by Ian Rankin
‘Actually,’ said Rebus, ‘I’ve gone off the idea. I’ve got a bit of business across the road.’ Mairie tried not to look relieved. ‘I’d caution you,’ he warned her, ‘not to piss me about.’
‘Caution received and understood.’
She waved as she walked off back towards the library. Rebus watched her good legs recede from view. They stayed good-looking all the way out of his vision. Then he threaded his way between the lawyers’ cars and entered the court building. He had an idea he was going to leave a note for Caroline Rattray in her box, always supposing she had one. But as he walked into Parliament Hall he saw her talking with another lawyer. There was no chance to retreat; she spotted him immediately. She kept up the conversation for a few more moments, then put her hand on her colleague’s shoulder, said a brief farewell, and headed towards Rebus.
It was hard to reconcile her, in her professional garb, with the woman who had spray-painted him the previous night. She left her colleague with a faint smile on her lips, and met Rebus with that same smile. Under her arm were the regulation files and documents.
‘Inspector, what brings you here?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘Ah yes, of course, I’ll send a cheque.’
He had kept telling himself all the way across the car park that he wasn’t going to let her get under his skin. Now he found she was already there, like a half inch of syringe.
‘Cheque?’
‘For the dry cleaning or whatever.’ A passing lawyer nodded to her. ‘Hullo, Mansie. Oh, Mansie?’ She spoke with the lawyer for a few moments, her hand on his elbow.
She was offering a cheque for the dry cleaning. Rebus was glad of a few moments in which to cool off. But now someone was tapping his shoulder. He turned to find Mairie Henderson standing there.
‘I forgot,’ she said, ‘the American’s in town.’
‘Yes, I know. Have you done anything about him?’
She shook her head. ‘Biding my time.’
‘Good, no use scaring him off.’ Caroline Rattray was looking interested in this new arrival, so much so that she was losing the thread of her own conversation. She dismissed Mansie halfway through a sentence and turned to Rebus and Mairie. Mairie smiled at her, the two women waiting for an introduction.
‘See you then,’ Rebus said to Mairie.
‘Oh, right.’ Mairie walked backwards a step or two, just in case he’d change his mind, then turned. As she turned, Caroline Rattray took a step forward, her hand out as though she were about to make her own introduction, but Rebus really didn’t want her to, so he grabbed the hand and held her back. She shrugged his grip off and glared at him, then looked back through the doorway. Mairie had already left the building.
‘You seem to have quite a little stable, Inspector.’ She tried rubbing at her wrist. It wasn’t easy with the files still precariously pressed between her elbow and stomach
‘Better stable than unstable,’ he said, regretting the dig immediately. He should just have denied the charge.
‘Unstable?’ she echoed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Look, let’s forget it, eh? I mean, forget everything. I’ve told Patience all about it.’
‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘That’s your problem, not mine.’
‘You think so?’ She sounded amused.
‘Yes.’
‘Remember something, Inspector.’ Her voice was level and quiet. ‘You started it. And then you told the lie. My conscience is clear, what about yours?’
She gave him a little smile before walking away. Rebus turned and found himself confronting a statue of Sir Walter Scott, seated with his feet crossed and a walking-cane held between his open knees. Scott looked as though he’d heard every word but wasn’t about to pass judgment.
‘Keep it that way,’ Rebus warned, not caring who might hear.
He phoned Patience and invited her to an early evening drink at the Playfair Hotel on George Street.
‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked.
‘No occasion,’ he said.
He was restless the rest of the day. Glasgow came back to him, but only to say that they’d nothing on either Jim Hay or Active Resistance Theatre. He turned up early at the Playfair, making across its entrance hall (all faded glory, but studied faded glory, almost too perfect) to the bar beyond. It called itself a ‘wet bar’, which was okay with Rebus. He ordered a Talisker, hoisted himself onto a well-padded barstool and dipped a hand into the bowl of peanuts which had appeared at his approach.
