'My dream was making more sense than this.’
'Say you had to go away at very short notice?’
She was rubbing her hair, yawning. 'Someone would cover for me. What did you have in mind, elopement?’
'I'll put the kettle on.’
When he came back from the kitchen carrying two mugs of coffee, she was in the shower.
'What's happening?’ she asked afterwards, rubbing herself dry.
'You're going to your sister's,' he told her. 'So drink your coffee, phone her, get dressed, and start packing.’
She took the mug from him. 'In that order?’
'Any order you like.’
'And where are you going?’
'Somewhere else.’
'Who'll feed the pets?’
'I'll get someone to do it, don't worry.’
'I'm not worried.’
She took a sip of coffee. 'Yes I am. What is going on?’
'A bad man's coming to town.’ Something struck him. 'There you are, that's another old film I like: High Noon.’
Rebus booked into a small hotel in Bruntsfield. He knew the night manager and phoned first, checking they had a room.
'You're lucky, we've one single.’
'How come you're not full?’
'The old gent who was in it, he's been coming here for years, he died of a stroke yesterday afternoon.’
'Oh.’
'You're not superstitious or anything?’
'Not if it's your only room.’
He climbed the steps to street level and looked around. When he was happy, he gestured for Patience to join him. She carried a couple of bags. Rebus was already holding her small suitcase. They put the stuff in the back of her car and embraced hurriedly.
'I'll call you,' he said. 'Don't try phoning me.’
'John…’
'Trust me on this if on nothing else, Patience, please.’
He watched her drive off, then hung around to make sure no one was following her. Not that he could be absolutely sure. They could pick her up on Queensferry Road. Cafferty wouldn't hesitate to use her, or anyone, to get to him. Rebus got his own bag from the flat, locked the flat tight, and headed for his car. On the way he stopped at the next door neighbour's door, dropping an envelope through the letterbox. Inside were keys to the flat and feeding instructions for Lucky the cat, the budgie with no name, and Patience's goldfish.
It was still early morning, the quiet streets unsuitable for a tail. Even so, he took every back route he could think of. The hotel was just a big family house really, converted into a small family hotel. Out front, where a garden once separated it from the pavement, tarmac had been laid, making a car park for half a dozen cars. But Rebus drove round the back and parked where the staff parked. Monty, the night manager, brought him in the back way, then led him straight up to his room. It was at the top of the house,, all the way up one of the creakiest staircases Rebus had ever climbed. No one would be able to tiptoe up there without him and the woodworm knowing about it.
He lay on the solid bed wondering if lying on a dead man's bed was like stepping into his shoes. Then he started to think about Caferty. He knew he was taking half measures only. How hard would it be for Cafferty to track him down? A few men staked outside Fettes and St Leonard's and in a few well-chosen pubs, and Rebus would be in the gangster's hands by the end of the day. Fine, he just didn't want Patience involved, or Patience's home, or those of his friends.
Didn't most suicides do the same thing, come to hotels so as not to involve family and friends? He could have gone home of course, back to his flat in Marchmont, but it was still full of students working in Edinburgh over the summer. He liked his tenants, and didn't want them meeting Cafferty. Come to that, he didn't want Monty the night manager meeting Cafferty either.
'He's not after me,' he kept reminding himself, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. There was a clock radio by the bed, and he switched it on, catching the news. Police were still searching for Morris Gerald Cafferty. 'He's not after me,' he repeated. But in a sense, Cafferty was. He'd know Rebus was his best bet to finding the killers. There was a short item about the body at the Crazy Hose, though no gruesome details. Not yet, anyway.
When the news finished, he washed and went downstairs. He got a black cab to take him to St Leonard's. Once told the destination, the driver switched off his meter.
'On the house,' he said.
Rebus nodded and sat back. He'd commandeer someone's car during the course of the day, either that or find a spare car from the pool. No one would complain. They all knew who'd put Cafferty in Barlinnie. At St Leonard's, he walked smartly into the station and went straight to the computer, tapping into Brains. Brains had a direct link to PNC2, the UK mainland police database at Hendon. As he'd expected, there wasn't much on Lee Francis Bothwell, but there was a note referring him to files kept by Strathclyde Police in Partick.
The officer he talked to in Partick was not thrilled.
'All that old stuff's in the attic,' he told Rebus. 'I'll tell you, one of these days the ceiling'll come down.’
'Just go take a look, eh? Fax it to me, save yourself a phone call.’
An hour later, Rebus was handed several fax sheets relating to activities of the Tartan Army and. the Workers' Party in the early 1970s. Both groups had enjoyed short anarchic lives, robbing banks to finance their arms purchases. The Tartan Army had wanted independence for Scotland, at any price. What the Workers' Party had wanted Rebus couldn't recall, and there was no mention of their objectives in the fax. The Tartan Army had been the bigger terror of the two, breaking into explosives stores and Army bases, building up an arms cache for an insurrection which never came.
Frankie Bothwell was mentioned as a Tartan Army supporter, but with no evidence against him of illegal acts. Rebus reckoned this would be just before his move to the Orkneys and rebirth as Cuchullain. Cuchullain of the Red Hand.
Arch Gowrie was probably at breakfast when Rebus caught him. He could hear the clink of cutlery on plate.
'Sorry to disturb you so early, sir.’
'More questions, Inspector? Maybe I should start charging a consultancy fee.’
'I was hoping you could help me with a name.’
Gowrie made a noncommittal noise, or maybe he was just chewing. 'Lee Francis Bothwell.’
'Frankie Bothwell?’
'You know him?’
'I used to.’
'He was a member of the Orange Lodge?’
'Yes, he was.’
'But he got kicked out?’
'Not quite. He left voluntarily.’
'Might I ask why, sir?’
'You might.’
There was a pause. 'He was… unpredictable, had a temper on him. Most of the time he was fine. He coached the youth football teams for a couple of district lodges, he seemed to enjoy that.’
'Was he interested in history?’
'Yes, Scottish and Irish history.’
'Cuchullain?’
