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  ‘I popped in after work. He looks great.’ She paused. ‘You sound tired. Have you been working?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Central?’

  ‘Christ knows. I suppose so.’ Rebus rubbed the back of his neck. The hangover was starting already.

  ‘You had to buy a few drinks?’ Siobhan guessed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And drink a few?’

  ‘Right again, Sherlock.’

  She laughed, then tutted. ‘And afterwards you drove home. I’d be happy to chauffeur you if it would help.’ She sounded like she meant it.

  ‘Thanks, Clarke. I’ll bear it in mind.’ He paused. ‘Know what I’d like for Christmas?’

  ‘It’s a long way off.’

  ‘I’d like someone to prove that the corpse belongs to one of the Bru-Head Brothers.’

  ‘The body had a broken—’

  ‘I know, I’ve checked. The hospitals came up with spit.’ He paused again. ‘Not your problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  Rebus sat in silence for a minute or two. Something about his conversation with Siobhan Clarke made him want to talk with Patience. He picked up the receiver again and rang her.

  ‘Hello?’

  Ye Gods, not an answering machine!

  ‘Hello, Patience.’

  ‘John.’

  ‘I’d like to talk. Are you ready?’

  There was silence, then: ‘Yes, I think so. Let’s talk.’

  John Rebus lay down on the sofa, one hand behind his head. Nobody else used the phone that night.

  15

  John Rebus was in a good mood that Tuesday morning, for no other reason than that he’d spent what seemed like half the previous night on the phone with Patience. They were going to meet for a drink; he just had to wait for her to get back to him with a place and a time. He was still in a good mood when he opened the ground floor door and started up the stairs towards Operation Moneybags’ Gorgie centre of operations.

  He could hear voices; nothing unusual about that. But the voices grew in intensity as he climbed, and he opened the door just in time to see a man lunge at DC Petrie and butt him square on the nose. Petrie fell back against the window, knocking over the camera tripod. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Rebus only half took in that two small boys were watching, along with Siobhan Clarke and Elsa-Beth Jardine. The man was pulling Petrie upright when Rebus got an arm lock around him, pinning the man’s arms to his side. He pulled Rebus to right and left, trying to throw him off, all the time yelling so loudly it was a wonder nobody on the street below could hear the commotion.

  Rebus heaved the man backwards and turned him, so that he lost balance and fell to the floor, where Rebus sat on top of him. Petrie started forward, but the man lashed out with his legs and sent Petrie back into the window, where his elbow smashed the glass. Rebus did what he had to do. He punched the man in the throat.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he asked. The man was gasping but still struggling. ‘You, stop it!’ Then something hit Rebus on the back of his head. It was the clenched fist of one of the boys, and it hit him right on his burnt patch of scalp. He screwed shut his eyes, fighting the stinging pain of the blow and a nausea in his gut, right where his muesli and tea with honey were sitting.

  ‘Leave my dad alone!’

  Siobhan Clarke grabbed the boy and dragged him off.

  ‘Arrest that little bugger,’ Rebus said. Then, to the boy’s father: ‘I mean it, too. If you don’t calm down, I’m going to have him charged with assault. How would you like that?’

  ‘He’s too young,’ gasped the man.

  ‘Is he?’ said Rebus. ‘Are you sure?’

  The man thought about it and calmed down.

  ‘That’s better.’ Rebus rose from the man’s chest. ‘Now is someone going to explain all this to me?’

  It was quickly explained, once Petrie had been sent off to find a doctor for his nose and the boys had been sent home. The man was called Bill Chilton, and Bill Chilton didn’t like squatters.

  ‘Squatters?’

  ‘That’s what Wee Neilly told me.’

  ‘Squatters?’ Rebus turned to Siobhan Clarke. She’d been downstairs to check no passers-by had been injured by falling glass, and more importantly to explain the ‘accident’.

  ‘The two boys,’ she said now, ‘came barging in. They said they sometimes played here.’

  Rebus stopped her and turned to Chilton. ‘Why isn’t Neil at school?’

