace, armed with bread still warm from the
oven, fresh milk and newspaper. He made himself a mug of tea and sat in the kitchen, reading the sports pages. At six forty-five he put the radio on, just as the central heating was kicking in. Made a fresh pot of tea, poured out a glass of orange juice for Patience. Sliced the bread and got a tray ready. Took it into the bedroom. Patience peered at him with one eye.

‘What’s this?’

‘Breakfast in bed.’

She sat up, arranged the pillows behind her. He laid the tray on her lap.

‘Have I forgotten some anniversary?’

He pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. ‘I just didn’t want you oversleeping.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because as soon as you get up, I’m into that bed and asleep.’

He dodged the butter-knife as she swiped it at him. They were both laughing as he started to unbutton his shirt.

Jim Stevens went down to breakfast, expecting to find Cary Oakes halfway through another fry-up. But there was no sign of him. He asked at reception, but nobody had seen him. He called up to Oakes’s room: no answer. He went up and banged on the door: ditto.

He was back in reception, ready to demand a duplicate key, when Cary Oakes came walking in through the hotel door.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Stevens asked, feeling almost dizzy with relief.

‘No caffeine for you this morning, Jim,’ Oakes said. ‘Look at you, you’ve got the shakes already.’

‘I asked where you’d been.’

‘Got up early. Guess I’m still on US time. Walked down by the docks.’

‘Nobody here saw you leave.’

Oakes looked over towards the reception desk, then
back to Stevens. ‘Is there a problem? I’m here now, aren’t I?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Isn’t that what counts?’ He placed a hand on Stevens’ shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’ Started leading them towards the dining room. ‘Have I got some great stuff for you this morning. Your editor’s going to offer to blow you when he reads it . . .’

‘Just another day at the office then,’ Stevens said, wiping sweat from his brow.

The businessman who owned the Clipper Night-Ship asked Rebus if he wanted to make him an offer.

‘I’m serious. I’d be happy to make a loss, only no one wants to buy her.’

He explained that the Clipper had brought him little but headaches. Licensing hassles, complaints from local residents, a council investigation, police visits . . .

‘All that so punters can have a piss-up on a boat. I could run a pub with less grief and bigger takings.’

‘So why don’t you?’

‘I used to: the Apple Tree in Morningside. But at that time it seemed like every pub had to have a gimmick. God knows what it’s all about with Irish pubs: whoever came up with the notion they’re any better than Scottish ones? Then there’s the other theme pubs – Sherlock Holmes or Jekyll and Hyde, or pubs for Australians and South Africans.’ He shook his head. ‘I took one look at the Clipper and thought I was on a winner. Maybe I am, only sometimes it seems like a lot of hard work and sweet FA to show for it.’

They were seated in the offices of PJP: Preston-James Promotions. Rebus and Janice Mee were one side of the desk, Billy Preston the other side. Rebus didn’t think Preston would appreciate being informed that his namesake used to play keyboards for the Beatles and the Stones.

Billy Preston was in his mid-thirties, immaculately turned out in a grey collarless suit with a metallic shine to it. You got the feeling nothing would stick to him, a regular Teflon Man. His head was shaved, but his long
square chin sported a Frank Zappa beard. The offices of PJP took up two rooms on the first floor of a building halfway down Canongate. Below was a shop specialising in antiquarian maps.

‘We’d move,’ Preston had told them, ‘find somewhere bigger, somewhere with parking, only my partner says to hold fire.’

‘Why?’ Rebus had asked.

‘The Parliament.’ Preston had pointed out of the window. ‘Two hundred yards that way. Property around here is rocketing. We’d be mugs to sell.’ He kept playing with his computer mouse, running it over its mat, clicking and double-clicking. It annoyed Rebus, who couldn’t see the screen. ‘Now if they’d chosen Leith instead of Holyrood . . .’ Preston rolled his eyes.

‘The Clipper wouldn’t be causing you this grief?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Bingo. We’d have bided our time, waited for the MPs and their staff, all on healthy salaries and looking to spend.’

‘The Clipper’s like a private club?’ Janice asked.

