'What about her?’
'I think you know where she is.’
'What?’
'She's scared, she needs help. She might just run to the reporter who's being wanting to see her. Reporters have been known to hide their sources away, protect them.’
'You think I'm hiding her?’
He paused. 'Has she told you about the pennant?’
'What pennant?’ Mairie had lost her cowgirl singer look. She was back in business.
'The one on Billy Cunningham's wall. Has she told you what he had hidden behind it?’
'What?’
Rebus shook his head. 'I'll make a deal,' he said. 'We'll talk to her together, that way 'neither of us is hiding anything. What do you say?’
The bassist handed Maine an orange juice.
'Thanks, Duane.’
She gulped it down until only ice was left. 'Are you staying for the second set?’
'Will it be worth my while?’
'Oh yes, we do a cracking version of 'Country Honk'.’
'That'll be the acid test.’
She smiled. 'I'll see you after the set.’
'Mairie, do you know who owns this place?’
'A guy called Boswell.’
'It's Bothwell. You don't know him?’
'Never met him. Why?’
The second set was paced like a foxtrot: two slow dances, two fast, then a slow, sad rendering of 'Country Honk' to end with. The floor was packed for the last dance, and Rebus was flattered when a woman a good few years younger than him asked him up. But then her man came back from the Honchos', so that was the end of that.
As the band played a short upbeat encore, one fan climbed onstage and presented the backing singers with sheriff's badges, producing the loudest cheer of the night as both women pinned them on their chests. It was a good natured crowd, and Rebus had spent worse evenings. He couldn't see Patience enjoying it though.
When the band fnished, they went back through the door they'd first appeared through. A few minutes later, Mairie reappeared, still dressed in all her gear and with the raincoat folded up in her shopping bag along with her flatsoled driving shoes.
'So?’ Rebus said.
'So let's go.’
He started for the exit, but she was making towards the stage, gesturing for him to follow.
'I don't really want her to see me like this,' she said. 'I'm not sure the outfit conveys journalistic clout and professionalism. But I can't be bothered changing.’
They climbed onto the stage, then through the door. It led into a low-ceilinged passage of broom closets, crates of empty bottles, and a small room where in the evening the band got ready and during the day the cleaner could stop for a cup of tea. Beyond this was a dark stairwell. Mairie found the light switch and started to climb.
'Where exactly are we going?’
'The Sheraton.’
Rebus didn't ask again. The stairs were steep and twisting. They reached a landing where a padlocked door faced them, but Mairie kept climbing. At the second landing she stopped. There was another door, this time with no lock. Inside was a vast dark space, which Rebus judged to be the building's attic. Light infiltrated from the street through a skylight and some gaps in the roof, showing the solid forms of rafters.
'Watch you don't bump your head.’
The roofspace, though huge, was stifling. It seemed to be filled with tea chests, ladders, stacks of cloth which might have been old firemen's uniforms.
'She's probably asleep,' Mairie whispered. 'I found this place the first night we played here. Kevin said she could stay here.’
'You mean Lorne? He knows?’
'He's an old pal, he got us this residency. I told him she was a friend who'd come up for the Fringe but had nowhere to stay. I said I had eight people in my flat as it was. That's a lie by the way, I like my privacy. Where else was she going to stay? The city's bursting at the seams.’
'But what does she do all day?’
'She can go downstairs and boil a kettle, there's a loo there too. The club itself's off limits, but she's so scared I don't think she'd risk it anyway.’
She had led them past enough obstacles for a game of crazy golf, and now they were close to the front of the building. There were some small window panes here, forming a long thin arch. They were filthy, but provided a little more light..
'Millie? It's only me.’
Mairie peered into the gloom. Rebus's eyes had become accustomed to the dark, but even so there were places enough she could be hiding. 'She's not here,' Mairie said. There was a sleeping bag on the floor: Rebus recognised it from the first time he'd met Millie. Beside it lay a torch. Rebus picked it up and switched it on. A paperback book lay face down on the floor.
'Where's her bag?’
'Her bag?’
'Didn't she have a bag of stuff?’
'Yes.’
Mairie looked around. 'I don't see it.’
'She's gone,' said Rebus. But why would she leave the sleeping-bag, book and torch? He moved the beam around the walls. 'This place is a junk shop.’
An old red rubberised fire-hose snaked cross the floor. Rebus followed it with the beam all the way to a pair of feet.
He moved the beam up past splayed legs to the rest of the body. She was propped against the corner in a sitting position. 'Stay here,' he ordered, approaching the body, trying to keep the torch steady. The fire-hose was coiled around Millie Docherty's neck. Someone had tried strangling her with it, but they hadn't succeeded. The perished rubber had snapped. So instead they'd taken the brass nozzle and stuffed it down her throat. It was still there, looking like the mouth of a funnel. And that's what they'd used it as. Rebus put his nose close to the funnel and sniffed.
He couldn't be sure, but he thought they'd used acid. They'd tipped it down into her while she'd been choking on the nozzle. If he looked closer, he'd see her throat burnt away. He didn't look. He shone the torch on the floor instead. Her bag was lying there, its contents emptied onto the floorboards. There was something small and crumpled beside a wooden chest. He picked it up and flattened it out. It was the sleeve for a computer disk. Written on it were the letters SaS.
'Looks like they got what they wanted,' he said.
Nobody was dancing in the Crazy Hose Saloon.
Everyone had been sent home. Because the Hose was in Tollcross, it was C Division's business. They'd sent officers out from Torphichen Place.
'John Rebus,' one of the CID men said. 'You get around more than a Jehovah's Witness.’
'But I never try to sell you religion, Shug.’
Rebus watched DI Shug Davidson climb onto the stage and disappear through the door. They were all upstairs; the action was upstairs. They were setting up halogen lamps on tripods to assist the photographers. No key could be found for the first floor padlock, so they'd taken a sledgehammer to it. Rebus didn't like to ask who or what they thought they'd find hidden behind a door padlocked from the outside. He doubted it would be germane to the case. Only one thing was germane, and it was standing at the bar near the spittoon, drinking a long cold drink. Rebus
