‘I needed it as much as you did,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
Friday
The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all
emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus
of their grains in coquetry.
Someone was knocking on his door. An authoritarian knock, using the old brass knocker that he never cleaned. Rebus opened his eyes. The sun was streaming into his living room, a record’s run-out track crackling. Another night spent in the chair, fully clothed. He’d be as well selling the mattress in the bedroom. Would anyone buy a mattress without a bed-frame?
Knockity knock knock again. Still patient. Still waiting for him to answer. His eyes were gummy, and he pushed his shirt back into his trousers as he walked from the living room to the door. He felt not too bad, considering. Not stiff, no tightness in the neck. A wash and a shave, and he might even feel human.
He opened the door, just as Holmes was about to knock again.
‘Brian.’ Rebus sounded genuinely pleased.
‘Morning. Mind if I come in?’
‘Not at all. Is Nell okay?’
I phoned this morning. They say she had a good night.’
They were walking in the direction of the kitchen, Rebus leading. Holmes had imagined the flat would smell of beer and cigarettes, a typical bachelor pad. In fact, it was tidier than he’d expected, furnished with a modicum of taste. There were a lot of books. Rebus had never struck him as a reader. Mind you, not all the books looked as though they’d been read: bought with a rainy, dead weekend in mind. The weekend that never came.
Rebus pointed vaguely in the direction of kettle and cupboards.
‘Make us some coffee, will you? I’ll just take a quick shower.’
‘Right.’ Holmes thought that his news could probably wait. At least until Rebus was fully awake. He sought in vain for instant coffee, but found, in one cupboard, a vacuum pack of ground coffee, several months past its sell-by date. He opened it and spooned some into the teapot while the kettle was boiling. Sounds of running water came from the bathroom, and above these the tinny sound of a transistor radio. Voices. Some talk show, Holmes supposed.
While Rebus was in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to wander through the flat. The living room was huge, with a high corniced ceiling. Holmes felt a pang of jealousy. He’d never be able to buy a place like this. He was looking around Easter Road and Gorgie, near the football grounds of Hibs and Hearts respectively. He could afford a flat in both these parts of the city, a decent-sized flat, too, three bedrooms. But the rooms were small, the areas mean. He was no snob. Hell, yes he was. He wanted to live in the New Town, in Dean Village, here in Marchmont, where students philosophised in pretty coffee shops.
He wasn’t overcareful with the stylus when he lifted the arm off the record. The record itself was by some jazz combo. It looked old, and he sought in vain for its sleeve. The noises from the bathroom had stopped. He walked stealthily back to the kitchen and found a tea strainer in the cutlery drawer. So he was able to keep the grounds out of the coffee he now poured into two mugs. Rebus came in, wrapped in a bath-towel, rubbing at his head with another, smaller towel. He needed to lose weight, or to exercise what weight he had. His chest was beginning to hang, pale like a carcass.
He picked up a mug and sipped.
‘Mmm. The real McCoy.’
‘I found it in the cupboard. No milk though.’
‘Never mind. This is fine. You say you found it in the cupboard? We might make a detective of you yet. I’ll just put on some togs.’ And he was off again, for only two minutes this time. The clothes he came back wearing were clean, but unironed. Holmes noticed that though there was plumbing in the kitchen for a washing machine, there was no machine. Rebus seemed to read his mind.
‘My wife took it when she moved out. Took a lot of stuff. That’s why the place looks so bare.’
‘It doesn’t look bare. It looks planned.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Let’s go into the living room.’
Rebus motioned for Holmes to sit, then sat down himself. The chair was still warm from his night’s sleep. ‘I see you’ve already been in here.’
Holmes looked surprised. Caught. He remembered that he’d lifted the stylus off the record.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘That’s what I like to see,’ Rebus said. ‘Yes, we’ll make a detective of you yet, Brian.’
Holmes wasn’t sure whether Rebus was being flattering or condescending. He let it go.
‘Something I thought you might like to know,’ he began.
‘I already know,’ said Rebus. ‘Sorry to spoil the surprise, but I was at the station late last night, and somebody told me.’
‘Last night?’ Holmes was confused. ‘But they only found the body this morning.’
‘The body? You mean he’s dead?’
‘Yes. Suicide.’
‘Jesus, poor Gill.’