  ‘He’s been suspended for fighting.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘He’s got a fair punch on him.’ The back of his head throbbed agreement. He turned back to Siobhan.

  ‘They asked us what we were doing, and Ms Jardine’—at this Elsa-Beth Jardine lowered her head—‘told them we were squatters.’

  ‘Just joking,’ Jardine found it necessary to add. Rebus feigned surprise, and she lowered her eyes again, blushing furiously.

  ‘DC Petrie joined in, the boys cleared out, and we all had a laugh about it.’

  ‘A laugh?’ Rebus said. ‘It wasn’t a laugh, it was a breach of security.’ He sounded as furious as he looked, so that even Siobhan turned her eyes away from his. He now turned his gaze on Bill Chilton.

  ‘Well,’ Chilton continued, ‘Neil came home and told me there were squatters here. We’ve had a lot of that going on this past year or two, deserted tenement flats being broken open and used for all sorts of thing…drug pushing and that. Some of us are doing something about it.’

  ‘What are we talking about here, Mr Chilton? Vigilante tactics? Pickaxe handles at dawn?’

  Chilton was unabashed. ‘You lot are doing bugger all!’

  ‘So you came up here looking to scare the squatters off?’

  ‘Before they got a toe-hold, aye.’

  ‘And?’

  Chilton said nothing.

  ‘And,’ Rebus said for him, ‘you started shouting the odds at DC Petrie, who started shouting back that he was a police officer and you’d better bugger off. Only by that time you were too fired up to back off. Got a bit of a temper, Mr Chilton? Maybe it’s rubbed off on Neilly, eh? Did you get into a lot of fights at school?’

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’ Chilton’s anger was rising again. Rebus raised a pacifying hand.

  ‘It’s a serious offence, assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘Mistaken identity,’ said Chilton.

  ‘Even after he’d identified himself?’

  Chilton shrugged. ‘He never showed me any ID.’

  Rebus raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re very knowledgeable about procedure. Maybe you’ve been in this sort of trouble before, eh?’ This shut Chilton’s mouth. ‘Maybe if I go down the station and look you up on the compute…what would this be, second offence? Third? Might we be talking about a wee trip to Saughton jail?’ Chilton was looking decidedly uncomfortable, which was exactly what Rebus wanted.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we could always shut the book on this one.’ Chilton looked interested. ‘If,’ Rebus warned, ‘you could keep your gob shut about it. And get Neil and his pal to forget they saw anything.’

  Chilton nodded towards the camera. ‘You’re watching somebody, eh? A stake-out?’

  ‘Best if you don’t know, Mr Chilton. Do we have a deal?’

  Chilton thought about it, then nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Rebus, ‘now get the fuck out of here.’

  Chilton knew when he was being made an offer. He got the fuck out of there. Rebus shook his head.

  ‘Sir —’

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ Rebus told Siobhan Clarke. ‘This could’ve blown the whole thing. Maybe it has, we won’t know for a day or two. Meanwhile, get that camera set up again and get back to work. Phone HQ and get someone in here to board up the window, leaving a big enough hole for the camera. Either that or we need a new pane of glass.

  ‘And listen to me, the two of you.’ He raised a
warning finger. ‘Nobody gets to know about this, nobody. It’s forgotten as of now, understand?’

  They understood. What they did not understand perhaps was exactly why Rebus wanted it kept quiet. It wasn’t that he feared the early termination of Operation Moneybags—as far as he was concerned, the whole project was doomed to failure anyway. No, it was another fear altogether, the fear that Detective Inspector Alister Flower, safe and snug in the Firth Pub with his own surveillance crew, would find out. By God, that would mean trouble, more trouble than Rebus was willing to contemplate.

  A pity then that he hadn’t managed to say anything to DC Peter Petrie, who went back to St Leonard’s for a change of shirt. The blood on his T-shirt might have been mistaken for tomato sauce or old tea, but there was no doubting the cause of the white gauze pad which had been taped across his nose and half his face. And when questioned, Peter Petrie quite gladly told his story, embellishing it only a little—as, for example, in exaggerating his assailant’s size, skill, and speed of attack. There were sympathetic smiles and shakes of the head, and the same comment was uttered by more than one fellow officer.

