Barclay nodded.
“Need to get yourself a proper grown-up team,” Gray commented.
“Would that be one from Glasgow, Francis?”
“Where else?”
Rebus got to his feet. “Well, I’ll see you all first thing Monday morning . . .”
“Unless we see you first,” Gray answered with a wink.
Rebus went to his room to pack a few things. The room itself was a comfortable box with en suite bathroom, better than many a hotel he’d stayed in. Only the CID were assured single rooms. A lot of probationers were doubling up, such were their numbers. Rebus’s mobile was where he’d left it, charging at one of the wall sockets. He poured himself a small Laphroaig from his secret stash and switched on the radio, tuning it to some station with pulsing dance music.
Then he picked up his mobile and punched in some numbers.
“It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How come I haven’t heard from you?” He listened as the person at the other end complained about the lateness of the hour. When Rebus said nothing to this, the person then asked where he was.
“In my room. That’s just the radio you can hear. When do we get to meet?”
“Monday,” the voice said.
“Where and how?”
“Leave that to me. Any luck so far?”
“That’s not what I want to talk about.”
There was silence on the line. Then: “Monday.” And this time the phone’s backlit screen told him the connection had ended. He retuned the radio, switched it off, making sure the alarm function wasn’t set. He had his bag open, but suddenly wondered what the rush was. There was nothing awaiting him in Edinburgh but an empty flat. He picked up his going-away present from Jean—a portable CD player. She’d added some CDs, too: Steely Dan, Morphine, Neil Young . . . He’d brought a few others: Van Morrison, John Martyn. He fixed the headphones on and pushed the START button. The swelling opening of “Solid Air” filled his head, pushing out everything else. He leaned back against the pillow. Decided the song was definitely on the shortlist for his funeral.
Knew he should write the shortlist down. After all, you never could tell.
Siobhan answered her door. It was late, but she was expecting company. Eric Bain always called first, to make sure it was all right. It usually was. Bain worked at Police HQ, the “Big House.” He specialized in computer crime. The two had become good friends — nothing more than that. They talked on the phone; sometimes ended up at one another’s flat, sharing late-night milky coffee and stories.
“You’re out,” Bain called through from the kitchen. Out of decaf, he meant. Siobhan was back in the living room, putting some music on: Oldsolar, a recent purchase — good late-night music.
“Middle cupboard, top shelf,” she called.
“Got it.”
Eric — the officers at Fettes called him “Brains” — had told Siobhan early on that his favorite film was
Of course, none of their colleagues believed it. Eric’s car had been spotted parked outside at midnight, and next morning both police stations had been buzzing. It didn’t bother her, didn’t seem to bother Eric. He was coming into the living room now, carrying a tray containing cafetière, a jug of steamed milk, two mugs. He set it down on her coffee table, next to some notes she’d been writing.
“Been busy?” he asked.
“Just the usual.” She noticed the grin on his face. “What is it?”
He shook his head, but she dug her pen into his ribs.
“It’s your cupboards,” he confessed.
“My what?”
“Your cupboards. All the tins and jars . . .”
“Yes?”
“They’re arranged with the labels facing out.”
“So?”
“It just spooks me, that’s all.” He wandered over to her CD rack, pulled a disc out at random, opened its case. “See?”
“What?”
“You put your CDs back in the case so they’re the right way up.” He snapped the case shut, opened another.
“It makes them easier to read,” Siobhan said.
“Not many people do it.”
“I’m not like other people.”
“That’s right.” He kneeled in front of the tray, pushed down on the cafetière’s plunger. “You’re more organized.”
“That’s right.”
“A lot more organized.”
She nodded, then jabbed him with her pen again. He chuckled, poured milk into her mug.
“Just an observation,” he said, adding coffee to both mugs, handing hers over.
“I get enough grief at the office, Mr. Bain,” Siobhan told him.
“You working this weekend?”
“No.”
“Got plans?” He slurped from his mug, angled his head to read her notes. “You were at the Paradiso?”
A little vertical frown appeared between her eyes. “You know the place?”
“Only by reputation. It changed hands about six months back.”
“Did it?”
“Used to be owned by Tojo McNair. He has a couple of the bars down Leith.”
“Salubrious establishments, no doubt.”
“Sticky carpets and weak beer. What was the Paradiso like?”
She considered the question. “Not as seedy as I’d expected.”
“Better than having the girls walking the streets?”
She thought this over, too, before nodding agreement. There was a plan afoot to zone off part of Leith, turn it into a safe area for streetwalkers. But the first choice had been an industrial estate, badly lit and the scene of an attack a few years before. So now it was back to the drawing board . . .
Siobhan tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa; Eric slumped in the chair opposite.
“Who’s on the hi-fi?” he asked.
She ignored this and asked her own question instead. “Who owns the Paradiso nowadays?”
“Well . . . that all depends.”
“On what?”
He patted the side of his nose with his index finger.
“Do I have to thrash an answer out of you?” Siobhan asked, smiling above the rim of her mug.
“I bet you’d do it, too.” But he still wasn’t telling.
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
“No point coming round here if you don’t want to talk.”
He sighed, sipped some coffee, leaving a milky residue along his top lip. “You know Big Ger Cafferty?” he said. The question was entirely rhetorical. “Word is, if you burrow deep enough, it’s his name you’ll find.”
Siobhan sat forward. “Cafferty?”
“He’s not exactly advertising the fact, and he never goes near the place.”
“How do you know?”
Bain wriggled in his chair, not at all comfortable with this conversation. “I’ve been doing some work for the SDEA.”
