He took Abernethy back to Arden Street. They shook hands, Abernethy trying to sound like he wanted to stay a little longer.
`One of these days,' he said. And then he was gone. As his Sierra drew away, another car pulled into the space he'd just vacated. Siobhan Clarke got out, bringing with her a supermarket carrier bag.
`For you,' she said. `And I think I'm owed a coffee.’
She wasn't as fussy as Abernethy, accepted the mug of instant with thanks and ate a spare croissant. There was a message on the answering machine, Dr Colquhoun telling him the refugee family could take Candice tomorrow. Rebus jotted down the details, then turned his attention to the contents of Siobhan's carrier-bag. Maybe two hundred sheets of paper, photocopies.
`Don't get them out of order,' she warned. `I didn't have time to staple them.’
`Fast work.’
`I went back into the office last night. Thought I'd get it done while no one was about. I can summarise, if you like.’
`Just tell me who the main players are.’
She came to the table and pulled a chair over beside him, found a sequence of surveillance shots. Put names to the faces.
`Brian Summers,' she said, `better known as 'Pretty-Boy'. He runs most of the working girls.’
Pale, angular face, thick black lashes, a pouting mouth. Candice's pimp.
`He's not very pretty.’
Clarke found another picture. `Kenny Houston.’
`From Pretty-Boy to Plug-Ugly.’
`I'm sure his mother loves him.’
Prominent teeth, jaundiced skin. – `What does he do?’
`He runs the doormen. Kenny, Pretty-Boy and Tommy Telford grew up on the same street. They're at the heart of The Family.’
She sifted through more photos. `Malky Jordan… he keeps the drugs flowing. Sean Haddow… bit of a brainbox, runs the finances. Ally Cornwell… he's muscle. Deek McGrain… There's no religious divide in The Family, Prods and Papes working together.’
`A model society.’
`No women though. Telford 's philosophy: relationships get in the way.’
Rebus picked up a sheaf of paper. `So what have we got?’
`Everything but the evidence.’
`And surveillance is supposed to provide that?’
She smiled over the top of her mug. `You don't agree?’
`It's not my problem.’
`And yet you're interested.’
She paused. 'Candice?’
`I don't like what happened to her.’
`Well, just remember: you didn't get this stuff from me.’
`Thanks, Siobhan.’
He paused. `Everything going all right?’
`Fine. I like Crime Squad.’
`Bit livelier than St Leonard 's.’
`I miss Brian.’
Meaning her one-time partner, now out of the force.
`You ever see him?’
`No, do you?’
Rebus shook his head, got up to show her out.
He spent about an hour sifting through the paperwork, learning more about The Family and its convoluted workings. Nothing about Newcastle. Nothing about Japan. The core of The Family – eight or nine of them – had been at school together. Three of them were still based in Paisley, taking care of the established business. The rest were now in Edinburgh, and busy prying the city away from Big Ger Cafferty.
He went through lists of nightclubs and bars in which Telford had an interest. There were incident reports attached: arrests in the vicinity. Drunken brawls, swings taken at bouncers, cars and property damaged. Something caught Rebus's eye: mention of a hotdog van, parked outside a couple of the clubs. The owner questioned: possible witness. But he'd never seen anything worth the recall. Name: Gavin Tay.
Mr Taystee.
Recent dodgy suicide. Rebus gave Bill Pryde a bell, asked how that investigation was going.
`Dead end street, pal,' Pryde said, not, sounding too concerned. Pryde: too long the same rank, and not going anywhere. Beginning the long descent into retirement.
`Did you know he ran a hot-dog stall on the side?’
`Might explain where he got the cash from.’
Gavin Tay was an ex-con. He'd been in the ice-cream business a little over a year. Successful, too: new Mere parked outside his house. His financial records hadn't hinted at money to spare. His widow couldn't account for the Mere. And now: evidence of a job on the side, selling food and drink to punters stumbling out of nightclubs.
Tommy Telford's nightclubs.
Gavin Tay: previous convictions for assault and reset. A persistent offender who'd finally gone straight… The room began to feel stuffy, Rebus's head clotted and aching. He decided to get out.
Walked through The Meadows and down George IV Bridge, took the Playfair Steps down to Princes Street. A group was sitting on the stone steps of the Scottish Academy: unshaven, dyed hair, torn clothes. The city's dispossessed, trying their best not to be ignored. Rebus knew he had things in common with them. In the course of his life, he'd failed to fit several niches: husband, father, lover. He hadn't fit in with the Army's ideas of what he should be, and wasn't exactly `one of the lads' in the police. When one of the group held out a hand, Rebus offered a fiver, before crossing Princes Street and heading for the Oxford Bar.
He settled into a corner with a mug of coffee, got out his mobile, and called Sammy's flat. She was home, all was well with Candice. Rebus told her he had a place for Candice, she could move out tomorrow.
`That's fine,' Sammy said. `Hold on a second.’
There was a rustling sound as the receiver was passed along.
`Hello, John, how are you?’
Rebus smiled. `Hello, Candice. That's very good.’
`Thank you. Sammy is… uh… I am teaching how to…’
She broke into laughter, handed the receiver back.
`I'm teaching her English,' Sammy said.
`I can tell.’
`We started with some Oasis lyrics, just went from there.’
`I'll try to come round later. What did Ned say?’
`He was so shattered when he came home, I think he barely noticed.’
`Is he there? I'd like to talk to him.’
`He's out working.’
`What did you say he was doing again?’
`I didn't.’
`Right. Thanks again, Sammy. See you later.’
He took a swig of coffee, washed it around his mouth. Abernethy: he couldn't just let it go. He swallowed the coffee and called the Roxburghe, asked for David Levy's room.
`Levy speaking.’
`It's John Rebus.’
`Inspector, how good to hear from you. Is there something I can do?’
`I'd like to talk to you.’
`Are you in your office?’
