When the telephone rang, he put down his sandpaper — the door was looking good — and picked it up. Jack was using a ladder to reach the cornices.
‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s Mairie.’
‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘Sorry, another assignment — a paying one.’
‘Did you find out anything about Major Weir?’
‘A fair bit. How was Aberdeen?’
‘Bracing.’
‘It’ll do that to you. These notes... probably too much to read over the phone.’
‘So let’s meet.’
‘Which pub?’
‘Not a pub.’
‘There must be something wrong with the line. Did you just say “not a pub”?’
‘How about Duddingston Village? That’s about halfway. I’ll park by the loch.’
‘When?’
‘Half an hour?’
‘Half an hour it is.’
‘We’ll never get this room finished,’ Jack said, stepping down off the ladder. He had traces of white paint in his hair.
‘Grey suits you,’ Rebus told him.
Jack rubbed at his head. ‘Is it another woman?’ Rebus nodded. ‘How do you manage to keep them apart?’
‘The flat has a lot of doors.’
Mairie was waiting when they got there. Jack hadn’t been around Arthur’s Seat in years, so they took the scenic route; not that there was much to see at night. The huge hump of a hill, looking like nothing so much as — even kids could see it — a crouched elephant, was a great place to blow off the cobwebs — and anything else you might have on you. At night, though, it was poorly lit and a long way from anywhere. Edinburgh had lots of these glorious empty spaces. They were fine and private places right up until the moment you met your first junkie, mugger, rapist or gay-basher.
Duddingston Village was just that — a village in the midst of a city, sheltering beneath Arthur’s Seat. Duddingston Loch — more outsize pond than true loch — looked down on to a bird sanctuary and a path known as the Innocent Railway: Rebus wished he knew where it got the name.
Jack stopped the car and flashed his lights. Mairie switched hers off, unlocked her door, and came loping towards them. Rebus leaned into the back to open the door, and she got in. He introduced her to Jack Morton.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you worked the Knots and Crosses case with John.’
Rebus blinked. ‘How do you know that? It was before your time.’
She winked at him. ‘I’ve done my research.’
He wondered what else she might know, but hadn’t time to speculate. She handed him a brown A4 envelope.
‘Thank God for e-mail. I’ve a contact on the Washington Post and he got me most of what’s there.’
Rebus switched on the interior light. There was a spot-lamp specially for reading by.
‘Usually he wants to meet me in pubs,’ Mairie told Jack, ‘right seedy ones at that.’
Jack smiled at her, turned in his seat with his arm hanging down over the headrest. Rebus knew Jack liked her. Everyone liked Mairie from the off. He wished he knew her secret.
‘Seedy pubs suit his personality,’ Jack said.
‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘will you two bugger off and go look at the ducks or something?’
Jack shrugged, checked it was OK with Mairie, and opened his door. Alone, Rebus settled deeper into his seat and started to read.
Number one: Major Weir was not a Major. It was a nickname, earned in adolescence. Two, his parents had handed on to him their love of all things Scottish — up to and including a craving for national independence. There were a lot of facts about his early years in industry, latterly the oil industry, and reports of Thom Bird’s demise — nothing suspicious about it. A journalist in the States had started writing an unauthorised biography of Weir, but had given up — rumour had it he was paid not to finish the book. A couple of stories, unsubstantiated: Weir left his wife amid much acrimony — and later, much alimony. Then something about Weir’s son, either deceased or disinherited. Maybe off in some ashram or feeding the African hungry, maybe working in a burger parlour or Wall Street futures. Rebus turned to the next sheet, only to find there wasn’t one. The story had finished mid-sentence. He got out of the car, walked to where Mairie and Jack were in huddled conversation.
‘It’s not all here,’ he said, waving what sheets he had.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mairie reached into her jacket, brought out a single folded sheet and handed it over. Rebus stared at her, demanding an explanation. She shrugged. ‘Call me a tease.’
Jack started laughing.
Rebus stood in the glare of the headlights and read. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He read it again, then for a third time, and had to run a hand through his hair to make sure the top of his head hadn’t just blown off.
‘Everything all right?’ Mairie asked him.
He stared at her for a moment, not really seeing anything, then pulled her to him and planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘Mairie, you’re perfect.’
She turned to Jack Morton.
‘I second that,’ he said.
Sitting in his car, Bible John had watched Rebus and friend drive out of Arden Street. His business had kept him an extra day in Edinburgh. Frustrating, but at least he’d been able to take another look at the policeman. It was hard to tell from a distance, but Rebus seemed to sport bruises on his face, and his clothes were dishevelled. Bible John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed: he’d been hoping for a more worthy adversary. The man looked dead done in.
Not that he thought them adversaries, not really. Rebus’s flat had not thrown up much, but it had revealed that Rebus’s interest in Bible John was connected to the Upstart. Which went some way towards explaining it. He hadn’t stayed as long in the flat as he would have liked. Being unable to pick the lock, he’d been forced to break the door. He couldn’t know how long it would take for neighbours to spot something. So he had been swift, but then there’d been so little in the flat worth his attention. It told him something about the policeman. He felt now that he knew Rebus, at least to a degree — he felt the loneliness of his life, the gaps where sentiment and warmth and love should have been. There was music, and there were books, but neither in great quantity nor of great quality. The clothes were utilitarian, one jacket much like another. No shoes. He found that bizarre in the extreme. Did the man possess only one pair?
And the kitchen: lacking in utensils and produce. And the bathroom: needing redecorating.
But back in the kitchen, a small surprise. Newspapers and cuttings hastily hidden, easily found. Bible John, Johnny Bible. And evidence that Rebus had gone to some trouble: the original papers must have been bought from a dealer. An investigation within the official investigation, that was what it looked like. Which made Rebus more interesting in Bible John’s eyes.
Paperwork in the bedroom: boxes of old correspondence, bank statements, very few photographs — but enough to show that Rebus had once been married, and had a daughter. Nothing recent though: no photos of the daughter grown-up, no recent photos at all.