When Siobhan Clarke woke up that morning, she glanced at the clock then shot out of bed. Christ, it was nearly nine! She had just run water for a bath, and was looking for clean underwear in the bathroom, when it hit her. It was the weekend! Nothing to rush for. In fact, quite the opposite. The relief team had taken over Moneybags, just for this first weekend, to see if there was any sign of life at Dougary’s office. According to Trading Standards, Dougary’s weekends were sacrosanct. He wouldn’t go anywhere near Gorgie. But they had to be sure, so for this weekend only Operation Moneybags had a relief retinue, keeping an eye on the place. If nothing happened, next weekend they wouldn’t bother. Dougary was blessedly fixed in his ways. She hadn’t had to hang about too often on the surveillance past five-thirty, more often a bit earlier. Which suited Siobhan fine. It meant she’d managed a couple of useful trips to Dundee out of hours.
She’d arranged another trip for this morning, but didn’t need to leave Edinburgh for an hour or so yet. And she was sure to be home before the Hibees kicked off.
Time now for some coffee. The living room was messy, but she didn’t mind. She usually set aside Sunday morning for all the chores. That was the nice thing about living by yourself: your mess was your own. There was no one to comment on it or be disturbed by it. Crisp bags, pizza boxes, three-quarters-empty bottles of wine, old newspapers and magazines, CD cases, items of clothing, opened and unopened mail, plates and cutlery and every mug in the flat-these could all be found in her fourteen-by-twelve living room. Somewhere under the debris there was a futon and a cordless telephone.
The telephone was ringing. She reached under a pizza carton, picked up the receiver, and yanked up the aerial.
‘Is that you, Clarke?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The last person she’d been expecting: John Rebus. She wandered through to the bathroom.
‘Terrible interference,’ said Rebus.
‘I was just turning off the bath.’
‘Christ, you’re in the-’
‘No, sir, not yet. Cordless phone.’
‘I hate those things. You’re talking for five minutes, then you hear the toilet flushing. Well, sorry t…what time is it?’
‘Just turned nine.’
‘Really?’ He sounded dead beat.
‘Sir, I heard about your suspension.’
‘That figures.’
‘I know it’s none of my business, but what were you doing with a gun in the first place?’
‘Psychic protection.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what my brother calls it. He should know, he used to be a hypnotist.’
‘Sir, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Are you going to the game?’
‘Not if you need me for anything else.’
‘Well, I was wonderin…do you still have the Cafferty files?’
She had walked back into the living room. Oh, she still had the files, all right. Their contents were spread across her coffee table, her desk, and half the breakfast bar.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any chance you could bring them over to my flat? Only I’ve got the Central Hotel files here. Somewhere in them there’s a clue I’m missing.’
‘You want to cross-reference with the Cafferty files? That’s a big job.’
‘Not if two people are working on it.’
‘What time do you want me there?’
Saturday at Brian Holmes’ aunt’s house in Barnton was a bit like Sunday, except that on Saturday he didn’t have to deny her his company at the local presbyterian kirk. Was it any wonder that, having found the Heartbreak Cafe such a welcoming spot, he should have spent so long there? But those days were over. He tried to accept the fact that ‘Elvis’ was dead, but it was difficult. No more King Shrimp Creole or Blue Suede Choux or In the Gateau, no more Blue Hawaii cocktails. No more late nights of tequila slammers (with Jose Cuervo Gold, naturally) or Jim Beam (Eddie’s preferred bourbon).
‘ “Keep on the Beam,” he used to say.’
‘There there, pet.’ Oh great, now his aunt had caught him talking to himself. She’d brought him a cup of Ovaltine.
‘This stuff’s for bedtime,’ he told her. ‘It’s not even noon.’
‘It’ll calm you down, Brian.’
He took a sip. Ach, it didn’t taste bad anyway. Pat had dropped round to ask if he’d be a pall-bearer on Monday.
‘It’d be an honour,’ Holmes had told him, meaning it. Pat hadn’t wanted to meet his eyes. Maybe he too was thinking of the nights they’d all spent slurring after-hours gossip at the bar. On one of those nights, when they’d been talking about great Scottish disasters, Eddie had suddenly announced that he’d been there when the Central Hotel caught fire.
‘I was filling in for a guy, cash in the hand and no questions. Dead on my feet after the day-shift at the Eyrie.’
‘I didn’t know you’d worked at the Eyrie.’
‘Assistant to the head man himself. If he doesn’t get a Michelin recommendation this year, he’d be as well giving up.’
‘So what happened at the Central?’ Holmes’ head hadn’t been entirely befuddled by spirits.
‘Some poker game was going on, up in one of the rooms on the first floor.’ He seemed to be losing it, drifting towards sleep. ‘Tam and Eck were looking for player…’
‘Tam and Eck?’
‘Tam and Eck Robertso…’
‘But what happened?’
‘It’s no good, Brian;’ said Pat Calder, ‘look at him.’
Though Eddie’s eyes were open, head resting on his arms, arms spread across the bar, he was asleep.
‘A cousin of mine was at Ibrox the day of the big crush,’ Pat revealed, cleaning a pint glass.
‘But do you remember where you were the night Jock Stein died?’ Holmes asked. More stories had followed, Eddie sleeping through all of them.
Permanently asleep now. And Holmes was to be pall-bearer number four. He’d asked Pat a few questions.
‘Funny,’ Pat had said, ‘your man Rebus asked me just the same.’ So Brian knew the case was in good hands.
Rebus drove around the lunchtime streets. On a Saturday, providing you steered clear of Princes Street, the city had a more relaxed feel. At least until about two-thirty, when either the east end or the west of the city (depending who was playing home) would fill with football fans. And on derby match days, best stay away from the centre altogether. But today wasn’t a derby match, and Hibs were at home, so the town was quiet.
‘You asked about him just the other week,’ a barman told Rebus. ‘And I’m asking again.’
He was again on the lookout for Deek Torrance; a seek and destroy mission. He doubted Deek would be around, but sometimes money and alcohol did terrible things to a man, boosting his confidence, making him unwary of danger and vengeance. Rebus’s hope was that Deek was still mingin’ somewhere on the money he’d paid for the gun. As hopes went, it was more forlorn than most. But he did stumble upon Chick Muir in a Leith social club, and was able to tell him the news.
‘That’s just awfy,’ Chick consoled. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the ground.’
Rebus appreciated the muddled sentiment. In Chick’s case, it wouldn’t be hard anyway. Informers were sometimes called snitches, and Chick’s snitch was about as big as they came.
One-thirty found him leaving a dingy betting shop. He’d seen more hope and smiles in a hospice, and fewer tears too. Ten minutes later he was sitting down to microwaved haggis, neeps and tatties in the Sutherland Bar.
