‘I take it you’ve got a mobile about your person. Why not call Mr Frost?’
‘Don’t have his home number.’
Rebus rubbed his chin. ‘Is that as in Archie Frost?’
‘That’s him.’
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Want me to talk to them?’ He nodded towards the boat. ‘See if I can get them to pack up?’
The minder stared at him. He was well-educated in the relationship that should exist between his profession and Rebus’s: a favour done now might mean a favour asked later. He turned towards a noise. One of the revellers had come up on deck and was preparing to urinate off the side. He sighed.
‘Why not?’ he said.
And Rebus was in.
One guy had pegged out on the deck, champagne bottle held to his chest. His bow tie was hanging from his neck; his watch was a gold Rolex. The guest using the Albert Basin as his own private loo rocked to and fro on his heels. He was humming the chorus of some pop song. Seeing Rebus, he beamed a smile. Rebus ignored him, headed down the steps into the main body of the boat. It was set up for a party: chairs and tables around a long narrow dancefloor. Bar at one end, makeshift stage at the other. There was a lighting rig, a mirror-ball over the dancefloor. Shutters had been brought down across the bar and fixed with a padlock, which another drunk was trying to pick with a plastic toothpick. A couple of the tables had been knocked over, along with a dozen or so chairs. There were forgotten items of clothing strewn across the floor, along with crisps, peanuts, empty bottles, and bits of sandwich and squashed quiche. The main action was centred on two tables which had been pushed together. Fourteen or fifteen people sat here. Women sat on men’s laps, kissing deeply. A few couples were indulging in muted conversations. One or two individuals were fast asleep. A hard core of five — three men, two women — were telling slurred stories, detailing the party highlights, mostly involving drink, vomit and snogging.
‘Hello again,’ Rebus said to Ama Petrie. ‘This your do, is it?’
She had her head on the shoulder of the young man next to her. Her mascara was smeared, making her look tired. Her short dress was a meshing of black gauzy layers. Her bare feet were in the lap of the man on the other side of her. He was playing with her toes.
‘Oh, Christ,’ this man said, eyes drooping, ‘they’ve sent in the heavy brigade. Look, my good man, we’ve paid for this evening — cash, and upfront. So kindly bugger off and—’
‘Oscar, you arse, he’s a policeman,’ Ama Petrie said. Then, to Rebus: ‘Nice to see you again.’ It was an automatic greeting, something she couldn’t help but say, even though her eyes told a different story. Her eyes told Rebus she wasn’t in the least pleased to see him.
‘Well,’ Oscar said, smiling to the assembly, ‘in that case, it’s a fair cop, guv, but society’s to blame. I never had a chance.’ He slipped into the role effortlessly, drawing smiles and laughter from his audience. Rebus looked at the faces around him: the faces of Edinburgh’s rich young things. They’d have their own flats in the New Town, gifts from indulgent parents. They had their parties and their nights out. Maybe by day they shopped or lunched or attended a couple of lectures at the university. Maybe they drove their sports cars out to the country. Their lives were predestined: a job in the family business, or something ‘arranged’ — a position they could cope with, something requiring inbred charm and minimal effort. Everything would fall into their laps, because that’s the way the world was.
‘Shame he’s not in uniform, eh, Nicky?’
‘What have we done, Officer?’ another of the men asked.
‘Well, you’ve overstayed your welcome,’ Rebus said. ‘But that doesn’t really concern me. Might I ask whose party this is?’ He was looking at Ama.
‘Mine, actually,’ the man with the toothpick said, turning away from the bar. He pushed his thick fair hair back from his forehead. A thin face, soft-featured. ‘I’m Nicol Petrie, Ama’s brother.’ Rebus guessed this was ‘Nicky’: Shame he’s not in uniform, eh, Nicky?
He was in his early twenties, fashionably unshaven so his face shone a spiky gold. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll move this lot off the boat, promise.’ And to his friends: ‘We’ll go back to my place. Plenty of drink there.’
‘I want to go to a casino,’ one woman complained. ‘You said we’d go.’
‘Darling, he only said that so you’d give him a blow job.’
Hoots of laughter, pointed fingers. Ama had her eyes closed but was chuckling, her feet grinding against her companion’s groin.
Everyone seemed to have forgotten Rebus. The conversations were starting up again. He reached into his pocket, handed two photographs to Nicol Petrie.
‘His name’s Damon Mee. He left a nightclub with the blonde woman. We think they were on their way to a party on this boat, hosted by your sister.’
‘Yes,’ Nicol Petrie said, ‘Ama told me.’ He studied the photos, shook his head. ‘Sorry.’ Handed them back.
‘You were at the party in question?’ Petrie nodded. ‘All of you?’
They looked to Ama, who told them which party it had been. A couple hadn’t been present — previous commitments. Rebus handed the photos out anyway. Nobody paid much attention to them; they kept talking to each other as they passed them round.
‘I could just go some smoked salmon.’
‘Alison’s bash next Friday: are you going?’
‘Hair extensions, they change your whole face instantly...’
‘Thought about putting a consortium together, buy a racehorse...’
Ama Petrie didn’t even glance at the pictures, just passed them along.
‘Sorry,’ the last of the group said, handing them back to Rebus before continuing a conversation. Nicol Petrie looked apologetic.
‘I promise we’ll leave soon, assemble some taxis.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help.’
‘Not to worry.’
‘I ran away from home once...’
‘Nick, you were only twelve,’ Ama Petrie drawled.
‘All the same, I know how much it hurt our mother and father.’
Ama disagreed. ‘They hardly noticed you were gone.’ She looked up at him. ‘It was me who called the police.’
‘What happened?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’d been staying at a friend’s house,’ Nicol Petrie explained. ‘When his parents heard I was supposed to be missing, they drove me home.’ He shrugged. A couple of his friends laughed.
‘Right,’ he said, raising his voice slightly. ‘Back to my place. The night is still young, and so are we!’
There were cheers at this. Rebus got the feeling Nicol had roused the troops like this before.
‘Where’s Alfie?’ Ama asked.
‘Taking a leak,’ she was told.
Rebus made for the stairs. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said to her brother. Nicol Petrie shot out a hand, which Rebus shook.
Shame he’s not in uniform... What the hell had that meant? Some private joke? Rebus climbed back up into fresh air. The man who’d been relieving himself — Alfie — was sitting on the floor of the boat, legs splayed. He’d forgotten to button his flies.
‘Leaving so soon?’ he asked.
‘Everyone’s going back to Nicky’s,’ Rebus said, like he was one of the gang.
‘Good old Nicky,’ Alfie said.
‘You’re Alfie, aren’t you?’
The young man looked up, trying to place Rebus. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘can’t seem to...’
‘John,’ Rebus said.
‘Of course, John.’ Nodding briskly. ‘Never forget a face. You’re in the finance sector?’
‘Securities.’