'What is it, sir?’
one of the officers asked Rebus.
`If I'm right, this is where they killed Calumn Smylie.’
That evening, Rebus moved out of the hotel and back into Patience's flat. He felt exhausted, like a tool that had lost its edge. The stain on the garage floor had been a mixture of oil and blood. They were trying to separate the two so they could DNA-test the blood against Calumn Smylie's. Rebus knew already what they'd find. It all made sense when you thought about it.
He poured a drink, then thought better of it. Instead he phoned Patience and told her she could come home in the next day or two. But she was determined to return in the morning, so he told her why she shouldn't. She was very quiet for a moment.
'Be careful, John.’
`I'm still here, aren't I?’
'Let's keep it that way.’
He rang off when he heard the doorbell. The manhunt for Davey Soutar was in full swing, under the control of CI Lauderdale at St Leonard's. Arms would be issued as and when necessary. Though they didn't know the extent of Soutar's cache, no chances would be taken. Rebus had been asked if he'd like a bodyguard.
'I'll trust to my guardian angel,' he'd said.
‘The doorbell rang again. He felt naked as he walked down the long straight hall towards the door. The door itself was inch-and-a-half thick wood, but most guns could cope with that and still leave enough velocity in the bullet to puncture human flesh. He listened for a second, then put his eye to the spy-hole. He let his breath out and unlocked the door.
'You've got things to tell me,' he said, opening the door wide.
Abernethy produced a bottle of whisky from behind his back. 'And I've brought some antiseptic for those cuts.’
'Internal use only,' Rebus suggested.
'The money it cost me, you better believe it. Still, a nice drop of Scotch is worth all the tea in China.’
'We call it whisky up here.’
Rebus closed the door and led Abernethy back down the hall into the living room. Abernethy was impressed.
'Been taking a few back-handers?’
'I live with a doctor. It's her flat.’
'My mum always wanted me to be a doctor. A respectable job, she called it. Got some glasses?’
Rebus fetched two large glasses from the kitchen.
27
Frankie Bothwell couldn't afford to close the Crazy Hose. The Festival and Fringe had only a couple more days to go. All too soon the tourists would be leaving. But over the past fortnight he'd really been packing them in. Advertising and word of mouth helped, as had a three-night residency by an American country singer. The club was making more money than ever before, but it wouldn't last. The Crazy Hose was unique, every bit as unique as Frankie himself. It deserved to do well. It had to do well. Frankie Bothwell had commitments, financial commitments. They couldn't be broken or excused because of low takings. Every week needed to be a good week.
So he was not best pleased to see Rebus and another cop walk into the bar. You could see it in his eyes and the smile as frozen as a Crazy Hose daiquiri.
'Inspector, how can I help you?’
'Mr Bothwell, this is DI Abernethy. We'd like a word.’
'It's a bit hectic just now. I haven't had a chance to replace Kevin Strang.’
'We insist,' said Abernethy.
With two conspicuous police officers on the premises, trade at the bars wasn't exactly brisk, and nobody was dancing. They were all waiting for something to happen. Bothwell took this in.
'Let's go to my office.’
Abernethy waved bye-bye to the crowd as he followed Rebus and Bothwell into the foyer. They went behind the admission desk and Bothwell unlocked a door. He sat behind his desk and watched them squeeze their way into the space that was left.
`A big office is a waste of space,' he said by way of apology. The place was like a cleaning cupboard. There were spare till rolls and boxes of glasses on a shelf above Bothwell's head, framed cowboy posters stacked against a wall, bric-a-brac and debris like everything had just spilled out of a collision at a car boot sale.
'We might be more comfortable talking in the toilets,' Rebus said.
`Or down the station,' offered Abernethy.
'I don't think we've met,' Bothwell said to him, affably enough.
`I usually only meet shit when I wipe my arse.’
That took the smile off Bothwell's face.
`Inspector Abernethy,' Rebus said, `is Special Branch. He's here investigating The Shield.’
'The Shield?’
`No need to be coy, Mr Bothwell. You're not being charged, not yet. We just want you to know we're on to you in a big way.’
`And we're not about to let go,' Abernethy said on cue.
`Though it might help your case if you told us about Davey Soutar.’
Rebus placed his hands in his lap and waited. Abernethy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke across the strewn desk. Frankie Bothwell looked from one man to the other and back again.
'Is this a joke? I mean, it's a bit early for Halloween, that's when you're supposed to scare people without any reason.’
Rebus shook his head. 'Wrong answer. What you should have said was, 'Who's Davey Soutar?”
‘Bothwell sat back in his chair. 'All right then, who's Davey Soutar?’
'I'm glad you asked me that,' said Rebus. `He's your lieutenant. Maybe he's also your recruiting ofcer. And 'now he's on the run. Did you know he's been keeping back some of the explosives and guns for himself? We've got a confession.’
It was a blatant lie, and caused Bothwell to smile. That smile sealed Bothwell's guilt in Rebus's mind.
`Why have you been funding the Gar-B youth centre?’ he asked. `Is it a useful recruiting station? You took the name Cuchullain when you were an anarchist. He's the great Ulster hero, the original Red Hand. That was no accident. You were dismissed from the Orange Lodge for being a bit over-zealous. In the early ' 70s your name was linked to the Tartan Army. They used to break into Army bases and steal weapons. Maybe that's what gave you the idea.’
Bothwell was still smiling as he asked, `What idea?’
'You know.’
`Inspector, I haven't understood a word you've said.’
`No? Then understand this, we're a bollock-hair's breadth away from you. But more importantly, we want to find Davey Soutar, because if he's gone rogue with rifles and plastic explosives…’
'I still don't know what you're-.’
Rebus jumped from his seat and grabbed Bothwell's lapels, pulling him tight against the desk. Bothwell's smile evaporated.
`I've been to Belfast, Bothwell, I've spent time in the North. The last thing that place needs is cowboys like you. So put away your forked tongue and tell us where he is!' Bothwell wrenched himself out of Rebus's grip, his lapel tearing down the middle in the process. His face was purple, eyes blazing. He stood with his knuckles on the edge of the desk, leaning over it; his face close to Rebus's.
'Nobody meddles wi' me!' he spat. 'That's my motto.’
