‘An excellent proposition... maybe we could discuss it over dinner?’
‘I can’t tonight, John. I’m off to the Filmhouse with a mate.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
She seemed to consider this. ‘I’m supposed to be doing some work this weekend... and thanks to last night I’m already losing today.’
‘You can’t work with a hangover?’
‘Can you?’
‘I’ve turned it into an art form, Caro.’
‘Look, let’s see how tomorrow pans out... I’ll try to give you a call.’
‘Is that the best I can hope for?’
‘Take it or leave it, chum.’
‘Then I’ll take it.’ Rebus had turned and was heading back towards the car. ‘Bye, Caro.’
‘Bye, John.’
Off to the Filmhouse with a mate... A mate, not a ‘pal’. Rebus got in behind the steering wheel. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Business or pleasure?’ Mo Dirwan asked.
Rebus didn’t answer; he had a question of his own. ‘You know Caro Quinn, don’t you?’
Dirwan frowned, trying to place the name. ‘Our Lady of the Vigils?’ he guessed. Rebus nodded. ‘Yes, she is quite a character.’
‘A woman of principles.’
‘My goodness, yes. She has given a room in her home to an asylum-seeker — did you know that?’
‘I did, as it happens.’
The lawyer’s eyes widened. ‘She was the one you were speaking to just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know that she, too, was chased out of Knoxland?’
‘She told me.’
‘We share a common thread, she and I...’ Dirwan studied him. ‘Perhaps you are part of that thread too, John.’
‘Me?’ Rebus started the engine. ‘More likely I’m one of those knots you come across from time to time.’
Dirwan chuckled. ‘I’m quite sure you think of yourself that way.’
‘Can I give you a lift home?’
‘If it’s not any trouble.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It might actually help me get back to the motorway.’
‘So the offer masked an ulterior motive?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that.’
‘And if I accept, will you allow me to offer some hospitality?’
‘I really need to be getting back...’
‘I am being snubbed.’
‘It’s not that...’
‘Well, that is exactly how it looks.’
‘Bloody hell, Mo...’ Rebus gave a loud sigh. ‘All right then, a quick cup of coffee.’
‘My wife will insist that you eat something.’
‘A biscuit then.’
‘And some cake perhaps.’
‘Just a biscuit.’
‘She will prepare a little bit more... you will see.’
‘All right, cake then. Coffee and cake.’
The lawyer’s face broke open in a grin. ‘You are new to the bartering method, John. Had I been selling carpets, your credit card would now be maxing out.’
‘What makes you think it’s not there already?’
Besides, Rebus could have added, he really was hungry...
21
On a bright, blustery Sunday morning, Rebus walked to the bottom of Marchmont Road and headed across the Meadows. Teams were already gathering for pre-arranged football games. Some of the sides wore uniform strips in emulation of professional sides. Others were more ragged affairs, denims and trainers in place of shorts and boots. Traffic cones were the favoured replacements for proper goalposts, and the lines marking the boundary of each pitch were invisible to all but the players.
Further on, a game of frisbee saw a panting dog playing piggy-in-the-middle, while a couple on one of the benches made hard work of trying to turn the pages of their Sunday newspapers, each gust of wind threatening to turn the many supplements into airborne kites.
Rebus had spent a quiet evening at home, but only after a saunter down Lothian Road had established that the movies showing at the Filmhouse were not his kind of thing. He now had a little bet with himself about which of the offerings had received Caro’s custom. He also wondered what excuse he’d have used if she’d happened to bump into him in the foyer...
Nothing I like better than a good Hungarian family saga...
Home had seen him demolish an Indian takeaway (his fingers still redolent, even after a morning shower) and a double helping of videos he’d watched before: Rock ’n’ Roll Circus and Midnight Run. While he’d smiled throughout the De Niro, it was Yoko Ono’s performance in the former which had sent him into hoots of laughter.
Just the four bottles of IPA to wash it all down, which meant he’d awakened early and clear-headed, breakfast consisting of half a leftover nan and a mug of tea. Now it was approaching lunchtime and Rebus was walking. The old Infirmary was surrounded by hoardings, doing nothing to mask the building work within. Last he’d heard, the compound would become a mix of retail and housing. He wondered who would pay to move into a reconfigured cancer ward. Would the place be haunted by a century of distress? Maybe they’d end up running ghost tours, same as they did with places like Mary King’s Close, said to be home to the spirits of plague victims, or Greyfriars Kirkyard, where covenanters had perished.
He’d often thought of moving from Marchmont; had gone as far as quizzing a solicitor on a likely asking price. Two hundred K, he’d been told... probably not enough to buy even half a cancer ward, but with money like that in his pocket he could jack the job in on full pension and do some travelling.
Problem was, nowhere appealed. He’d be far more likely to piss it all away. Was this the fear that kept him working? The job was his whole life; over the years, he’d let it push aside everything else: family, friends, pastimes.
Which was why he was working now.
He walked up Chalmers Street, passing the new school, and crossed the road at the art college, heading down Lady Lawson Street. He didn’t know who Lady Lawson had been, but doubted she’d be impressed by the road named in her honour — and probably less so by the huddle of pubs and clubs adjoining it. Rebus was back in the pubic triangle. Not that much was happening. It was probably only seven or eight hours since some of the premises had closed for the night. People would be sleeping off Saturday’s excesses: dancers with the best pay packet of the week; owners like Stuart Bullen dreaming of their next expensive car; businessmen wondering how to explain that forthcoming credit card statement to their spouses...
The street had been cleaned, the neon turned off. Church bells in the distance. Just another Sunday.
A metal bar held the Nook’s doors closed, fixed by a heavy-duty padlock. Rebus came to a stop, hands in pockets, staring at the empty shop opposite. If there was no answer, he was prepared to walk the extra mile to Haymarket, drop in on Felix Storey at his hotel. He doubted they’d be at work this early. Wherever Stuart Bullen was, he wasn’t in the Nook. Despite which, Rebus crossed the road and rapped his knuckles against the shop window. He waited, looking to left and right. There was no one in the vicinity, no passing traffic, no heads at any of the windows above street level. He knocked again, then noticed a dark green van. It was parked kerbside, fifty feet further along. Rebus strolled towards it. Whoever had owned it originally, their name had been painted out, the shapes of the letters just about discernible beneath the paint-job. There was no one visible inside. Around the back, the windows had been painted over. Rebus remembered the surveillance van at Knoxland, Shug Davidson ensconced within. He took another look up and down the street, then pounded his fist on the van’s back doors, placing his face to one of the windows before walking away. He didn’t look back, but did pause as if to examine the small ads in a newsagent’s window.