He passed the time reading whatever was in the car: owner's manual, service log, some leaflets from the passenger-side pocket: tourist attractions; old grocery lists... He was poring over his map book, looking at how much of Scotland he didn't know, when his phone sounded, shocking him with its sudden shrill cry. He picked it up, fumbled to switch it on.
'It's Rebus,' the voice said.
'Something happened?'
'No, it's just... nobody'd seen you this afternoon.'
'And you were worried?'
'Let's say I was curious.'
'I'm following Hutton. He's in a pub down in Leith. Been in there...' He checked his watch. 'An hour and a quarter.'
'Which pub?'
'No name above the door.'
'Which street?'
Linford realised that he didn't know. He looked around, saw nothing to help him.
'How well do you know Leith?' Rebus asked. Linford felt his confidence ebb.
'Well enough,' he said.
'So are you North Leith or South? Port? Seafield? What?'
'Near the port,' Linford spluttered.
'Can you see any water?'
'Look, I've been on his tail all afternoon. He did some shopping, had a business meeting, went to his health club...'
Rebus wasn't listening. 'He's got a pedigree, whether he's straight or not.'
'How do you mean?'
1 mean he used to work for his uncle. He probably knows more about this sort of thing than you do.'
'Look, I don't need you to tell me about--'
'Hello? Anyone home? What do you do when you need a pee?'
'I don't.'
'Or something to eat?'
'Ditto.'
'I said you should look at people who work for him. I didn't mean like this.'
'Don't tell me how to do my job!'
'Just don't go into that pub, okay? I've half an idea where you are, I'll come down there.'
'There's no need.'
'Try and stop me.'
'Look, this is my--' But Linford's caller had gone.
He cursed silently, tried calling Rebus back. 'I'm sorry.' said the recording, 'but the phone you have called may be switched off...'
Linford cursed again.
Did he want Rebus here, sharing his inquiry, sticking his nose in? Meddling? Soon as he arrived, he'd be told where he could go.
The pub door rattled open. All the time Hutton had been inside - one hour and twenty minutes - no one else had gone in or come out. But now here he was, emerging, bathed in light from the open door. And there was another man with him. They stood chatting in the doorway, Linford, parked across the road and down a ways, peering at this new figure. He ticked off the Holyrood description in his mind, came up with a close match.
Denims, dark bomber jacket, white trainers. Black cropped hair. Big round eyes and a permanent- looking scowl.
Hutton punched the man's shoulder. The man didn't seem too happy about what was being said. He put out a hand for Hutton to shake, but Hutton wasn't having any of it. Went and unlocked his Ferrari, started the engine and headed off. The man looked like he was going to turn back into the pub. Linford had a new scenario now: in he walks with Rebus as back-up, takes the man in for questioning. Not a bad day's work.
But the man was just shouting his goodbyes to someone. Then he headed off on foot. Linford didn't think twice, slid from his car, made to lock it, then remembered the little squeak of acknowledgement which the alarm made. Left it unlocked.
Forgot to take his mobile.
The man seemed drunk, weaving slightly, arms hanging loose. He went into another pub, came out again scant minutes later, stood by the doorway lighting a cigarette. Then back on his travels, stopping to talk to someone he seemed to know, then slowing as he fished a mobile phone out of his jacket and took a call. Linford patted his own pockets, realised the mobile was back in his car. He'd no idea where they were, tried memorising the few street names on show. Another pub: three minutes and out again. A short cut down a lane. Linford waited till the suspect had turned left out of the lane before entering it himself, sprinting to the other end. A housing scheme now, high fences and curtained windows, sounds of TVs and kids playing. Dark passageways smelling faintly of urine. Graffiti: Easy, Provos, Hibs. More walkways, the man pausing now, knocking at a door. Linford sticking to the shadows. The door opened and the man stepped quickly inside.
Linford didn't think it was a last stop. No keys, so probably not his home. He checked the time again, but had left his notebook back in the car, lying on the seat with the mobile. The BMW unlocked. He gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around at the concrete maze. Could he find his way back to the pub? Would his pride and joy be there if he did?
But Rebus was on his way, wasn't he? He'd work out what had happened, keep guard till Linford came back. He took a couple of steps further back into the darkness, plunged his hands into his pockets. Bloody freezing.
When the blow came, it came silently and from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Jayne had gone and done it this time. She wasn't at her mum's. The old crone told him: 'Just said to tell you she was going to a friend's, and don't bother asking which one because she said it was better I didn't know.' She had her arms folded, filling the doorway of her semi-detached.
'Well, thanks for helping me save my marriage,' Jerry replied, heading back down the garden path. Her dog was sitting by the gate. Nice little thing, name of Eric. Jerry gave it a kick up its arse and opened the gate. He was laughing as Jayne's mum swore at him above Eric's yelps and howls.
Back at the flat, he went on another recce, see if she'd left any clues for him to find. No note, and at least half her clothes had gone. She hadn't been in a temper. Evidence of this: one of his boxes of 45s was sitting on the floor, a pair of scissors next to it, but she hadn't touched the records. Maybe a peace offering of sorts? Couple of things knocked off shelves, but put that down to her being in a hurry. He looked in the fridge: cheese, marge, milk. No beer. Nothing to drink in any of the cupboards either. He emptied his pockets on to the couch. Three quid and some change. Christ almighty, and when was the next giro due? Best part of a week away, was it? Friday night, and all he had was three quid. He searched drawers and down the back of the couch and under the bed. A grand total haul of a further eighty pence.
And the bills, staring at him from the noticeboard in the kitchen: gas, electric, council tax. Plus, somewhere, the rent and telephone. Phone bill had only come in that morning, Jerry asking Jayne why she had to spend three hours a week on the blower to her mum who only lived round the corner?
He went back through to the living room, dug out 'Stranded' by The Saints. B-side was even faster - 'No Time'. Jerry had all the time in the world; thing was, he felt utterly stranded.
The Stranglers next, 'Grip', and he wondered if he would strangle Jayne for putting him through this.
'Get a grip,' he told himself.
Made a cup of tea and tried working out his options, but his mind wasn't up to thinking. So he slumped back on to the sofa. At least he could play his music now, any time he liked. She'd taken her tapes with her - Eurythmics, Celine Dion, Phil Collins. Good riddance, the lot of them. He went along three doors to Tofu's pad and