  ‘Wait till Flower hears about this.’

  By lunchtime, Flower had heard from several sources about the giant who had wreaked such havoc to the Gorgie surveillance.

  ‘Dearie me,’ he said, sipping an orange juice laced with blue label vodka. ‘That’s terrible. I wonder if Chief Inspector Lauderdale knows? Ach, of course he does, Rebus wouldn’t try to keep a thing like that from him, would he?’ And he smiled so warmly at the DC seated beside him that the DC got quite worried, really quite worried about his bos…

  Siobhan picked up the telephone.

  ‘Hello?’ She watched John Rebus staring out of the broken window. He’d been watching the taxi offices for half an hour, so deep in thought that neither she nor Jardine had uttered a word to one another above a whisper. ‘It’s for you, sir.’

  Rebus took the receiver from her. It was CID with a message to relay. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘From someone called Pat Calder. He says a Mr Ringan has disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes, and he wanted you to know. Do you want us to do anything this end?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll go have a word myself. Thanks for letting me know.’ Rebus put down the phone.

  ‘Who’s disappeared?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Eddie Ringan.’

  ‘The Heartbreak Cafe?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I was only speaking to him yesterday. He threatened me with a panful of hot cheese.’ Siobhan was looking interested, but Rebus shook his head. ‘You stay here, at least until Petrie gets back.’ The Heartbreak Cafe was only five minutes away. Rebus wondered if Calder would be there. A kitchen without a chef, after all, it was hardly worth opening for the da…

  But when Rebus arrived, the Cafe was doing a brisk trade in early lunches. Calder, acting as maitre d’, waved to Rebus when he entered. Passing the same young barman as yesterday, Rebus gave him a wink. Calder was looking frantic.

  ‘What the hell did you say to Eddie yesterday?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come off it, you had a stand-up row, didn’t you? I knew something was wrong. He was edgy as hell all last night, and his cooking went to pot.’ Calder saw no humour in this. ‘You must have said something.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  Calder cocked his head towards the kitchen. ‘Willie.’

  Rebus nodded understanding. ‘And today, Willie gets his chance for fame and fortune.’

  ‘He’s doing the lunches, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘So when did Eddie go missing?’

  ‘After we closed last night, he went off to look for some club or other. One of those moveable feasts that takes over a warehouse for one night a week.’

  ‘You didn’t fancy it yourself?’

  Calder wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  ‘Would this be a dub for gentlemen, Mr Calder?’

  ‘A gay club, yes. No secret there, Inspector. It’s all quite legit.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. And Mr Ringan didn’t come home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So maybe he found someone else to go home wit…?’

  ‘Eddie’s not that type.’

  ‘Then what type is he?’

  ‘The faithful type, believe me. He often goes out drinking, but he always comes back.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rebus considered. ‘Bit early yet to start a missing person file. We usually give it at least forty-eight hours, if there’s no other evidence.’

  ‘What sort of evidence?’

  ‘Well, a body, for example.’

  Calder turned his head away. ‘Christ,’ he said.

  ‘Look, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Pat Calder.

  No, and neither was John Rebus.

  Calder slapped a smile on his face as a couple entered the Cafe. He picked up two menus and asked them to follow him to a table. They were in their early twenties and dressed fashionably, the man looking like he’d walked out of a 1930s gangster flick, the woman like she’d put on her wee sister’s skirt by mistake.

  When Calder came back he spoke in an undertone. ‘Someone should tell her you can’t hide acne with panstick. You know, Eddie hasn’t been the same since the night Brian was attacked.’

  ‘Brian’s okay now, by the way.’

  ‘Yes, Eddie rang the hospital yesterday.’

  ‘He didn’t visit, though?’

  ‘We hate hospitals, too many friends dying in them lately.’

  ‘The news about Brian didn’t cheer him up?’

