gates were the same two men who’d been following her that day on Princes Street, that day she’d run to John Rebus.
‘Oh God,’ she murmured, ‘oh God, oh God.’
They’d found her at last.
The evening was sticky with heat, the streets quiet for a Saturday.
Rebus rang the doorbell and waited. While he waited, he looked to left and right. An immaculate double row of Georgian houses, stone frontages dulled black through time and car fumes. Some of the houses had been turned into offices for Writers to the Signet, chartered accountants, and small, anonymous finance businesses. But a few — a precious few — were still very comfortable and well-appointed homes for the wealthy and the industrious. Rebus had been to this street before, a long time ago now in his earliest CID days, investigating the death of a young girl. He didn’t remember much about the case now. He was too busy getting ready for the evening’s pleasures.
He tugged at the black bow tie around his throat. The whole outfit, dinner jacket, shirt, bow tie and patent shoes, had been hired earlier in the day from a shop on George Street. He felt like an idiot, but had to admit that, examining himself in his bathroom mirror, he looked pretty sharp. He wouldn’t be too out of place in an establishment like Finlay’s of Duke Terrace.
The door was opened by a beaming woman, young, dressed exquisitely, and greeting him as though wondering why he didn’t come more often.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Will you come in?’
He would, he did. The entrance hall was subtle. Cream paint, deep pile carpeting, a scattering of chairs which might have been designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, high backs and looking extraordinarily uncomfortable to sit in.
‘I see you’re admiring our chairs,’ the woman said.
‘Yes,’ Rebus answered, returning her smile. ‘The name’s Rebus, by the way. John Rebus.’
‘Ah yes. Finlay told me you were expected. Well, as this is your first visit, would you like me to show you around?’
‘Thank you.’
‘But first, a drink, and the first drink is always on the house.’
Rebus tried not to be nosey, but he was a policeman after all, and not being nosey would have gone against all that he held most dear. So he asked a few questions of his hostess, whose name was Paulette, and pointed to this and that part of the gaming club, being shown the direction of the cellars (‘Finlay has their contents insured for quarter of a million’), kitchen (‘our chef is worth his weight in Beluga’), and guest bedrooms (‘the judges are the worst, there are one or two who always end up sleeping here, too drunk to go home’). The lower ground floor housed the cellars and kitchen, while the ground floor comprised a quiet bar area, and the small restaurant, with cloakrooms and an office. On the first floor, up the carpeted staircase and past the collection of eighteenth-and nineteenth-century Scottish paintings by the likes of Jacob More and David Allan, was the main gaming area: roulette, blackjack, a few other tables for card games, and one table given over to dice. The players were businessmen, their bets discreet, nobody losing big or winning big. They held their chips close to them.
Paulette pointed out two closed rooms.
‘Private rooms, for private games.’
‘Of what?’
‘Poker mainly. The serious players book them once a month or so. The games can go on all night.’
‘Just like in the movies.’
‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Just like the movies.’
The second floor consisted of the three guest bedrooms, again locked, and Finlay Andrews’ own private suite.
‘Off limits, of course,’ Paulette said.
‘Of course,’ Rebus concurred, as they started downstairs again.
So this was it: Finlay’s Club. Tonight was quiet. He had seen only two or three faces he recognised: an advocate, who did not acknowledge him, though they’d clashed before in court, a television presenter, whose dark tan looked fake, and Farmer Watson.
‘Hello there, John.’ Watson, stuffed into suit and dress shirt, looked like nothing more than a copper out of uniform. He was in the bar when Paulette and Rebus went back in, his hand closed around a glass of orange juice, trying to look comfortable but instead looking distinctly out of place.
‘Sir.’ Rebus had not for one moment imagined that Watson, despite the threat he had made earlier, would turn up here. He introduced Paulette, who apologised for not being around to greet him at the door.
Watson waved aside her apology, revolving his glass. ‘I was well enough taken care of,’ he said. They sat at a vacant table. The chairs here were comfortable and well padded, and Rebus felt himself relax. Watson, however, was looking around keenly.
‘Finlay not here?’ he asked.
‘He’s somewhere around,’ said Paulette. ‘Finlay’s always around.’
Funny, thought Rebus, that they hadn’t bumped into him on their tour.
‘What’s the place like then, John?’ Watson asked.
‘Impressive,’ Rebus answered, accepting Paulette’s smile like praise from a teacher to a doting pupil. ‘Very impressive. It’s much bigger than you’d think. Wait till you see upstairs.’
‘And there’s the extension, too,’ said Watson.
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten.’ Rebus turned to Paulette.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘We’re building out from the back of the premises.’
‘Building?’ said Watson. ‘I thought it was a fait accompli?’
‘Oh no.’ She smiled again. ‘Finlay is very particular. The flooring wasn’t quite right, so he had the workmen rip it all up and start again. Now we’re waiting on some marble arriving from Italy.’
‘That must be costing a few bob,’ Watson said, nodding to himself.
Rebus wondered about the extension. Towards the back of the ground floor, past toilets, cloakroom, offices, walk-in cupboards, there must be another door, ostensibly the door to the back garden. But now the door to the extension, perhaps.
‘Another drink, John?’ Watson was already on his feet, pointing at Rebus’s empty glass.
‘Gin and fresh orange, please,’ he said, handing over the glass.
‘And for you, Paulette?’
‘No, really.’ She was rising from the chair. ‘Work to do. Now that you’ve seen a bit of the club, I’d better get back to door duties. If you want to play upstairs, the office can supply chips. A few of the games accept cash, but not the most interesting ones.’
Another smile, and she was gone in a flurry of silk and a glimpse of black nylon. Watson saw Rebus watching her leave.
‘At ease, Inspector,’ he said, laughing to himself as he headed for the bar where the barman explained that if he wanted drinks, he only had to signal, and an order would be taken at the gentlemen’s table and brought to them directly. Watson slumped back into his chair again.
‘This is the life, eh, John?’
‘Yes, sir. What’s happening back at base?’
‘You mean the little sodomite who made the complaint? He’s buggered off. Disappeared. Gave us a false address, the works.’
‘So I’m off the butcher’s hook?’
‘Just about.’ Rebus was about to remonstrate. ‘Give it a few more days, John, that’s all I’m asking. Time for it to die a natural death.’
‘You mean people are talking?’
‘A few of the lads have had a laugh about it. I don’t suppose you can blame them. In a day or so, there’ll be something else for them to joke about, and it’ll all be forgotten.’
‘There’s nothing to forget!’
‘I know, I know. It’s all some plot to keep you out of action, and this mysterious Mr Hyde’s behind it all.’
Rebus stared at Watson, his lips clamped shut. He could yell, could scream and shout. He breathed hard
