‘Johnny Rebus?’
It was so unexpected he grinned, the grin dissolving years from his face.
‘I went to school with you,’ the woman stated. ‘Heather Cranston.’
‘Heathe…?’ He stared at her face.
She put a hand to her mouth, blocking laughter. ‘Nobody’s called me that in twenty-odd years.’
He remembered her now. The way she always stifled laughs with her hand, embarrassed because her laugh sounded so funny to her. Now she nodded into the cemetery.
‘I walk past your mum and dad most weeks.’
‘It’s more than I do.’
‘Aye, but you’re in Edinburgh or someplace now, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Just visiting?’
‘Passing through.’ They had come out of the cemetery now, and were walking downhill into Bowhill. They passed by Rebus’s car, but he’d no wish to break off the conversation. So they walked.
‘Aye,’ she said, ‘plenty of folk pass through. Never many stay put. I used to ken everybody in the place, but not no…’
‘Come round for a cup of tea,’ she was saying now. He’d looked in vain for an engagement or wedding ring on her hand. She was by no means an unlovely woman. Big, whereas at school she’d been tiny and shy. Or maybe Rebus wasn’t remembering right. Her cheeks were shining and there was mascara round her eyes. She was wearing black shoes with inch and a half heels, and tea-coloured tights on muscular legs.-Rebus, who hadn’t had breakfast or lunch, would bet that she had a pantry full of cakes and biscuits.
‘Aye, why not?’ he said.
She lived in a house along Craigside Road. They’d passed one betting shop on the way from the cemetery. It was as dead as the rest of the street.
‘Are you going to take a look at the old house?’ She meant the house he’d grown up in. He shrugged and watched her unlock her door. In the lobby, she listened for a second then yelled, ‘Shug! Are you up there?’ But there was no sound from upstairs. ‘It’s a miracle,’ she said. ‘Out of his bed before four o’clock. He must’ve gone out somewhere.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face, and her hand went to her mouth. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a husband or boyfriend or anything. Hugh’s my son.’
‘Oh?’
She took off her coat. ‘Away through you go.’ She opened the living room door for him. It was a small room, choked with a huge three-piece suite, dining-table and chairs, wall-unit and TV. She’d had the chimney blocked off and central heating installed.
Rebus sank into one of the fireside chairs. ‘But you’re not married?’
She had slung her coat over the banister. ‘Never really saw the point,’ she said, entering the room. She devoured space as she moved, first to the radiator to check it was warm, then to the mantelpiece for cigarettes and her lighter. She offered one to Rebus.
‘I’ve stopped,’ he said. ‘Doctor’s orders.’ Which was, in a sense, the truth.
‘I tried stopping once or twice, but the weight I put on, you wouldn’t credit it.’ She inhaled deeply.
‘So, Hugh’s fathe…?’
She blew the smoke out of her nostrils. ‘Never knew him; really.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Have I shocked you, Johnny?’
‘Just a bit, Cranny. You used to b…wel…’
‘Quiet? That was a lifetime ago. What do you fancy, coffee, tea or me?’ And she laughed behind her cigarette hand.
‘Coffee’s fine,’ said John Rebus, shifting in his chair.
She brought in two mugs of bitter instant. ‘No biscuits, sorry, I’m all out.’ She handed him his mug. ‘I’ve already sugared it, hope that’s all right.’
‘Fine,’ said Rebus, who did not take sugar. The mug was a souvenir of Blackpool. They talked about people they’d known at school. Sitting opposite him, she decided at one point to cross one leg over the other. But her skirt was too tight, so she gave up and tugged at the hem of the garment.
‘So what brings you here? Passing through, you said?’
‘Well, sort of. I’m actually looking for a bookie’s shop.’
‘We passed one on the-’
‘This is a particular business. It’s probably either new in the past five or so years, or else has been taken over by a new operator during that time.’
‘Then you’re after Hutchy’s.’ She said this nonchalantly, sucking on her cigarette afterwards.
‘Hutchy’s? But that place was around when
She nodded. ‘Named after Joe Hutchinson, he started it. Then he died and his son Howie took over. Tried changing the name of the place, but everybody kept calling it Hutchy’s, so he gave up. About, oh, five years ago, maybe a bit less, he sold up and buggered off to Spain. Imagine, same age as us and he’s made his pile. Retired to the sun. Nearest we get to the sun here is when the toaster’s on.’
‘So who did he sell the business to?’
She had to think about this. ‘Greenwood, I think his name is. But the place is still called Hutchy’s. That’s what the sign says above the door. Aye, Tommy Greenwood.’
‘Tommy? You’re sure of that. Not Tom or Tam?’
She shook her permed head. She’d had a salt-and-pepper dye done quite recently. Rebus supposed it was to hide some authentic grey. The style itself could only be termed Bouffant Junior. It took Rebus back in time …
‘Tommy Greenwood,’ she said. ‘Friend of mine used to go out with him.’
‘Had he been around Cardenden for long before he bought Hutchy’s?’
‘No time at all. We-didn’t know him from Adam. Then in short order he’d bought Hutchy’s
‘So where did the money come from?’
‘Aye, now you’re asking a good question.’ She nodded her head slowly. ‘A few folk would like to know the answer to
He asked a few more questions about Greenwood, but there wasn’t more she could tell. He kept himself to himself, walked between his house and the bookie’s every day. Didn’t own a flash car. No wife, no kids. Didn’t do much in the way of socialising or drinking.
‘He’d be quite a catch for some woman,’ she said, in tones that let Rebus know she’d tried with the rod and line. ‘Oh aye, quite a catch.’
Rebus escaped twenty minutes later, but not without an exchange of addresses and phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. He walked back slowly past Hutchy’s-an uninspiring little double-front with peeling paint and smoky windows-and then briskly up the brae to the cemetery. At the cemetery, he saw that another car had been parked tight in behind his. A cherry-red Renault 5. He passed his own car and tapped on the window of the Renault. Siobhan Clarke put down her newspaper and wound open the window.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Rebus demanded.
‘Following a hunch.’
‘I don’t have a hunch.’
‘Took me a while. Did you start with Ballingry?’ He nodded. ‘That’s what threw me. I came off the motorway at Kelty.’
‘Listen,’ Rebus said, ‘I’ve found a contender.’
She didn’t seem interested. ‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’
‘Oh that, I meant to tell you about it.’
‘No, not the front page, the inside.’
‘Inside?’
She tapped a headline and handed the paper through the window to him. THREE INJURED IN M8 SMASH.