‘Not exactly. She’s for hire. If you guarantee me a minimum of forty punters on a week day, sixty at weekends, she’s yours gratis, so long as they’re drinking at the ship’s bar. You pay for the disco, that’s it.’

‘You say a minimum of forty. What’s the maximum?’

‘Public Safety regulations stipulate seventy-five.’

‘But forty guarantees you a profit?’

‘Just barely,’ Preston said. ‘I’ve got staff, overheads, power . . .’

‘So some nights you don’t open?’

‘It comes in waves, if you’ll pardon the pun. We’ve had good times. Now we’re in . . .’

‘The doldrums?’ Rebus offered.

Preston snorted, reached into a drawer for a ledger book. ‘So what date is it you’re interested in?’

Janice told him. She had both hands cupped around a
mug of coffee. It had been tepid and stewed on delivery. Rebus wondered at the qualifications of the tall blonde secretary in the outer office. Paperwork all over the floor, unopened mail . . . If Preston wasn’t helpful, Rebus could foresee a phone call to the VAT inspectors.

But in fact he flicked quickly through the ledger. ‘Found this here when we moved in,’ he explained. ‘Thought I’d try to find a use for it.’ He looked up. ‘You know, a continuity kind of thing.’

His finger found the date, ran along the line.

‘Booking that night, private party. Fancy dress.’ He looked up at Janice. ‘Sure your son was headed for the Clipper?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Whose party was it?’ Rebus asked. He was already out of his chair. Preston, eyes on the ledger, didn’t seem to notice Rebus coming around the side of the desk. Rebus’s first impulse: look at the screen. A game of patience, sitting waiting for the player to start.

‘Amanda Petrie,’ Preston said. ‘I was there that night. I remember it. There was a theme . . . pirates or something.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No, it was
Treasure Island
. Some arsehole turned up dressed as a parrot. By the end of the night, he was as sick as one.’ He looked at Janice. ‘Can I see those photos again?’

She handed them over: Damon and the blonde from the security cameras; then Damon in a holiday snap.

‘They weren’t in fancy dress?’ Preston asked.

Janice shook her head.

Preston’s hands were busy with the ledger and the photos. Rebus, leaning over to examine the ledger, found that his elbow had nudged the mouse up the screen, to where it could close the game. Slight pressure on the mouse, and the screen changed. From a game of patience to the image of a woman on all fours. The photo had been taken from behind, the model turning her head to pout at the photographer. She was wearing white stockings and
suspenders, nothing else. The pout was exaggerated. On the floor nearby, an empty champagne bottle. Rebus looked up to the windowsill, where an empty champagne bottle sat.

‘But is she any good at shorthand?’ Rebus said. Preston saw what he was looking at, switched the screen off. Rebus took the opportunity to lift the heavy ledger from the desk, walk back around to his chair with it.

‘So you were there that night?’ he asked.

Preston looked flustered. ‘Keeping an eye on things.’

‘And you didn’t see either Damon or the blonde?’

‘I don’t remember seeing them.’

Rebus glanced up. ‘Not quite the same thing, is it?’

‘Look, Inspector, I’m trying to help . . .’

‘Amanda Petrie,’ Rebus said. Then he saw her address, recognised it. He looked up at Preston again.

‘The judge’s daughter?’

Preston was nodding. ‘Ama Petrie.’

‘Ama Petrie,’ Rebus echoed. He turned to Janice, saw the question in her eyes. ‘Edinburgh’s original wild child.’ Back to Preston: ‘I see you didn’t charge her for the boat.’

‘Ama always brings a good crowd.’

‘She uses the Clipper a lot?’

‘Maybe once a month, usually fancy dress of some kind.’

‘Does everyone play along?’

Preston saw what he was getting at. ‘Not all the time.’

‘So this night, there’d have been guests in normal clothes?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘And they wouldn’t have been quite as eye-catching as pirates and parrots?’

‘Agreed.’

‘So it’s possible . . .?’

‘It’s possible,’ Preston said with a sigh. ‘Look, what do you want me to say? Want me to lie and say I saw them there?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Best person to talk to is Ama herself.’

