‘T-Bird Oil?’
Mairie was a very good journalist. ‘That’s the one.’
‘He just made a speech at that convention.’
‘Well, he had someone else read it out.’
A pause. Rebus flinched. ‘John, you’re in Aberdeen?’
‘Sort of,’ he confessed.
‘Tell me.’
‘Later.’
‘And if there’s a story...?’
‘You’re in pole position.’
‘With something longer than a ninety-minute lead time?’
‘Absolutely.’
Silence on the line: she knew he could be lying. She was a journalist; she knew these things.
‘OK, so what do you want to know about Weir?’
‘I don’t know. Everything. The interesting stuff.’
‘Business or personal life?’
‘Both, mainly business.’
‘Do you have a number in Aberdeen?’
‘Mairie, I’m not in Aberdeen. Especially if anyone asks. I’ll get back to you.’
‘I hear they’re reopening the Spaven case.’
‘An internal inquiry, that’s all.’
‘Preliminary to a reopening?’
Walt opened the door, brought in two beakers of coffee. Rebus stood up. ‘Look, I have to go.’
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Bye, Mairie.’
‘I checked,’ Walt said, ‘your plane leaves in an hour.’ Rebus nodded and took the coffee. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit.’
Christ, Rebus thought, he means it, too.
17
That evening, once he’d recovered from the flight back to Dyce, Rebus ate at the same Indian restaurant Allan Mitchison had frequented: no coincidence. He didn’t know why he wanted to see the place for himself; he just did. The meal was decent, a chicken dopiaza neither better nor worse than he could find in Edinburgh. The diners were couples, young and middle-aged, their conversations quiet. It didn’t look the sort of restaurant you’d raise hell in after sixteen days offshore. If anything, it was a place for contemplation, always supposing you were dining alone. When Rebus’s bill came, he recalled the sums on Mitchison’s credit-card statement — they were about double the present figure.
Rebus showed his warrant card and asked to speak to the manager. The man came bounding up to his table, nervous smile in place.
‘Is there some problem, sir?’
‘No problem,’ Rebus said.
The manager lifted the bill from the table and was about to tear it up, but Rebus stopped him.
‘I’d prefer to pay,’ he said. ‘I only want to ask a couple of questions.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The manager sat down opposite him. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘A young man called Allan Mitchison used to eat here regularly, about once a fortnight.’
The manager nodded. ‘A policeman came in to ask me about him.’
Aberdeen CID: Bain had asked them to check up on Mitchison, their report back an almost total blank.
‘Do you remember him? The customer, I mean?’
The manager nodded. ‘Very nice man, very quiet. He came maybe ten times.’
‘Alone?’
‘Sometimes alone, sometimes with a lady.’
‘Can you describe her?’
The manager shook his head. There was a clatter from the kitchen, distracting him. ‘I just remember he was not always alone.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the other policeman this?’
The man didn’t seem to understand the question. He got to his feet, the kitchen decidedly on his mind. ‘But I did,’ he said, moving away.
Something Aberdeen CID had conveniently left out of their report...
There was a different bouncer on the door at Burke’s Club, and Rebus paid his entrance money the same as everybody else. Inside, it was seventies night, with prizes for the best period costume. Rebus watched the parade of platform shoes, Oxford bags, midis and maxis, kipper ties. Nightmare stuff: it all reminded him of his wedding photos. There was a Saturday Night Fever John Travolta, and a girl who was doing a passable imitation of Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver.
The music was a mix of kitsch disco and regressive rock: Chic, Donna Summer, Mud, Showaddywaddy, Rubettes, interspersed with Rod Stewart, the Stones, Status Quo, a blast of Hawkwind and bloody ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’.
Jeff Beck: up against the wall now!
The odd song clicked with him, had the power to send him reeling in the years. The DJ somehow still had a copy of Montrose’s ‘Connection’, one of the very best cover versions of a Stones song. Rebus in the army listened to it in his billet late at night, playing on an early Sanyo cassette player, an earpiece plugged in so nobody else could hear. Next morning, he’d be deaf in one ear. He switched the earpiece about each night so he wouldn’t suffer long-term damage.
He sat at the bar. That seemed to be where the single men congregated in silent appraisal of the dance floor. The booths and tables were for couples and office parties, squawks of women who genuinely looked to be enjoying themselves. They wore low-cut tops and short tight skirts, and in the shadowy half-light they all looked terrific. Rebus decided he was drinking too quickly, poured more water into his whisky and asked the barman for more ice, too. He was seated at the corner of the bar, less than six feet from the payphone. Impossible to use it when the music was pounding, and there hadn’t been much of a let-up yet. Which made Rebus think — the only sensible time to use the payphone would be out of hours, when the place was quiet. But at that time there’d be no punters on the premises, just staff...
Rebus slipped off his stool and circuited the dance floor. The toilets were signposted down a passageway. He went inside and listened to someone in one of the cubicles snorting something. Then he washed his hands and waited. The toilet flushed, the lock clicked, and a young man in a suit came out. Rebus had his warrant card ready.
‘You’re under arrest,’ he said. ‘Anything you say —’
‘Hey, wait a minute!’ The man still had flecks of white powder in his nostrils. He was mid-twenties, lower management struggling to be middle. His jacket wasn’t expensive, but at least it was new. Rebus pushed him against the wall, angled the hand-drier and pushed the button so the hot air blew across his face.
‘There,’ he said, ‘blow some of that talc away.’
The man turned his face away from the heat. He was shaking, his whole body limp, beaten before they really got started.
‘One question,’ Rebus said, ‘and then you walk out of here... how does the song go? As free as a bird. One question.’ The man nodded. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘What?’
Rebus pushed a bit harder. ‘The stuff.’
‘I only do this on a Friday night!’
‘Last time: where did you get it?’
‘Just some guy. He’s here sometimes.’
‘Is he here tonight?’
‘I haven’t seen him.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Nothing special. Mr Average. You said one question.’
Rebus let the man go. ‘I lied.’
The man sniffed, straightened his jacket. ‘Can I go?’
‘You’re gone.’
Rebus washed his hands, loosened the knot in his tie so he could undo his top button. The sniffer might go back to his booth. He might decide to leave. He might complain to the management. Maybe they paid their way so busts like this wouldn’t happen. He left the toilet and went looking for the office, couldn’t find one. Out in the foyer, there was a staircase. The bouncer was parked in front of it. Rebus told the tux he wanted to speak to the manager.
‘No can do.’
‘It’s important.’
The bouncer shook his head slowly. His eyes didn’t move from Rebus’s face. Rebus knew what he saw: a middle-aged lush, a pathetic figure in a cheap suit. It was time to disabuse him. He opened his warrant card.
‘CID,’ he told the tux. ‘People are selling drugs on these premises and I’m a heartbeat away from calling in the Drugs Squad. Now do I get to talk to the boss?’
He got to talk to the boss.