a scuba-diver. Rebus admitted he'd no answer. 'Suck it and see,' was Brian Holmes' contribution. It earned him a cushion over the head.
By quarter past eleven, Rebus knew two things. One was that he was too drunk to drive. The other was that even if he could drive (or be driven) he'd not know his destination -Oxford Terrace or his own flat in Marchmont? Where, these days, did he live? He imagined himself parking the car on Lothian Road, halfway between the two addresses, and kipping there. But the decision was made for him by Nell.
'The bed in the spare room's made up. We need someone to christen it so we can start calling it the guest bedroom. Might as well be you.'
Her quiet authority was not to be challenged. Rebus shrugged his acceptance. A little later, she went to bed herself. Holmes switched on the TV but found nothing there worth watching, so he turned on the hi-fi instead.
'I haven't got any jazz,' he admitted, knowing Rebus's tastes.' But how about this…?'
It was Sergeant Pepper. Rebus nodded. 'If I can't get the Rolling Stones, I'll always settle for second best.'
So they argued 60s pop music, then talked football for a little while and shop for a bit longer still.
'How much more time do you think Doctor Curt will take?'
Holmes was referring to one of the pathologists regularly used by the police. A body had been fished out of the Water of Leith, just below Dean Bridge. Suicide, accident or murder? They were hoping Dr Curt's findings would point the way.
Rebus shrugged. 'Some of those tests take weeks, Brian. But actually, from what I hear, he won't be much longer. A day or two maybe.'
'And what will he say?'
'God knows.' They shared a smile; Curt was notorious for his fund of bad jokes and ill-timed levity.
'Should we stand by to repel puns?' asked Holmes. 'How about this: deceased was found near waterfall. However, study of eyes showed no signs of cataracts.'
Rebus laughed. 'That's not bad. Bit too clever maybe, but still not bad.'
They spent a quarter of an hour recalling some of Curt's true gems, before, somehow, turning the talk to politics.-Rebus admitted that he'd voted only three times in his adult life.
'Once Labour, once SNP, and once Tory.'
Holmes seemed to find this funny. He asked what the chronological order had been, but Rebus couldn't remember. This, too, seemed worth a laugh.
'Maybe you should try an Independent next time.'
'Like Gregor Jack you mean?' Rebus shook his head. 'I don't think there's any such thing as an 'Independent' in Scotland. It's like living in Ireland and trying not to take sides. Damned hard work. And speaking of work… some of us have been working today. If you don't mind, Brian, I think I'll join Nell…' More laughter. 'If you see what I mean.';
'Sure,' said Holmes, 'on you go. I don't feel so bad. I might watch a video or something. See you in the morning.'
'Mind you don't keep me awake,' said Rebus with a wink.
In fact, meltdown at the Torness reactor couldn't have kept him awake. His dreams were full of pastoral scenes, skin-divers, kittens, and last-minute goals. But when he opened his eyes there was a dark shadowy figure looming over him.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. It was Holmes, dressed and wearing a denim jacket. There was a jangle of car keys from one hand; the other hand held a selection of newspapers which he now threw down on to the bed.
'Sleep all right? Oh, by the way, I don't usually buy these rags but I thought you'd be interested. Breakfast'll be ready in ten minutes.'
Rebus managed to mumble a few syllables. He heaved himself upright and studied the front page of the tabloid in front of him. This was what he'd been waiting for, and he actually felt some of the tension leave his body and his brain. The headline was actually subtle – JACK THE LAD! – but the sub-head was blunt enough – MP NICKED IN SEX-DEN SWOOP. And there was the photograph, showing Gregor Jack on his way down the steps to the waiting van. More photos were promised inside. Rebus turned to the relevant pages. A pasty-faced Farmer Watson; a couple of the 'escorts' posing for the cameras; and another four shots of Jack, showing his progress all the way into the van. None from the cop-shop aftermath, so presumably he'd been spirited away. You couldn't hope to spirit this away though, photogenic or no. Ha! In the background of one of the photos Rebus could make out the cherubic features of Detective Sergeant Brian Holmes. One for the scrapbook and no mistake.
There were two more newspapers, both telling a similar tale graced by similar (sometimes even identical) photos. THE DISHONOURABLE MEMBER; MP'S VICE SHAME. Ah, the great British Sunday headline, coined by an elect of teetotal virgins boasting the combined wisdom of Solomon and the magnanimity of a zealot. Rebus could be as prurient as the next man, but this stuff was a class above. He prised himself out of bed and stood up. The alcohol inside him stood up too; then it began to pogostick its way around his head. Red wine and whisky. Bad news and a chaser. What was the phrase? Never mix the grain and the grape. Never mind, a couple of litres of orange juice would sort him out.
But first there was the little matter of the fry-up. Nell looked as though she'd spent all night in the kitchen. She had washed up the debris of the previous night, and now was providing a breakfast of hotel proportions. Cereal, toast, bacon, sausage and egg. With a pot of coffee taking pride of place on the dining table. Only one thing was missing.
'Any orange juice?' Rebus suggested.
'Sorry,' said Brian. 'I thought the paper shop would have some, but they'd run out. There's plenty of coffee though. Tuck in.' He was busy with another paper, a broadsheet this, time. 'Didn't take them long to stick the knife in, did it?'
'You mean Gregor Jack? No, well, what can you expect?'
Holmes turned a page. 'Strange though,' he said, and let it lie at that, wondering whether Rebus would know…
'You mean,' Rebus replied, 'it's strange that the London Sunday's knew about Operation Creeper.'
Another page was turned. It didn't take long to read a newspaper these days, not unless you were interested in the adverts. Holmes folded the paper into four and laid it down on the table beside him.
'Yes,' he said, lifting a piece of toast. 'Like I say, it's strange.'
'Come on, Brian. Papers are always getting tip-offs to juicy stories. A copper looking for beer money, something like that. Chances are, you raid a posh brothel you're going to come out with some weel-kent faces.'
Hold on though… Even as he spoke. Rebus knew there was something more. That night, the reporters had been biding their time, hadn't they? Like they knew exactly who or what might be walking out of the door and down the steps. Holmes was staring at him now.
'What are you thinking?' Rebus asked.
'Nothing. No, nothing at all… yet. Not our business, is it? And besides, this is Sunday.'
'You're a sly bugger, Brian Holmes.'
'I've got a good tutor, haven't I?'
Nell came into the room carrying two plates, filled with glistening fried food. Rebus's stomach pleaded with its owner not to do anything rash, anything he would regret later on in the day.
'You're working too hard,' Rebus told Nell. 'Don't let him treat you like a skivvy.'
'Don't worry,' she said, 'I don't. But fair's fair. Brian did wash last night's dishes. And he'll wash this morning's too.'
Holmes groaned. Rebus opened one of the tabloids and tapped his finger against a photograph.
'Better not work him too hard, Nell, not now he's in pictures.'
Nell took the paper from him, studied it for a moment, then shrieked.
'My God, Brian! You look like something off the Muppet Show.'
Holmes was on his feet now, too, staring over her shoulder. 'And is that what Chief Superintendent Watson looks like? He could pass for an Aberdeen Angus.'
Rebus and Holmes shared a smile at that. He wasn't called Farmer for nothing…
Rebus wished the young couple well. They had made a commitment to living together. They had bought a