The bar was empty, but would be filled soon enough with prosperous businessmen on their way home, other businessmen who wanted to look prosperous and didn’t mind spending money on it, and the hotel clientele, enjoying a snifter before a pre-dinner stroll. A waitress stood idly against the end of the bar, not far from the baby grand. The piano was kept covered with a dustsheet until evening, so for now there was wallpaper music, except that whoever was playing trumpet wasn’t half bad. He wondered if it was Chet Baker.
Rebus paid for his drink and tried not to think about the amount of money he’d just been asked for. After a bit, he changed his mind and asked if he could have some ice. He wanted the drink to last. Eventually a middle-aged couple came into the bar and sat a couple of seats away from him. The woman put on elaborate glasses to study the cocktail list, while her husband ordered Drambuie, pronouncing it Dramboo-i. The husband was short but bulky, given to scowling. He was wearing a white golfing cap, and kept glancing at his watch. Rebus managed to catch his eye, and toasted him.
‘Slainte.’
The man nodded, saying nothing, but the wife smiled. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘are there many Gaelic speakers left in Scotland?’
Her husband hissed at her, but Rebus was happy to answer. ‘Not many,’ he conceded.
‘Are you from Edinburgh?’ Head-in-burrow, it sounded like.
‘Pretty much.’
She noticed that Rebus’s glass was now all melting ice. ‘Will you join us?’ The husband hissed again, something about her not bothering people who only wanted a quiet drink.
Rebus looked at his watch. He was calculating whether he could afford to buy a round back. ‘Thank you, yes, I’ll have a Talisker.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Malt whisky, it comes from Skye. There are some Gaelic speakers over there.’
The wife started humming the first few notes of the Skye Boat Song, all about a French Prince who dressed in drag. Her husband smiled to cover his embarrassment. It couldn’t be easy, travelling with a madwoman.
‘Maybe you can tell me something,’ said Rebus. ‘Why is a wet bar called a wet bar?’
‘Could be because the beer’s draught,’ the husband offered grudgingly, ‘not just bottled.’
The wife had perched her shiny handbag on the bar and now opened it, taking out a compact so she could check her face. ‘You’re not the mystery man, are you?’ she asked.
Rebus put down his glass. ‘Sorry?’
‘Ellie!’ her husband warned.
‘Only,’ she said, putting away her compact, ‘Clyde had a message to meet someone in the bar, and you’re the only person here. They didn’t leave a name or anything.’
‘A misunderstanding, that’s all,’ said Clyde. ‘They got the wrong room.’ But he looked at Rebus anyway. Rebus obliged with a nod.
‘Mysterious, certainly.’
The fresh glass was put before Rebus, and the barman decided he merited another bowl of nuts too.
‘Slainte,’ said Rebus.
‘Slainte,’ said husband and wife.
‘Am I late?’ said Patience Aitken, running her hands up Rebus’s spine. She slipped onto the stool which separated Rebus from the tourists. For some reason, the man now removed his cap, showing a good amount of hair slicked back from the forehead.
‘Patience,’ Rebus said, ‘I’d like to introduce you to . . .’
‘Clyde Moncur,’ said the man, visi
bly relaxing. Rebus obviously posed no threat. ‘This is my wife Eleanor.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Dr Patience Aitken, and I’m John.’
Patience looked at him. He seldom used ‘Dr’ when introducing her, and why had he left out his own surname?
‘Listen,’ Rebus was saying, staring right past her, ‘wouldn’t we be more comfortable at a table?’
They took a table for four, the waitress appearing with a little tray of nibbles, not just nuts but green and black olives and chipsticks too. Rebus tucked in. The drinks might be expensive, but you had to say the food was cheap.
‘You’re on holiday?’ Rebus said, opening the conversation.
‘That’s right,’ said Eleanor Moncur. ‘We just love Scotland.’ She then went on to list everything they loved about it, from the skirl of the bagpipes to the windswept west coast. Clyde let her run on, taking sips from his drink, occasionally swirling the ice around. He sometimes looked up from the drink to John Rebus.
‘Have you ever been to the United States?’ Eleanor asked.
‘No, never,’ said Rebus.
‘I’ve been a couple of times,’ Patience said, surprising him. ‘Once to California, and once to New England.’
