‘That’s right,’ Bliss said. ‘And it’ll all be in a damned sight better order than when it first arrived.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Robison added, ‘we’ve left one or two for you. Didn’t want you to feel you were missing out.’
‘Where’s Danny Boy?’
‘Another meeting with the bigwigs.’
‘He’s going to get the job, isn’t he?’
‘Looks like,’ Bliss conceded.
‘He’ll be insufferable,’ Rebus commented.
‘Won’t be our problem, though, will it? We’ll be reduced to daytime TV and cold callers.’
‘In place of cold cases,’ Robison added with a smile. ‘Though I might manage a wee holiday back to Australia first.’ She picked up the photo of the Sydney Harbour Bridge from her desk and kissed it. Then, to Rebus: ‘We were thinking next Friday for a meal and a drink.’
Rebus moved one of the empty crates from his chair and sat down at his desk. ‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ he said.
‘How was Inverness? TV made it look like a bit of a circus.’
‘Nothing the media likes more than a new Sawney Bean to scare us with.’
‘Who?’
‘Cannibal — probably mythical.’
‘Did you call in on Gregor Magrath?’ Bliss asked.
Rebus nodded. ‘And I passed along the news.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Philosophically.’
‘Picked a nice spot for himself up there, hasn’t he?’
‘Might be all right on a calm day. .’
Bliss chuckled. ‘Aye, before he retired, Gregor was always chasing the sun. Him and Margaret used to come back from Tenerife brown as berries.’
‘Margaret was his wife?’ Rebus guessed, remembering the photos on the bookcase. ‘When did she die?’
‘Couple of years before he took retirement. Bloody shame — he used to bring cruise brochures in, tell everyone where he and Margaret were going to go when he got the gold watch. How’s he keeping?’
‘Seems fine. You didn’t work here when Nina Hazlitt met him, did you?’
‘Don’t think so. He’d have mentioned her.’
‘It would have been 2004.’
‘Just before my time, then.’
‘He never discussed her with you?’
Bliss shook his head.
Someone rapped their knuckles against the open door. Rebus looked up and saw Malcolm Fox standing there.
‘Can we have a word?’ Fox asked.
‘If you must,’ Rebus responded.
‘Maybe along the corridor. .’
Rebus followed him to the Complaints’ lair. Fox punched in the code for the lock, making sure to shield the combination from the visitor. The room was much the same size as SCRU, with an almost identical layout: desks and laptops and a window with a view on to Fettes Avenue. There was another suit waiting for them. He was Fox’s age, but wirier, with ancient acne scars on one cheek. Rebus got the feeling this man would happily play bad cop to Fox’s good — or vice versa. Fox introduced him as Tony Kaye, then asked Rebus to take a seat.
‘I’m fine standing.’
Fox gave a shrug, then eased his backside on to the corner of Tony Kaye’s desk.
‘Thought you might still have been up north,’ Fox said. ‘That’s why I phoned Inverness first, only to be told you’d been given the heave-ho.’ His eyes drilled into Rebus’s. ‘Mind telling me why?’
‘I was showing them up as amateurs. You know how prickly other forces get when that happens.’
‘So it had nothing to do with Frank Hammell, then?’
‘Why should it?’
‘That photo of you and him enjoying a friendly drink,’ Tony Kaye suggested.
‘Just a coincidence.’
‘Don’t take us for mugs.’
Rebus switched his attention to Fox, waiting for the man to speak.
‘Morris Gerald Cafferty,’ Fox obliged, ‘and now Francis Hammell. You don’t half pick your friends, Rebus.’
‘They’re as much my friends as you are.’
‘Funny, that,’ said Kaye, ‘because we’ve not been to any pubs with you, while you’ve been spotted drinking with both of them.’
Rebus kept his eyes on Fox. ‘We’re wasting each other’s time here.’
‘SCRU’s being wound up, I hear. That’s you off the force again.’ Fox paused. ‘Unless you’re serious about reapplying.’
‘Being a civilian suddenly has its merits,’ Rebus said, turning and heading for the door. ‘Means I don’t have to listen to you and your shit.’
‘Enjoy the rest of your life, Rebus,’ Kaye called out to him. ‘What’s left of it, that is. .’
When he got home that evening, a note had been pushed under his door. He unfolded it. It was from MGC — Morris Gerald Cafferty — and it was just to let Rebus know how disappointed Cafferty was in him for ‘consorting with scum like Frank Hammell’, the word ‘scum’ underlined three times for emphasis. Rebus scooped up the rest of the mail and went into the living room. It felt stuffy, so he prised open one of the sash windows, then turned up the radiator to compensate. The hi-fi’s turntable had been left switched on, rotating lazily. Rebus added a Bert Jansch album and lowered the stylus on to the vinyl. Then he started charging his phone before heading to the bedroom and emptying his overnight bag, filling a couple of polythene carriers with laundry. It would be another hour before the nearest launderette closed, so he decided to drop the stuff off — and collect some food on the way home. Leaving his phone behind and lifting the tone-arm from the record, he locked the flat and walked down the two flights of stairs.
‘Yes, I know,’ he apologised to the Saab as he approached it. He’d just tossed the laundry on to the back seat when he heard someone call his name. Tensing, he turned and saw Darryl Christie getting out of a black Mercedes M-Class. The driver stayed behind the steering wheel, but lowered his window the better to keep a close eye on proceedings. Rebus recognised him as the lippy doorman from Jo-Jo Binkie’s — Marcus or something like that.
‘Hello, Darryl,’ Rebus said, resting his back against the Saab. ‘Is it worth me asking how you come to know where I live?’
‘This is the information age, if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘How’s your mum doing? And the rest of the family?’
‘There’s a funeral needs planning.’
‘There’s also a friend of your mother’s who needs calming down.’
‘You think I’m bothered about him?’
‘I think you’ve got a head on your shoulders. In a lot of ways, you’re smarter than Frank Hammell. Someone needs to bring him back from Inverness.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Christie stated. He was dressed in the same dark suit, with a fresh white shirt but no tie. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and studied Rebus. ‘Frank says you might be okay.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Despite being Cafferty’s man.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Frank’s wondering if you might keep your ears open, on behalf of the family.’
‘Oh?’
‘Any names that come into the frame — all we’d need is a head start.’
‘Frank wants his hands on them before they can be brought into custody?’
Christie nodded slowly. ‘But I don’t want that to happen.’
