his eyes had retreated back into their sockets.
'Wonder what my blood pressure got up to,' he said to himself. Then he thanked Ormiston.
'I was thinking of me, not you,' Ormiston retorted. 'With you two wrestling,' he stooped to pick up his cigarette, 'there wasn't room for me to have a quiet puff.’
The cigarette itself survived the melee, but after inspecting it Ormiston decided to flush it anyway and light up a fresh one.
Rebus joined him. 'That may be the first time smoking's saved someone's life.’
'My grandad smoked for sixty years, died in his sleep at eighty. Mind you, he was bedridden for thirty of them. So what was all that about?’
'Filing. Smylie doesn't like my system.’
'Smylie likes to know everything that's going on.’
'He shouldn't even be here. He should be at home, bereaving.’
'But that's what he is doing,' argued Ormiston. 'Just because he looks like a big cuddly bear, a gentle giant, don’t be fooled.’
He took a drag on his cigarette. 'Let me tell you about Smylie.’
And he did.
Rebus was home at six o'clock, much to Patience Aitken's surprise. He had a shower rather than a bath and came into the living room dressed in his best suit and wearing a shirt Patience had given him for Christmas. It wasn't till he'd tried it on that they both discovered it required cuff links, so then he'd had to buy some.
'I can never do these up by myself,' he said now, flapping his cuffs and brandishing the links. Patience smiled and came to help him. Close up, she smelt of perfume.
'Smells wonderful,' he said.
'Do you mean me or the kitchen?’
'Both,' said Rebus. 'Equally.’
'Something to drink?’
'What are you having?’
'Fizzy water till the cooking's done.’
'Same for me.’
Though really he was dying for a whisky. He'd lost the shakes, but his ribs still hurt when he inflated his lungs. Ormiston said he'd once seen Smylie bear-hug a recalcitrant prisoner into unconsciousness. He also told Rebus that before Kilpatrick had come on the scene, the Smylie brothers had more or less run the Edinburgh Crime Squad.
He drank the water with ice and lime and it tasted fine. When the preparations were complete and the table laid and the dishwasher set to work on only the first of the evening's loads, they sat down together on the sofa and drank gin with tonic.
'Cheers.’
'Cheers.’
And then Patience led him by the hand out into the small back garden. The sun was low over the tops of the tenements, the birds easing off into evensong. She examined every plant as she passed it, like a general assessing her troops. She'd trained Lucky the cat well; it now went over the wall into the neighbouring garden when it needed the toilet. She named some of the flowers for him, like she always did. He could never remember them from one day to the next.
The ice clinked in Patience's glass as she moved. She had changed into a long patterned dress, all flowing folds and squares of colour. With her hair up at the back, the dress worked well, showing off her neck and shoulders and the contours of her body. It had short sleeves to show arms tanned from gardening.
Though the bell was a long way off, he heard it. 'Front door,' he said.
'They're early.’
She looked at her watch. 'Well, not much actually. I'd better get the potatoes on.’
'I'll let them in.’
She squeezed his arm as they separated, and Rebus made his way down the hallway towards the front door. He straightened himself, readying the smile he'd be wearing all evening. Then he opened the door.
'Bastard!' Something hissed, a spray-can, and his eyes stung. He'd closed them a moment too late, but could still feel the spray dotting his face. He thought it must be Mace or something similar, and swiped blindly, trying to knock the can out of his assailant's hand. But the feet were already on the stone steps, shuffling upwards and away. He didn't want to open his eyes, so staggered blindly towards the bathroom, his hands feeling the hallway walls, past the bedroom door then hitting the light switch. He slammed the door and locked it as Patience was coming into the hall.
'John? John, what is it?’
'Nothing,' he said through his teeth. 'It's all right.’
'Are you sure? Who was at the door?’
'They were looking for the upstairs neighbours.’
He was running water into the sink. He got his jacket off and plunged his head into the warm water, letting the sink fill, wiping at his face with his hands.
Patience was still waiting on the other side of the bathroom door. 'Something's wrong, John, what is it?’
He didn't say anything. After a few moments, he pried open one eye, ken shut it again. Shit, that stung! He swabbed again with the water, opening his eyes underwater this time. The water seemed murky to him. And when he looked at his hands, they were red and sticky.
Oh Christ, he thought. He forced himself to look in the mirror above the sink. He was bright red. It wasn't like earlier in the day when Smylie had attacked him. It was… paint. That's what it was, red paint. From an aerosol can. Jesus Christ. He staggered out of his clothes and got into the shower, turning his face up to the spray, shampooing s hair as hard as he could, then doing it again. He scrubbed at his face and neck. Patience was at the door again, asking him what the hell he was up to. And then he heard her voice change, rising on the final syllable of a name.
The Bremners had arrived.
He got out of the shower and rubbed himself down with a towel. When he looked at himself again, he'd managed to get a lot of the colour off, but by no means all of it. Then he looked at his clothes. His jacket was dark, and didn't show the paint too conspicuously; conspicuously enough though. As for his good shirt, it was ruined, no question about that. He unlocked the bathroom door and listened. Patience had taken the Bremners into the living room. He padded down the hall into the bedroom, noticing on the way that his hands had left red smears on the wallpaper. In the bedroom he changed quickly into chinos, yellow t-shirt and a linen jacket Patience had bought him for summer walks by the river which they never took.
He looked like a has-been trying to look trendy. It would do. The palms of his hands were still red, but he could say he'd been painting. He popped his head round the living room door.
'Chris, Jenny,' he said. The couple were seated on the sofa. Patience must be in the kitchen. 'Sorry, I'm running a bit late. I'll just dry my hair and I'll be with you.’
'No rush,' said Jenny as he retreated into the hall. He took the telephone into the bedroom and called Dr Curt at home.
'Hello?’
'It's John Rebus here, tell me about Caroline Rattray.’
'Pardon?’
'Tell me what you know about her.’
'You sound smitten,' Curt said, amusement in his voice. 'I'm smitten all right. She's just sprayed me with a can of paint.’
'I'm not sure I caught that.’
'Never mind, just tell me about her. Like for instance, is she the jealous type?’
'John, you've met her. Would you say she's attractive?’
'Yes.’
'And she has a very good career, plenty of money, a lifestyle many would envy?’
'Yes.’
'But does she have any beaux?’
