He leant a hand against the mower's black rubber grip. 'The Bothwells were a lovely couple, Douglas and Ina. Couldn't do enough for this town. When they died, their son sold the house straight off. He wasn't supposed to, Reverend Bothwell told me that often enough. He was supposed to keep it in the family.’
'But it's a manse,' Clarke said. 'Church of Scotland property. How could he sell it?’
'The Bothwells loved the house so much, they bought it off the Church. They were going to live there when Reverend Bothwell retired. The thing is, the son sold it back to the Church. He was a wastrel, that one, took the money and ran. Nobody'd look after their grave if it wasn't for me and a few other old folk here who remember them fondly.’
He shook his head. 'Young people, they've no sense of history or commitment.’
'What's this got to do with Francis Lee?’
Siobhan Clarke asked. McStay looked at her like she was a child who'd spoken out of turn, and addressed his answer to Rebus.
'Their son was called Lee. I think his middle name was Francis.’
Lee Francis Bothwell: Francis Lee. It was too close to be mere coincidence. Rebus nodded slowly.
'I don't suppose you've any idea,' he said, 'where we might find-‘ He broke off: 'Frankie Bothwell? Thanks, Mr McStay, thanks for your help.’
And he walked towards the gate. It took Siobhan Clarke a moment to catch up with him.
'So are you going to tell me?’
`You don't know Frankie Bothwell?’
He watched her try out the name in her mind. She shook her head furiously. `He owns the Crazy Hose Saloon.’
Now she nodded. `That Fringe programme in Billy Cunningham's room.’
'Yes, with a show at the Crazy Hose circled. Nice coincidence, eh?’
They were at the car now. Rebus opened the passenger door but didn't get in. Instead he rested his elbow on the roof and looked across at her. 'If you believe in coincidence.’
She'd driven them twenty or thirty yards when Rebus ordered her to stop. He'd been looking in his wing mirror, and now got out of the car and started back towards the gates. Siobhan cursed under her breath, drew the car in to the kerb, and followed him. Idling by the gates was a red estate car she'd seen parked further away when they were leaving. Rebus had stopped two men who'd been walking towards Willie McStay.
Neither of the two would have looked out of place in the back of a scrum. Siobhan was in time to catch the end of her superior's argument.
`- and if you don't lay off, so help me, I'll drop you so far in it you'll wish you'd brought a diving bell.’
To reinforce this point, Rebus jabbed his finger into the larger man's gut, all the way up to the second joint. The man didn't look like he was enjoying it. His face was a huge ripe plum. But he kept his hands clasped behind his back throughout. He was showing such self control, Siobhan might have taken him for a Buddhist.
Only she'd yet to come across a Buddhist with razor scars carved down both cheeks.
'And what's more,' Rebus was saying, `you can tell Cafferty we know all about him and the UVF, so he needn't go on acting the innocent about terrorism.’
The bigger of the two men spoke. 'Mr Cafferty's getting very impatient. He wants a result.’
`I don't care if he wants world peace. Now get out of here, and if I hear you've been back asking questions, I'll see you both put away, and I don't care what I've got to do, understood?’
They didn't look overly impressed, but the two men walked away anyway, back to the gates and through them.
`Your fan club?’ Siobhan Clarke guessed.
'Ach, they only want me for my body.’
Which, in a sense, was true.
It was late afternoon, and the Crazy Hose was doing no trade at all.
Those in the know just called it the Hose; those not in the know would say, 'Shouldn't it be Horse?’
But it was the Hose because its premises were an old decommissioned fire station, left vacant when they built a new edifice just up the street. And it was the. Crazy Hose Saloon because it had a wild west theme and country and western music. The main doors were painted gloss black and boasted small square barred windows. Rebus knew the place was doing no trade, because Lee Francis Bothwell was sitting on the steps outside smoking a cigarette.
Although Rebus had never met Frankie Bothwell, he knew the reputation, and there was no mistaking the mess on the steps for anything else. He was dressed like a Las Vegas act, with the face and hair of McGarrett in Hawaii 5-0. The hair had to be fake, and Rebus would lay odds some of the face was fake too.
'Mr Bothwell?’
The head nodded without the hair moving one millimetre out of coiffeured place. He was wearing a tan- coloured leather safari jacket, tight white trousers, and an opennecked shirt. The shirt would offend all but the colour blind and the truly blind. It had so many rhinestones on it, Rebus was in no doubt the rhine mines were now exhausted as a result. Around Bothwell's neck hung a simple gold chain, but he would have been better off with a neck-cast. A neckcast would have disguised the lines, the wrinkles and sags which gave away Bothwell's not insubstantial age.
'I'm Inspector Rebus, this is Detective Constable Clarke.’
Rebus had briefed Clarke on the way here, and she didn't look too stunned by the figure in front of her.
'You want a bottle of rye for the police rake?’
'No, sir. We're trying to complete a collection of magazines.’
'Huh?’ Bothwell had been studying the empty street. Just along the road was Tollcross junction, but you couldn't see it from the front steps of the Crazy Hose. Now he looked up at Rebus.
'I'm serious,' Rebus said. 'We're missing a few back issues, maybe you can help.’
'I don't get it.’
'The Floating Anarchy Factfile.’
Frankie Bothwell took off his sunglasses and squinted at Rebus. Then he ground his cigarette-end under the heel of a cowboy boot. 'That was a lifetime ago. How do you know about it?’
Rebus shrugged. Frankie Bothwell grinned. He was perking up again. 'Christ, that was a long time ago. Up in the Orkneys, peace and love, I had some fun back then. But what's it got to do with anything?’
'Do you know this man?’
Rebus handed over a copy of the photo Murdock had given him, the one from the party. It had been cropped to show Billy Cunningham's face only. 'His name's Billy Cunningham.’
Bothwell took a while studying the photo, then shook his head.
'He came here to see a country and western show a couple of weeks back.’
'We're packed most nights, Inspector, especially this time of year. I can ask the bar staff, the bouncers, see if they know him. Is he a regular?’
'We don't know, sir.’
'See, if he's a regular, he'll carry the Cowpoke Card. You get one after three visits in any one month, entitles you to thirty per cent off the admission.’
Rebus was shaking his head. 'What's he done anyway?’
'He's been murdered, Mr Bothwell.’
Bothwell screwed up his face. 'Bad one.’
Then he looked at Rebus again. 'Not the kid in that underground street?’
Rebus nodded.
Bothwell stood up, brushing dirt from his backside. 'Floating Anarchy hasn't been in circulation for twenty years. You say this kid had a copy?’
'Issue number three,' Siobhan Clarke confirmed.
Bothwell thought about it. 'Number three, that was a big printing, a thousand or so. There was momentum behind number three. After that… not so much momentum.’
He smiled ruefully. 'Can I keep the photo? Like I say, I'll ask around.’
'Fine, Mr Bothwell. We've got copies.’
`Secondhand shops maybe.’
