was a year to be clutched, embraced, a year unlike any other. He removed his suit in the master bedroom, showered, and changed into something more casual, but without shrugging off the mark of wealth. Though he had walked home, he would need the car for tonight. It was garaged in a mews to the rear of his street. The keys were hanging on their appointed hook in the kitchen. Was the Jaguar an indulgence? He smiled, locking the flat as he left. Perhaps it was. But then his list of indulgences was long, and about to grow longer.
Rebus waited with McCall until the taxi arrived. He gave the driver McCall’s address, and watched the cab pull away. Damn, he felt a little groggy himself. He went back into the pub and headed for the toilets. The bar was busier now, the jukebox louder. The bar staff had grown in strength from one to three, and they were working hard to cope. The toilets were a cool tiled haven, free from much of the bar’s cigarette smoke. Pine disinfectant caught in Rebus’s nostrils as he leaned over into one of the sinks. Two fingers sought out his tonsils, pausing there at the back of his throat until he retched, bringing up half a pint of beer, then another half. He breathed deeply, feeling a little better already, then washed his face thoroughly with cold water, drying himself off with a fistful of paper towels.
‘You all right?’ The voice lacked real sympathy. Its owner had just pushed open the door to the gents’ and was already seeking the closest urinal.
‘Never felt better,’ said Rebus.
‘That’s good.’
Good? He didn’t know about that, but at least his head was clearer, the world more in focus. He doubted if he’d fail a breathalyser, which was just as well, since his next port of call was his car, parked on a darkened side road. He was still wondering how Tony McCall, shaky on his pins after half a dozen pints, had managed to play pool with such a steady eye and steady hand. The man was miraculous. He’d beaten Rebus six straight games. And Rebus had been trying. By the end he’d
It was eleven o’clock, perhaps a little early yet. He allowed himself one cigarette in the stationary car, window open, picking up the sounds from the world around him. The honest sounds of the late evening: traffic, heightened voices, laughter, the clatter of shoes on cobblestones. One cigarette, that was all. Then he started the car, and slowly drove the half mile or so to his destination. There was still some light in the sky, typical of the Edinburgh summer. Further north he knew it never got truly dark at this time of year.
But the night could be dark in other ways.
He spotted the first one on the pavement outside the Scottish Assembly building. There was no reason for the teenager to be standing there. It was an unlikely time of night to have arranged to meet friends, and the nearest bus stop was a hundred yards further up Waterloo Place. The lad stood there, smoking, one foot up behind him resting against the stone wall. He watched Rebus as the car slowly went past, and even lowered his head forward a little so that he could peer in, as though inspecting the driver. Rebus thought there was a smile there, but couldn’t be sure. Further along the road, he turned the car and came back. Another car had stopped beside the boy, and a conversation was taking place. Rebus kept driving. Two young men were talking together outside the Scottish Office building on this side of the road. A little way past them, a line of three cars stood outside Calton Cemetery. Rebus cruised one more circuit, then parked near these cars, and walked.
The night was fresh. No cloud cover. There was a slight breeze, nothing more. The lad outside the Assembly building had gone off in the car. No one stood there now. Rebus crossed the road, stopped by the wall, and waited, biding his time. He watched. One or two cars drove past him slowly, the drivers turning to stare at him. But nobody stopped. He tried memorising the number plates, unsure why.
‘Got a light, mister?’
He was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Dressed in jeans, training shoes, a shapeless T-shirt and denim jacket. His hair had been razored short, face clean-shaven but scarred with acne. There were two gold studs in his left ear.
‘Thanks,’ he said as Rebus held out a box of matches. Then: ‘What’s happening then?’, with an amused glance towards Rebus before lighting the cigarette.
‘Not much,’ Rebus said, taking back the matchbox. The young man blew smoke out through his nostrils. He didn’t seem about to go. Rebus wondered if there were any codes he should be using. He felt clammy beneath his thin shirt, despite the gooseflesh.
‘Nah, there’s never much happens around here. Fancy a drink?’
‘At this time? Whereabouts?’
The young man nodded a vague direction. ‘Calton Cemetery. You can always get a drink there.’
‘No, thanks anyway.’ Rebus was appalled to find himself blushing. He hoped the street lighting would disguise it.
‘Fair enough. See you around then.’ The young man was moving off.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said, relieved. ‘See you.’
‘And thanks for the light.’
Rebus watched him go, walking slowly, purposefully, turning from time to time at the sign of an approaching car. A hundred yards or so on, he crossed the road and began walking back, paying Rebus no attention, his mind on other things. It struck Rebus that the boy was sad, lonely, certainly no hustler. But no victim either.
Rebus stared at the wall of Calton Cemetery, broken only by its metal gates. He’d taken his daughter in there once to show her the graves of the famous — David Hume, the publisher Constable, the painter David Allan — and the statue of Abraham Lincoln. She’d asked him about the men who walked briskly from the cemetery, their heads bowed down. One older man, two teenagers. Rebus had wondered about them, too. But not too much.
No, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go in there. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Jesus, no, not that, not for one minute. He was just … he didn’t know what. But he was feeling giddy again, unsteady on his pins. I’ll go back to the car, he thought.
He went back to the car.
He had been sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking another cigarette thoughtfully for about a minute before he caught sight of the figure out of the comer of his eye. He turned and looked towards where the boy was seated; no, not seated, crouching against a low wall. Rebus turned away and resumed smoking. Only then did the boy rise to his feet and walk towards the car. He tapped on the passenger side window. Rebus took a deep breath before unlocking the door. The boy got in without a word, closing the door solidly behind him. He sat there, staring out through the windscreen, silent. Rebus, unable to think of a single sensible thing to say, stayed silent, too. The boy cracked first.
‘Hiya.’
It was a man’s voice. Rebus turned to examine the boy. He was maybe sixteen. Dressed in leather jacket, open-necked shirt. Torn jeans.
‘Hello,’ he said in reply.
‘Got a cigarette?’
Rebus handed over the packet. The boy took one and swopped the packet for a box of matches. He inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply, holding it for a long time, then exhaling almost nothing of it back into the atmosphere. Take without give, thought Rebus. The creed of the street.
‘So what are you up to tonight then?’ The question had been on Rebus’s own lips, but the boy had given voice to it.
‘Just killing time,’ said Rebus. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
The boy laughed harshly. ‘Yeah, couldn’t sleep, so you came for a drive. Got tired driving so you just happened to stop here. This particular street. This time of night. Then you went for a walk, a stretch of the legs, and came back to the car. Right?’
‘You’ve been watching me,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I didn’t need to watch you. I’ve seen it all before.’
‘How often?’
‘Often enough, James.’
The words were tough, the voice was tough. Rebus had no cause to doubt the teenager. Certainly he was as dissimilar to the first boy as chalk to cheese.
