Finally, he ejected the tape. Shug could have it back. It wasn’t going to reveal any sudden secrets. All it told him was that a woman had cared about Stef Yurgii.
A woman who might know why he’d died.
A woman who’d gone to ground.
So why worry? Leave the job at the office, John. That’s all it should be to you: a job. The bastards who’d found him a lowly corner at Gayfield Square merited nothing more. He shook his head, scrubbed at his scalp with his hands, trying to clear everything out of there. Then he signalled back into the stream of traffic.
He was going home, and the world could go shaft itself.
‘John Rebus?’
The man was black. And tall, built from muscle. As he stepped forward from the shadows, what Rebus saw first were the whites of his eyes.
The man had been waiting in the stairwell of Rebus’s tenement, standing by the rear door, the one leading to the overgrown drying-green. It was a mugger’s spot, which was why Rebus tensed, even when his name was mentioned.
‘You’re Detective Inspector John Rebus?’
The black man had closely cropped hair and wore a smart-looking suit with an open-necked purple shirt. His ears were tiny triangles, with almost no lobes. He was standing in front of Rebus, and neither man had blinked in the best part of twenty seconds.
Rebus had a carrier bag in his right hand. There was a bottle of twenty-quid malt inside, and he was loath to take a swing with it unless absolutely necessary. For some reason his mind flashed on an old Chic Murray sketch: a man falling over with a half-bottle in his pocket, feeling a damp patch and touching it: Thank Christ for that... it’s only blood.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Sorry if I startled you...’
‘Who says you did?’
‘Tell me you’re not thinking of going for me with whatever’s in that bag?’
‘I’d be lying. Who are you and what do you want?’
‘Okay to show you ID?’ The man hesitated with his hand halfway to the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Fire away.’
A wallet came out. The man flipped it open. His name was Felix Storey. He was an Immigration official.
‘Felix?’ Rebus said, one eyebrow rising.
‘It means happy, so they tell me.’
‘And a cartoon cat...’
‘That too, of course.’ Storey started tucking the wallet away again. ‘Anything drinkable in that bag?’
‘Might be.’
‘I notice it’s from an off-licence.’
‘You’re very observant.’
Storey almost smiled. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Because you, Inspector, were observed last night, coming out of a place called the Nook.’
‘Was I?’
‘I’ve got a nice set of ten-by-eights to prove it.’
‘And what the hell has any of that got to do with Immigration?’
‘For the price of a drink, maybe I can tell you...’
Rebus wrestled with a dozen questions, but the carrier bag was growing heavy. He gave the slightest of nods and headed up the stairs, Storey following. Unlocked his door and pushed it open, sweeping the day’s mail aside with his foot, so that it came to rest on top of the previous day’s. Rebus went into the kitchen long enough to grab two clean glasses, then led Storey into the living room.
‘Nice,’ Storey said, nodding as he surveyed the room. ‘High ceilings, bay window. Are all the flats round here this size?’
‘Some are bigger.’ Rebus had removed the malt from its box and was wrestling with the stopper. ‘Sit yourself down.’
‘I like a nice drop of Scotch.’
‘Up here we don’t call it that.’
‘What do you call it then?’
‘Whisky, or malt.’
‘Why not Scotch?’
‘I think it goes back to when “Scotch” was a put-down.’
‘A pejorative term?’
‘If that’s the fancy word for it...’
Storey grinned, showing gleaming teeth. ‘In my job, you have to know the jargon.’ He rose slightly from the sofa to accept a glass from Rebus. ‘Cheers, then.’
‘Slainte.’
‘That’s Gaelic, is it?’ Rebus nodded. ‘You speak Gaelic then?’
‘No.’
Storey seemed to ponder this as he savoured a mouthful of Lagavulin. Finally he nodded his appreciation. ‘Bloody hell, it’s strong though.’
‘You want some water?’
The Englishman shook his head.
‘Your accent,’ Rebus said, ‘London, is it?’
‘That’s right: Tottenham.’
‘I was in Tottenham once.’
‘Football game?’
‘Murder case... Body found by the canal...’
‘I think I remember. I was a kid at the time.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Rebus poured a little more into his glass, then offered the bottle to Storey, who took it and refilled his own. ‘So you’re from London and you work for Immigration. And you’ve got the Nook under surveillance for some reason.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Explains how you clocked me, but not how you knew who I was.’
‘We’ve got local CID assistance. I can’t name names, but the officer recognised yourself and DS Clarke straight off.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Like I say, I can’t name names...’
‘So what’s your interest in the Nook?’
‘What’s yours?’
‘I asked first... But let me take a guess: some of the girls at the club are from overseas?’
‘I’m sure they are.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of his tumbler. ‘But they’re not why you’re here?’
‘Before I can talk about it, I really need to know what you were doing there.’
‘I was partnering DS Clarke, that’s all. She had a few questions for the owner.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘A teenager’s gone missing. Her parents are worried she’ll end up in a place like the Nook.’ Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to it. DS Clarke knows the family, so she’s going an extra yard.’
‘She didn’t fancy going to the Nook on her own?’
‘No.’
Storey was thoughtful, making a show of studying his glass as he swirled its contents. ‘Mind if I verify that with her?’
‘You think I’m lying?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Rebus glared at him, then produced his mobile phone and called her. ‘Siobhan? You up to anything?’ He listened to her response, eyes still fixed on Storey. ‘Listen, I’ve got someone here. He’s from Immigration and he wants to know what we were doing at the Nook. I’m passing you over...’
Storey took the handset. ‘DS Clarke? My name’s Felix Storey. I’m sure DI Rebus will fill you in later, but for now, could you just confirm why you were at the Nook?’ He paused, listening. Then: ‘Yes, that’s pretty much what DI Rebus said. I appreciate you telling me. Sorry to’ve troubled you...’ He handed the phone back to Rebus.
‘Cheers, Shiv... we’ll talk later. Right now, it’s Mr Storey’s turn.’ Rebus snapped the phone closed.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ the Immigration official said.
‘Best to clear things up...’
‘What I meant was, you didn’t have to use your mobile — house phone’s just over there.’ He nodded towards the dining table. ‘It’d have been a lot cheaper.’
Rebus eventually conceded a smile. Felix Storey placed his tumbler on the carpet and straightened up, hands clasped.