A small, balding man came out of the lift and fairly trotted to the reception desk, then, when the receptionist pointed towards Rebus, trotted over towards him, too. Did these reps take pills? potions? laughing gas? How the hell did they manage to keep it up?
“Tony Bell at your service,” the small man said. They shook hands. Rebus noticed that Tony Bell was growing old. He had a swelling paunch and was a little breathless after his jog. He ran a hand over his babylike head and kept grinning.
“Detective Inspector Rebus.” The grin subsided. In fact, most of Tony Bell’s face seemed to subside.
“Oh Jesus,” he said, “what is it? A mugger, pickpocket, what? Is somebody hurt? Which hospital?”
Rebus raised a hand. “No need to panic,” he reassured him. “Your charges are all quite safe.”
“Thank Christ for that.” The grin returned. Bell nodded towards a door, above which was printed the legend Dining Room and Bar. “Fancy a drink?”
“Anything to get out of this war zone,” Rebus said.
“You should see the bar after dinner,” said Tony Bell, leading the way, “now that’s a war zone...”
As Bell explained, the Grebe Tours party had a free afternoon. He checked his watch and told Rebus that they would probably start returning to the hotel fairly soon. There was a meeting arranged for before dinner, when the next day’s itinerary would be discussed. Rebus told the rep what he wanted, and Bell himself suggested he stay put for the meeting. Yes, Rebus agreed, that seemed sensible, and meantime would Tony like another drink?
This particular Grebe Tours party was American. They’d flown in almost a month ago for what Bell called the “Full British Tour” — Canterbury, Salisbury, Stonehenge, London, Stratford, York, the Lake District, Trossachs, Highlands, and Edinburgh.
“This is just about the last stop,” he said. “For which relief much thanks, I can tell you. They’re nice people mind, I’m not saying they’re not, but... demanding. Yes, that’s what it is. If a Brit doesn’t quite understand what’s been said to him, or if something isn’t quite right, or whatever, they tend to keep their gobs shut. But Americans...” He rolled his eyeballs. “Americans,” he repeated, as though it explained all.
It did. Less than an hour later, Rebus was addressing a packed, seated crowd of forty American tourists in a room off the large dining room. He had barely given them his rank when a hand shot into the air.
“Er... yes?”
The elderly woman stood up. “Sir, are you from Scotland Yard?”
Rebus shook his head. “Scotland Yard’s in London.”
She was still standing. “Now why is that?” she asked. Rebus had no answer to this, but someone else suggested that it was because that part of London was called Scotland Yard. Yes, but why was it called Scotland Yard in the first place? The woman had sat down now, but all around her was discussion and conjecture. Rebus looked towards Tony Bell, who rose from his own seat and succeeded in quietening things down.
Eventually, Rebus was able to make his point. “We’re interested,” he said, “in a visitor to Edinburgh Castle this morning. You may have seen someone while you were there, someone standing by the walls, looking towards the Scott Monument. He or she might have been standing there for some time. If that means something to anybody, I’d like you to tell me about it. At the same time, it’s possible that those of you who took photographs of your visit may have by chance snapped the person we’re looking for. If any of you have cameras, I’d like to see the photos you took this morning.”
He was in luck. Nobody remembered seeing anyone suspicious — they were too busy looking at the sights. But two photographers had used Polaroids, and another had taken his film into a same-day processor at lunchtime and so had the glossy photographs with him. Rebus studied these while Tony Bell went over the next day’s arrangements with the group. The Polaroid photos were badly taken, often blurry, with people in the background reduced to matchstick men. But the same-day photos were excellent, sharply focused thirty-five-millimetre jobs. As the tour party left the room, en route for dinner, Tony Bell came over to where Rebus was sitting and asked the question he knew he himself would be asked more than once over dinner.
“Any joy?”
“Maybe,” Rebus admitted. “These two people keep cropping up.” He spread five photographs out in front of him. In two, a middle-aged woman was caught in the background, staring out over the wall she was leaning on. Leaning on, or hiding behind? In another two, a man in his late twenties or early thirties stood in similar pose, but with a more upright stance. In one photo, they could both be seen half-turning with smiles on their faces towards the camera.
“No.” Tony Bell was shaking his head. “They might look like wanted criminals, but they’re in our party. I think Mrs. Eglinton was sitting in the back row near the door, beside her husband. You probably didn’t see her. But Shaw Berkely was in the second row, over to one side. I’m surprised you didn’t see him. Actually, I take that back. He has this gift of being innocuous. Never asks questions or complains. Mind you, I think he’s seen most of this before.”
“Oh?” Rebus was gathering the photos together.
“He told me he’d been to Britain before on holiday.”
“And there’s nothing between him and—?” Rebus was pointing to the photograph of man and woman together.
“Him and Mrs. Eglinton?” Bell seemed genuinely amused. “I don’t know — maybe. She certainly mothers him a bit.”
Rebus was still studying the print. “Is he the youngest person on the tour?”
“By about ten years. Sad story really. His mother died, and after the funeral he said he just had to get away. Went into the travel agent’s and we were offering a reduction for late bookings.”
“His father’s dead too, then?”
“That’s right. I got his life story one night late in the bar. On a tour, I get everyone’s story sooner or later.”
Rebus flipped through the sheaf of photos a final time. Nothing new presented itself to him. “And you were at the castle between about half-past eleven and quarter to one?”
“Just as I told you.”
“Oh well.” Rebus sighed. “I don’t think—”
“Inspector?” It was the receptionist, her head peering around the door. “There’s a call for you.”
It was Superintendent Watson. He was concise, factual. “Withdrew five hundred pounds from each of four accounts, all on the same day, and in plenty of time for the rendezvous at the Cafe Royal.”
“So presumably he paid up.”
“But did he get the letters back?”
“Mmm. Has Lady Scott had a look for them?”
“Yes, we’ve been through the study — not thoroughly, there’s too much stuff in there for that. But we’ve had a look.” That “we” sounded comfortable, sounded as though Watson had already got his feet under the table. “So what now, John?”
“I’m coming over, if you’ve no objection, sir. With respect, I’d like a look at Sir Walter’s office for myself...”
He went in search of Tony Bell, just so he could say thanks and goodbye. But he wasn’t in the musty conference room, and he wasn’t in the dining room. He was in the bar, standing with one foot on the bar rail as he shared a joke with the woman he had called Mrs. Eglinton. Rebus did not interrupt, but he did wink at the phone-bound receptionist as he passed her, then pushed his way out of the Castellain Hotel’s double doors just as the wheezing of a bus’s air brakes signalled the arrival of yet more cargo.