Eve, Uncle Joe’s lady — chatting Rebus up in an Aberdeen hotel. Coincidence? Hardly. Readying to pump him for information? Nap hand. And up here with Stanley, the two of them looking pretty cosy... He remembered her words: ‘I’m in sales. Products for the oil industry.’ Yes, Rebus could guess now what kind of products...
‘John?’
‘Yes, Jack?’
‘This phone number, is that an Aberdeen code?’
‘Keep it to yourself. No grassing me up to Ancram.’
‘Just one question...?’
‘What?’
‘Can I really hear “Mouldy Old Dough”?’
Rebus closed the conversation, finished his drink and left. There was a car parked on the other side of the road. The driver lowered his window so Rebus could see him. It was DS Ludovic Lumsden.
Rebus smiled, waved, started to cross the road. He was thinking: I don’t trust you.
‘Hiya, Ludo,’ he said. Just a man who’d been out for a drink and a dance. ‘What brings you here?’
‘You weren’t in your room. I guessed you might be here.’
‘Some guess.’
‘You lied to me, John. You told me about a book of matches from Burke’s Club.’
‘Right.’
‘They don’t do books of matches.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘The hotel’s only two minutes away.’
‘John.’ Lumsden’s eyes were cold. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘Sure, Ludo.’ Rebus walked around the car and got into the passenger seat.
They drove down to the harbour, parked on an empty street. Lumsden turned off the ignition and turned in his seat.
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So you went to Sullom Voe today and didn’t bother to tell me. So why has my patch suddenly become your patch? How would you like it if I started creeping around Edinburgh behind your back?’
‘Am I a prisoner here? I thought I was one of the good guys.’
‘It’s not your town.’
‘I’m beginning to see that. But maybe it’s not your town either.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean who really runs the place, behind the scenes? You’ve got kids going mad with frustration, you’ve got a ready audience for dope and anything else that might give their life a kick. In that club tonight, I saw the lunatic I told you about, Stanley.’
‘Toal’s son?’
‘That’s him. Tell me, is he up here for the floral displays?’
‘Did you ask him?’
Rebus lit a cigarette, wound down the window so he could flick the ash out. ‘He didn’t see me.’
‘You think we should question him about Tony El.’ A statement of fact, no answer required. ‘What would he tell us — “sure, I did it”? Come on, John.’
A woman was knocking on the window. Lumsden lowered it, and she was into her spiel.
‘Two of you, well, I don’t normally do threesomes but you look like nice... Oh, hello Mr Lumsden.’
‘Evening, Cleo.’
She looked at Rebus, then Lumsden again. ‘I see your tastes have changed.’
‘Lose yourself, Cleo.’ Lumsden wound the window back up. The woman disappeared into the darkness.
Rebus turned to face Lumsden. ‘Look, I don’t know just how bent you are. I don’t know whose money will be paying for my stay at the hotel. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I’m beginning to get the feeling I know this city. I know it because it’s much the same as Edinburgh. I know you could live here for years without glimpsing what’s beneath the surface.’
Lumsden started to laugh. ‘You’ve been here — what? — a day and a half? You’re a tourist here, don’t presume to know the place. I’ve been here a hell of a lot longer, and even I couldn’t claim that.’
‘All the same, Ludo...’ Rebus said quietly.
‘Is this leading somewhere?’
‘I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.’
‘And you’re the one who’s talking.’
Rebus sighed, spoke slowly as to a child. ‘Uncle Joe controls Glasgow, including — my guess — a fair bit of the drug trade. Now his son’s up here, drinking in Burke’s Club. An Edinburgh snitch had some gen on a consignment headed north. He also had the phone number of Burke’s. He ended up dead.’ Rebus held up a finger. ‘That’s one strand. Tony El tortured an oil-worker, who consequently died. Tony El scurried back up here but neatly passed away. That’s three deaths so far, every one of them suspicious, and nobody’s doing much about it.’ A second finger. ‘Strand two. Are the two connected? I don’t know. At the moment, all that connects them is Aberdeen itself. But that’s a start. You don’t know me, Ludo, a start is all I need.’
‘Can I change the subject slightly?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Did you get anything on Shetland?’
‘Just a bad feeling. A little hobby of mine, I collect them.’
‘And tomorrow you’re going out to Bannock?’
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘A few phone calls, that’s all it took. Know something?’ Lumsden started the car. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of you. My life was simple until you came along.’
‘Never a dull moment,’ Rebus said, opening the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ll walk. Nice night for it.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘I always do.’
Rebus watched the car move off, turn a corner. He listened to the engine fade, flicked his cigarette on to the tarmac and started to walk. The first place he passed was the Yardarm. It was Exotic Dancer night, with a scarecrow on the door charging admission. Rebus had been there, done that. The heyday of the exotic dancer had been the late seventies, every pub in Edinburgh seemed to have them: men watching from behind pint glasses, the stripper selecting her three records from the jukebox, a collection afterwards if you wanted her to go a bit further.
‘Only two quid, pal,’ the scarecrow called, but Rebus shook his head and kept walking.
The same nighttime sounds were around him: drunken whoops, whistles, and the birds who didn’t know how late it was. A prowl of woolly suits was questioning two teenagers. Rebus passed by, just another tourist. Maybe Lumsden was right, but Rebus didn’t think so. Aberdeen felt so much like Edinburgh. Sometimes, you visited a town or city and couldn’t get a handle on it, but this wasn’t one of those.
On Union Terrace a low stone wall separated him from the gardens, which were in a gully below. He saw his car still parked across the road, directly outside the hotel. He was about to cross when hands grabbed at his arms and hauled him backwards. He felt the small of his back hit the wall, felt himself tipping backwards, up and over.
Falling, rolling... Skidding down the steep slope into the gardens, not able to stop himself, so going with the roll. He hit bushes, felt them tear at his shirt. His nose gouged the earth, tears springing into his eyes. Then he was on the flat. Clipped grass. Lying winded on his back, adrenalin masking any immediate damage. More sounds: crashing through bushes. They were following him down. He half rose to his knees, but a foot caught him, sent him sprawling on to his front. The foot came down hard on his head, held it there, so he was sucking grass, his nose feeling ready to break. Someone wrenched his hands behind his back and up, the pressure just right: excruciating pain couldn’t overcome the knowledge that if he moved, he’d pop an arm out of its socket.
Two men, at least two. One with the foot. One working the arms. The alcoholic streets seemed a long way off, traffic a distant drone. Now something cold against his temple. He knew the feeling — a handgun, colder than dry ice.