‘I’m closing the door now,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘Is it the same writing as the other note?’ Rebus asked.
Instead of answering, she shut the door.
He looked down and realised he was still holding the piece of paper.
After closing time again at The Glen, Rebus was perched on a stool, nursing a well-watered whisky. He’d asked May Collins if Helen’s sister Chrissy was still alive.
‘Died a few years back–I remember Helen heading south for the funeral.’
She was in the office now, putting the day’s takings into the safe. Cameron was outside, smoking a roll-up. Rebus took out the note and unfolded it. He felt helpless and was struggling not to turn that feeling into anger.
I don’t think you did it…
Despite everything.
He was rubbing his stinging eyes when Cameron barged back into the pub.
‘Someone’s just had a go at your car,’ he exclaimed.
‘What?’ Rebus slid from the stool and strode towards the door. He followed Cameron outside. The Saab was parked kerbside about forty feet away, the closest he had been able to get to the pub at the time. As they approached the car, Cameron walked out onto the roadway, pointing to the bodywork. He flicked his phone’s torch on so Rebus could see the damage. A long, ugly line weaving its way along both rear door and front.
‘You saw them?’ Rebus asked, running a finger along the scratch.
‘Car pulled up, driver got out. I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Drove off again. Thought it odd so I came and looked.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I was checking my phone,’ Cameron said with a shrug.
‘The car, then?’
Another shrug. ‘Mid-sized. Dark colour.’
‘Some eyewitness you make, son.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No other cars on his hit list?’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it was a he?’
‘Think so.’
He glanced at his phone, checking for signal. ‘Go back in and get yourself a drink,’ he told Cameron. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Sorry I didn’t…’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Rebus had already started calling Creasey’s number. He walked the length of the roadway, checking the other parked vehicles. No damage to any of them.
‘I’m off duty,’ Creasey eventually answered.
‘Murder inquiries must’ve changed since my day.’ Rebus could hear music in the background–supper-club jazz by the sound of it. ‘You at home?’
‘Enjoying a well-deserved rest and about to turn in for the night.’
‘Did you do that check on Colin Belkin?’
‘Turns out you were right.’
‘He has a record?’
‘Had to go back a few years, but yes–a few minor assaults and the like.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Sent a couple of uniforms.’
‘I think they maybe pissed him off.’
‘How so?’
‘Someone just had a go at my car. Drove off when spotted.’
‘And you’re stretching that all the way to Colin Belkin? How do you reckon he got to you?’
‘Remember his friendly cop in Thurso, the one who checked up on Malcolm Fox? You could do worse than ask him.’
‘In my acres of free time, you mean? I’ll be sure to add it to the list. You think this Belkin character’s going to cause you trouble?’
‘I’ve already seen evidence of his temper. Seems to be very protective of his employer.’
‘Don’t do anything rash, John.’
‘Perish the thought, DS Creasey.’
‘And Samantha and Carrie are okay?’
‘I’ll let you get back to your jazz. Speak tomorrow.’
Rebus ended the call and went indoors. May Collins had taken the stool next to his. She was holding a glass with a half-inch of whisky in it. He saw that his own glass had been topped up. Cameron was the other side of the bar, his cider already half finished.
‘I took the liberty,’ Collins said. ‘Though if you don’t want it…’
‘After you’ve gone to the trouble of pouring it?’ Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips and took a mouthful.
‘Cameron says your car got keyed.’
‘Aye.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Serves me right for parking in a dodgy part of town.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it’s not an everyday occurrence around here?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘Well, anyway…’ He held up his glass to clink it against hers, then did the same with Cameron.
‘Here’s tae us,’ Cameron said.
‘Wha’s like us?’ Collins added.
‘Might just leave it there,’ Rebus said, unwilling to finish the toast. But the words echoed in his head anyway.
Gey few, and they’re aw deid…
Day Four
23
Clarke and Fox were waiting in the interview room at Leith police station when Giovanni Morelli arrived. He wore the same scarf around his neck, tied in the same style. Dark blazer, pale green chinos with matching V-neck jumper (cashmere most likely), leather slip-on shoes with no socks. A pair of sunglasses had been pushed to the top of his head.
‘Heading to the beach after?’ Fox suggested as Morelli was ushered in. ‘Or is that what you wear to classes?’
‘I was brought up to dress well,’ Morelli commented with a shrug. Clarke gestured for him to take the seat opposite her and Fox. She had a thick dossier in front of her, its manila cover kept closed. She had padded it with blank sheets from the photocopier to make it look more substantial, and had written Morelli’s name on the front in nice big letters. Alongside it sat a selection of photographs of various parties Morelli and the victim had attended. He reached out and turned one of them towards him, the better to study it.
‘He was fun to be around?’ Clarke made show of guessing.
‘Definitely.’ Morelli leaned back in his chair, angling his right leg across his left knee and undoing his blazer’s single shining button.
‘We came to realise,’ Clarke said, ‘that though we know quite a lot about you, we hadn’t actually had a proper chat.’ She patted her hand against the folder.
Morelli looked from one detective to the other. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, but Clarke doubted it was laziness. A five o’clock shadow suited his complexion and jawline and he knew