  Calder pursed his lips. ‘I suppose it did for a little while.’ He pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket. ‘Must go and see what they want to drink.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll just have a word with Willie and your barman, see what they think.’

  ‘Fine. Lunch is on the house.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘We won’t poison you, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Rebus. ‘It’s all this Presley stuff on the walls. It fair takes away my appetite.’

  Willie the trainee chef looked like he was enjoying his day as ruler of all he surveyed. Flustered as he was, with no one to help him, still he gave off an air of never wanting things to change.

  ‘Remember me, Willie?’

  Willie glanced up. ‘Jailhouse Roquefort?’ He went back to shimmying pans, then started to chop a bunch of fresh parsley. Rebus marvelled at how speedily he worked with the knife mere millimetres from his fingertips.

  ‘You here about Eddie? He’s a mad bastard that, but a brilliant chef.’

  ‘Must be fun to be in charge though?’

  ‘It would be if I got the credit, but those buggers out there probably think the great Eduardo’s prepared each dish of the day. Like Pat says, if they knew he wisnae here, they’d go off for a tandoori businessman’s lunch at half the price.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Still, being in charg…’

  Willie stopped chopping. ‘What? You think I’ve got Eddie stashed away in my coal bunker? Just so I can have a day of tearing around like a mad-arsed fly?’ He waved his knife towards the kitchen door. ‘Pat might lend a hand, but no, he’s got to be out there buttering up the clientele. Butter Pat, that’s his name. If I was going to do away with either one of them, it’d be the one right outside that door.’

  ‘You’re taking it very seriously, Willie. Eddie’s only been missing overnight. Could be sleeping it off in the gutter somewhere.’

  ‘That’s not what Pat thinks.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Willie tasted from a steaming vat. ‘I think I’ve put too much cream in the potage.’

  ‘It’s the way Elvis would have wanted it,’ commented Rebus.

  The barman, whose name was Toni (‘with an i’), poured Rebus a murky half pint of Cask Conditioned.

&n
bsp; ‘This looks as conditioned as my hair.’

  ‘I know a good hairdresser if you’re interested.’

  Rebus ignored the remark, then decided to ignore the beer too. He waited while Toni chattily served two student types at the other end of the bar.

  ‘How did Eddie seem after I left yesterday?’

  ‘What’s the name of that Scorsese film?’

  ‘Taxi Driver?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘Raging Bull. That was Eddie.’

  ‘He was like that all evening?’

  ‘I didn’t see him much. By the time he comes out of the kitchen, I’m putting on my coat to go home.’

  ‘Was there anyon…unusual in the bar last night?’

  ‘You get a mixed crowd in here. Any particular type of unusual?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  It looked like Toni-with-an-i already had.

  16

  It was beginning to look like the circle was now complete. Eddie told Holmes something about the body in the Central Hotel. Holmes tried to find out more, by going after the Bru-Head Brothers. Then Rebus came along to offer help. Now all three had been warned off in some way or other. Well, he hoped Eddie was just being warned off. He hoped it wasn’t more drastic. Everyone knew the chef had trouble keeping his mouth shut after a drink, and ‘after a drink’ seemed to be his permanent state. Yes, Rebus was worried. They’d tried scaring him off and only made him more determined. So would they now pull another stunt? Or would they perhaps revert to more certain means of silence?

  Rebus’s face was as dark as the sky when he walked back into St Leonard’s, only to be ordered immediately to Lauderdale’s office. Lauderdale was pouring whisky into three glasses.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’

  Rebus could not deny it. ‘Summoned by Bell’s, sir.’ He accepted the glass, trying not to look at Alister Flower’s beaming face. The three men sat down.

  ‘Cheers,’ offered Lauderdale.

  ‘Here’s tae us,’ said Flower.

  Rebus just drank.

  ‘Been having a bit of bother, John?’ Lauderdale was positioning his half-empty glass on the desk. When he used Rebus’s first name, Rebus knew he was in trouble.

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir. There was a minor hiccup this morning, all taken care of.’