Bunching his right fist, he thumped the door hard, making enough noise to waken a deaf night-shift worker.
'Come on, you bastard,' he muttered. 'Make it easy; be in.' He listened in vain for sounds of stirring, before pounding once more, and waiting again, listening to the silence.
'Where are you, you old flicker!' He glanced to his right and left. 'Aye well,' he muttered. 'Family business after al.' The door was locked by a single Yale. He took out a bunch of skeleton keys and tried them, one by one, looking for a match; he had third time luck. The latch clicked and the door swung open.
It occurred to him afterwards that he had never considered the possibility that Rosewell might be lying dead in his flat; nor had Mrs Dewberry. As a young constable he had opened a few houses after neighbours had reported a pile-up of newspapers in the letterbox, or a line of milk bottles at the front door. He remembered the smell; too right he remembered it.
But there was no trace of it in Rosewell's two-apartment; only staleness, only sourness, the scent of a man on his own, one with no great regard for his surroundings. 'George,' McGuhtirked, as he stepped inside. 'Surprise, surprise; it's your son-in-law, Come to batter the crap out of you. Where the fuck are you, you old bastard?'
There were only three doors off the hall, and all of them were open.
He glanced into them, one by one. The bathroom was to his left, toilet seat up, towel on the floor beneath the electrically heated rail. The bedroom was straight ahead, discarded underwear stil on the floor, duvet thrown back to reveal a sheet which had once been white, but which now was grey and heavily stained. The living area was on his right; he stepped inside.
At once, the heat, which he had felt in the hallway, became almost overpowering. He looked round the door and saw an electric fire, set in the wall, its three radiant bars shining. He found the switch and turned it off. The room was furnished sparsely; one old fabric-covered sofa facing a television set, a small sideboard, a kitchen table, and two dining chairs.
There was a sink under the one window, a cooker to the left and a small work surface and fridge on the other side.
A dirty plate and cutlery lay on the table. He looked at it; scraps of pastry from a round Scotch mutton pie, unmistakable, a few beans in their tomato sauce and a sad, solitary, greasy chip. 'You'l have had your tea, then, George,' he murmured. 'But when?'
The answer came to him from the newspaper, which lay beside the empty, tea-stained mug. It was open at the sports section; his eye was caught by an action shot of two footbal ers, green shirt and blue, squaring up to each other like street corner punks. Without picking it up he looked at the top of the page. 'The Sunday Mail,' he exclaimed. 'And you've been off your work since Monday.'
He scratched his head. It had been unusual y cold on the previous Sunday evening, he recal ed. 'You had your tea and you went out, didn't you?' he asked the empty room. 'And you left the fire on. Was that by accident, or was it on purpose, to warm your old Portuguese bones when you came in?
'Only you never did.
'Where are you, you old bastard? What are you up to? I guess I'd better ask around.'
He left the small flat, leaving the door closed but unlocked; and stepped over to the door on the right, through which light shone. The nameplate on the door read, 'Brennan'. He pressed the bell and as he did so, heard a child's yell from inside. 'Daddy!'
Somehow, he had been expecting a woman, but it was a girl who answered, fifteen, maybe sixteen, he guessed, not yet grown to ful height, still no more than five feet tall. She held the door on a chain, and looked at him through the gap, suspiciously. I would be too, dear, he thought. Good for you.
'Miss Brennan?' he asked, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
'Ms,' she answered, her expression unchanged; there was something in her voice that struck him as strange. She was barefoot, he noticed, with blond hair that might just have been for real, and a waif-like look about her that would have pul ed him in about two seconds flat.. . when he was sixteen years old. There was a toddler clinging to her leg, a boy.
'Sorry to bother you,' he went on. 'I'm George Rosewell's son-in-law, and I'm looking for him, only he's not in. I wondered if you had seen him lately.'
'You're a policeman,' she said.
'Maybe so,' he agreed, widening his grin, 'but I'm also George's son in-law.'
'I don't believe you.' Her accent was unusual for the outskirts of Leith; he wondered if she might be English. 'George told me he doesn't have any family.'
'Sure, and he told you his name was Rosewell, but that's not true either. Listen, my name's Mario, and there's the proof. Can I come in?'
He showed her his warrant card; she surprised him by reading it
… unusual y in his experience, a quick flash of the plastic was enough.
The youngster nodded and loosened the chain. 'Yes, okay,' she said, sweeping the child up in her arms.
His eyes widened as he stepped inside; the hall was bright and fresh, its carpet plush and relatively new. The living area had been modernised completely. Essential y the apartment had the same layout as the one across the hal, but the two were worlds apart. This was a home, adequately furnished and equipped, comfortable, and well looked after; by comparison, the other was no more than a doss-house.
'What's your other name?' asked McGuire.
'Ivy,' said the girl.
He reached across and tickled the toddler under the chin, as he had done, once upon a time, with Lauren and Spencer, Mcl henney's two children. 'Who's the kid? Your wee brother?'
'My son, actually. His name's Rufus.'
He stared at her. 'How old are you?' he blurted out.
Without a word, she turned, and walked over to a tal unit set against the wal. She opened a drawer, took out a photographic drivBtocence, and handed it to him. 'It's al right,' she told him, in a patienttone. Yes.
Definitely English, he thought, as she spoke. 'I'm used to it. I'm twenty two, and every time I go out for a drink I have to carry that to prove it.
I'm walking justification for a national identity card.'
He looked at the plastic-coated licence. The photograph was unusual y good; it was her, and she was indeed twenty-two.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Rude of me.'
'No, really.' She smiled for the first time. 'I am used to it. It can come in handy at times.'
'What about Rufus's father? Is he…'
'He's gone. I'm a lone parent.' . 'Does he visit you often?'
'When he feels like it. But that's okay; we get along fine, although he's not real y interested in his son. He just goes through the motions of being a dad, that's al.'
'Does he support you?
'No. My parents do. I have a degree in film studies, and once Rufus starts school I'l begin my career, but until then, I'm okay.'
There was something about the girl-woman that fascinated him. 'What about this?' He glanced around him. 'It's very comfy and al that, but this building ain't the finest piece of architecture in Edinburgh.'
She laughed. 'Blame my father for that, or his stupid solicitor. The seller told them that there was an improvement grant in place, and that it was al going to be done up. Wrong.'
She sat Rufus on the floor, beside a large stuffed panda. 'So what were you saying about George? That isn't his real name?'
'No.' He took the school photograph from his pocket. 'That's him, yes?'
She looked at it, frowning. 'Yes, that's George… apart from the beard. He's got a beard now.'
'How well do you know him?'
'Just as a neighbour, that's al. He's the only one in here I do know. So what is his real name?'
'Go back twenty-three years and he was called Jorge Xavier Rose; he's a mix of Scots and Portuguese.'
'And what happened twenty-three years ago to make him change his name?'
'You don't want to know. Just you take my advice, Ms Brennan, if he shows up here again, don't ever let him into your house.'
