‘I’m excited already.’ Rebus got up and reached into a pocket for his cigarettes. Jack had switched off the recorder and ejected the tape. He handed it to Ancram.
‘I’ll have a copy made immediately and sent to you for verification,’ Ancram told Rebus.
‘Thanks.’ Rebus inhaled, wished he could hold his breath for ever. Some people, when they exhaled no smoke came out. He wasn’t that selfish. ‘One question.’
‘Yes?’
‘What am I supposed to tell my colleagues when I drag Jack here into the office with me?’
‘You’ll think of something. You’re a more practised liar these days.’
‘I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but thanks anyway.’ He made to leave.
‘A little birdie tells me you put the nut on a TV reporter.’
‘I tripped, fell into him.’
Ancram almost smiled. ‘Tripped?’ Waited till Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, it’s going to look good, isn’t it? They got the whole thing on video.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘This little birdie of yours... anyone in particular?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you have your sources, don’t you? In the press, I mean. Jim Stevens for one. Nice little friendship the two of you have got.’
‘No comment, Inspector.’ Rebus laughed, turned away. ‘One more thing,’ Ancram said.
‘What?’
‘When Geddes was trying to pin the murder on Spaven, you interviewed some of Spaven’s friends and associates, including...’ Ancram made show of looking for the name in his notes. ‘Fergus McLure.’
‘What of it?’
‘Mr McLure’s recently deceased. I believe you went to see him the morning he died?’
Who’d been talking?
‘So?’
Ancram shrugged, looked satisfied. ‘Just another... coincidence. By the way, DCI Grogan called me this morning.’
‘It must be love.’
‘Do you know a pub in Aberdeen called the Yardarm?’
‘It’s down by the docks.’
‘Yes, it is. Ever been inside?’
‘Maybe.’
‘A drinker in there says definitely. You bought him a drink, talked about the rigs.’
The wee man with the heavy cranium. ‘So?’
‘So it shows you were at the docks the night before Vanessa Holden was murdered. Two nights in a row, Inspector. Grogan’s beginning to sound very edgy. I think he wants you back in his custody.’
‘Are you going to hand me over?’ Ancram shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
Rebus almost blew some smoke in Ancram’s face. Almost. Maybe he was more selfish than he thought...
‘That went as well as could be expected,’ Jack Morton said. He was in the driver’s seat, Rebus electing to sit in the front with him.
‘Only because you thought there’d be a bloodbath.’
‘I was trying to remember my first aid training.’
Rebus laughed, releasing tension. He had a headache.
‘Aspirin in the glove compartment,’ Jack told him. Rebus opened it. There was a little plastic bottle of Vittel there, too. He washed down three tablets.
‘Were you ever in the Scouts, Jack?’
‘I was a sixer in the Cubs, never made the transfer to Scouts. I had other hobbies by then. Are the Scouts still going?’
‘Last I heard.’
‘Remember Bob-a-Job week? You had to go round the neighbours, washing windows, digging their gardens. Then at the end, you handed all the cash over to Akela.’
‘Who promptly stuck half in his pocket.’
Jack looked at him. ‘There’s a touch of the cynic in you, isn’t there?’
‘Maybe just a touch.’
‘So where to now? Fort Apache?’
‘After what I’ve just been through?’
‘The Ox?’
‘You’re learning.’
Jack opted for tomato juice — watching his weight, he said — while Rebus had a half-pint and, after a moment’s thought, a nip. The lunchtime trade wasn’t in yet, but the pies and bridies were heating in preparation. Maybe the barmaid had been in the Girl Guides. They took their drinks through to the back room, settled at a corner table.
‘It’s funny being back in Edinburgh,’ Jack said. ‘Never used to drink here, did we? What was the name of the local along Great London Road?’
‘I don’t remember.’ It was true; he couldn’t even recall the pub’s interior, yet must have been in there two or three hundred times. It was just a place for drink and discussion; what life it had the drinkers brought with them.
‘Jesus, the money we wasted in there.’
‘There speaks the reformed drinker.’
Jack forced a smile, lifted his glass. ‘John, tell me though, why do you drink?’
‘It kills my dreams.’
‘It’ll kill you in the end, too.’
‘Something’s got to.’
‘Know what someone said to me? They said you were the world’s longest surviving suicide victim.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Never mind.’
Rebus was laughing. ‘Maybe I should apply to the Guinness Book of Records.’
Jack drained his glass. ‘So what’s the itinerary?’
‘There’s someone I’m supposed to call, a journalist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I suppose she might be home. I’m going back to the bar to use the phone. Are you coming?’
‘No, I’ll trust you.’
‘You sure?’
‘Fairly.’
So Rebus went to call Mairie, but all he got was her answering machine. He left a brief message, and asked the barmaid if there was a photographer’s within walking distance. She nodded, gave him directions, then went back to wiping glasses. Rebus summoned Jack, and they drifted out of the pub into a day that was growing warmer. There was still a blanket of cloud overhead, oppressive, almost thundery. But you just knew the sun was pummelling it, like a child with its pillow. Rebus took his jacket off, slung it over his shoulder. The photographer’s was one street further along, so they cut through Hill Street.
The shop carried a window display of portraits — wedding couples seeming to radiate light, young children beaming smiles. Frozen moments of happiness — the great deception — to frame and put in pride of place in your cabinet or on top of the television.
‘Holiday snaps, is it?’ Jack asked.
‘Just don’t ask how I got them,’ Rebus warned. He explained to the assistant that he wanted reprints made of each negative. She jotted down the instructions and told him it would be next day.
‘No chance of one-hour?’
‘Not with reprints, sorry.’
Rebus took the receipt from her and folded it into his pocket. Outside again, the sun had given up. It was raining. Rebus kept his jacket off, sweating enough as it was.
‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit about all this.’
‘All what?’
‘Your trip to Aberdeen, all the little coded messages between Chick and you, just, well, everything.’
‘Probably best you don’t know.’
‘Why? Because I’m working for Ancram?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Come on, John.’
But Rebus wasn’t listening. Two shops down from the photographer’s was a small DIY store: paint and brushes and wallpaper rolls. It gave Rebus an idea. Back at the car, he gave directions, telling Jack they were on a mystery tour — remembering Lumsden saying the same thing to him his first night in Furry Boot Town. Near St Leonard’s Rebus told Jack to make a left.
‘Here?’
‘Here.’
It was a do-it-yourself superstore. The car park was almost empty, so they parked close to the doors. Then Rebus hopped out and found a trolley with four working wheels.