Wot u got 4 me? Mite av 2 refresh chip pan story if u dont help.
Rebus debated whether to reply or not, then started pressing keys:
jura crash herdman there took sth army want back u could ask whiteread again
He wasn’t sure that Holly would understand, Rebus not having worked out how to add punctuation or capitals to his text messages. But it would keep the reporter busy, and if he did end up confronting Whiteread and Simms, so much the better. Let them think the world was closing in on them. Rebus picked up his half-pint and made a little toast to himself with it just as Siobhan arrived. He’d been debating whether to pass on Teri’s news: Brimson and her mum. Thing was, if he told her, she probably couldn’t keep it to herself. Next time she met Brimson, he’d see it in her face, the way she spoke to him, a reluctance to meet his eyes. Rebus didn’t want that, couldn’t see it doing anyone any good, not at this juncture. Siobhan slung her bag onto the table and looked towards the bar, where a woman she’d never seen before was pulling pints.
“Don’t worry,” Rebus said. “I had a word. McAllister’s shift starts in a few minutes.”
“Just long enough for you to enlighten me, then.” She slipped off her coat. Rebus was rising to his feet.
“Let me get you a drink first. What’ll it be?”
“Lime and soda.”
“Nothing stronger?”
She frowned at his near-empty glass. “Some of us are driving.”
“Don’t worry, I’m only having the one.” He made his way to the bar, came back with two drinks: lime and soda for her, cola for him. “See?” he said. “I can be all smug and virtuous, too, when I want to be.”
“Better that than drunk at the wheel.” She lifted the straw from her glass and deposited it in the ashtray, sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “Right, then… I’m ready if you are.”
At which, the door creaked open.
“Speak of the devil,” Rebus said as Rod McAllister walked in. McAllister saw that he was being stared at. When he looked, Rebus beckoned him over. McAllister was unzipping a scuffed leather jacket. He pulled the black scarf from around his neck and stuffed it into a pocket.
“I’ve got to start work,” he said when Rebus patted an empty stool.
“This’ll only take a minute,” Rebus offered with a smile. “Susie won’t mind.” He nodded towards the barmaid.
McAllister hesitated, then sat down, elbows pressing against his thin legs, hands cupped below his chin. Rebus mimicked the posture.
“It’s about Lee, then?” McAllister guessed.
“Not strictly speaking,” Rebus said. Then he glanced towards Siobhan.
“We may come back to that,” she told the barman. “But right now, we’re more interested in your sister.”
He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and then back again. “Which one?”
“Rachel Fox. Funny you’ve got different surnames.”
“We haven’t.” McAllister’s eyes were still shifting between the two detectives, unable to decide whom he should be addressing. Siobhan answered with a click of her fingers. He focused on her, narrowed his eyes slightly. “She changed her name a while back, trying to get into modeling. What’s she got to do with you lot?”
“You don’t know?”
He shrugged.
“Marty Fairstone?” Siobhan prompted. “Don’t tell me she never introduced you?”
“Yeah, I knew Marty. I was gutted when I heard.”
“What about a fellow named Johnson?” Rebus asked. “His nickname’s Peacock… friend of Marty’s…”
“Yeah?”
“Ever come across him?”
McAllister seemed to be thinking. “Not sure,” he said at last.
“Peacock and Rachel,” Siobhan began, angling her head to catch his attention again, “we think they might’ve had a thing going.”
“Oh, aye?” McAllister raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”
“She never mentioned him?”
“No.”
“The pair of them have been hanging about town.”
“Plenty of people hanging about recently. Take you two, for example.” He sat back, stretching his spine, glancing at the clock above the bar. “Don’t want to get in Susie’s bad books…”
“Rumor is, Fairstone and Johnson had a falling-out, maybe over Rachel.”
“Oh, aye?”
“If you’re finding the questions too awkward, Mr. McAllister,” Rebus said, “feel free to say…”
Siobhan was staring at McAllister’s T-shirt, revealed now that he wasn’t slouched forwards anymore. It showed an album cover, an album she knew.
“Mogwai fan, eh, Rod?”
“Anything that’s loud.” McAllister examined his shirt.
“It’s their
“That’s the one.”
McAllister made to stand up, turning towards the bar. Siobhan locked eyes with Rebus and nodded slowly. “Rod,” she said, “that first time we met… you remember I gave you my card?”
McAllister nodded, walking away from her. But Siobhan was on her feet, following him, her voice rising.
“It had the St. Leonard’s address on it, didn’t it, Rod? And when you saw my name, you knew who I was, didn’t you? Because Marty had mentioned me… or maybe it was Rachel. You remember that Mogwai album, Rod, the one before
McAllister had lifted the hatch so he could move behind the bar. He slammed it shut after him. The barmaid was staring at him. Siobhan lifted the hatch.
“Hoi, staff only,” Susie said. But Siobhan wasn’t listening, was hardly aware that Rebus had risen from his chair and was approaching the bar. She grabbed McAllister by the sleeve of his jacket. He tried to shake her off, but she turned him to face her.
“Remember what it was called, Rod? It was
“Get the fuck off me!” he yelled.
“Whatever it is between you,” Susie was saying, “take it outside.”
“It’s a serious offense, Rod, sending threats like that.”
“Let go of me, you bitch!” He jerked his arm free, then swung it, catching her on the side of her face. She crashed into the shelves, sending bottles flying. Rebus had reached over the bar and grabbed McAllister by his hair, pulling his head down until it connected hard with the slop tray. McAllister’s arms were thrashing, his voice a wordless bellow, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.
“Any cuffs?” he asked Siobhan. She stumbled from behind the bar, glass crunching underfoot, ran to her bag, emptying its contents onto the table until she found the handcuffs. McAllister caught her a couple of good ones to the shins with the heels of his cowboy boots, but she squeezed the cuffs tight, knowing they’d hold. She moved away from him, feeling dizzy, not knowing if it was a concussion, adrenaline, or the fumes from half a dozen smashed liquor bottles.
“Call it in,” Rebus hissed, still not letting go of his prisoner. “A night in the cells won’t do this bastard any harm at all.”
“Here, you can’t do that,” Susie complained. “Who’s going to cover his shift?”
“Not our problem, love,” Rebus told her, offering what he hoped might be taken for an apologetic smile.
They’d taken McAllister to St. Leonard’s, booked him into the only empty cell left. Rebus had asked Siobhan if they’d be charging him formally. She’d shrugged.
“I doubt he’ll be sending any more notes.” One side of her face was still raw from where he’d connected, but it didn’t look like it would bruise.
In the car park, they went their separate ways. Siobhan’s parting words: “What about that diamond?” Rebus waving to her as he drove off.
