10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (35 page)

‘Another gin and tonic, Ronald,’ Carew told the waiter, who bowed and moved off. Another waiter replaced him, and started handing out huge leather-bound menus. The thick cloth napkin was heavy on Rebus’s lap.

‘Where do you live, Inspector?’ The question was Carew’s. His smile seemed more than a smile, and Rebus was cautious.

‘Marchmont,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Carew enthused, ‘that’s always been a very good area. Used to be a farming estate back in the old days, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Mmm. Lovely neighbourhood.’

‘What James means,’ interrupted Tommy McCall, ‘is that the houses are worth a few bob.’

‘So they are,’ Carew answered indignantly. ‘Handy for the centre of town, close to The Meadows and the University. . . .’

‘James,’ Finlay Andrews warned, ‘you’re talking shop.’

‘Am I?’ Carew seemed genuinely surprised. He gave Rebus that smile again. ‘Sorry.’

‘I recommend the sirloin,’ said Andrews. When the
waiter returned to take their order, Rebus made a point of ordering sole.

He tried to be casual, not to stare at the other diners, not to examine the minutiae of the tablecloth, the implements unknown to him, the finger bowls, the hallmarked cutlery. But then this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime things, wasn’t it? So why not stare? He did, and saw fifty or so well-fed, happy faces, mostly male, with the occasional decorative female for the sake of decency, of elegance. Prime fillet. That’s what everyone else seemed to be having. And wine.

‘Who wants to choose the wine?’ said McCall, flourishing the list. Carew looked eager to snatch, and Rebus held back. It wouldn’t do, would it? To grab the list, to say me, me, me. To look with hungry eyes at the prices, wishing. . . .

‘If I may,’ said Finlay Andrews, lifting the wine list from McCall’s hand. Rebus studied the hallmark on his fork.

‘So,’ said McCall, looking at Rebus, ‘Superintendent Watson has roped you in on our little mission, eh?’

‘I don’t know that any rope was needed,’ said Rebus. ‘I’m glad to help if I can.’

‘I’m sure your experience will be invaluable,’ Watson said to Rebus, beaming at him. Rebus stared back evenly, but said nothing.

As luck would have it, Andrews seemed to know a bit about wine himself, and ordered a decent ’82 claret and a crisp Chablis. Rebus perked up a bit as Andrews did the ordering. What was the name of the gaming club again? Andrews? Finlay’s? Yes, that was it. Finlay’s. He’d heard of it, a small casino, quiet. There had never been any cause for Rebus to go there, either on business or for pleasure. What pleasure was there in losing money?

‘Is your Chinaman still haunting the place, Finlay?’ asked McCall now, while two waiters ladled a thin
covering of soup into wide-circumferenced Victorian soup plates.

‘He won’t get in again. Management reserves the right to refuse entry, et cetera.’

McCall chuckled, turned to Rebus.

‘Finlay had a bad run back there. The Chinese are terrible for gambling, you know. Well, this one Chinaman was taking Finlay for a ride.’

‘I had an inexperienced croupier,’ Andrews explained. ‘The experienced eye, and I do mean
experienced
, could tell pretty much where the ball was going to land on the roulette wheel, just by watching carefully how this youngster was flicking the ball.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Watson, before blowing on a spoonful of soup.

‘Not really,’ said Andrews. ‘I’ve seen it before. It’s simply a matter of spotting the type before they manage to lay on a really heavy bet. But then, you have to take the rough with the smooth. This has been a good year so far, a lot of money moving north, finding there’s not so much to do up here, so why not simply gamble it away?’

‘Money moving north?’ Rebus was interested.

‘People, jobs. London executives with London salaries and London habits. Haven’t you noticed?’

‘I can’t say I have,’ Rebus confessed. ‘Not around Pilmuir at any rate.’

There were smiles at this.

‘My estate agency has certainly noticed it,’ said Carew. ‘Larger properties are in great demand. Corporate buyers in some cases. Businesses moving north, opening offices. They know a good thing when they see it, and Edinburgh is a good thing. House prices have gone through the roof. I see no reason for them to stop.’ He caught Rebus’s eye. ‘They’re even building new homes in Pilmuir.’

‘Finlay,’ McCall interrupted, ‘tell Inspector Rebus where the Chinese players keep their money.’

‘Not while we’re eating, please,’ said Watson, and when McCall, chuckling to himself, looked down at his soup plate, Rebus saw Andrews flash the man a hateful look.

The wine had arrived, chilled and the colour of honey. Rebus sipped. Carew was asking Andrews about some planning permission to do with an extension to the casino.

