in his chair, ready for a long night’s thinking.
Day Seven
13
‘This Laura Smith, she wouldn’t be spinning you a line?’ Rebus was seated in a café on Morrison Street, halfway between Torphichen Place and Haymarket railway station. It was an area of town he tried to avoid — the tram works seemed to have shut half the roads. He’d found the last space in an overground car park off the West Approach Road and walked from there to the café.
Mid morning and the place was doling out coffee and buns to visitors fresh off the train. There were no tables as such, just a long shelf by the window and a row of tall narrow stools. Siobhan Clarke was perched on one, while Rebus opted to stand. He had removed the lid from his coffee and was blowing on it while Clarke plucked gobbets of damp pastry from her croissant and popped them into her mouth.
‘Could be,’ she conceded. ‘But why would she bother?’
‘And all she knows is Forbes McCuskey flogs drugs to his fellow students? We don’t know quantities or whether we’re talking weed or heroin?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘I’m wondering what to do with it,’ she said eventually.
‘You mean: is it worth taking to Nick Ralph in its current doodle-like state, or should you try to add a few recognisable features?’
‘Something like that.’ She checked the time on her phone.
‘Press conference?’
She nodded. ‘Hotel along the street in twenty minutes.’
‘Autopsy results?’
‘I don’t think we’re seeing those until later.’ She looked at him. ‘Rough night?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Get to bed at all?’
‘In time for the dawn chorus.’ He told her about Jessica Traynor’s phone call.
‘A drug deal gone wrong?’ Clarke speculated, seeming to wake up a little. Her drink of choice — a three- shot espresso — was already finished, and one of her knees was bouncing.
‘Possibly. Remember the car boot? Closed in the initial photos from the crash scene. .’
‘But wide open by the time we got there. Meaning someone took something?’
‘Forbes McCuskey panics and does a runner. But then he has second thoughts, hangs around nearby. Once the ambulance has taken Jessica away and the patrol car has gone. .’
‘He comes back, opens the boot and takes whatever was inside?’ Clarke’s eyes had opened a little wider. ‘And he’s walking distance from his parents’ place, so he takes the drugs there?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Maybe the original owners wanted them back — if the deal had gone sour.’
‘Forbes isn’t there, but they find his father instead?’
‘It’s guesswork at best, Siobhan,’ Rebus warned her. He knew this because he had spent half the night piecing it together.
‘We really need to talk to Forbes, don’t we?’
‘Might be easier starting with his girlfriend. She’s back in her flat as of today, with her dad nowhere in sight.’
‘Making her the weaker link?’ Clarke nodded, without looking especially convinced. She saw that there was no longer a queue at the counter. ‘I need another coffee to take with me.’
‘You sure about that?’ He nodded towards her knee. ‘I’d say you’re already shakier than a Neil Young tribute band.’
‘He’s playing Glasgow, you know — Neil Young, I mean.’
‘June the thirteenth,’ Rebus confirmed.
‘You’ve got a ticket?’
He shook his head. ‘They only had standing.’
‘And at your age you need a nice comfy seat?’ Clarke was smiling.
‘There are just some things I won’t stand for,’ Rebus replied. ‘You should know that by now. .’
He walked with her to the hotel, and stood at the back of the room for the first few minutes of DCI Ralph’s presentation. A couple of political hacks seemed to have joined the usual newshounds. Rebus recognised their faces from late-night TV discussions. He had no idea what they sounded like — he always had the sound muted, an album playing in its place. They held phones or iPads rather than actual notebooks, and the look they affected was world-weary. Maybe they yearned for the bright lights of Westminster, Big Ben chiming the hours. Rebus almost felt sorry for them as he exited the hotel and returned to his car. He called Fox to make sure the office wasn’t locked.
‘Thought we might make a day of it,’ Fox told him. ‘I’ve fixed those interviews with Albert Stout and Norman Cuttle.’
‘Want me to bring anything for them — an ear trumpet or a bag of pan drops?’
‘They both sounded spry when I phoned them.’
‘So where are you just now?’
‘Elinor Macari’s office. She’s been updating me on Billy Saunders.’
‘And?’
‘Craigmillar police station are running the show — without any apparent enthusiasm.’
‘Guy’s been missing no time at all,’ Rebus argued.
‘Even so, Macari has got one of her fiscals to go gee them up. Poor bugger’s to stick to the investigation like glue.’
‘Glue used to be a currency in Craigmillar,’ Rebus commented. ‘So shall I meet you at Macari’s.’
‘Why not?’ Malcolm Fox said.
Why not indeed? Rebus thought to himself, ending the call and turning left at the lights.
Albert Stout lived on his own in an Edwardian house with uninterrupted views across Muirfield golf course. The place would be worth a few bob, but would also need gutting and updating by any new owners. The central heating radiators were the same age as the building, and emitted as much heat as a Bluebell match. There was a pervasive smell of damp, the window frames were crumbling, and the carpets were mouldering at their edges. There were books and newspapers everywhere, Stout having explained that he was writing his memoirs.
‘The industry’s on its last legs, so this is by way of
‘Do you know Laura Smith?’ Rebus enquired.
‘I hear she does a good enough job — under the circumstances.’ Stout shuffled along in carpet slippers, leading them into the lounge. More clutter — unopened mail, boxes of photographs, cups and plates. ‘Someone comes and cleans once a week,’ he apologised.
‘Do you have any other help?’ Fox asked.
‘Council tried matching me with someone, but I’m too set in my ways. They did install a button I can press if there’s an emergency. .’ Stout looked around in vain for the device.
There were grease stains on his cardigan and brown cord trousers. He was jowly, and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. What hair he had left was silver and unruly, but his eyes were alert. As the three men sat down, he wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction.
‘I remember you now,’ he said. ‘Gave me more than a few column inches down the years.’
‘I hope that’s not a euphemism,’ Rebus retorted. Then: ‘Do you still smoke a couple of packs a day?’
Stout made a face. ‘Doctor told me I should call a halt.’
‘We want to talk to you about a particular case,’ Fox broke in, perching on the edge of the sofa rather than move the heaps of magazines behind him. ‘Summerhall CID and the death of Douglas Merchant. You wrote about it several times. .’
‘Because it was a scandal — the police back then were like little tyrants.’ He paused and glanced in Rebus’s
