“They wanted us working a case, see how they could turn us back into team players.”
“A team player?
“Look,” he said, “I’ve really —”
“I hope you’re leading them up the crow road, Rebus.” His voice had assumed an edge of menace.
“And what if I don’t?” Rebus said stubbornly.
“I’ve been away a long time. I miss the place. It’d be nice to come back . . .”
“I told you at the time . . .”
“I know, I know. But I was maybe too scared of you back then. I’m not so scared now.”
Rebus pointed a finger. “You were part of it. You come back here,
“I’m not so sure. More I think about it, more I get the feeling it’s your arse I’ve been protecting all these years.”
“You want to walk into a police station, be my guest.”
Diamond examined the tip of his cigarette. “That’ll be for me to decide, not you.”
Rebus bared his teeth. “You little turd, I could have had you buried . . . remember that.”
“It’s Rico I remember. I think of him often. How about you?”
“
“Then who did?” Diamond chuckled again. “We both know the score, Rebus.”
“And what about you, Dickie? Did you know Rico was giving your girlfriend one? Way she tells it, you were there at the time. Is that right? Maybe
Diamond was shaking his head, chuckling once more. He looked around, slid the tobacco tin back into his jacket pocket.
Pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and aimed it at Rebus’s gut.
“I’m in the frame of mind to shoot you right now. Is that what you want?”
Rebus looked around them. No one within a hundred yards, dozens of tenement windows . . . “This is great, Dickie. Blending in with your surroundings and all that. Nobody notices people brandishing firearms in the middle of Edinburgh.”
“Maybe I don’t care anymore.”
“Maybe you don’t.” Rebus had his hands by his sides, bunched into fists. He was three feet or so from Diamond, but would he be quick enough . . . ?
“How long would I serve if I shot you? Twelve to fifteen, out in a bit less than that?”
“You wouldn’t serve ten minutes, Dickie. You’d be on a death sentence as soon as the prison gates shut behind you.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“People I know have long memories.”
“I want to come home, Rebus.” He looked around again. “I
“Fine . . . but put the gun away. You’ve proved your point.”
Diamond glanced down at the revolver. “Not even loaded,” he said.
Hearing which, Rebus swung at him, connecting with the hollow just beneath his breastbone. He grabbed Diamond’s gun hand and prized the revolver away. Sure enough, its chambers were empty. Diamond was down on his hands and knees, groaning. Rebus wiped his own prints off the gun with his handkerchief and dropped it onto the grass.
“You try that again,” Rebus was hissing, “and I’ll break every one of your fingers.”
“You’ve dislocated my thumb,” Diamond bawled. “Look.” He held his right hand up for Rebus’s inspection, then launched himself at him, smashing him backwards onto the grass. The wind was knocked out of Rebus. Diamond was crawling over him, pinning him down. Rebus struggled, and as Diamond’s grinning face came level with his own he head-butted him, then half rolled so that Diamond was forced off. Rebus clambered to his feet and swung a foot at Diamond, who wrapped his arms around it, trying to throw him off balance. Instead, Rebus dropped to both knees, his whole weight landing on Diamond’s chest.
The man groaned and spluttered.
“Let go!” Rebus spat.
Diamond let go. Rebus got to his feet once more, this time stepping back out of range.
“I heard a rib snap,” Diamond complained as he writhed.
“The hospital’s the other side of the Meadows,” Rebus told him. “Good luck.” He looked at himself. Grass stains and mud on his trousers, shirt hanging out. His tie was over to one side, hair rumpled.
And he was going to be late.
“I want you to get in your car,” he told the prone figure, “and keep driving. It’s like the Sparks song said: this town ain’t big enough for the both of us. I see you here again after tonight, you’re dead meat. Understood?”
The body said something, but Rebus couldn’t make it out. He guessed Diamond wasn’t complimenting him on the welcome home . . .
He parked directly outside the restaurant and ran down the steps. Jean was in the cocktail bar, pretending to study the menu. Her face was icy as he approached. Then, despite the understated lighting, she finally saw that something had happened.
“What did you do?” As he bent down to kiss her cheek, she touched her fingers to his forehead. It stung, and he realized he’d grazed it.
“A bit of a disagreement,” he said. “Am I presentable enough for a place like this?” The maître d’ was hovering.
“Can you bring John a large whiskey?” Jean asked.
“A nice malt perhaps, sir?”
Rebus nodded. “Laphroaig if you’ve got it.”
“And some ice,” Jean added. “In a glass by itself.” She smiled at Rebus, but with concern in her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to have dinner with a man who’ll be holding an ice pack to his face.”
Rebus studied his surroundings. “Place like this, they probably have someone to do that for you.”
She smiled more openly. “You’re sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, Jean, honest.” He lifted her hand, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Nice perfume,” he said.
“Opium,” she told him. Rebus nodded, filing the information away for future use.
The meal was long and wonderful, Rebus relaxing a little more with each course. Jean asked just once about the “disagreement,” Rebus muttering a few words of concocted explanation before she held up a hand and stopped him.
“I’d rather you told me to mind my own business, John . . . just don’t start making up a story. It’s ever-so- slightly insulting.”
“Sorry.”
“One day, maybe you’ll feel like opening up to me.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, but inside he knew the day would never come. It hadn’t happened with Rhona during all the years of his marriage, no reason to think things would be any different now . . .
He’d drunk just the one large malt, followed by two glasses of wine, and as a result felt fine to drive. As one of the waiters helped Jean into her coat, Rebus asked if he could give her a lift. She nodded.
They drove to Portobello, well fed and friends again, an old Fairport Convention tape providing background music. As they turned onto her street, she spoke his name, drawing it out. He knew what she was about to say and preempted it.
“You don’t want me coming in?”
“Not tonight.” Turning towards him. “Is that all right?”
“Of course it is, Jean. No problem.” There weren’t any parking spaces, so he just stopped in the middle of the road outside her house.
“It was a lovely meal,” she said.
“We’ll have to do it again.”