‘It seems to be all right.’ Andrews tried not to sound smug. Tommy McCall laughed.

‘I’ll bet it does,’ he said. ‘Would your neighbours find the going as smooth if they tried to stick a big bloody extension on the back of
their
premises?’

Andrews gave a smile as cold as the Chablis. ‘Each case is considered individually and scrupulously, Tommy, so far as I know. Maybe you know better?’

‘No, no.’ McCall had finished his first glass of wine, and was reaching for a second. ‘I’m sure it’s all totally above board, Finlay.’ He looked conspiratorially at Rebus. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell tales, John.’

‘No.’ Rebus glanced towards Andrews, who was finishing his soup. ‘Over lunch, my ears are closed.’

Watson nodded agreement.

‘Hello there, Finlay.’ A large man, heavily built but with the accent on muscularity, was standing by the table. He was wearing the most expensive-looking suit Rebus had ever seen. A silken sheen of blue with threads of silver running through it. The man’s hair was silvered, too, though his face looked to be fortyish, no more. Beside him, leaning in towards him, stood a delicate Oriental woman, more girl than woman. She was exquisite, and everyone at the table rose in a kind of awe. The man waved an elegant hand, demanding they be seated. The woman hid her pleasure beneath her eyelashes.

‘Hello, Malcolm.’ Finlay Andrews gestured towards the man. ‘This is Malcolm Lanyon, the advocate.’ The last two
words were unnecessary. Everyone knew Malcolm Lanyon, the gossip column’s friend. His very public lifestyle provoked either hatred or envy. He was at the same time all that was most despised about the law profession, and a walking TV mini-series. If his lifestyle occasionally scandalised the prurient, it also satisfied a deep need in the readers of Sunday tabloids. He was also, to Rebus’s sure knowledge, an extraordinarily good lawyer. He had to be, otherwise the rest of his image would have been wallpaper, nothing more. It wasn’t wallpaper. It was bricks and mortar.

‘These,’ Andrews said, gesturing now to the occupants of the table, ‘are the working members of that committee I was telling you about.’

‘Ah.’ Lanyon nodded. ‘The campaign against drugs. An excellent idea, Superintendent.’

Watson almost blushed at the compliment: the compliment was that Lanyon knew who Watson was.

‘Finlay,’ Lanyon continued, ‘you’ve not forgotten tomorrow night?’

‘Firmly etched in my diary, Malcolm.’

‘Excellent.’ Lanyon glanced over the table. ‘In fact, I’d like you all to come. Just a little gathering at my house. No real reason for it, I just felt like having a party. Eight o’clock. Very casual.’ He was already moving off, an arm around the porcelain waist of his companion. Rebus caught his final words: his address. Heriot Row. One of the most exclusive streets in the New Town. This was a new world. Although he couldn’t be sure that the invitation was serious, Rebus was tempted to take it up. Once in a lifetime, and all that.

A little later, conversation moved to the anti-drugs campaign itself and the waiter brought more bread.

‘Bread,’ the nervous young man said, carrying another bound file of newspapers over to the counter where
Holmes stood. ‘That’s what worries me. Everybody’s turning into a bread head. You know, nothing matters to them except getting more than anyone else. Guys I went to school with, knew by the age of fourteen that they wanted to be bankers or accountants or economists. Lives were over before they’d begun. These are May.’

‘What?’ Holmes was shifting his weight from one leg to another. Why couldn’t they have chairs in this place? He had been here over an hour, his fingers blackened by old newsprint as he flicked through each day’s editions, one daytime, one evening. Now and then, a headline or some football story he’d missed first time around would attract his attention. But soon enough he had tired, and now it was merely routine. What’s more, his arms were aching from all that page turning.

‘May,’ the youth explained. ‘These are the May editions.’

‘Right, thanks.’

‘Finished with June?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

The youth nodded, buckled shut two leather straps on the open end of the bound file, and heaved the whole up into his arms, shuffling out of the room. Here we go again, thought Holmes, unbuckling this latest batch of old news and space fillers.

Rebus had been wrong. There had been no old retainer to act as a computer memory, and no computer either. So it was down to hard graft and page turning, looking for photographs of familiar places, made fresh through the use of odd camera angles. Why? He didn’t know even that yet, and the thought frustrated him. He’d find out later this afternoon hopefully, when he met with Rebus. There was a shuffling sound again as the youth re-entered, arms dangling now, jaw hanging.

‘So why didn’t you do the same as your friends?’ Holmes said conversationally.

‘You mean go in for banking?’ The youth wrinkled his nose. ‘Wanted something different. I’m learning journalism. Got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’

Indeed you have, thought Holmes, turning another page. Indeed you have.

