‘It’s me,’ he said.
‘Hang on a sec...’ Her voice was breaking up. He heard a door swinging open and then shut again, muting the background voices.
‘You at the Ox?’ he guessed.
‘That’s right. I was at the Dome with Les Young, but he had a prior engagement, so I drifted along here. What about you?’
‘Dining out.’
‘Alone?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Her name’s Caro Quinn. She’s an artist.’
‘The Whitemire one-woman crusade?’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s right.’
‘I read the papers, too, you know. What’s she like?’
‘She’s fine.’ His eyes looked up to where Quinn was returning to the table. ‘Look, I’d better ring off...’
‘Wait a second. The reason I was calling... well, two reasons actually...’ Her voice was drowned out by a vehicle as it rumbled past her. ‘... and I wondered if you’d heard.’
‘Sorry, I missed that. Heard what?’
‘Mo Dirwan.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been beaten up. Happened around six.’
‘In Knoxland?’
‘Where else?’
‘How is he?’ Rebus’s eyes were on Quinn. She was playing with her coffee spoon, making a show of not listening.
‘He’s okay, I think. Cuts and bruises.’
‘Is he in hospital?’
‘Recuperating at home.’
‘Do we know who did it?’
‘I’m guessing racists.’
‘I mean anyone in particular.’
‘It’s Friday night, John.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning it’ll wait till Monday.’
‘Fair enough.’ He thought for a second. ‘So what was your other reason for calling? You said there were two.’
‘Janet Eylot.’
‘I know the name.’
‘She works at Whitemire. Says she gave you Stef Yurgii’s name.’
‘She did. What about it?’
‘Just wanted to check she was on the level.’
‘I told her she wouldn’t get into trouble.’
‘She’s not.’ Siobhan paused. ‘Not yet, at any rate. Any chance we’ll be seeing you at the Ox?’
‘I might manage along later.’
Quinn’s eyebrows rose at this. Rebus ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
‘A girlfriend?’ she teased.
‘Colleague.’
‘And where is it you might “manage along” to?’
‘Just a place we sometimes drink.’
‘The bar with no name?’
‘It’s called the Oxford.’ He picked up his cup. ‘Someone got a doing tonight, a lawyer called Mo Dirwan.’
‘I know him.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Thought you might.’
‘He often visits Whitemire. Likes to stop and talk to me afterwards, letting off steam.’ She seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘He calls me his “Lady of the Vigils”...’ She broke off. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Rebus lowered the cup on to its saucer.
‘You can’t be his white knight every time.’
‘It’s not that...’
‘What then?’
‘He was attacked in Knoxland.’
‘So?’
‘It was me who asked him to stick around, knock on doors.’
‘And that makes it your fault? If I know Mo Dirwan, he’ll bounce back stronger and more bolshy than ever.’
‘You’re probably right.’
She drained her coffee. ‘You should go to your pub. Might be the only place you can relax.’
Rebus signalled to Marco for the bill. ‘I’ll see you home first,’ he told Quinn. ‘Got to keep up the pretence of being a gentleman.’
‘I don’t think you understand, John... I’m coming with you.’ He stared at her. ‘Unless you don’t want me to.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What then?’
‘I’m just not sure it’s your kind of place.’
‘But it’s yours, and that’s what I’m curious about.’
‘You think my choice of watering-hole will tell you something about me?’
‘It might.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what you’re afraid of?’
‘Who said I’m afraid?’
‘I can see it in your eyes.’
‘Maybe I’m just worried about Mo Dirwan.’ He paused. ‘Remember when you said you’d been run out of Knoxland?’ The nod she gave was exaggerated, affected by the wine. ‘Could be the same guys.’
‘Meaning I was lucky to get away with a warning?’
‘No chance of you remembering what they looked like...?’
‘Baseball caps and hooded tops.’ The shrug she gave was exaggerated too. ‘That’s just about all I saw of them.’
‘And their accents?’
She slapped a hand down on the tablecloth. ‘Switch off for the night, will you? Just for the rest of tonight.’
Rebus raised his hands in surrender. ‘How can I refuse?’
‘You can’t,’ she told him, as Marco arrived with the bill.
Rebus tried to hide his annoyance. It wasn’t just that Siobhan was in the front bar — standing where he usually stood. But she seemed to’ve taken the place over, a crowd of men around her, listening to her stories. As Rebus pushed the door open, there was a blast of laughter to accompany the end of another anecdote.
Caro Quinn followed hesitantly. There were probably only a dozen or so bodies in the front bar, but this made for a crowd in the cramped space. She fanned her face with her hand, commenting either on the heat or the fug of cigarette smoke. Rebus realised he hadn’t lit up now for the best part of two hours; reckoned he could manage another thirty or forty minutes...
Tops.
‘The prodigal returns!’ one of the regulars barked, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. ‘What’re you having, John?’
‘No, ta, Sandy,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m getting these.’ Then, to Quinn: ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Just an orange juice.’ During the short taxi ride, she’d seemed to doze off for a moment, her head leaning against Rebus’s shoulder. He’d kept his body rigid, not wanting to disturb her, but a pothole had brought her upright again.
‘Orange juice and a pint of IPA,’ Rebus told Harry the barman. Siobhan’s circle of admirers had broken up just enough to make room for the new arrivals. Introductions were made, hands shaken. Rebus paid for the drinks, noting that Siobhan appeared to be on the gin and tonics.
Harry was channel-hopping with the TV remote, dismissing the various sports channels and ending up with the Scottish news. There was a photo of Mo Dirwan behind the announcer, a head-and-shoulders shot, showing him with a huge grin. The announcer became just a voice, as the picture changed to some video footage of Dirwan outside what appeared to be his house. He sported a black eye and some grazes, a pink plaster sitting awkwardly on his chin. He held up a hand to show that it was bandaged.
‘That’s Knoxland for you,’ one of the drinkers commented.
‘You’re saying it’s a no-go zone?’ Quinn asked lightly.
‘I’m saying you don’t go there if your face doesn’t fit.’
Rebus could see Quinn begin to bristle. He touched her elbow. ‘How’s your drink?’
‘It’s fine.’ She looked at him and seemed to see what he was doing. Nodded just enough to let him know she wouldn’t rise... not this time.
Twenty minutes later, Rebus had given in and was smoking. He looked towards where Siobhan and Quinn were in conversation, heard Caro’s question:
‘So what’s he like to work with?’
Excused himself from a three-way argument about the parliament and squeezed between two drinkers to get to the women.