Behind her, the door to the living room was closed. There was a case of mixed spirits on the hall carpet. Tresa McAnally was dressed casually — baggy T-shirt, tight black slacks, looped gold earrings — and she was sweating from recent exertion.
‘Can I come in?’ Rebus asked.
‘No, you can’t. What is it?’
‘It’s about Wee Shug.’
‘He’s dead, end of story.’ She made to close the door. Rebus pushed his hand against it.
‘Where did the money come from, Tresa?’
‘What money?’
‘The money you spent on the flat.’
‘You’ve no right to — ’
‘Maybe not, but I’ll keep coming back till you tell me.’
‘Then you’ll be coming back till doomsday.’
Rebus smiled. ‘That may be closer than you think.’ He lifted his hand from the door, but she didn’t shut it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who’s in there with you?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody?’
Not even Tresa McAnally was brass-necked enough to repeat the lie. She pushed the door closed.
Rebus stood for a moment, listening, then walked along to Maisie Finch’s flat. He rang her bell, but she couldn’t very well answer, not when she was busy hiding behind Tresa McAnally’s living-room door.
Next morning, Rebus called the US Consulate.
‘You’re not another recording, are you?’ Rebus asked.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Good, can you put me through to Mr Haldayne, please?’
‘Your name?’
‘Detective Inspector John Rebus.’
‘Hold the line, Inspector.’
He didn’t have to hold long.
‘Inspector? What can I do for you?’ An American accent, smooth, urbane. Rebus wasn’t exactly sure what ‘Ivy League’ meant, but Haldayne’s voice brought to mind the image.
‘Well, sir, for one thing you can start paying your parking tickets.’
A confident chuckle. ‘Goodness, is that what this is all about? Well, certainly, if you insist. I wouldn’t want to make a diplomatic incident out of it.’
‘But you could, is that what you mean? The tickets aren’t the main reason I’m ringing. I’d like to talk to you about Derwood Charters.’
‘Jesus, what has he done this time?’ A pause. ‘Don’t tell me I’m getting back my money?’
‘Could we discuss it in person?’
‘Yeah, I guess. You want to come here?’ The US Consulate, where Haldayne would be at his most consular.
‘The North British,’ Rebus suggested, ‘for morning coffee.’
‘It’s not called the North British any more, is it?’
‘You’ve got a lot to learn about Scotland, Mr Haldayne. Ten-thirty?’
‘That’s fine, Inspector. I look forward to meeting you.’ Rebus’s next call was to St Leonard’s. He asked for Siobhan Clarke. ‘How’s life?’
‘Ms Templer had me in her office first thing, wanting to know if you’d been in touch. She was asking a lot of questions.’
‘Let her ask. As far as you know, I’m in Lanzarote.’
‘Right.’
‘Listen, Haldayne’s parking tickets, what were the exact locations?’
‘I think I jotted them down.’ He could hear her searching her notebook.
‘How goes the blaze inquiry?’
‘A non-starter. It’s down to an Act of God. They didn’t find a cigarette or a match in the bin.’
‘Of course not, Flower tidied up before he reported the fire.’
‘Here we are: Princes Street, James Craig Walk, and Royal Circus. Those are all I’ve got, and no dates. The last two were multiples.’
Rebus thanked her and hung up. He found his A-Z and looked up James Craig Walk. It was hard by New St Andrew’s House. So Haldayne
He still didn’t know anything about Mensung. He was hoping Haldayne could help.
Rebus sat in the lounge of the Balmoral Forte Grand — formerly the North British — and told staff he was waiting for a guest but he’d order anyway: coffee for two — decaffeinated — and cakes or biscuits or something.
‘Fruit scones, sir?’
‘Fine, whatever.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Rebus was glad he was wearing one of his better suits. They’d made a good job of the hotel. Last time he’d had morning coffee here, it had been with Gill Templer, way back when they’d been ‘an item’. The walls had had cracks in them, and the whole place had seemed faded and slightly seedy.
Rebus knew the American as soon as he walked in. He was tall and exceptionally well groomed and wearing a cream-coloured Burberry raincoat. Haldayne had fair hair, so fine and thin you could see pink scalp beneath it. He was around forty, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell circular frames. His face was thin, his forehead bulbous and shiny.
‘Inspector Rebus?’ He shook Rebus’s hand, and Rebus motioned for him to sit.
‘Cold enough for you over here?’ Rebus asked.
‘I was brought up in Illinois.’ Haldayne slipped his coat off. ‘We got winters you wouldn’t believe.’ He shivered at the memory and chuckled again; it was becoming an annoying habit.
Rebus had an annoying habit too: he kept poking the tip of his tongue into the hole in his tooth and trying to suck the poison out. He was getting to like that little bore-hole.
‘Do you know a Dr Keene?’ he asked the American.
Haldayne made a sceptical mouth. ‘Care to give me a clue?’
‘He’s a dentist, and another of Derry Charters’ victims.’
Haldayne sat back in his comfortable chair. ‘Took me for five biggies. That still hurts; I’m a diplomat, not a millionaire.’
‘What do you do at the consulate?’
‘I have an industry remit. In some countries that would be a two-way process, but there aren’t too many Scottish companies thinking of setting up plants in the US, so I tend to look after American companies who’re thinking of setting up here. It’s not as busy as it was.’ He looked left and right. ‘Waiting staff are slow.’
‘I’ve already ordered. I hope you don’t mind.’ Haldayne shrugged. ‘How did you come to know Derry Charters?’
‘I was introduced to him at a party. Can’t recall now who did the introducing …’
‘Can you remember whose party?’
‘Oh, it was some Scottish Office thing, that’s why I was there.’
‘And Mr Charters?’
‘Well, he was a businessman. How much do you know about him before his bust?’
