‘Catch me if you can,’ Rebus said. Halfway down the stairs, Jack did just that.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going to a pub,’ Rebus told him. ‘We’ll take my car. You won’t be drinking, so you can drive me home afterwards. That way we stay the right side of the law.’ Rebus pulled the door open. ‘Now let’s see just how strong your Juice Church really is.’
Outside, Rebus almost collided with a tall man with black curly hair, turning grey. He saw the microphone, heard the man rattle off a question. Eamonn Breen. Rebus ducked his head just enough to catch Breen on the bridge of his nose: no power in the ‘Glasgow kiss’, just enough to let Rebus past.
‘Bastard!’ Breen spluttered, dropping the mike and cupping both hands over his nose. ‘Did you catch that? Did you?’
Rebus glanced back, saw blood dripping between Breen’s fingers, saw the cameraman nodding, saw Kayleigh Burgess over to one side, a pen in her mouth, looking at Rebus with half a smile.
‘She probably thought you’d prefer to have a friendly face around,’ Jack Morton said.
They were standing in the Oxford Bar, and Rebus had just told him about Siobhan.
‘Given the circumstances, I know I would.’ Jack was halfway down a pint of fresh orange and lemonade. Ice rattled in the glass when he tipped it. Rebus was on his second pint of Belhaven Best, motoring in fifth: nice and smooth. Sunday evening in the Ox, only twenty minutes after opening time, the place was quiet. Three regulars stood beside them at the bar, heads angled up towards the television, some quiz programme. The quizmaster had topiary where his haircut should have been and teeth transplanted from a Steinway. His job was to hold a card up to just below his face, read out the question, stare at the camera, then repeat the question as though nuclear disarmament depended on the answer.
‘So, Barry,’ he intoned, ‘for two hundred points: which character plays the Wall in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’
‘Pink Floyd,’ said the first regular.
‘Snout,’ said the second.
‘Cheerio, Barry,’ said the third, waving his fingers at the television, where Barry was clearly in trouble. A buzzer sounded. The quizmaster opened the question to the other two contestants.
‘No?’ he said. ‘No takers?’ He seemed surprised, but had to refer to his card to find the answer. ‘Snout,’ he said, looking at the hapless trio, then repeating the name just so they’d remember next time. Another card. ‘Jasmine, for a hundred and fifty points: in which American state would you find the town of Akron?’
‘Ohio,’ said the second regular.
‘Isn’t he a character in Star Trek?’ asked the first.
‘Cheerio, Jasmine,’ said the third.
‘So,’ Jack asked, ‘are we talking?’
‘It takes more than my home being raided, my clothes confiscated, and a suspicion of multiple murder hanging over my head to put me in the huff. Of course we’re fucking talking.’
‘Well, that’s all-fucking-right then.’
Rebus snorted into his drink, then had to wipe foam off his nose. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed nutting that wanker.’
‘He probably enjoyed the fact that the whole thing was being filmed.’
Rebus shrugged, reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.
‘Go on then,’ Jack said, ‘give me one.’
‘You’ve stopped, remember?’
‘Aye, but there’s no AA for smokers. Come on.’
But Rebus shook his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture, Jack, but you’re right.’
‘About what?’
‘About looking out for your future. You’re dead right. So don’t cave in, stick to it. No booze, no cigs, and report my doings back to Chick Ancram.’
Jack looked at him. ‘You mean that?’
‘Every word of it,’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Except the bit about Ancram, of course.’
Then he ordered another round.
‘The answer’s Ohio,’ the quizmaster said, no surprise to anyone in the bar.
‘I think,’ Jack said a little later on, halfway down his second pint of juice, ‘we’re about to hit our first crisis of faith.’
‘You need a piss?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well forget it,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not going in there with you.’
‘Give me your word you’ll stay put.’
‘Where would I go?’
‘John...’
‘OK, OK. Would I get you into trouble, Jack?’
‘I don’t know, would you?’
Rebus winked at him. ‘Off you go to the bog and find out.’
Jack stood his ground as long as he could, then turned and fled. Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar, smoking his cigarette. He was wondering what Jack would do if he ran out on him right now: would he report it to Ancram, or would he keep quiet? Would he be doing himself any favours by reporting it? After all, it showed him in a bad light, and he wouldn’t want that. So maybe he’d keep quiet. Rebus could go about his business without Ancram knowing.
Except that Ancram had ways of knowing. The man wasn’t solely dependent on Jack Morton. It was an interesting point, nevertheless: a point of faith, apt enough on a Sunday night. Maybe Rebus would drag Jack along to see Father Conor Leary later on. Jack used to be a real hun, a blue-nose, maybe still was. A drink with a Catholic priest might send him scurrying into the night. He looked round and saw Jack at the top of the steps, looking relieved — in both senses of the word.
Poor bastard, Rebus thought. Ancram wasn’t being fair on him. You could see the strain around Jack’s mouth. Rebus felt tired suddenly, remembered he’d been up since six, and had been on the rack ever since. He drained his glass and gestured towards the door. Jack seemed only too glad to be leaving.
When they got outside, Rebus asked him, ‘How close were you in there?’
‘To what?’
‘Ordering a real drink.’
‘As close as I ever get.’
Rebus leaned on the roof of the car, waiting for Jack to unlock it. ‘Sorry I did that to you,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Brought you here.’
‘I should have the willpower to go into a pub without drinking.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
And he had a little smile to himself. Jack would be OK. Jack wouldn’t shop him. The man had lost too much self-respect already.
‘There’s a spare room,’ Rebus said, getting into the car, ‘but no sheets or anything. We’ll make up the sofa if that’s OK.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ Jack said.
Fine for Jack, yes, but not so fine for Rebus. It meant he’d have to sleep in his bed. No more nights half-dressed on the chair by the window. No more Stones at two a.m. He knew he had to get busy, had to finish this as fast as he could, one way or another.
Beginning tomorrow.
As they left the Ox, Rebus decided on a detour, directed Jack down towards Leith, let him drive them around for a bit, then pointed to a darkened shop doorway.
‘That was her pitch,’ he said.
‘Whose?’ Jack stopped the car. The street was lifeless, the working girls busy elsewhere.
‘Angie Riddell’s. I knew her, Jack. I mean, I’d met her a couple of times. First time, it was business, I was pulling her in. But then I came down here looking for her.’ He looked at Jack, expecting a jokey comment, but Jack’s face was serious. He was listening. ‘We sat and talked. Next thing I knew, she was dead. It’s different when you know someone. You remember their eyes. I don’t mean the colour or anything, I mean all the things their eyes told you about them.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘Whoever killed her, he couldn’t have been looking at her eyes.’
‘John, we’re not priests, you know. I mean, this is a job, right? You have to be able to lay it aside sometimes.’