‘Yes,’ Rebus said thoughtfully. Thinking of Amanda Petrie, her reputation. Thinking too of her father, Lord Justice Petrie.

‘She runs with a pretty fast bunch,’ Preston said.

Rebus nodded. ‘Pretty rich too.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘The kind of customers you could do with more of.’

Preston glared at him. ‘I wouldn’t lie for her. Besides, I’m not sure the old ticker could cope with more than one Ama. Takes an age to clean up after her – more expense for me. And I always seem to get the bulk of complaints after Ama’s parties. God knows, they’re loud enough when they arrive . . .’

‘Anything out of the ordinary that night?’

Preston stared at Rebus. ‘Inspector, this was
Ama Petrie
. With her, there
is
no “ordinary”.’

Rebus was copying her phone number from the ledger into his notebook. His eyes ran down other bookings, saw nothing to interest him.

‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Preston.’ A final glance towards the computer. ‘We’ll let you get back to your game.’

Outside, Janice turned to him. ‘I get the feeling I missed something back there.’

Rebus shrugged, shook his head. The car was parked on a sideroad. Drizzle was being blown into their faces as they walked.

‘Ama Petrie,’ Rebus said, keeping his head bowed. ‘She doesn’t fit my picture of Damon.’

‘The mystery blonde,’ Janice stated.

‘Friend of hers, you reckon?’

‘Let’s ask Ms Petrie.’

Rebus tried the number from his cellphone: got an answering machine, and didn’t leave a message. Janice looked at him.

‘Sometimes it helps not to give too much advance warning,’ he explained.

‘Gives people time to concoct a story?’

He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

She was still looking at him. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’

‘I used to be.’ He thought of Alan Archibald: all those years on the force, all that persistence, pursuing Deirdre Campbell’s killer . . . It might be a kind of madness, but you had to admire it. It was what Rebus liked about cops. Only thing was, most of them weren’t like that at all . . .

‘Back to Arden Street,’ he told Janice. There were calls she still had to make; his flat was still her base.

‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘Things to do, people to see.’

She took his hand, squeezed it. ‘Thanks, John.’ Then reached up to touch his face. ‘You look tired.’ Rebus removed her fingers from his cheek, held them to his mouth, kissed them. Reached down with his free hand to turn the ignition.

The first instalment of Cary Oakes’s ‘Lifer Story’ was perfunctory: a couple of paragraphs about his return to Scotland, a couple more about his incarceration, and then early biography. Rebus noted that place-names were kept to a minimum. Oakes’s explanation: ‘I don’t want anywhere getting a bad rep just because Cary Oakes once spent a wet winter there.’

Thoughtful of him.

Several times, revelations were hinted at – teasers to keep the audience coming back for more – but on the whole it looked like whatever the paper had paid Oakes, they’d got themselves a pig in a poke. Rebus doubted Stevens’ editor would be chuffed. There were photos: Oakes at the airport; Oakes on his release from the penitentiary; Oakes as a baby. A small photo too of ‘reporter James Stevens’, alongside his byline. Rebus noted
that the photographs took up more space than the actual story. Looked like the reporter would be struggling to get a book’s worth.

He folded the paper and looked out of his car window. He was parked at the gateway to a Do-It-Yourself superstore, one of those thinly disguised warehouses which, cheaply and quickly built, seemed to surround the city. There were only four cars in the capacious car park. He didn’t know this part of the city well: Brunstane. Just to the west was The Jewel, with its mandatory shopping centre; to the east stood Jewel and Esk College. The message Jane Barbour had left for him at the office had been perfunctory: time and place, telling him to meet her. Rebus lit another cigarette, wondering if she was ever coming. Then a car pulled up alongside him, sounded its horn, and proceeded into the car park. Rebus started his engine and followed.

DI Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured Ford Mondeo. She was getting out as Rebus parked alongside her. She reached back into the car for an A4 envelope.

‘Nice car,’ Rebus said.

‘Thanks for coming.’

Rebus closed the car door for her. ‘What’s up? Run out of rawl-plugs?’