someone’s memory. Vanderhyde got Rebus to read the plaque on their bench.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t recognise either of those names.’
‘Mr Vanderhyde,’ said Rebus, ‘I’m beginning to suspect you got me to bring you here for no other reason than the outing itself.’ Vanderhyde smiled but said nothing. ‘What time did you go to the bar that night?’
‘Seven sharp, that was the arrangement. Of course, Aengus being Aengus, he was late. I think he turned up at half past, by which time I was seated in a corner with a whisky and water. I think it was J and B whisky.’ He seemed pleased by this small feat of memory.
‘Anyone you knew in the bar?’
‘I can hear bagpipes,’ Vanderhyde said.
Rebus could too, though he couldn’t see the piper. ‘They play for the tourists,’ he explained. ‘It can be a big earner in the summer.’
‘He’s not very good. I should imagine he’s wearing a kilt but that the tartan isn’t correct.’
‘Anyone in the bar you knew?’ Rebus persisted.
‘Oh, let me thin…’
‘With respect, sir, you don’t
‘Well, I think Tom Hendry was in that night and stopped by the table to say hello. He used to work for the newspapers.’
Yes, Rebus had seen the name on the list.
‘And there was someone els…I didn’t know them, and they didn’t speak. But I recall a scent of lemon. It was very vivid. I thought maybe it was a perfume, but when I mentioned it to Aengus he laughed and said it didn’t belong to a woman. He wouldn’t say any more, but I got the feeling it was a huge joke to him that I’d made the initial comment. I’m not sure any of this is relevant.’
‘Me neither.’ Rebus’s stomach was growling. There was a sudden explosion behind them. Vanderhyde slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened the glass, and felt with his fingers over the dial.
‘One o’clock sharp,’ he said. ‘As I said, Inspector, some things about our precipitous city remain immutable.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Such as the precipitation, for instance?’ It was beginning to drizzle, the morning sun having disappeared like a conjurer’s trick. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’
‘Aengus and I talked. I tried to persuade him that he was on a very dangerous path. His health was failing, and so was the family’s wealth. If anything, the latter argument was the more persuasive.’
‘So there and then he renounced the bawdy life?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. The Edinburgh establishment has never bided too far from the stews. When we parted he was setting off to meet some woman.’ Vanderhyde was thoughtful. ‘But if I do say so myself, my words had an effect on him.’ He nodded. ‘I ate alone that evening in The Eyrie.’
‘I’ve been there myself,’ said Rebus. His stomach growled again. ‘Fancy a burger?’
After he’d dropped Vanderhyde home he drove back to St Leonard’s — not a lot wiser for the whole exercise. Siobhan sprang from her desk when she saw him. She looked pleased with herself.
‘I take it the butcher’s wife was a talker,’ Rebus said, dropping into his chair. There was another note on his desk telling him Jack Morton had called. But this time there was also a number where Rebus could reach him.
‘A right little gossip, sir. I had trouble getting away.’
‘And?’
‘Something and nothing.’
‘So give me the something.’ Rebus rubbed his stomach. He’d enjoyed the burger, but it hadn’t quite filled him up. There was always the canteen, but he was a bit worried about getting a ‘dough-ring’, as he termed the gut policemen specialised in.
‘The something is this.’ Siobhan Clarke sat down. ‘Bone won the Mere in a bet.’
‘A bet?’ Clarke nodded. ‘He put his share of the butcher’s business up against it. But he won the bet.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘His wife actually sounded quite proud. Anyway, she told me he’s a great one for betting. Maybe he is, but it doesn’t look like he’s got a winning formula.’
‘How do you mean?’
She was warming to her subject. Rebus liked to see it, the gleam of successful detection. ‘There were a few things not quite right in the living room. For instance, they’d videotapes but no video, though you could see where the machine used to sit. And though they had a large unit for storing the TV and video, the TV itself was one of those portable types.’
‘So they’ve got rid of their video and their big television.’
‘I’d guess to pay off a debt or debts.’
‘And your money would be on gambling dues?’
‘If I were the betting kind, which I’m not.’
He smiled. ‘Maybe they had the stuff on tick and couldn’t keep up the payments.’
Siobhan sounded doubtful. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘Okay, well, it’s interesting so far as it goes, but it doesn’t go very far not yet. And it doesn’t tell us anything about Rory Kintoul, does it?’ She was frowning. ‘Remember him, Clarke? He’s the one who was stabbed in the street then wouldn’t talk about it.
‘So what do you suggest, sir?’ There was a tinge of ire to that ‘sir’. She didn’t like it that her good detection had not been better rewarded. ‘We’ve already spoken to him.’
‘And you’re going to speak to him again.’ She looked ready to protest. ‘Only this time,’ Rebus went on, ‘you’re going to be asking about his cousin, Mr Bone the butcher. I’m not sure what we’re looking for exactly, so you’ll have to feel your way. Just see whether anything hits the marrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She stood up. ‘Oh, by the way, I got the files on Cafferty.’
‘Plenty of reading in there, most of it x-rated.’
‘I know, I’ve already started. And there’s no x-rating nowadays. It’s called “eighteen” instead.’
Rebus blinked. ‘It’s just an expression.’ As she was turning away, he stopped her. ‘Look, take some notes, will you? On Cafferty and his gang, I mean. Then when you’re finished you can refresh my memory. I’ve spent a long time shutting that monster out of my thoughts; it’s about time I opened the door again.’
‘No problem.’
And with that she was off. Rebus wondered if he should have told her she’d done well at Bone’s house. Ach, too late now. Besides, if she thought she were pleasing him, maybe she’d stop trying so hard. He picked up his phone and called Jack Morton.
‘Jack? Long time no hear. It’s John Rebus.’
‘John, how are you?’
‘No’ bad, how’s yourself?’
‘Fine. I made Inspector.’
‘Aye, me too.’
‘So I heard.’ Jack Morton choked off his words as he gave a huge hacking cough.
‘Still on the fags, eh, Jack?’
‘I’ve cut down.’
‘Remind me to sell my tobacco shares. So listen, what’s the problem?’
‘It’s your problem, not mine. Only I saw something from Scotland Yard about Andrew McPhail.’
Rebus tried the name out in his head. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘you’ve got me there.’
‘We had him on file as a sex offender. He’d had a go at the daughter of the woman he was living with. This was about eight years back. But we never got the charge to stick.’
Rebus was remembering a little of it. ‘We interviewed him when those wee girls started to disappear?’ Rebus shivered at the memory: his own daughter had been one of the ‘wee girls’.
‘That’s it, just routine. We started with convicted and suspected child offenders and went on from there.’
‘Stocky guy with wiry hair?’
‘You’ve got him.’
‘So what’s the point, Jack?’