‘Well, it’s a start,’ said McCall, rising. They were crumpling their used napkins, tossing them onto the dishevelled tablecloth. What had once been pristine was now covered with breadcrumbs and splashes of wine, a dark patch of butter, a single dripped coffee stain. Rebus felt woozy as he pulled himself out of the chair. And full. His tongue was furred from too much wine and coffee, and that cognac – Christ! Now these men were about to go back to work, or so they claimed. Rebus, too. He had a meeting at three with Holmes, didn’t he? But it was already gone three. Oh well, Holmes wouldn’t complain. Couldn’t complain, thought Rebus smugly.

‘Not a bad spread that,’ said Carew, patting his girth. Rebus couldn’t be sure whether this, or the food itself, was the spread he meant.

‘And we covered a lot of ground,’ said Watson, ‘let’s not forget that.’

‘Indeed not,’ said McCall. ‘A very useful meeting.’

Andrews had insisted on paying the bill. A good three figures’ worth by Rebus’s hasty calculation. Andrews was studying the bill now, lingering over each item as though checking it against his own mental price list. Not only a businessman, thought Rebus unkindly, but a bloody good Scot. Then Andrews called over the brisk maitre d’ and told him quietly about one item for which they had been overcharged. The maitre d’ took Andrews’ word for it, and altered the bill there and then with his own ballpoint pen, apologising unreservedly.

The restaurant was just beginning to empty. A nice lunch hour over for all the diners. Rebus felt sudden guilt
overwhelm him. He had just eaten and drunk his share of about two hundred pounds. Forty quid’s worth, in other words. Some had dined better, and were noisily, laughingly making their way out of the dining room. Old stories, cigars, red faces. McCall put an unwelcome arm around Rebus’s back, nodding towards the leavetaking.

‘If there were only fifty Tory voters left in Scotland, John, they’d all be in this room.’

‘I believe it,’ said Rebus.

Andrews, turning from the maitre d’, had heard them. ‘I thought there
were
only fifty Tories left up here,’ he said.

There, Rebus noted, were those quiet, confident smiles again. I have eaten ashes for bread, he thought. Ashes for bread. Cigar ash burned red all around him, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. But then McCall stumbled, and Rebus had to hold him up until he found his balance.

‘Bit too much to drink, Tommy?’ said Carew.

‘Just need a breath of air,’ said McCall. ‘John’ll help me, won’t you, John?’

‘Of course,’ said Rebus, glad of this excuse for the very thing he needed.

McCall turned back towards Carew. ‘Got your new car with you?’

Carew shook his head. ‘I left it in the garage.’

McCall, nodding, turned to Rebus. ‘The flash bugger’s just bought himself a V-Twelve Jag,’ he explained. ‘Nearly forty thousand, and I’m not talking about miles on the clock.’

One of the waiters was standing by the lift.

‘Nice to have seen you gentlemen again,’ he said, his voice as automatic as the lift doors which closed when Rebus and McCall stepped inside.

‘I must have arrested him some time,’ Rebus said, ‘because I’ve never been here before, so he can’t have seen me here before.’

‘This place is nothing,’ said McCall, screwing up his face. ‘Nothing. You want some fun, you should come to the club one night. Just say you’re a friend of Finlay’s. That’ll get you in. Great place it is.’

‘I might do that,’ said Rebus as the lift doors opened. ‘Just as soon as my cummerbund comes back from the dry cleaners.’

McCall laughed all the way out of the building.

Holmes was stiff as he left the building by its staff entrance. The youth, having shown him through the maze of corridors, had already turned back inside, hands in pockets, whistling. Holmes wondered if he really would end up with a career in journalism. Stranger things had happened.

He had found the photographs he wanted, one in each of three consecutive Wednesday daytime’s editions. From these, the photographic library had traced the originals, and on the backs of the originals was the same golden rectangular sticker, denoting that the photos were the property of Jimmy Hutton Photographic Studios. The stickers, bless them, even mentioned an address and phone number. So Holmes allowed himself the luxury of a stretch, cracking his spine back into some semblance of shape. He thought about treating himself to a pint, but after leaning over the study table for the best part of two hours the last thing he wanted to do was lean against a bar as he drank. Besides, it was three fifteen. He was already, thanks to a quick-witted but slow-moving photo library, late for his meeting – his
first
– with Inspector Rebus. He didn’t know how Rebus stood on the issue of punctuality; he feared the stand would be hard. Well, if the day’s work so far didn’t cheer him up, he wasn’t human.