They sat talking for another quarter of an hour or so, until Michael closed his eyes and went to sleep. He wouldn’t be asleep for long: they were starting to serve breakfast. Rebus got up and moved the chair back, then placed the photograph on Michael’s bedside cabinet. He had another call to pay, while he was here.
But there were doctors with Brian Holmes, and the nurse didn’t know how long they’d be. She only knew that Brian had woken again in the night for almost a minute. Rebus wished he’d been there: a minute would be long enough for the question he wanted to ask. Brian had also been talking in his sleep, but his words had been mumbled at best, and no one had any record of what he’d said. So Rebus gave up and went off to do some shopping. If he phoned around noon they’d let him know when Michael was likely to be getting home.
He went back to the flat by way of the corner shop, where he bought a week’s worth of groceries. He was finishing breakfast when the first student wandered into the kitchen and drank three glassfuls of water.
‘You’re supposed to do that
‘Thank you, Sherlock.’ The young man groaned. ‘Got any paracetamol?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Definitely a bad keg of beer last night. I thought the first pint tasted ropey.’
‘Aye, but I’ll bet the second tasted better and the sixth tasted great.’ The student laughed. ‘What’re you eating?’
‘Toast and jam.’
‘No bacon or sausages?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve decided to lay off meat for a while.’ The student seemed unnaturally pleased.
‘There’s orange juice in the fridge,’ Rebus continued. The student opened the fridge door and gave a gasp.
‘There’s enough stuff in here to feed a lecture hall!’
‘Which is why,’ said Rebus, ‘I reckon it’ll do us for at least a day or two.’
The student lifted a letter from the top of the fridge. ‘This came for you yesterday.’
It was from the Inland Revenue. They were thinking of coming to check on the flat.
‘Remember,’ Rebus told the student, ‘anyone asks, you’re my nephews and nieces.’
‘Yes, uncle.’ The student recommenced rummaging in the refrigerator. ‘Where did Mickey and you get to last night?’ he asked. ‘I crept in at two and there was no sign of life.’
‘Oh, we were jus…’ But Rebus couldn’t find any words. So the student supplied them for him.
‘Shooting the breeze?’
‘Shooting the breeze,’ agreed Rebus.
He drove to a DIY superstore on the edge of the city and bought a chain for the door, a spy-hole, and the tools a helpful assistant suggested would be needed for both jobs. (A lot more tools than Rebus used, as it turned out.) Since there was a supermarket nearby, Rebus did a bit more grocery shopping, by which time the pubs were open for business. He looked in a few places, but couldn’t find who he was looking for. But he was able to put word out with a couple of useful barmen, who said they would pass the message along.
Back at the flat, he called the Infirmary, who told him Michael could come home this afternoon. Rebus arranged to pick him up at four. He then got to work. He drilled the necessary hole in the door, only to find he’d drilled it too high for the girl student, who had to stand on tiptoe even to get close. So he drilled another hole, filled in the first with wood putty, and then fitted the spy-hole. It was a bit askew, but it would work. Fitting the sliding chain was easier, and left him with two tools and a drill-bit unused. He wondered if the DIY store would take them back.
Next he tidied the box room and put Michael’s stuff into the washing machine, after which he shared the macaroni cheese which the students had prepared for lunch. He didn’t quite apologise to them for the past week, but he insisted they use the living room whenever they liked, and he told them also that he was reducing their rent-news they took unsurprisingly well. He didn’t say anything about Michael; he didn’t reckon Michael would want them to know. And he’d already explained away the extra security on the door by citing several recent burglaries in the locality.
He brought Michael and a large bottle of sleeping tablets back from the hospital, having first bribed the students to stay out of the flat for the rest of the afternoon and evening. If Michael needed to cry again, he wouldn’t want an audience.
‘Look, our new peephole,’ said Rebus at the door of the flat.
‘That was quick.’
‘Protestant work ethic. Or is it Calvanist guilt? I can never remember.’ Rebus opened the door. ‘Please also note the security chain on the inside.’
‘You can tell it’s a rush job, look where the paint’s all scored.’
‘Don’t push your luck, brother.’
Michael sat in the living room while Rebus made two mugs of tea. The stairwell had seemed full of menace for both brothers, each sensing the other’s disquiet. And even now Rebus didn’t feel completely safe.
This was not, however, something he wished to share with Michael. ‘Just the way you like it,’ he said, bringing the tea in. He could see Michael was weepy again, though trying to hide it.
‘Thanks, John.’
The phone rang before Rebus could say anything. It was Siobhan Clarke, checking details of the following morning’s surveillance operation.
Rebus assured her that everything was in hand; all she had to do was turn up and freeze her bum off for a few hours.
‘You’re a great one for motivation, sir,’ was her final comment. ‘So,’ Rebus asked Michael, ‘what do you want to do?’
Michael was shaking a large round pill out of the brown bottle. He put it on his tongue with a wavering hand, and washed it down with tea.
‘A quiet night in would suit me fine,’ he said.
‘A quiet night in it is,’ agreed Rebus.
11
Operation Moneybags began quietly enough at eight-thirty on Monday morning, thirty minutes before Davey Dougary’s BMW bumped its way into the pot-holed parking lot of the taxi-cab firm. Alister Flower and his team, of course, wouldn’t be starting work till eleven or a little after, but it was best not to think about that, especially if, like Siobhan Clarke, you were already cold and stiff by opening time, and dreading your next visit to the chemical toilet which had been installed, for want of any other facilities, in a broom closet.
She was bored, too. DC Peter Petrie (from St Leonard’s) and Elsa-Beth Jardine from Trading Standards appeared to be nursing post-weekend hangovers and resultant blues. She got the feeling that Jardine and her might actually have a lot to talk about-both were women fighting for recognition in what was perceived as a male profession-but the presence of Petrie ruled out discussion.
Peter Petrie was one of those basically intelligent but not exactly perceptive officers who climbed the ladder by passing the exams (though never with brilliant ‘harks) and not getting in anyone’s way. Petrie was quiet and methodical; she didn’t doubt his competence, it was just that he lacked any spark of inspiration or instinct. And probably, she thought, he was sitting there with his thermos summing her up as an over-talkative smart-arse with a university degree. Well, whatever he was he was no John Rebus.
She had accused her superior of not exactly motivating those who worked for him, but this was a lie. He could draw you into a case, and into his way of thinking about a case, merely by being so narrow-minded about the investigation. He was secretive-and that drew you in. He was tenacious-and that drew you in. Above all, though, he had the air of knowing exactly where he was going. And he wasn’t all that bad looking either. She’d learned a lot about him by sticking close to Brian Holmes, who had been only too willing to chat about past cases and what he knew of his boss’s history.
Poor Brian. She hoped he was going to be all right. She had thought a lot last night about Brian, but even more about Cafferty and his gang. She hoped she could be of help to Inspector John Rebus. She already had a few
