‘You reckon you could tell?’ she asked him.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t mean you don’t have a reason.’
‘I’m betting you’ve bugged phones in the past — during the miners’ strike maybe?’
‘Now who’s the one doing the interrogating?’
‘That’s because we’re enemies, remember?’
‘Are we?’
‘Most of your lot would see me that way, with or without the combat jacket.’
‘I’m not like most of my lot.’
‘I’d say that’s true. Otherwise I’d never have let you over the threshold.’
‘Why did you? It was to show me those photos, right?’
She eventually nodded. ‘I wanted you to see them as human beings rather than problems.’ She brushed down the front of her skirt, took a deep breath to indicate a change of subject. ‘So where are we gracing with our custom tonight?’
‘There’s a good Italian on Leith Walk.’ He paused. ‘You’re probably vegetarian, right?’
‘God, you’re just full of assumptions, aren’t you? But as it happens, this time you’re right. Italian’s good, though: plenty of pasta and pizza.’
‘Italian it is then.’
She took a step towards him. ‘You know, you’d probably put your foot in your mouth less often if you could try and relax.’
‘This is about as relaxed as I get without the demon alcohol.’
She slipped her arm into his. ‘Then let’s go find your demons, John...’
‘... and then there were those three Kurds, you must have seen it on the news, they sewed their mouths shut in protest, and another asylum-seeker sewed his eyes shut... his eyes, John... most of these people are desperate by anyone’s standards, most don’t speak English, and they’re fleeing the most dangerous places on earth — Iraq, Somalia, Afghanistan... a few years back, they had a good chance of being allowed to stay, but the restrictions now are crippling... some of them resort to desperate measures, tearing up any ID, thinking it means they can’t be sent home, but instead they’re sent to prison or end up on the streets... and now we’ve got politicians arguing that the country’s already too diverse... and I... well, I just feel there must be something we can do about it.’
Finally she stopped for a breath, picking up the wine glass which Rebus had just refilled. Though flesh and fowl were off Caro Quinn’s menu, alcohol, it appeared, was not. She’d eaten only half her mushroom pizza. Rebus, having demolished his own calzone, was restraining himself from reaching over for one of her remaining slices.
‘I was under the impression,’ he said, ‘that Britain takes more refugees than anywhere else.’
‘That’s true,’ she conceded.
‘Even more than the United States?’
She nodded with the wine glass at her lips. ‘But what’s important is the number who are allowed to stay. The world’s number of refugees is doubling every five years, John. Glasgow has more asylum-seekers than any other council in Britain — more than Wales and Northern Ireland combined — and do you know what’s happened?’
‘More racism?’ Rebus guessed.
‘More racism. Racial harassment is up; race attacks are growing by half each year.’ She shook her head, sending her long silver earrings flying.
Rebus checked the bottle. It was three-quarters empty. Their first bottle had been Valpolicella; this one was Chianti.
‘Am I talking too much?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Not at all.’
Her elbows were on the table. She rested her chin on her hands. ‘Tell me a bit about you, John. What made you join the police?’
‘A sense of duty,’ he offered. ‘Wanting to help my fellow human beings.’ She stared at him and he smiled. ‘Only joking,’ he said. ‘I just wanted a job. I’d been in the Army for a few years... maybe I still had a thing for uniforms.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I can’t see you as the bobby-on-the-beat type... So what is it exactly that you get out of the job?’
Rebus was saved from answering by the appearance of the waiter. Being Friday night, the restaurant was busy. Their table was the smallest in the place, and situated in a dark corner between the bar and the door to the kitchen.
‘You enjoy?’ the waiter asked.
‘It was fine, Marco, but I think we’re finished.’
‘Dessert for the lady?’ Marco suggested. He was small and round and had not lost his Italian accent, despite having lived in Scotland for the best part of forty years. Caro Quinn had quizzed him on his roots when they’d first entered the restaurant, realising later that Rebus knew Marco of old.
‘Sorry if I sounded like I was interrograting him,’ she’d said by way of apology.
Rebus had just shrugged and told her she’d make a good detective.
She was shaking her head now, as Marco reeled off a list of desserts, each of which, apparently, was a particular speciality of the house.
‘Just coffee,’ she said. ‘A double espresso.’
‘Same for me, thanks, Marco.’
‘And a digestif, Mr Rebus?’
‘Just coffee, thanks.’
‘Not even for the lady?’
Caro Quinn leaned forward. ‘Marco,’ she said, ‘no matter how drunk I get, there’s no way I’m sleeping with Mr Rebus, so don’t put yourself out trying to aid and abet, okay?’
Marco just shrugged and held up his hands, then turned sharply towards the bar and barked out the order for coffees.
‘Was I a bit hard on him?’ Quinn asked Rebus.
‘A bit.’
She leaned back again. ‘Does he often help you in your seductions?’
‘You might find this hard to fathom, Caro, but seduction had never entered my mind.’
She looked at him. ‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’
He laughed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. I was just trying to be...’ He sought the right word. ‘Gentlemanly,’ was the one he came up with.
She seemed to think about this, then shrugged and pushed her glass away. ‘I shouldn’t drink so much.’
‘We haven’t even finished the bottle yet.’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough. I get the feeling I’ve been guilty of speechifying... probably not what you had in mind for a Friday night.’
‘You’ve filled in a few gaps for me... I didn’t mind listening.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He could have added that this was partly down to the fact that he would rather listen to her than talk about himself any day.
‘So how’s the work going?’ he asked.
‘It’s fine... when I get time to do any.’ She studied him. ‘Maybe I should do a portrait of you.’
‘You want to scare small children?’
‘No... but there’s something about you.’ She angled her head. ‘It’s hard to see what’s going on behind your eyes. Most people try to hide the fact that they’re calculating and cynical... with you, that’s what seems to be on the surface.’
‘But I’ve got a soft, romantic centre?’
‘I’m not sure I’d go that far.’
They leaned back in their chairs as the coffees arrived. Rebus started to unwrap his amaretto biscuit.
‘Have mine, too, if you want,’ Quinn said, getting to her feet. ‘I need to pay a visit...’ Rebus rose an inch from his chair, the way he’d seen actors do in old films. She seemed to realise that this was new to his repertoire and gave another smile. ‘Quite the gentleman...’
Once she’d gone, he searched his pockets for his mobile, switched it on to check for messages. There were two: both from Siobhan. He called her number, heard background noise.