It seemed to Rebus that all anyone had done so far was make apologies. Katherine Margolies got to her feet in a sudden elegant movement.
‘Come on, Han-Han. Time to go.’
Hannah didn’t argue or complain, just rose to her feet and joined her mother.
‘Nicky,’ Katherine said, kissing both his cheeks, ‘thanks as ever for listening.’
Nicol Petrie embraced her, then crouched down for a kiss from Hannah. Katherine Margolies lifted Hannah’s coat from the back of the sofa.
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
‘Bye, Mrs Margolies. Bye, Hannah.’
Hannah gave him a look. ‘You think I should have won, don’t you?’
Katherine stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘Everyone knows you were robbed, sweetheart.’
Hannah was still staring at Rebus. ‘Someone stole my father,’ she said.
Nicol Petrie made a fuss of her as he showed mother and daughter to the door. When he returned to the room, Rebus was standing at one of the windows, looking down into the street immediately below. Petrie began tidying the toys into a cardboard box.
‘Sorry again if I disturbed you, sir,’ Rebus said, not managing much enthusiasm for the lie.
‘That’s all right. Katy often pops in unannounced. Especially since... well, you know.’
‘Do you make a good listener, Mr Petrie?’
‘No more than most, I don’t suppose. Usually it’s because I can’t think of anything helpful to say, so all I do is fill the gaps with questions.’
‘You’d make a good detective then.’
Petrie laughed. ‘I rather doubt that, Inspector.’ He opened one of the doors leading off the living room. It led to a walk-in cupboard. There were shelves inside, and he placed the box of toys on one of them. Everything tidied away. Rebus would bet the box always went back on the same shelf, always the same spot. He’d known people like that, people who managed their lives by compartments. Siobhan Clarke was just the same: if you wanted to annoy her, you only had to move something of hers from one desk-drawer to its neighbour.
Below him, Katherine Margolies and her daughter emerged from the building. Their car had remote locking. It was a Mercedes saloon, new-looking. The number plate was the same one he’d seen lipsticked on the wall in Leith.
It was a white Mercedes.
White...
‘Has it hit her hard?’ he asked, still watching from the window.
‘Devastated, I should think.’
‘And the little one?’
‘I’m not sure Han-Han’s taken it in yet. Like she said, she thinks he’s been stolen from her.’
‘She’s right in a way.’
‘I suppose so.’ Petrie came to the window, watched with Rebus as the car drove off. ‘Nobody could fail to be shocked by something like that.’
‘Why do you think he did it?’
Petrie looked at him. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘His widow hasn’t said anything?’
‘That’s between her and me.’
‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s just curiosity. I mean, someone like Jim Margolies... it makes you ask questions of yourself, doesn’t it?’
‘I think I know what you mean.’ Petrie turned back into the room. ‘If you’ve got it all and you’re still unhappy, what’s the point of everything?’ He slumped into a chair. ‘Maybe it’s a Scottish thing.’
Rebus took a seat on the sofa. ‘What is?’
‘We’re just not supposed to have it all, are we? We’re supposed to fail gloriously. Anything we succeed at, we keep low-profile. It’s our failures we’re allowed to trumpet.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Might be something in that.’
‘It runs right through our history.’
‘And ends at the national football team.’
It was Petrie’s turn to smile. ‘I’ve been very rude: can I offer you something to drink?’
‘What are you having?’
‘I thought maybe a glass of wine. I’d opened a bottle for Katy, thinking she’d come by taxi. Parking around here is hellish.’ He left the room, Rebus following. The kitchen was long and narrow and spotless. The hob looked like it had never been used. Petrie went to the fridge, lifted out a bottle of Sancerre.
‘Lovely flat,’ Rebus said, as Petrie reached into a cupboard for two glasses.
‘Thank you. I like it.’
‘What do you work at, Mr Petrie?’
Petrie glanced at him. ‘I’m a student, second year into my PhD.’
‘Was your first degree at Edinburgh?’
‘No, St Andrews.’ Pouring now.
‘Not many students with flats as grand as this — or am I behind the times?’
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Your father’s?’ Rebus guessed.
‘That’s right.’ Pouring the second glass; looking a little less serene now.
‘He must like you.’
‘He loves his children, Inspector. I’d assume most parents do.’
Rebus thought of himself and Sammy. ‘Not always a two-way thing, though, is it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Rebus shrugged, accepted the glass. ‘Cheers.’ He took a sip. Petrie was at the end of the narrow kitchen: no way out of there except past Rebus. And Rebus wasn’t moving. ‘Funny thing is, if I’d a father who loved me, who’d spent a fortune on a flat for me, any time I got into trouble I’d probably turn to him to bail me out.’
‘Look, what’s—’
‘Say, if I needed money. I wouldn’t go to a loan shark.’ Rebus paused, took another sip. ‘How about you, Mr Petrie?’
‘Christ, is that what this is about? Those two thugs giving me a kicking?’
‘Maybe it wasn’t about money. Maybe they just didn’t like your looks.’ Nicol Petrie: face unblemished, thin dark eyebrows, high cheekbones. A face so perfect you might just want to damage it.
‘I don’t know what they wanted.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Yes you do. That handy amnesia of yours, you let it slip. You shouldn’t have known there were two of them.’
‘The police said as much at the time.’
‘Two men employed by Charmer Mackenzie. We call them “frighteners”, and believe me, I’d have been frightened too. He’s a hard bastard, Cal Brady, isn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Cal Brady. You must have come across him.’
Petrie shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘How much was it you owed? I’m assuming you’ve paid it off by now. And why didn’t you tap your dad for a loan in the first place? See, I’m curious, Mr Petrie, and when I start asking questions, I tend not to give up till I’ve found answers.’
Petrie put his glass down on the worktop. He wasn’t looking at Rebus when he spoke. ‘This is strictly between us? No way I’m taking this any further.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said.
Petrie folded his arms around himself, looking skinnier than ever. ‘I did borrow money from Mackenzie. We knew, those of us who frequented the Clipper, knew he’d lend money. And I found myself needing some. My father can be generous when it suits him, Inspector, but I’d managed to fritter away a good deal of his money. I didn’t want him knowing. So I went to Mackenzie instead.’
‘Surely you could have arranged an overdraft?’
‘I dare say I could.’ Petrie looked away. ‘But there was something... the idea of dealing with Mackenzie was so much more appealing.’
‘How so?’
‘The danger, the whiff of the illicit.’ He turned back towards Rebus. ‘You know Edinburgh society loves that sort of thing. Deacon Brodie didn’t need to break into people’s houses, but that didn’t stop him. Strait-laced old town, how else are we going to get our thrills?’
Rebus stared at him. ‘Know something, Nicky? I almost believe you. Almost, but not quite.’ He raised a hand towards Petrie, who flinched. But all Rebus did was place a fingertip against the young man’s temple. It came away with a bead of perspiration clinging to it. The droplet fell, splashed onto the worktop.