‘The landlady didn’t know who was in the bathroom,’ Lumsden explained. ‘She just knew whoever it was had been in there long enough. She got no answer, so went to fetch one of her “boys” — this place caters to oil-workers. She tells me she thought Mr Kane was an oil-worker. Anyway, one of her lodgers got the door open and they found this.’
‘Nobody saw or heard anything?’
‘Suicide tends to be a quiet affair. Follow me.’
They went along narrow passages and up two short flights of stairs to Tony El’s bedroom. It was fairly tidy. ‘The landlady vacuums and dusts twice a week, sheets and towels are changed twice a week too.’ There was a bottle of cheap whisky with the top unscrewed, about a fifth of the bottle left. An empty glass stood beside it. ‘Look over here.’
Rebus looked. On the dressing table sat a full set of works: syringe, spoon, cotton wool, lighter, and a tiny polythene bag of brown powder.
‘I hear heroin’s back in a big way,’ Lumsden said.
‘I didn’t see marks on his arms,’ Rebus said. Lumsden nodded that they were there, but Rebus went back to the bathroom to make sure. Yes, a couple of pinpricks on the inside left forearm. He went back to the bedroom. Lumsden was seated on the bed, flicking through a magazine.
‘He hadn’t been using long,’ Rebus said. ‘His arms are pretty clean. I didn’t see the knife.’
‘Look at this stuff,’ Lumsden said. He wanted to show Rebus the magazine. A woman with a plastic bag over her head was being entered from behind. ‘Some people have sick minds.’
Rebus took the magazine from him. It was called Snuff Babes. On the front inside page it stated that it was printed ‘with pride’ in the USA. It wasn’t just illegal; it was the hardest core Rebus had ever seen. Pages and pages of mock-up deaths with sex attached.
Lumsden had reached into his pocket, drew out an evidence bag. Inside was a blood-stained knife. But no ordinary knife: a Stanley.
‘I’m not so sure this was suicide,’ Rebus said quietly.
So then he had to explain his reasons: the visit to Uncle Joe, how Uncle Joe’s son came by his nickname, and the fact that Tony El used to be one of Uncle Joe’s henchmen.
‘The door was locked from the inside,’ Lumsden said.
‘And it hadn’t been forced when I got here.’
‘So?’
‘So how did the landlady’s “boy” get in?’ He took Lumsden back to the bathroom and they examined the door: with the turn of a screwdriver, it could be locked and unlocked from the outside.
‘You want us to treat this as murder?’ Lumsden said. ‘You think this guy Stanley walked in here, spiked Mr Kane, dragged him along to the bathroom, and sliced his wrists open? We just passed half a dozen bedroom doors and came up two flights of stairs — don’t you think somebody might have noticed?’
‘Have you asked them?’
‘I’m telling you, John, no one saw anything.’
‘And I’m telling you this has Joseph Toal written all over it.’
Lumsden was shaking his head. He’d rolled up the magazine. It was sticking out of his jacket pocket. ‘All I see here is a suicide. And from what you’ve told me, I’m glad to see the back of the fucker, end of story.’
The same patrol car took Rebus back into the city, still keeping the wrong side of the speed limit.
Rebus felt wide awake. He paced his room, smoked three cigarettes. The city outside his cathedral windows was finally asleep. The adult pay-movie channel was still available. The only other thing on offer was beach volleyball from California. For want of any other distraction he got out the flyers from the demo. They made depressing reading. Mackerel and other species of fish were now ‘commercially extinct’ in the North Sea, while others, including haddock — staple of the fish supper — wouldn’t survive the millennium. Meantime, there were 400 oil installations out there which would one day become redundant, and if they were simply dumped along with their heavy metals and chemicals... bye-bye fishies.
Of course, it might be that the fish were for the crow road anyway: nitrates and phosphates from sewage, plus agricultural fertilisers... all drained into the seas. Rebus felt worse than ever, tossed the flyers into the bin. One of them didn’t make it, and he picked it up. It told him there was going to be a march and rally on Saturday, with a benefit concert headlined by the Dancing Pigs. Rebus binned it and decided to check his answering machine at home. There were two calls from Ancram, agitated verging on furious, and one from Gill, telling him to call her whatever the hour. So he did.
‘Hello?’ She sounded like someone had gummed up her mouth.
‘Sorry it’s so late.’
‘John.’ She paused to check the time. ‘It’s so late it’s practically early.’
‘Your message said...’
‘I know.’ She sounded like she was struggling to sit up in bed, yawned mightily. ‘Howdenhall worked on that message pad, used ESDA on it, electrostatics.’
‘And?’
‘Came up with a phone number.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Aberdeen code.’
Rebus felt his spine tingle. ‘Where in Aberdeen?’
‘It’s the payphone in some discotheque. Hang on, I’ve got the name here... Burke’s Club.’
Clickety-click.
‘Does it mean anything to you?’ she said.
Yes, he thought, it means I’m up here working at least two cases, maybe three.
‘You said a payphone?’
‘A public phone. I know because I called it. Not far from the bar by the sound of it.’
‘Give me the number.’ She did. ‘Anything else?’
‘The only fingerprints found belonged to Fergie himself. Nothing interesting on his home computer, except that he was trying a few tax dodges.’
‘Hold the front page. And his business premises?’
‘Nothing so far. John, are you OK?’
‘Fine, why?’
‘You sound... I don’t know, sort of distant.’
Rebus allowed himself a smile. ‘I’m right here. Get some sleep, Gill.’
‘Night, John.’
‘Night-night.’
He decided to try phoning Lumsden at the cop-shop. Conscientious: nearly three a.m. and he was there.
‘You should be in the land of Nod,’ Lumsden told him.
‘Something I meant to ask earlier.’
‘What?’
‘That club we were in, the one where Michelle Strachan met Johnny Bible.’
‘Burke’s?’
‘I just wondered,’ Rebus said. ‘Is it above board?’
‘Moderately.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘It skates on thin ice sometimes. There’s been a bit of drug dealing on the premises. The owners tried to clean it up, I think they’ve done a pretty good job.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘A couple of Yanks. John, what’s this about?’
Rebus took less than a second constructing his lie. ‘The Edinburgh jumper, he had a book of matches in his pocket. They were from Burke’s.’
‘It’s a popular spot.’
Rebus made a sound of agreement. ‘These owners, what were their names again?’
‘I didn’t say.’ Cagey now.
‘Is it a secret?’
A humourless laugh. ‘No.’
‘Maybe you don’t want me bothering them?’
‘Jesus, John...’ A theatrical sigh. ‘Erik-with-a-k Stemmons, Judd Fuller. I don’t see the point in talking to them.’
‘Me neither, Ludo. I just wanted their names.’ Rebus attempted an American accent. ‘Ciao, baby.’ He was smiling when he put down the receiver. He looked at his watch. Ten past three. It was a five-minute walk to College Street. But would the place still be open? He got out the phone book, looked up Burke’s — the number listed was the same one Gill had given him. He tried it: no answer. He decided to leave it at that... for the moment.