‘Me too.’
She gave a sleepy smile and sat down on the chair opposite him, blowing across the surface of her cup. ‘I can’t decide about you, John. Most people, we know within half a minute of meeting them whether they’re on the same wavelength.’
‘So am I FM or medium wave?’
‘I don’t know.’ They were keeping their voices low so as not to wake mother and child. Caro tried stifling a yawn.
‘You should get some sleep,’ Rebus told her.
She nodded. ‘Finish your coffee first.’
But he shook his head, placing the mug on the bare floorboards and rising to his feet. ‘It’s late.’
‘I’m sorry if I...’
‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Siobhan’s your friend... the Oxford’s your pub...’
‘Both are pretty thick-skinned,’ he assured her.
‘I should have left you to it. I was in the wrong mood.’
‘Will you be going to Whitemire this weekend?’
She gave a shrug. ‘That depends on my mood, too.’
‘Well, if you get bored, give me a call.’
She was on her feet now too. Walked over to him and pushed up with her toes so she could plant a kiss on his left cheek. When she stepped back, her eyes widened suddenly and a hand flew to her mouth.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve just remembered... I let you pay for dinner!’
He smiled and headed for the door.
He walked back up Leith Walk, checking his mobile to see if Siobhan had left a message. She hadn’t. Midnight was chiming. He reckoned it would take him half an hour to get home. There’d be plenty of drunks on South Bridge and Clerk Street, stoking up on whatever was left under the chip shops’ heat lamps, then maybe heading down the Cowgate to the two a.m. bars. There were some railings on South Bridge, and you could stop there and peer down on to the Cowgate, like watching exhibits in a zoo. This time of night, traffic was banned from the street — too many drinkers falling into the road and being side-swiped by cars. He knew he could probably still get a drink at the Royal Oak, but the place would be heaving. No, he was headed straight home, and at as brisk a pace as he could manage: sweating off tomorrow’s hangover. He wondered if Siobhan was back in her flat. He could call her, try to clear the air. Then again, if she was drunk... Better to wait till morning.
Everything would look better in the morning: streets hosed down, bins emptied, broken glass swept away. All the ugly energy of the night earthed for a few hours. Crossing Princes Street, Rebus saw that a fight was taking place in the middle of North Bridge, taxis slowing and veering around the two young men. They held one another by the backs of their shirt collars, so that only the tops of their heads were showing. Swinging with their free hands and their feet. No sign of weapons. It was a dance to which Rebus knew all the steps. He kept walking, passing the girl for whose affections they were vying.
‘Marty!’ she was yelling. ‘Paul! Dinnae be sae fuckn daft!’
Of course, she didn’t really mean what she was saying. Her eyes were alight at the spectacle — and all of it for her! Friends were trying to comfort her, arms embracing her, wanting to be close to the drama’s core.
Further along, someone was singing to the effect that they were too sexy for their shirt, which went some way towards explaining why they’d ditched it somewhere along the route. A patrol car cruised by to jeers and V-signs. Someone kicked a bottle into the road, eliciting cheers when it exploded under a wheel. The patrol car didn’t seem to mind.
A young woman appeared suddenly in Rebus’s path, hair falling in dirty ringlets, eyes hungry as she asked him first for money, then for a cigarette, and finally whether he wanted to do ‘a bit of business’. The phrase sounded curiously old-fashioned. He wondered if she’d learned it from a book or film.
‘Bugger off home before I arrest you,’ he told her.
‘Home?’ she mouthed, as though this were some new and alien concept. She sounded English. Rebus just shook his head and moved on. He cut through to Buccleuch Street. Things were quieter here, and quieter still as he crossed the expanse of the Meadows, its name reminding him that at one time much of this had been farmland. As he entered Arden Street, he looked up at the tenement windows. There were no signs of student parties, nothing to keep him awake. He heard car doors open behind him, spun round expecting to confront Felix Storey. But these two men were white, dressed in black from their polonecks to their shoes. It took him a moment to place them.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he said.
‘You owe us a torch,’ the leader said. His colleague was younger and scowling. Rebus recognised him as Alan, the man whose torch he had borrowed in the first place.
‘It got stolen,’ Rebus told them with a shrug.
‘It was an expensive piece of kit,’ the leader said. ‘And you promised to return it.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never lost stuff before.’ But the man’s face told Rebus that he was unlikely to be won over by any argument, any appeal to a spirit of camaraderie. The Drugs Squad saw itself as a force of nature, independent from other cops. Rebus held his hands up in surrender. ‘I can write you a cheque.’
‘We don’t want a cheque. We want a torch identical to the one we gave you.’ The leader held out a slip of paper, which Rebus took. ‘That’s the make and model number.’
‘I’ll nip down Argos tomorrow...’
The leader was shaking his head. ‘Think you’re a good detective? Tracking that down will be the proof.’
‘Argos or Dixon’s — I’ll let you have what I find.’
The leader took a step closer, chin jutting. ‘You want us off your back, you’ll find that torch.’ He stabbed a finger at the piece of paper. Then, satisfied he’d made his point, he pivoted and headed for the car, followed by his young colleague.
‘Look after him, Alan,’ Rebus called. ‘Bit of TLC and he’ll be right as rain.’
He waved the car off, then climbed the steps to his flat and unlocked the door. The floorboards creaked underfoot, as though in complaint. Rebus switched on the hi-fi: a Dick Gaughan CD, just audible. Then he collapsed on to his favoured chair, searching his pockets for a cigarette. He inhaled and closed his eyes. The world seemed to be tilting, taking him with it. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair, feet pressed solidly to the floor. When the phone rang, he knew it would be Siobhan. He reached down and picked up the receiver.
‘You’re home then,’ her voice said.
‘Where did you expect me to be?’
‘Do I need to answer that?’
‘You’ve got a dirty little mind.’ Then: ‘I’m not the one you should be apologising to.’
‘Apologise?’ Her voice had risen. ‘What in God’s name is there to apologise about?’
‘You’d had a bit too much to drink.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’ She sounded grimly sober.
‘If you say so.’
‘I admit I don’t quite see the attraction...’
‘You sure you want us to have this conversation?’
‘Will it be taken down and used in evidence?’
‘Hard to take things back once they’re said out loud.’
‘Unlike you, John, I’ve never been good at bottling things up.’
Rebus had spotted a mug on the carpet. Cold coffee, half full. He took a mouthful, swallowed. ‘So you don’t approve of my choice of companion...’
‘It’s not up to me who you go out with.’
‘That’s generous of you.’
‘But the two of you just seem so... different.’