‘Never forget a face.’ Alfie started to get up. Rebus helped him. He still had his photos in one hand.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take a look.’ Didn’t say any more than that, just handed them over.
‘Photographer must have been pissed,’ Alfie said.
‘Not very good, are they?’
‘Bloody awful. I’ve got a friend who’s a photographer. Let me give you his number.’ Reaching into his jacket.
‘You’ll know his face, though,’ Rebus said, tapping the holiday snap of Damon.
Alfie squinted at the photo, brought it close to his nose, moved it to pick up the available light.
‘I pride myself,’ he said, ‘on never forgetting a face. But in this chap’s case, I’ll make an exception.’ Smiled crookedly at his own little joke. ‘Now the lady, on the other hand...’
‘Alfie!’ Ama Petrie was standing at the top of the stairs, arms folded against the chill. ‘Come on, we’re getting ready to go.’
‘Super idea, Ama.’ Alfie blinked so slowly, Rebus thought he’d nodded off.
‘About the blonde...’ Rebus persisted.
Ama had come up to them, was tugging on Alfie’s sleeve. Alfie patted Rebus’s arm. ‘See you at Nicky’s, old boy.’
‘Come on, Alfie.’ Ama pecked his cheek, led him to the stairs. A quick backward glance towards Rebus. Looking... angry? Relieved? A mix of the two? When they disappeared from view, Rebus walked off the boat.
‘They’re on their way,’ he told the minder.
‘Cheers.’
‘That’s one you owe me,’ Rebus said, waiting till the minder had nodded. ‘To square things, I want you to tell me what Archie Frost has to do with Billy Preston.’
‘He just works for him, same as I do.’
‘But he runs Gaitano’s for Charmer Mackenzie.’
The minder was nodding. ‘That’s right.’
‘No conflict of interests?’
‘Should there be?’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Mackenzie owns this boat?’
The minder licked his lips. ‘Part-owns. Mr Preston has the other half.’
Charmer Mackenzie had a half-share in the Clipper. And he owned Gaitano’s. Damon had been at Gaitano’s, and was last seen near the Clipper. Rebus was beginning to wonder...
‘That’s us quits,’ the minder said, as the party-goers did a conga towards the gangway.
He went back to his flat but couldn’t sleep. The blanket Darren Rough had slept under was still folded on the sofa. He couldn’t bring himself to move it. Instead, he sat in his chair, waiting for the ghosts to come. Maybe Darren would be with them, or maybe he’d have other souls to haunt.
But no ghosts came. Rebus dozed, came awake with a start. Decided he’d be better off out of doors. He cut through The Meadows, past the Infirmary. It was due to move out of town, south to Little France. There was talk the old Infirmary site would be turned into upmarket flats, or maybe a hotel. Prime city-centre site, but who’d want a flat where a hospital ward had been?
He paused at the statue of Greyfriars Bobby. When you thought of it, Bobby was just a dog with nowhere better to go, nothing better to be doing. Rebus reached out and patted the statue’s head.
‘Stay,’ he said, heading down George IV Bridge. A couple of taxis slowed beside him, touting for custom, but he waved them on, took the Playfair Steps down to the National Gallery and Royal Academy. He passed a couple of people sleeping rough, watched the Castle beginning to assume shape again against the sky as night segued into morning. He thought of his grandfathers, whose names were buried somewhere in the Castle’s Books of Remembrance. He couldn’t even recall what regiments they’d served in. Both had died in the 1914–18 campaign, long before Rebus’s parents had even met.
Princes Street had the usual haphazard look to it. The pavements seemed plenty wide when there was no one else about. He nipped up the side of Burger King and into the Penny Black, which opened for business at five. There were a couple of drinkers already in. Rebus ordered a whisky, added plenty of water.
‘Man, you’re drowning it,’ one drinker commented.
Rebus just smiled; didn’t tell the man that water was his lifeline. An early edition of the Scotsman sat on the bar. Rebus flicked through it. A report of the previous day’s doings in the Shiellion trial, plus the ‘suspicious death’ of Darren Rough and the disappearance of Billy Horman. There was an anonymous quote from a member of GAP, to the effect that they blamed Rough for the boy’s disappearance.
‘And we’re just glad and relieved that one piece of vermin has departed this earth. May all the others do the same.’
Van Brady in preaching mode. There was talk of a residents’ committee, of new arrivals in Greenfield being vetted by their neighbours. There was going to be discussion of neighbourhood patrols, spot checks, and even some kind of barrier to stop ‘undesirables’ from entering Greenfield and ‘defacing’ it.
Rebus knew Scotland was gearing up for self-rule, but this was taking it to extremes.
‘We’ve got a computer in the community centre,’ the spokesperson said, ‘and now we want to get hooked up to the Internet so we can ask the Guardian Angels for advice. We’re hoping a lottery grant will get us the software. This community deserves no less.’
If there was going to be a private police force in Greenfield, Rebus wondered who’d be best placed to operate it. The name Cal Brady came readily to mind...
He finished his drink and decided to have breakfast down in Leith, where there was a café open at six with huge portions and little fuss. He walked the length of Leith Walk, found the café and settled down. With the paper already read, he’d nothing to do but chew on a half-slice of fried bread and stare out of the window. When a taxi stopped at the lights outside the café, Rebus caught a glimpse of the passenger. He tried for a better look, but the taxi was already on the move, taking Cary Oakes back to his hotel. He got the licence number, jotted it on the back of his hand. A mouthful of scalding tea helped him wash down the bread, then he asked to use the owner’s phone. Called a cab company and asked about the reg.
‘You kidding? Know how many cabs we’ve got?’
‘Do your best, eh?’ He gave them his mobile number, then tried the other companies in the city. They all seemed to think he was asking a lot, but by the time he got to St Leonard’s, he had a result. The cabbie was actually back at base, his shift over. Rebus spoke to him.
‘You took a fare down to Leith, I’m guessing The Shore. About an hour ago.’
‘Yeah, last pick-up I had.’
‘Where exactly did you pick him up?’
‘Out Corstorphine way, just before the Maybury roundabout. What’s he done?’
Corstorphine: where Alan Archibald lived. Rebus thanked the driver and terminated the call. He went to the toilets for a wash and shave, swallowed two paracetamol with some coffee. The murder room was empty, no one yet at work. He examined the photos on the wall. Archibald’s niece had been murdered on a hillside; Darren Rough had been murdered on a hillside. Was it a connection? He thought of Cary Oakes, roaming freely through the city. Picked up one of the phones and called Patience.
‘Morning,’ she said sleepily.
‘This is your alarm call.’
He could hear her stretch her back, sitting up in bed. ‘What time is it?’
He told her. ‘I couldn’t get back for breakfast, thought I’d phone instead.’
‘Where are you?’
‘St Leonard’s.’
‘Did you sleep at Arden Street?’
‘I managed a nap.’
‘I don’t know how you do it.’ She was probably pushing hair out of her eyes. ‘I need eight hours minimum.’
‘They say it’s the sign of a clear conscience.’