‘You’re not pick of the week with DCI Ancram.’
Jack Morton started to take an interest in the call.
‘Maybe not, but he’s not my boss.’
‘He has pull, though.’
‘So let him pull.’
‘Brian, I know what you’re up to. I want to talk to you about it. Can we come round there?’
‘We?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Maybe I could come see you.’
‘This place is a building site. We’ll be there in about an hour, all right?’
Holmes hesitated, then said that would be fine.
‘Brian, this is Jack Morton, an old friend of mine. He’s with Falkirk CID, currently seconded to DI John Rebus.’
Jack winked at Brian. He’d washed the paint off his face and hands. ‘What he means is, I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble.’
‘UN Peacekeeper, eh? Well, come in.’
Brian Holmes had spent the hour tidying the living room. He saw Rebus’s appraisal.
‘Just don’t go into the kitchen — looks like an Apache raiding party’s ridden through.’
Rebus smiled and sat on the sofa, Jack next to him. Brian asked if they wanted anything to drink. Rebus shook his head.
‘Brian, I’ve told Jack a wee bit about what’s happened. He’s a good man, we can speak in front of him. OK?’
Rebus was taking a calculated risk, hoping the afternoon’s bonding had worked. If not, at least they’d made progress on the room: three walls with first coats, and half of one side of the door stripped. Plus a new lock on the door.
Brian Holmes nodded and sat down on a chair. There were photos of Nell on top of the gas fire. It looked like they’d been newly framed and placed there: a makeshift shrine.
‘Is she at her mum’s?’ Rebus asked.
Brian nodded. ‘But mostly working late shifts at the library.’
‘Any chance she’s coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’ Brian made to bite a fingernail, discovered there was nothing there to bite.
‘I’m not sure this is the answer.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t make yourself resign, so you’re going to let Ancram kick you out: not cooperating, acting the mule.’
‘I had a good teacher.’
Rebus smiled. It was true, after all. He’d had Lawson Geddes; and Brian had had him.
‘This happened to me once before,’ Brian went on. ‘At school, I had this really good friend, and we were going to go to university together, only he’d decided to go to Stirling, so I said I’d go there, too. But my first choice had been Edinburgh, and to knock Edinburgh’s offer on the head I had to fail Higher German.’
‘And?’
‘And I sat in the exam hall... knowing if I just sat there and didn’t answer any of the questions, that would be it.’
‘But you answered them?’
Brian smiled. ‘Couldn’t help myself. I got a C pass.’
‘Same problem now,’ Rebus said. ‘If you go this way, you’ll always regret it, because in your heart you don’t want to leave. You like what you’re doing. And beating yourself up about it...’
‘What about beating other people up?’ Brian looked straight at him as he asked the question. Mental Minto, sporting bruises.
‘You lost the head once.’ Rebus held up a finger for emphasis. ‘It was once too often, but you got away with it. I don’t think you’ll do that to anyone ever again.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Holmes turned to Jack Morton. ‘I had this suspect in the biscuit-tin, I gave him a smack.’
Jack nodded: Rebus had told him all about it. ‘I’ve been there myself, Brian,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, it’s never come to blows, but I’ve been close. I’ve skinned my knuckles on a few walls.’
Holmes held up ten fingers: scrapes all across them.
‘See,’ Rebus said, ‘like I say, you’re beating yourself up. Mental’s got a few marks, but they’ll fade.’ He tapped his head. ‘But when the bruises are in here...’
‘I want Nell back.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘But I want to be a copper.’
‘You’ve got to make both those clear to her.’
‘Christ.’ Brian rubbed his face. ‘I’ve tried explaining it...’
‘You’ve always written a good, clear report, Brian.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If the words aren’t coming out right, try writing them down.’
‘Send her a letter?’
‘Call it that if you like. Just put down what it is you want to say, maybe try explaining why you feel that way.’
‘Have you been reading Cosmopolitan or something?’
‘Only the problem page.’
They had a laugh at that, though it didn’t really merit one. Brian stretched in his chair. ‘I need a sleep,’ he said.
‘Get an early night, write the letter first thing tomorrow.’
‘Maybe I will, aye.’
Rebus started to get to his feet. Brian watched him rise.
‘Don’t you want to hear about Mick Hine?’
‘Who he?’
‘Ex-con, the last man to speak to Lenny Spaven.’
Rebus sat down again.
‘I had a job tracking him down. Turns out he was here in town all the time, sleeping rough.’
‘And?’
‘And I had a word with him.’ Brian paused. ‘And I think you should, too. You’ll get a very different picture of Lenny Spaven, believe me.’
Rebus believed him, whatever he meant. He didn’t want to, but he did.
Jack was utterly opposed to the idea.
‘Look, John, my boss is going to want to talk to this guy Hine, right?’
‘Right.’
‘How’s it going to look when he finds out not just that your pal Brian’s been there first, but that you’ve followed up?’
‘It’s going to look bad, but he hasn’t told me not to.’
Jack growled his frustration. They’d dropped his car back at the flat, and were now walking down on to Melville Drive. One side of the road was Bruntsfield Links, the other the Meadows, a flat grassy stretch which could be wonderful on a hot summer’s afternoon — a place to relax, to play football or cricket — but scary at night. The paths were lamp-lit, but it was like the wattage had been turned down. Some nights, the walk was positively Victorian. But this was summer, the sky still pink. There were squares of light shining from the Royal Infirmary and a couple of the tall university buildings huddled around George Square. Female students crossed the Meadows in packs, a lesson learned from the animal world. Maybe there were no predators out there tonight, but the fear was just as real. The government had pledged to combat ‘the fear of crime’. It was reported on the TV news just before the latest Hollywood shoot-’em-up.
Rebus turned to Jack. ‘You going to grass me up?’
‘I should.’
‘Yes, you should. But will you?’
‘I don’t know, John.’
‘Well, don’t let our friendship stand in your way.’
‘That helps me a lot.’
‘Look, Jack, the water I’m in is so deep, I’d probably die of the bends coming back up. So I might just as well stay down here.’
‘Ever heard of the Marianas Trench? Ancram probably has one just like it waiting for you.’
‘You’re slipping.’
‘What?’
‘He was Chick before, now he’s “Ancram”. You better watch yourself.’
‘You’re sober, aren’t you?’
‘As a judge.’
‘Can’t be Dutch courage then, which means it’s plain insanity.’
‘Welcome to my world, Jack.’
They were headed for the back of the Infirmary. There were benches provided just this side of the perimeter wall. Dossers, travellers, down-and-outs... whatever you wanted to call them... they used these benches as beds in the summer. There used to be one old guy, Frank, Rebus saw him every summer, and at the end of every summer he disappeared like a migrating bird, only to reappear the next year. But this year... this year Frank hadn’t appeared. The homeless people Rebus saw were a lot younger than Frank, his spiritual children, if not grandchildren; only they were different — tougher and more frightened, wired and tired. Different game, different rules. Edinburgh’s ‘gentlemen of the road’: twenty years ago you could have measured them in mere dozens. But not these days. Not these days...