he was fighting. Every time he cut off a head, more popped into his in-tray. Coming back from a holiday was a nightmare.
And now they were giving him rocks to push up hills as well.
He looked to the ceiling.
‘With God’s grace,’ he whispered. Then he headed out to his car.
2
The Sutherland Bar was a popular watering-hole. It contained no jukebox, no video machines, no bandits. The decor was spartan, and the TV usually flickered and jumped. Ladies had not been welcome until well into the 1960s. There had, it seemed, been something to hide: the best pint of draught beer in Edinburgh. McGregor Campbell supped from his heavy glass, his eyes intent on the television set above the bar.
‘Who wins?’ asked a voice beside him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, turning to the voice. ‘Oh, hello, Jim.’
A stocky man was sitting beside him, money in hand, waiting to be served. His eyes, too, were on the TV.
‘Looks like a cracker of a fight,’ he said. ‘I fancy Mailer to win.’
Mac Campbell had an idea.
‘No, I reckon Maxwell will walk it, win by a mile. Fancy a bet?’
The stocky man fished into his pocket for his cigarettes, eyeing the policeman.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘A fiver?’ said Campbell.
‘You’re on. Tom, give me a pint over here, please. Do you want one yourself, Mac?’
‘Same again, thanks.’
They sat in silence for a while, supping the beer and watching the fight. A few muffled roars went up occasionally from behind them as a punch landed or was dodged.
‘It’s looking good for your man if it goes the distance,’ said Campbell, ordering more drinks.
‘Aye. But let’s wait and see, eh? How’s work, by the way?’
‘Fine, how’s yours?’
‘A pure bloody slog at the moment, if you must ask.’ Some ash dropped onto his tie as he talked, the cigarette never leaving his mouth, though it wobbled precariously from time to time. ‘A pure slog.’
‘Are you still chasing up that drugs story?’
‘Not really. I’ve landed on this kidnapping thing.’
‘Oh? So has Rebus. You’d better not get into
‘Newspapermen get in
Mac Campbell, though wary of Jim Stevens, was grateful for a friendship, however tenuous and strained it had sometimes been, which had given him some information useful to his career. Stevens kept much of the juiciest tidbits to himself, of course. That’s what ‘exclusives’ were made of. But he was always willing to trade, and it seemed to Campbell that the most innocuous pieces of gossip and information often seemed adequate for Stevens’ needs. He was a kind of magpie, collecting everything without prejudice, storing much more of it than, surely, he would ever use. But with reporters you never could tell. Certainly, Campbell was happier with Stevens as a friend than as an enemy.
‘So what’s happening about your drugs dossier?’
Jim Stevens shrugged his creased shoulders.
‘There’s nothing in there just now that could be of much use to you boys anyway. I’m not about to let the whole thing drop though, if that’s what you mean. No, that’s too big a nest of vipers to be allowed to go free. I’ll still be keeping my eyes open.’
A bell rang for the last round of the fight. Two sweating, dog-tired bodies converged on one another, becoming a single knot of limbs.
‘Still looks good for Mailer,’ said Campbell, an uneasy feeling coming over him. It couldn’t be true. Rebus wouldn’t have done that to him. Suddenly, Maxwell, the heavier and slower-moving of the two fighters, was hit by a blow to the face and staggered back. The bar erupted, sensing blood and victory. Campbell stared into his glass. Maxwell was taking a standing count. It was all over. A sensation in the final seconds of the contest, according to the commentator.
Jim Stevens held out his hand.
I’ll kill bloody Rebus, thought Campbell. So help me, I’ll kill him.
Later, over drinks bought with Campbell’s money, Jim Stevens asked about Rebus.
‘So it looks as if I’ll be meeting him at last?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He’s not exactly friendly with Anderson, so he may well get the shitty end of the stick, sitting at a desk all day. But then John Rebus isn’t exactly friendly with anybody.’
‘Oh?’
‘Ach, he’s not that bad, I suppose, but he’s not the easiest of men to like.’ Campbell, ducking from his friend’s interrogative eyes, studied the reporter’s tie. The recent layer of cigarette-ash had merely formed a veil over much older stains. Egg, perhaps, fat, alcohol. The scruffiest reporters were always the sharp ones, and Stevens was sharp, as sharp as ten years on the local newspaper could make a man. It was said that he had turned down jobs with London papers, just because he liked to live in Edinburgh. And what he liked best about his job was the opportunity it gave him to uncover the city’s murkier depths, the crime, the corruption, the gangs and the drugs. He was a better detective than anyone Campbell knew, and, because of that very fact perhaps, the high-ups in the police both disliked and distrusted him. That seemed proof enough that he was doing his job well. Campbell watched as a little beer escaped from Stevens’ glass and dripped onto his trousers.
‘This Rebus,’ said Stevens, wiping his mouth, ‘he’s the brother of the hypnotist, isn’t he?’
‘Must be. I’ve never asked him, but there can’t be too many people about with a name like that, can there?’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’ He nodded to himself as though confirming something of great importance.
‘So what?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just something. And he’s not a popular man, you say?’
‘I didn’t say that exactly. I feel sorry for him really. The poor bugger has a lot on his plate. He’s even started getting crank letters.’
‘Crank letters?’ Smoke enveloped Stevens for a moment as he puffed on another cigarette. Between the two men lay a thin blue pub-haze.
‘I shouldn’t have told you that. That was
Stevens nodded.
‘Absolutely. No, it’s just that I was interested. That sort of thing does happen though, doesn’t it?’
‘Not often. And not nearly as queer as the ones he’s getting. I mean, they’re not abusive or anything. They’re just … queer.’
‘Go on. How so?’
‘Well, there’s a bit of string in each one, tied into a knot, and there’s a message that reads something like “clues are everywhere”.’
‘Bloody hell. That is strange. They’re a strange family. One a bloody hypnotist and the other getting anonymous notes. He was in the Army, wasn’t he?’
‘John was, yes. How did you know?’
‘I know everything, Mac. That’s the job.’
‘Another funny thing is that he won’t speak about it.’
The reporter looked interested again. When he was interested in something, his shoulders shivered slightly. He stared at the television.
‘Won’t speak about the Army?’
