Rebus had gone to the newspaper offices to take a statement from the journalist who'd taken the call. The place was a madhouse of Festival and Fringe critics filing their reviews. The journalist read from his notes.
`He just said, if we didn't shut the Festival down, we'd be sorry.’
'Did he sound serious?’
`Oh, yes, definitely.’
`And he had an Irish accent?’
'Sounded like it.’
`Not just a fake?’
The reporter shrugged. He was keen to file his story, so Rebus let him go. That made three calls in the past weak, each one threatening to bomb or otherwise disrupt the Festival. The police were taking the threat seriously. How could they afford not to? So far, the tourists hadn't been scared off, but venues were being urged to make security checks before and after each performance.
Back at St Leonard's, Rebus reported to his Chief Superintendent, then tried to finish another piece of paperwork. Masochist that he was, he quite liked the Saturday backshift. You saw the city in its many guises. It allowed a salutory peek into Edinburgh's grey soul. Sin and evil weren't black – he'd argued the point with a priest – but were greyly anonymous. You saw them all night long, the grey peering faces of the wrongdoers and malcontents, the wife beaters and the knife boys. Unfocused eyes, drained of all concern save for themselves. And you prayed, if you were John Rebus, prayed that as few people as possible ever had to get as close as this to the massive grey nonentity.
Then you went to the canteen and had a joke with the lads, fixing a smile to your face whether you were listening or not.
`Here, Inspector, have you heard the one about the squid with the moustache? He goes into a restaurant and-‘
Rebus turned away from the DC's story towards his ringing phone.
`DI Rebus.’
He listened for a moment, the smile melting from his face. Then he put down the receiver and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.
`Bad news?’ asked the DC.
'You're not joking, son.’
The High Street was packed with people, most of them just browsing. Young people bobbed up and down trying to instil enthusiasm in the Fringe productions they were supporting. Supporting them? They were probably the leads in them. They busily thrust flyers into hands already full of similar sheets.
`Only two quid, best value on the Fringe!' `You won't see another show like it!' There were jugglers and people with painted faces, and a cacophony of musical disharmonies. Where else in the world would bagpipes, banjos and kazoos meet to join in a bucking battle from hell? Locals said this Festival was quieter than the last. They'd been saying it for years. Rebus wondered if the thing had ever had a heyday. It was plenty busy enough for him.
Though it was a warm night, he kept his car windows shut. Even so, as he crawled along the seas flyers would be pushed beneath his windscreen wipers, all but blocking his vision. His scowl met impregnable drama student smiles. It was ten o'clock, not long dark; that was the beauty of a Scottish summer. He tried to imagine himself on a deserted beach, or crouched atop a mountain, alone with his thoughts. Who was he trying to kid? John Rebus was always alone with his thoughts. And just now he was thinking of drink. Another hour or two and the bars would sluice themselves out, unless they'd applied for (and been granted) the very late licences available at Festival time.
He was heading for the City Chambers, across the street from St Giles' Cathedral. You turned off the High Street and through one of two stone arches into a small parking area in front of the Chambers themselves. A uniformed constable was standing guard beneath one of the arches. He recognised Rebus and nodded, stepping out of the way. Rebus parked his own car beside a marked patrol car, stopped the engine and got out.
`Evening, sir.’
`Where is it?’
The constable nodded towards a door near one of the arches, attached to the side wall of the Chambers. They walked towards it. A young woman was standing next to the door.
'Inspector,' she said.
'Hello, Mairie.’
`I've told her to move on, sir,' the constable apologised.`
Mairie Henderson ignored him. Her eyes were on Rebus's 'What's going on?’
'Rebus winked at her. 'The Lodge, Mairie. We all meet in secret, like.’
She scowled. 'Well then, give me a chance. Off to a show, are you?’
'I was till I saw the commotion.’
'Saturday's your day off, isn't it?’
'Journalists don't get days off, Inspector. What's behind the door?’
'It's got glass panels, Mairie. Take a peek for yourself.’
But all you could see through the panels was a narrow landing with doors off. One door was open, allowing a glimpse of stairs leading down. Rebus turned to the constable.
`Let's get a proper cordon set up, son. Something across the arches to fend off the tourists before the show starts. Radio in for assistance if you need it. Excuse me, Mairie.’
`Then there is going to be a show?’
Rebus stepped past her and opened the door, closing it again behind him. He made for the stairs down, which were lit by a naked lightbulb. Ahead of him he could hear voices. At the bottom of this first flight he turned a corner and came upon the group. There were two teenage girls and a boy, all of them seated or crouching, the girls shaking and crying. Over them stood a uniformed constable and a man Rebus recognised as a local doctor. They all looked up at his approach.
`This is the Inspector,' the constable told the teenagers. `Right, we're going back down there. You three stay here.’
Rebus, squeezing past the teenagers, saw the doctor give them a worried glance. He gave the doctor a wink, telling him they'd get over it. The doctor didn't seem so sure.
Together the three men set off down the next flight of stairs. The constable was carrying a torch.
'There's electricity,' he said. 'But a couple of the bulbs have gone.’
They walked along a narrow passage, its low ceiling further reduced by air- and heating-ducts and other pipes. Tubes of scaffolding lay on the floor ready for assembly. There were more steps down.
'You know where we are?’ the constable asked.
'Mary King's Close,' said Rebus.
Not that he'd ever been down here, not exactly. But he'd been in similar old buried streets beneath the High Street. He knew of Mary King's Close.
'Story goes,' said the constable, 'there was a plague in the 1600s, people died or moved out, never really moved back. Then there was a fire. They blocked off the ends of the street. When they rebuilt, they built over the top of the close.’
He shone his torch towards the ceiling, which was now three or four storeys above them. `See that marble slab? That's the floor of the City Chambers.’
He smiled. `I came on the tour last year.’
`Incredible,' the doctor said. Then to Rebus: 'I'm Dr Galloway.’
`Inspector Rebus. Thanks for getting here so quickly.’
The doctor ignored this. `You're a friend of Dr Aitken's, aren't you?’
Ah, Patience Aitken. She'd be at home just now, feet tucked under her, a cat and an improving book on her lap, boring classical music in the background. Rebus nodded.
'I used to share a surgery with her,' Dr Galloway explained.
They were in the close proper now, a narrow and fairly steep roadway between stone buildings. A rough drainage channel ran down one side of the road. Passages led off to dark alcoves, one of which, according to the constable, housed a bakery, its ovens intact. The constable was beginning to get on Rebus's nerves.
