'Pardon?’
'The magazine, maybe he got it secondhand.’
'That's a thought.’
`A kid that age, Christ.’
He shook his head. `I love kids, Inspector, that's what this place is all about. Giving kids a good time. There's nothing like it.’
'Really, sir?’
Bothwell spread his hands. `I don't mean anything… you know… nothing like that. I've always liked kids. I used to run a football team, local youth club thing. Anything for kids.’
He smiled again. 'That's because I'm still a kid myself, Inspector. Me, I'm Peter bloody Pan.’
Still holding the photo, he invited them in for a drink. Rebus was tempted, but declined. The bar would be an empty barn; no place for a drink. He handed Bothwell a card with his office number.
`I'll do my best,' Bothwell said.
Rebus nodded and turned away. He didn't say anything to Siobhan Clarke till they were back in her car.
'Well, what do you think?’
`Creepy,' she said. 'How can he dress like that?’
'Years of practice, I suppose.’
'So what do you reckon to him?’
Rebus thought about this. 'I'm not sure. Let me think about it over a drink.’
`That's very kind, sir, but I'm going out.’ She made a show of checking her watch.
'A Fringe show?’
She nodded.
`Early Tom Stoppard,' she said.
'Well.’
Rebus sniffed, 'I didn't say you were invited anyway.’
He paused. 'Who are you going with?’
She looked at him. `I'm going on my own, not that it's any of your business… sir.’
Rebus shifted a little. `You can drop me off at the Ox.’
As they drove past, there was no sign of Frankie Bothwell on the steps of the Crazy Hose Saloon.
The Ox gave Rebus a taste. He phones Patience, but got the answer-phone. He seemed to remember she was going out tonight, but couldn't recall where. He took the slow route home. In Daintry's Lounge, he stood at the bar listening in on its tough wit. The Festival only touched places like Daintry's insofar as providing posters to advertise the shows. These were as much decoration as the place ever had. He stared at a sign above the row of optics. It said, `If arseholes could fly, this place would be an airport'.
`Ready for take-off,' he said to the barmaid, proffering his empty glass.
A little later, he found himself approaching Oxford Terrace from Lennox Street, so turned into Lennox Street Lane. What had once been stables in the Lane had now become first floor homes with ground floor garages. The place was always dead. Some of the tenements on Oxford Terrace backed onto the lane. Rebus had a key to Patience's garden gate. He'd let himself in the back door to the flat. As shortcuts went, it wasn't much of one, but he liked the lane.
He was about a dozen paces from the gate when somebody grabbed him. They got him from behind, pulling him by the coat, keeping the grip tight so that he might as well have been wearing a straitjacket. The coat came up over Rebus's head, trapping him, binding his arms. A knee came up into his groin. He lashed out with a foot, which only made it all the easier to unbalance him. He was shouting and swearing as he fell. The attacker had released his grip on the coat. While Rebus struggles to get out of it, a foot caught him on the side of the head. The foot was wearing a plimsoll, which explained why Rebus hadn't heard his attacker following him. It also explained why he was still conscious after the kick.
Another kick dug into his side. And then, just as his head was emerging from his coat, the foot caught him on the chin, and all he could see were the setts beneath him, slick and shining from what light there was. The attacker's hands were on him, rifling pockets. The man was breathing hard.
'Take the money,' Rebus said, trying to focus his eyes. He knew there wasn't much money to take, less than a fiver, all of it in small change. The man didn't seem happy with his haul. It wasn't much for a night's work.
'A'm gonny put you in the hospital.’
The accent was Glaswegian. Rebus could make out the man's build squat – but not yet his face. There was too much shadow. He was rearing up again, coins spilling from his hands to rain down on Rebus.
He'd given Rebus just enough time to shake off the alcohol. Rebus sprang from his crouch and hit the man square in the stomach with his head, propelling his assailant backwards. The man kept his balance, but Rebus was standing too now, and he was bigger than the Glaswegian. There was a glint in the man's hand. A cutthroat razor. Rebus hadn't seen one in years. It flashed in an arc towards him, but he dodged it, then saw that there were two other figures in the lane. They were watching, hands in pockets. He thought he recognised them as Cafferty's men, the ones from the churchyard.
The razor was swinging again, the Glaswegian almost smiling as he went about his business. Rebus slipped his coat all the way off and wrapped it around his left arm. He met the blade with his arm, feeling it cut into the cloth, and lashed out with the sole of his right foot, connecting with the man's knee. The man took a step back, and Rebus struck out again, connecting with a thigh this time. When the man attempted to come back at him, he was limping and easy to sidestep. But instead of aiming with the razor he barrelled into Rebus, pushing him hard against some garage doors. Then he turned and ran.
There was only one exit from the alley, and he took it, running past Cafferty's men. Rebus took a deep breath, then sank to his knees and threw up onto the ground. His coat was ruined, but that was the least of his problems. Caferty's men were strolling towards him. They lifted him to his feet like he was a bag of shopping.
'You all right?’ one asked.
'Winded,' Rebus said. His chin hurt too, but there was no blood. He puked up more alcohol, feeling better for it. The other man had stooped to pick up the money. Rebus didn't get it.
'Your man?’ he said. They were shaking their heads. Then the bigger one spoke.
'He just saved us the bother.’
'He was trying to hospitalise me.’
'I think I'd have done the same,' said the big man, holding out Rebus's coins. 'If this is all I'd found.’
Rebus took the money and pocketed it. Then he took a swing at the man. It was slow and tired and didn't connect. But the big man connected all right. His punch took all the remaining fight out of Rebus. He fell to his knees again, palms on the cold ground; ‘That's by way of an incentive,' the man said. 'Just in case you were needing one. Mr Cafferty'll be talking to you soon.’
'Not if I can help it,' spat Rebus, sitting with his back to the garage. They were walking away from him, back towards the mouth of the lane.
'He'll be talking to you.’
Then they were gone.
A Glaswegian with a razor, Rebus thought to himself, happy to sit here till the pain went away. If not Cafferty's man, then whose? And why? Rebus struggled towards consciousness, even as he picked up the telephone.
'Heathen!' he gasped into it.
'Pardon?’
'To call at this ungodly hour.’
He'd recognised DCI Kilpatrick's voice. He ran the palm of his hand down his face, pulling open his eyelids. When he could focus, he tried finding the time on the clock, but in his struggle for the receiver he'd knocked it to the floor. 'What do you want… sir?’
'I was hoping you could come in a bit early.’
'What? Cleaners on strike and you're looking for a relief?’
'Resounds like the dead, but he's still cracking jokes.’
'When do you want me?’
'Say, half an hour?’
'You say it, I'll do what I can.’
