'In and out,' he said, a final attempt at humour and escape. She punched him on the shoulder. Punched him hard. He sucked in his breath. 'I bruise easily,' he said.
'So do I!' There were almost tears in her eyes, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. 'Is there anybody else?'
He looked surprised. 'No, what makes you think that?'
The cat had crawled up the bed to lie in Patience's lap, plucking at the duvet with its claws. As it settled, she started stroking its head. 'It's just that I keep thinking there's something you're about to tell me. You look as though you're gathering up the strength to say it, but then you never quite manage. I'd rather know, whatever it is.'
What was there to know? That he still hadn't made up his mind about moving in? That he still carried if not a flame then at least an unstruck Scottish Bluebell for Gill Templer? What was there to know?
'You know how it is, Patience. A policeman's lot is not a happy one, and all that.'
'Why do you have to get involved?'
'What?'
'In all these bloody cases, why do you have to get involved, John? It's just a job like any other. I manage to forget about my patients for a few hours at a stretch, why can't you?'
He gave her just about his only honest answer of the evening. 'I don't know.'
The telephone rang. Patience picked the extension up off the floor and held it between them. 'Yours or mine?' she asked.
'Yours.'
She picked up the receiver. 'Hello? Yes, this is Doctor Aitken. Yes, hello, Mrs Laird. Is he now? Is that right? It isn't maybe just flu?'
Rebus checked his watch. Nine thirty. It was Patience's turn to do standby emergency for her group practice.
'A-ha,' she Was saying, 'a-ha,' as the caller talked on. She held the receiver away from her for a second and hurled a silent scream towards the ceiling. 'Okay, Mrs Laird. No, just leave him be. I'll be there as soon as I can. What was your address again?'
At the end of the call, she stomped out of bed and started to dress. 'Mrs Laird's husband says he's on the way out this time,' she said. 'That's the third time in as many months, damn the man.'
'Do you want me to drive you?'
'No, it's all right, I'll go myself.' She paused, came over and pecked him on the cheek. 'But thanks for the offer.'
'You're welcome.' Lucky, disturbed from his rest, was now kneading Rebus's half of the duvet. Rebus made to stroke its head, but the cat shied away.
'See you later then,' said Patience, giving him another kiss. 'We'll have a talk, eh?'
'If you like.'
I like.' And with that she was gone. He could hear her in the living room, getting together her stuff, then the front door opening and closing. The cat had left Rebus and was investigating the warm section of mattress from which Patience had lately risen. Rebus thought about getting up, then thought about not. The phone rang again. Another patient? Well, he wouldn't answer. It kept on ringing. He answered with a noncommittal 'Hello'.
'Took your time,' said George Flight. 'Haven't interrupted anything, have I?'
'What have you got, George?'
'Well, I've got the trots, since you ask. I blame it on that curry I had at Gunga's last night. I've also got the information you requested, Inspector.'
'Is that so, Inspector? Well would you mind passing it the hell on!'
Flight snorted. 'That's all the thanks I get, after a hard day's graft.'
'We all know the kind of graft the Met's interested in, George.'
Flight tut-tutted. 'Wires have ears, John. Anyway, the address was a no-show. Yes, a friend of Miss Crawley's lives there. But she hasn't seen her for weeks. Last she heard, Crawley was in Edinburgh.' He pronounced it head- in-burrow.
'Is that it?'
'I tried asking a couple of sleazebags connected with Croft.'
'Who's Croft?'
Flight sighed. 'The woman who ran the brothel.'
'Oh, right.'
'Only, we've had dealings with her before, you see. Maybe that's why she moved her operation north. So I talked to a couple of her 'former associates'.'
'And?'
'Nothing. Not even a trade discount on French with spanking.'
'Right. Well, thanks anyway, George.'
'Sorry, John. When are we going to see you down here?'
'When are we going to see you up here?'
'No offence, John, but it's all that square sausage and fizzy beer. It doesn't agree with me.'
'I'll let you get back to your smoked salmon and Scotch then. Night, George.'
He put the phone down, and considered for a moment.
Then he got out of bed and started to dress. The cat looked satisfied with this arrangement, and stretched himself out. Rebus searched for paper and a pen and scribbled a note to Patience. 'Lonely without you. Gone for a drive. John.' He thought about adding a few kisses. Yes, a few kisses were definitely in order.
'xxx'
Checking that he had car keys, flat keys and money, he let himself out, locking the door behind him.
If you didn't know, you wouldn't see.
It was a pleasant enough night for a drive, as it happened. The cloud cover kept the air mild, but there was no sign of rain or wind. It wasn't at all a bad night for a drive. Inverleith, then Granton, an easy descent to the coast. Past what had been William Glass's digs… then Granton Road… then Newhaven. The docks.
If you didn't know, you wouldn't see.
He was a lonely man, just out driving, just out driving slowly. They stepped out of shadowy doorways, or else crossed and recrossed at the traffic lights, like a sodium-lit fashion show. Crossed and recrossed. While drivers slowly drove, and slower yet, and slower. He saw nothing he wanted, so he took the car the length of Salamander Street, then turned it. Oh, he was a keen one. Shy, lonely, quiet and keen. Driving his beaten-up old car around the night-time streets, looking for… well, maybe just looking at, unless he could be tempted…
He stopped the car. She came walking smartly towards him. Not that her clothes were smart. Her clothes were cheap and cheerless, a pale raincoat, one size too big, and beneath it a bright red blouse and a mini-skirt. The mini-skirt, Rebus felt, was her big mistake, since her legs were bare and thinly unattractive. She looked cold: she looked as if she had a cold. But she tried him with a smile.
'Get in,' he said.
'Hand-job's fifteen, blow's twenty-five, thirty-five the other.'
Naive. He could have arrested her on the spot. You never, never talked money till you were sure the punter was straight.
'Get in,' he repeated. She had a lot to learn. She got in. Rebus fished out his ID. 'Detective Inspector Rebus. I'd like a word, Gail.'
'You lot never give up, do you?' There was still Cockney in the accent, but she'd been back north long enough for her native Fife to start reasserting itself. A few more weeks, and that final 'you' would be a 'yiz': youse lot nivir gie up, dae yiz…?
She was a slow learner. 'How come you know my name?' she asked at last. 'Were you on that raid? After a freebie, are you, is that it?'
That wasn't it at all. 'I want to talk about Gregor.'
The colour drained from her face, leaving only eye makeup and slick red lipstick. 'Who's he when he's at home?'
'He's your brother. We can talk down the station, or we can talk at your flat, either suits me.' She made a
