asked if he had any blow. Tofu offered to sell him a quarter.
'I just need enough for a joint. I'll give it back.'
'What? After you've smoked it?'
'I mean I'll owe you it.'
'Yeah, you will. Like you still owe me for last Wednesday.'
'Come on, Tofu, just one measly hit.'
'Sorry, pal, no more tick from Tofu.'
Jerry jabbed a ringer at him. 'I'll remember this. Don't think I won't.'
'Aye, sure thing, Jer.' Tofu closed the door. Jerry heard the chain rattle back across it.
Inside the flat again. Feeling itchy now, wanting some action. Where were your friends when you needed them? Nic... he could phone Nic, Tap him for a loan if nothing else. Christ, with the stuff Jerry knew, he had Nic over a barrel. Make the loan more of a weekly retainer. He checked the clock on the video. Gone five. Would Nic be at work, or maybe at home? He tried both numbers: no luck. Maybe he was out on the pull, a few drinks in the wine bar with some of the short skirts from the office. No place in that picture for his old comrade-in-arms. The only thing Jerry was useful for was as a punchbag, somebody to make Nic look good because he looked bad.
A stooge, plain and simple. They were all laughing at him: Jayne, her mum, Nic. Even the woman at the DSS. And Tofu... he could almost hear that bastard's laughter, sitting snug in his padlocked flat with his bags of grass and nuggets of hash, bit of music on the hi-fi and money in his pocket. Jerry picked up the coins one by one from around him on the couch and tossed them at the blank TV screen.
Until the doorbell rang. Jayne, had to be! Okay, he had to pull himself together, act casual. Maybe be a bit huffy with her, but grown-up about it. Things happened sometimes, and it was down to those involved to... More ringing. Hang on, she'd have her keys, wouldn't she? And now the banging of a fist on the door. Who did they owe money to? Were they taking away the TV? The video? There was precious little else.
He stood in the hallway, holding his breath.
'I can see you, you tosser!'
A pair of eyes at the letter box. Nic's voice. Jerry started moving forward.
'Nic, man, I was just trying to get you.'
He unsnibbed the door and it flew inwards, driving him backwards and on to his arse. He was pulling himself upright when Nic gave him another push that sent him sprawling. Then the door slammed shut.
'Bad move, Jerry, really, really bad move.'
'What're you talking about? What've I done this time?'
Nic was sweating profusely. His eyes were darker and colder than ever before, and his voice was like a chisel.
'I never should've told you,' he hissed.
Jerry was back up on his feet. He slid along the wall and into the living room. 'Told me what?'
'That Barry wanted me out.'
'What?' This wasn't making sense to Jerry; he was panicking that it was his fault, that it would make sense if only he'd concentrate.
'It wasn't enough to grass me to the pigs---'
'Whoah, hold on--'
'No, you hold on, Jerry. Because when I'm finished with you...'
'I didn't do anything!'
'Grassed me up and told them where I work.'
'I never!'
'They've been talking to Barry about me! There was one sitting in the car park this afternoon! He'd been there for hours, sitting in my space! Now why else would he be there, eh?'
Jerry was shaking. 'Loads of reasons.'
Nic shook his head. 'No, Jer, just the one. And you're so fucking stupid you think I won't take you with me.'
'Christ's sake, man.'
Nic had brought something from his pocket. A knife. A bloody great carving knife! And Jerry noticed that he was wearing gloves, too.
'I swear to God, man.'
'Shut up.'
'Why would I do that, Nic? Think for a minute!'
'Your bottle's gone. I can see you shaking from here.' Nic laughed. 'I knew you were weak, but not this bad.'
'Look, man, Jayne's gone and I--'
'Jayne's the last thing you have to worry about.' There were thumps on the ceiling. Nic glanced up. 'Shut it!'
Jerry saw a half-chance, dived through the doorway and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes. He plunged a hand in, pulled out forks, teaspoons. Nic was on him. Jerry chucked the lot at him. He was screaming now.
'Call the police! You upstairs, get on to the cops!'
Nic swung with the knife, caught Jerry on his right hand. Now a current of blood flowed down his wrist, mixing with the dishwater. Jerry cried out in pain, lashed out with a foot, caught Nic smack on the kneecap. Nic lunged again, and Jerry pushed past him, back into the living room. Tripped and fell. Fell over the box of 4 scattering them. Nic was coming, his feet grinding one of the records into the floor.
'Bastard,' he was saying. 'You won't be saying a word against me.'
'Nic, man, you've lost it!'
'It wasn't enough, Cat leaving me, you had to rub my nose in it. Well, pal, it's you that's the rapist here. I just drove the van. That's what I'll tell them.' There was a sick grin on his face. 'We got into a fight, it was self-defence. That's what I'll say. See, I'm the one with the brains here. Jerry-fucking-nobody. The job, the mortgage, the car. And I'm the one they'll believe.' He raised the knife, and Jerry lunged. Nic sort of wheezed, and froze for a second, mouth agape, then angling his chin to stare down at where the scissors protruded from his chest.
'What were you saying about brains, man?' Jerry said, rising to his feet as Nic slumped face forwards on to the floor.
He sat back down on the couch, Nic's body twitching once or twice and then falling still. Jerry ran his hands through his hair. He examined his cut. It was a deep wound, and about three inches long. Hospital job. stitches. He knelt down, searched Nic's pockets and came up with the keys to the Cosworth. Nic had never let him drive it, never once offered.
Now, at last, he had a choice. Sit here and wait it out? Get his story straight for the cops? Self- defence was the truth of it. Maybe the neighbours would tell what they'd heard. But the cops... the cops knew Nic was the rapist. And they also knew there were two men involved.
Stood to reason it was him: Nic's pal from way back, the underachiever, Nic's killer. They'd get witnesses who'd identify him from the nightclubs. Maybe there were clues in the van.
Not such a difficult choice then, in the end. He tossed the keys, caught them, and headed out of the flat. Left the door wide open. Pigs would only kick it in otherwise. He wondered if Nic would have thought of that.
Rebus was renewing his old acquaintance with the rougher end of the Leith pub scene. Not for him the charming, rejuvenated taverns of The Shore or the gleaming Victorian hostelries to be found on Great Junction Street and Bernard Street. For the nameless howffs, the spit 'n' sawdusts, you had to look slightly further afield, charting streets which few Scottish Office brogues from the HO down the road ever trod. He had drawn up a shortlist of four - drew a blank with the first two. But at the third, saw Linford's BMW parked eighty yards away, under a busted street light: smart enough to park where he wouldn't easily be spotted. Then again, every second street light was busted.
Rebus tucked his Saab behind the BMW. He flashed his lights: no response. Got out of his car and lit a cigarette. That's all he was: a local lighting a cigarette. But his eyes were busy. The street was quiet. There was