‘In the fall?’ Patience nodded. ‘Isn’t that just heaven?’
‘Do you live in New England?’ Rebus asked.
Eleanor smiled. ‘Oh no, we’re way over the other side. Washington.’
‘Washington?’
‘She means the state,’ her husband explained, ‘not Washington DC.’
‘Seattle,’ said Eleanor. ‘You’d like Washington, it’s wild.’
‘As in wilderness,’ Clyde Moncur added. ‘I’ll put that on our room, miss.’
Patience had ordered lager and lime, which the waitress had just brought. Rebus watched as Moncur took a room key from his pocket. The waitress checked the room number.
‘Clyde’s ancestors came from Scotland,’ Eleanor was saying. ‘Somewhere near Glasgow.’
‘Kilmarnock.’
‘That’s right, Kilmarnock. There were four brothers, one went to Australia, two went to Northern Ireland, and Clyde’s great-grandfather sailed from Glasgow to Canada with his wife and children. He worked his way across Canada and settled in Vancouver. It was Clyde’s grandfather who came down into the United States. There are still offshoots of the family in Australia and Northern Ireland.’
‘Where in Northern Ireland?’ Rebus asked casually.
‘Portadown, Londonderry,’ she went on, though Rebus had directed the question at her husband.
‘Ever visit them?’
‘No,’ said Clyde Moncur. He was interested in Rebus again. Rebus met the stare squarely.
‘The north west’s full of Scots,’ Mrs Moncur rattled on. ‘We have ceilidhs and clan gatherings and Highland Games in the summer.’
Rebus lifted his glass to his lips and seemed to notice it was empty. ‘I think we need another round,’ he said. The drinks arrived with their own scalloped paper coasters, and the waitress took away with her nearly all the money John Rebus had on him. He’d used the anonymous message to get Moncur down here, and Patience to put him off his guard. In the event, Moncur was sharper than Rebus had given him credit for. The man didn’t need to say a word, his wife spoke enough for two, and nothing she said could prove remotely useful.
‘So you’re a doctor?’ she asked Patience now.
‘General practice, yes.’
‘I admire doctors,’ said Eleanor. ‘They keep Clyde and me alive and ticking.’ And she gave a big grin. Her husband had been watching Patience while she’d been speaking, but as soon as she finished he turned his gaze back to Rebus. Rebus lifted his glass to his lips.
‘For some time,’ Eleanor Moncur was saying now, ‘Clyde’s grandaddy was captain of a clipper. His wife gave birth on board while the boat was headed to pick up . . . what was it, Clyde?’
‘Timber,’ Clyde said. ‘From the Philippines. She was eighteen and he was in his forties. The baby died.’
‘And know what?’ said Eleanor. ‘They preserved the body in brandy.’
‘Embalmed it?’ Patience offered.
Eleanor Moncur nodded. ‘And if that boat had been a temperance vessel, they’d’ve used tar instead of brandy.’
Clyde Moncur spoke to Rebus. ‘Now that was hard living. Those are the people who built America. You had to be tough. You might be conscientious, but there wasn’t always room for a conscience.’
‘A bit like in Ulster,’ Rebus offered. ‘They transplanted some pretty hard Scots there.’
‘Really?’ Moncur finished his drink in silence.
They decided against a third round, Clyde reminding his wife that they had yet to take their pre-prandial walk down to Princes Street Gardens and back. They exchanged handshakes outside, Rebus taking Patience’s arm and leading her downhill, as though they were heading into the New Town.
‘Where’s your car?’ he asked.
‘Back on George Street. Where’s yours?’
‘Same place.’
‘Then where are we going?’
He checked over his shoulder, but the Moncurs were out of sight. ‘Nowhere,’ he said, stopping.
‘John,’ said Patience, ‘next time you need me as a cover, have the courtesy to ask first.’
‘Can you lend me a few quid, save me finding a cashpoint?’
She sighed and dug into her bag. ‘Twenty enough?’
‘Hope so.’
‘Unless you’re thinking of returning to the Playfair bar.’
‘I’ve been up braes that weren’t as steep as that place.’
