“Evening, Mairie,” Rebus said.
“John? Where are you?”
“At home. What’s the problem?”
“Can I e-mail you something? It’s the story I’m writing on Richard Pennen.”
“You need my proofreading skills?”
“I just want-”
“What’s happened, Mairie?”
“I had a run-in with three of Pennen’s goons. They were wearing uniforms, but they were no more cops than I am.”
Rebus eased himself down onto the arm of his chair. “One of them called Jacko?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve met them, too. What happened?”
She told him, adding her suspicion that they might have spent time in Iraq.
“And now you’re scared?” Rebus guessed. “That’s why you want to make sure there are copies of your piece?”
“I’m sending out a few…”
“But not to other journalists, right?”
“Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”
“No copyright on scandal,” Rebus agreed. “Do you want to take things any further?”
“How do you mean?”
“You were right the first time-impersonating a cop is a serious matter.”
“Once I’ve filed my copy, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure, but thanks for asking.”
“If you need me, Mairie, you’ve got my number.”
“Thanks, John. Good night.”
She ended the call and left him staring at his phone. The charge symbol came on again, the battery taking its little sips of electricity. Rebus walked to the dining table and switched on his laptop. Plugged the cable into the phone socket and managed to get himself online. It never ceased to amaze him when it actually worked. Her e-mail was waiting for him. He clicked to download it and added her story to one of his folders, hoping he’d be able to find it again. There was another e-mail, this time from Stan Hackman.
Better late than never, it read. Here I am back in the Toon and about to hit a few nightspots. Just time to let you know about our Trev. Interview notes say he moved to Coldstream for a time-don’t say why or for how long. Hope this helps. Your pal, Stan.
Coldstream-same place as the man he’d had the fight with outside Swany’s on Ratcliffe Terrace…
“Clickety-click,” Rebus said to himself, deciding he was owed a drink.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
25
Only a week since Rebus had walked down to the Meadows and found all those people there, dressed in white.
A long time in politics, so the saying went. Every moment of every day, life moved on. The hordes of people making the pilgrimage north today would be headed for the outskirts of Kinross and T in the Park. Sports fans would venture farther west, to Loch Lomond and the final rounds of the Scottish Open golf championship. Rebus figured his own route south would take under two hours, but there were a couple of detours first-Slateford Road to start with. He sat in the idling car, staring up at the windows of the converted warehouse. Thought he could tell Eric Bain’s flat. The curtains were open. Rebus was playing the Elbow CD again, the singer comparing the leaders of the free world to kids chucking stones. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Bain himself shambling into view, returning from the corner shop. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. His shirt wasn’t tucked in. He carried a carton of milk and wore a dazed expression. In most people, Rebus might have put it down to tiredness. He rolled down his window and sounded the horn. Bain took a second or two to recognize him and crossed the road toward the car.
“Thought that was you,” Rebus stated. Bain said nothing, just nodded, mind elsewhere. “She’s left you then?” This seemed to focus Bain’s thoughts.
“Left a message saying someone would come by to pick up her stuff.”
Rebus nodded. “Get in, Eric. We need to have a little chat.”
But Bain stood his ground. “How did you know?”
“Talk to anyone, Eric, they’ll tell you I’m the last one who should be giving relationship advice-” Rebus paused. “On the other hand, we can’t have you passing inside information to Big Ger Cafferty.”
Bain stared at him. “You…?”
“I had a word with Molly last night. If she’s scampered, that means she’d rather keep working at the Nook than stay shacked up with you.”
“I don’t…I’m not sure I…” Bain’s eyes widened as though lit by a jolt of caffeine. The milk carton fell from his grasp. His hands reached in through the window and found Rebus’s throat. His teeth were bared with the effort. Rebus pushed himself back toward the passenger seat, one hand scrabbling at Bain’s fingers, the other finding the window button. Up went the glass, trapping Bain. Rebus slid all the way over to the passenger side and exited the car. Walked around to where Bain was extracting his arms from the door frame. As Bain turned, Rebus kneed him in the crotch, sending him down onto his knees in the widening pool of milk. Rebus swung a punch at Bain’s chin and sent him onto his back. Straddled him, holding his shirt by its open collar.
“Your fault, Eric, not mine. One whiff of pussy and you start spilling your guts. And according to your ‘girlfriend’ you were delighted to oblige, even after you’d figured out it wasn’t just natural curiosity on her part. Made you feel important, did it? That’s the reason most informers start gabbing.”
Bain wasn’t putting up any sort of a struggle, apart from a jerking of his shoulders-and even this fell far short of resistance. In point of fact, he was sobbing, face spattered with droplets of milk, like a kid whose favorite plaything had just been lost. Rebus rose to his feet, straightening his own clothes.
“Get up,” he ordered. But Bain seemed content to lie there, so Rebus hauled him to his feet. “Look at me, Eric,” he said, drawing out a handkerchief and holding it out. “Here, wipe your face.”
Bain did as he was told. There was a bubble of snot swelling from one of his nostrils.
“Now listen,” Rebus ordered. “The deal I made with her was that if she left, we’d let it go at that. Meaning I don’t go telling Fettes about any of this-and you get to keep your job.” Rebus angled his face until Bain met his eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Plenty more jobs.”
“In IT? Sure, and they all love an employee who can’t keep secrets from strippers.”
“I loved her, Rebus.”
“Maybe so, but she was playing you like Clapton with a six-string…What’re you smiling at?”
“I’m named after him…my dad’s a fan.”
“Is that a fact?”
Bain looked up at the sky, his breathing slowing a little. “I really thought she-”
“Cafferty was using you, Eric-end of story. But here’s the thing…” Rebus made sure he had eye contact. “You can’t go near her, you don’t go to the Nook pining for her. She’s sending someone for her stuff because she knows that’s how it works.” Rebus emphasized his point by chopping the air karate-style with his hand.
“You saw her that day in the apartment, Rebus. She must’ve liked me at least a little bit.”
“Keep thinking that if you like…just don’t go asking her. If I hear you’re trying to contact her, don’t think I won’t tell Corbyn.”
Bain mumbled something Rebus didn’t catch. He asked him to repeat it. Bain’s eyes drilled into him.
