Rebus introduced himself, then Siobhan. Handshakes completed, Bullen apologised for the lack of chairs.
‘No room for them,’ he shrugged.
‘We’re fine standing, Mr Bullen,’ Rebus assured him.
‘As you can see, the Nook has nothing to hide... which makes your visit all the more intriguing.’
‘That’s not a local accent, Mr Bullen,’ Rebus commented.
‘I’m from the west coast originally.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I seem to know the name...’
Bullen’s mouth twitched. ‘To put your mind at rest, yes, my dad was Rab Bullen.’
‘Glasgow gangster,’ Rebus explained to Siobhan.
‘A respected businessman,’ Bullen corrected.
‘Who died when someone fired at him from point-blank range on his own doorstep,’ Rebus added. ‘What was that — five, six years ago?’
‘If I’d known it was my dad you wanted to talk about...’ Bullen was staring hard at Rebus.
‘It isn’t,’ Rebus interrupted.
‘We’re looking for a girl, Mr Bullen,’ Siobhan said. ‘A runaway called Ishbel Jardine.’ She handed him the photograph. ‘Maybe you’ve seen her?’
‘And why would I have seen her?’
Siobhan shrugged. ‘She might need money. We hear you’ve been hiring dancers.’
‘Every club in town’s hiring dancers.’ It was his turn to shrug. ‘They come and they go... All my dancers are legit, mind, and dancing’s as far as it goes.’
‘Even in the VIP booth?’ Rebus asked.
‘We’re talking about housewives and students... women who need a bit of easy cash.’
‘If you could just look at the photo, please,’ Siobhan said. ‘She’s eighteen and her name’s Ishbel.’
‘Never seen her before in my life.’ He made to hand the photo back. ‘Who told you I was hiring?’
‘Information received,’ Rebus informed him.
‘I saw you looking at my little collection.’ Bullen nodded towards the photos on the wall. ‘This is a classy place, we like to think we’re a bit above the other clubs in the area. That means we’re choosy about the girls we employ. We tend not to take the junkies.’
‘Nobody said she was a junkie. And I doubt very much whether this dive could ever be described as “classy”.’
Bullen sat back, the better to study him. ‘You can’t be too far off retiring, Inspector. I look forward to the day when I can deal with cops like your colleague.’ He smiled in Siobhan’s direction. ‘A much pleasanter prospect.’
‘How long have you had this place?’ Rebus asked. He’d brought out his cigarettes.
‘Don’t smoke in here,’ Bullen told him. ‘It’s a fire risk.’ Rebus hesitated, then put the packet away again. Bullen gave a little nod of thanks. ‘To answer your question: four years.’
‘What took you away from Glasgow?’
‘Well, my dad’s murder might give you a clue.’
‘Never caught the killer, did they?’
‘Shouldn’t that “they” be a “we”?’
‘Glasgow and Edinburgh police — chalk and cheese.’
‘You mean you’d have had more luck?’
‘Luck’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘Well, Inspector, if that’s all you came for... I’m sure you’ve got other premises to visit?’
‘Mind if we talk to the girls?’ Siobhan asked suddenly.
‘What for?’
‘Just to show them the photo. Is there a dressing room they use?’
He nodded. ‘Through the black curtain. But they only go there between shifts.’
‘Then we’ll talk to them where we find them.’
‘If you must,’ Bullen snapped.
She turned to leave, but pulled up short. There was a black leather jacket hanging behind the door. She rubbed the collar between her fingers. ‘What car do you drive?’ she asked abruptly.
‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘It’s a simple enough question, but if you want to do it the hard way...’ She glared at him.
Bullen let out a sigh. ‘BMW X5.’
‘Sounds sporty.’
Bullen snorted. ‘It’s an off-roader, a four-by-four. Huge big tank of a thing.’
She nodded understanding. ‘Those are the cars men buy when there’s something they feel the need to compensate for...’ On which line she made her exit. Rebus offered Bullen a smile.
‘How’s she rating now as that “pleasanter prospect” you were talking about?’
‘I know you,’ Bullen replied, wagging a finger. ‘You’re the cop Ger Cafferty keeps in his pocket.’
‘Is that right?’
‘It’s what everybody says.’
‘I can’t argue with that then, can I?’
Rebus turned to follow Siobhan out. He reckoned he’d done well not to rise to the young prick’s goading. Big Ger Cafferty had for many years been king of Edinburgh’s underworld. These days, he lived a quieter life: at least on the surface. But with Cafferty, you never could tell. It was true that Rebus knew him. In fact, Bullen had just given Rebus an idea, because if there was one man who might know what the hell a Glasgow low-life like Stuart Bullen was doing on the other side of the country from his natural lair, that man was Morris Gerald Cafferty.
Siobhan had taken a stool at the bar, the businessmen having moved to a table. Rebus joined her, putting the barman’s mind at ease: he’d probably never had to serve a single woman before.
‘Bottle of your best beer,’ Rebus said. ‘And whatever the lady’s having.’
‘Diet Coke,’ she told the barman. He brought their drinks.
‘Six pounds,’ he said.
‘Mr Bullen says they’re on the house,’ Rebus informed him with a wink. ‘He wants to keep us sweet.’
‘Ever see this girl in here?’ Siobhan asked, holding up the photograph.
‘Looks familiar... but then a lot of girls look like that.’
‘What’s your name, son?’ Rebus asked.
The barman bristled at that use of ‘son’. He was in his early twenties, short and wiry. White T-shirt, maybe trying to copy his boss’s style. Hair spiked with gel. He wore the same earpiece as the bouncers. There were two stud earrings in his other ear.
‘Barney Grant.’
‘Worked here long, Barney?’
‘Couple of years.’
‘Place like this, that probably qualifies you as a lifer.’
‘Nobody’s been here as long as me,’ Grant agreed.
‘Bet you’ve seen a few things.’
Grant nodded. ‘But one thing I haven’t seen in all that time is Stuart offering free drinks.’ He held his hand out. ‘Six pounds, please.’
‘I admire your persistence, son.’ Rebus handed over the money. ‘What’s your accent?’
‘Aussie. And I’ll tell you something else — I’ve got a memory for faces, and I seem to know yours.’
‘I was in here a few months back... stag party. Didn’t stay long.’
‘So to get back to Ishbel Jardine,’ Siobhan cajoled, ‘you think maybe you’ve seen her?’
Grant took another look at the photo. ‘Might not have been here, though. Plenty of clubs and pubs... could’ve been anywhere.’ He took the money to the till. Siobhan turned round to study the room and almost wished she hadn’t. One of the dancers was leading a suit towards the VIP booth. Another, the one she’d seen earlier, concentrating on the music, was now sliding up and down the silver pole, minus her thong.
‘Christ, this is sleazy,’ she commented to Rebus. ‘What the hell do you get out of it?’
‘A lightening of the wallet,’ he replied.
Siobhan turned to Grant again. ‘How much do they charge?’
‘Tenner a dance. Lasts a couple of minutes, no touching allowed.’