He told her he’d be back late, perhaps very late, and pecked her on the cheek. But she pulled him to her and took her fair share of mouth to mouth.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘did you talk to the action painter?’
‘I told her to get lost. That doesn’t mean she will.’
‘She better,’ said Patience, pecking him a last time on the cheek before walking away.
He was unlocking his car when a heavy hand landed on his own. Clyde Moncur was standing next to him.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the American spat, looking around him.
‘Nobody,’ Rebus said, shaking off the hand.
‘I don’t know what all that shit was about at the hotel, but you better stay far away from me, friend.’
‘That might not be easy,’ said Rebus. ‘This is a small place. My town, not yours.’
Moncur took a step back. He’d be in his late-60s, but the hand he’d placed on Rebus’s had stung. There was strength there, and determination. He was the sort of man who normally got his own way, whatever the cost.
‘Who are you?’
Rebus pulled open the car door. He drove away without saying anything at all. Moncur watched him go. The American stood legs apart, and raised a hand to pat his jacket at chest height, nodding slowly.
A gun, Rebus thought. He’s telling me he’s got a gun.
And he’s telling me he’d use it, too.
23
Mairie Henderson had a flat in Portobello, on the coast east of the city. In Victorian times a genteel bathing resort, ‘Porty’ was still used by day trippers in summer. Mairie’s tenement was on one of the streets between High Street and the Promenade. With his window rolled down, Rebus caught occasional wafts of salt air.
When his daughter Sammy was a kid they’d come to Porty beach for walks. The beach had been cleaned up by then, or at least covered with tons of sand from elsewhere. Rebus used to enjoy those walks, trouser legs rolled up past the ankles, feet treading the numbing water at the edge of the louring North Sea.
‘If we kept walking, Daddy,’ Sammy would say, pointing to the skyline, ‘where would we go?’
‘We’d go to the bottom of the sea.’
He could still see the dreadful look on her face. She’d be twenty this year. Twenty. He reached under his seat and let his hand wander till it touched his emergency pack of cigarett
es. One wouldn’t do any harm. Inside the pack, nestling amongst the cigarettes, was a slim disposable lighter.
The light was still on in Mairie’s first-floor window. Her car was parked right outside the tenement’s front door. He knew the back door led to a small enclosed drying-green. She’d have to come out the front. He hoped she’d bring Millie Docherty with her.
He didn’t quite know why he thought Mairie was hiding Millie; it was enough that he thought it. He’d had wrong hunches before, enough for a convention of the Quasimodo fan club, but you always had to follow them up. If you stopped being true to instinct, you were lost. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that olives and chipsticks did not a meal make. He thought of the Portobello chip shops, but sucked on his cigarette instead. He was across the road from the tenement and about six cars down. It was eleven o’clock and dark; no chance of Mairie spotting him.
He thought he knew why Clyde Moncur was in town. Same reason the ex-UVF man was here. He just didn’t want to go public with his thoughts, not when he didn’t know who his friends were.
At quarter past eleven, the tenement door opened and Mairie came out. She was alone, wearing a Burberry-style raincoat and carrying a bulging shopping bag. She looked up and down the street before unlocking her car and getting in.
‘What are you nervous about, kid?’ Rebus asked, watching her headlights come on. He lit another cigarette, just to wash down the first, and started his engine.
She took the Portobello Road back into the city. He hoped she wasn’t going far. Tailing a car, even in the dark, wasn’t as easy as the movies made it look, especially when the person you were tailing knew your car. The roads were quiet, making things trickier still, but at least she stuck to the main routes. If she’d used side streets and rat runs, she’d have spotted him for sure.
On Princes Street, the bikers were out in summer-night force, hitting the late-opening burger bars and revving up and down the straight. He wondered if Clyde Moncur was out for a post-prandial stroll. With the burgers and bikes, he’d probably feel right at home. Moncur was tough the way old people could get; seeming to shrink as they got older but that was only because they were losing juice, becoming rock-hard as a result. There was nothing soft left of Clyde Moncur. He had a handshake like a saloon-bar challenge. Even Patience had complained of it.
