‘Aye, it’s me... where are you? You were supposed to be at the Shakespeare... no, I’m on Bread Street...’
It didn’t matter what he was saying. To anyone who saw or overheard, he was just another night person, uttering the low gutturals of the local drunk. But he was also making study of the shop. There was no light inside, no movement or shadowplay. If the surveillance was twenty-four/seven, then it was bloody good. He reckoned they’d be filming, but couldn’t work out how. If they removed a small square of white from the window, anyone outside would be able to see in, eventually spotting the reflection from the lens. There were no gaps in the window anyway. The door was covered in a wire grille, a roller-blind blocking any view. Again, no obvious spy-hole. But hang on... above the door there was another, smaller window, maybe three feet by two, whited out except for a small square in one corner. It was ingenious: no passing eyes would stray there. Of course, it meant one of the surveillance team would have to be placed atop a step-ladder or similar, armed with the camera. Awkward and uncomfortable, but perfect nonetheless.
Rebus finished his imaginary call and turned away from the Nook, walking back in the direction of Lothian Road. On Saturday nights, the place was best avoided. Even now, on a week-night, there were songs and chants and people kicking bottles along the pavement, scampering across the lanes of traffic. The high-pitched laughter of hen parties, girls in short skirts with flashing headbands. A man was selling these headbands, plus pulsing plastic wands. He carried a fistful of each as he paced up and down. Rebus looked at him, remembering Storey’s words: Whether you choose to see them or not... The man was wiry and young and tan-skinned. Rebus stopped in front of him.
‘How much are they?’
‘Two pounds.’
Rebus made a show of searching his pockets for change. ‘Where you from?’ The man didn’t respond, eyes everywhere but on Rebus. ‘How long have you been in Scotland?’ But the man was moving off. ‘You not going to sell me one, then?’ Obviously not: the man kept walking. Rebus headed in the opposite direction, towards Princes Street’s west end. A flower-seller was emerging from the Shakespeare pub, one arm cradled around tight bunches of roses.
‘How much?’ Rebus asked.
‘Five pounds.’ The seller was barely into his teens. His face was tan, maybe Middle Eastern. Again, Rebus fumbled in his pockets.
‘Where you from?’
The youth pretended not to understand. ‘Five,’ he repeated.
‘Is your boss anywhere around?’ Rebus persisted.
The youth’s eyes darted to left and right, seeking help.
‘How old are you, son? Which school are you at?’
‘Not understand.’
‘Don’t give me that...’
‘You want roses?’
‘I just need to find my money... Bit late for you to be out working, isn’t it? Mum and Dad know what you’re up to?’
The rose-seller had had enough. He ran, dropping one of his bunches, not looking back, not stopping. Rebus picked it up, handed it to a group of passing girls.
‘That doesn’t get you in my knickers,’ one of them said, ‘but it does get you this.’ She pecked him on the cheek. As they staggered away, screeching and clattering in their noisy heels, another of the group yelped that he was old enough to be their grandad.
So I am, Rebus thought, and feel it, too...
He scrutinised the faces all along Princes Street. More Chinese than he’d expected. The beggars all had Scottish and English accents. Rebus stopped in at a hotel. The head barman there had known him fifteen years; didn’t matter if Rebus needed a shave or wasn’t wearing his best suit, his crispest shirt.
‘What’ll it be, Mr Rebus?’ Placing a coaster in front of him. ‘Maybe a wee malt?’
‘Lagavulin,’ Rebus said, knowing a single measure here would cost him the price of a quarter-bottle... The drink was placed in front of him, the barman knowing better than to suggest ice or water.
‘Ted,’ Rebus said, ‘does this place ever use foreign staff?’
No question ever seemed to faze Ted: sign of a good barman. He moved his jaws as he considered a response. Rebus meantime was helping himself from the bowl of nuts which had appeared beside his drink.
‘Had a few Australians behind the bar,’ Ted said, starting to polish glasses with a towel. ‘Doing the world tour... stopping off here for a few weeks. We never take them without experience.’
‘What about elsewhere? The restaurant maybe.’
‘Oh aye, there’s all sorts waiting tables. Even more in housekeeping.’
‘Housekeeping?’
‘Chambermaids.’
Rebus nodded at this clarification. ‘Look, this is strictly between us...’ Ted leaned in a little closer at these words. ‘Any chance illegals could work here?’
Ted looked askance at the suggestion. ‘All above board, Mr Rebus, management wouldn’t... couldn’t...’
‘Fair enough, Ted. Didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’
Ted seemed consoled by this. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I’m not saying other establishments are quite as choosy... Here, I’ll tell you a story. My local, I usually have a drink there on a Friday night. This group’s started coming in, dunno where they’re from. Two guys playing guitars... “Save All Your Kisses For Me”, songs like that. And an older guy toting a tambourine, using it to collect money round the tables.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Pound to a penny they’re refugees.’
Rebus lifted his glass. ‘It’s a whole other world,’ he said. ‘I never really thought about it before.’
‘Looks like you could use a refill.’ Ted gave a wink which creased his whole face. ‘On the house, if you’ll permit...’
The cold air hit Rebus when he left the bar. A turn to the right would send him in the direction of home, but instead he crossed the road and walked towards Leith Street, ending up on Leith Walk, passing Asian supermarkets, tattoo parlours, takeaways. He didn’t really know where he was headed. At the foot of the Walk, Cheyanne might be plying her trade. John and Alice Jardine might be cruising in their car, seeking a sighting of their daughter. All kinds of hunger out there in the dark. He had his hands in his pockets, jacket buttoned against the chill. Half a dozen motorbikes rumbled past, only to find their progress thwarted by a red light. Rebus decided to cross the road, but the lights were already changing. He stepped back as the leading bike roared away.
‘Minicab, sir?’
Rebus turned towards the voice. There was a man standing in the doorway of a shop. The shop was illuminated from within and had obviously become a minicab office. The man looked Asian. Rebus shook his head but then changed his mind. The driver led him to a parked Ford Escort well past its sell-by date. Rebus told him the address, and the man reached for an A to Z.
‘I’ll give you directions,’ Rebus said. The driver nodded and started the engine.
‘Been enjoying a few drinks, sir?’ The accent was local.
‘A few.’
‘Day off work tomorrow, is it?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
The man laughed at this, though Rebus couldn’t think why. They headed back along Princes Street and up Lothian Road, heading for Morningside. Rebus told the driver to pull over, said he’d only be a minute. He went into an all-night shop and emerged with a litre bottle of water, swigging from it as he got back into the passenger seat, using it to wash down a four-pack of aspirin.
‘Good idea, sir,’ the driver agreed. ‘Get your retaliation in first, eh? No hangover in the morning; no excuse for a sickie.’