But tonight, he felt, was different. And after all, he didn’t like visitors either; had never encouraged Siobhan or anyone else to visit his home. Maybe she was more like him than he realised. Maybe that was what made her nervous.
He didn’t think he was going to go back. Head home, phone and apologise. He unlocked the car, but didn’t start the engine straight away: left the keys hanging from the ignition. Lit a cigarette instead. Maybe he’d fetch the milk and coffee, leave them at her door before heading off. That would be the decent thing. But the main door to the building was locked. He’d have to buzz her to be let in. Leave the stuff on the pavement...?
Just go home.
He heard a sudden noise, watched as someone left the tenement opposite Siobhan’s. Sort of jogging their way along the pavement, but then taking the first left into an alley, where they stopped. A jet of urine hitting the wall, steam rising into the frosted air. Rebus sitting in darkness, watching. Someone on their way out, caught short? Maybe a blocked toilet at home...? The man was zipping himself up, jogging back the way he’d come. Rebus caught a glimpse of the face as the man passed beneath a street lamp. Back to the tenement, door opening and closing.
Rebus kept smoking his cigarette, a vertical frown-line appearing in the centre of his brow.
He stubbed the cigarette into his ashtray, removed his keys from the ignition. Opened and closed his door quietly, leaving it unlocked. Crossed the street practically on tiptoe, keeping out of the light. A taxi passed by at speed, Rebus hugging the rails in front of the tenement. Reached the main door. This one, unlike Siobhan’s, was unlocked. The block looked less cared-for, the stairwell needing a coat of paint. Faint smell of cat piss. Rebus closed the door slowly, another taxi masking any noise. Made his way to the foot of the stairs and listened. He could hear a television playing somewhere, or maybe it was a radio. He looked at the stone steps, knew he couldn’t walk up them without making a noise. His shoes would sound like sandpaper on wood, echoing up four storeys. Shoes off? Not a chance. Besides, he wasn’t sure an element of surprise was strictly necessary.
He began to climb.
Reached the first-floor landing. Started up to the second.
Now footsteps could be heard coming down. A man with the collar of his raincoat turned up, face all but obscured. Hands deep in pockets. A grunt, but no eye contact as he made to pass Rebus.
‘Hello there, Derek.’
Derek Linford was two steps further on before he seemed to realise. He stopped, turned.
‘Thought you lived in Dean Village,’ Rebus said.
‘I was just visiting a friend.’
‘Oh aye? Who’s that then?’
‘Christie, next floor up.’ Said too quickly.
‘First name?’ Rebus asked, smiling a humourless smile.
‘What do you want?’ Climbing back up one step, not liking the fact that Rebus was standing so far above him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘This Christie, got a blocked toilet or what?’
Now Linford realised. He tried to think of something to say.
‘Save it,’ Rebus advised him. ‘We both know what’s going on here. You’re a peeping Tom.’
‘That’s a lie.’
Rebus tutted. ‘Try a bit more conviction next time.’ He paused. ‘Otherwise a conviction’s just what you’re going to get.’
‘And what about you, eh?’ Sneering. ‘A quickie, was it? I notice it didn’t take you long.’
‘If you’d been noticing anything, you’d have seen me get into my car.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘How long’s this been going on? Don’t you think the neighbours will suss eventually? Strange man shuffing up and down the stairs at all hours...?’
Rebus went down a step to meet Linford at eye level.
‘Go away now,’ he said quietly. ‘And don’t come back. If you do, first thing I do is tell Siobhan. And after her, your boss at Fettes. They might like pretty boys there, but they don’t go big on perverts.’
‘It would be your word against mine.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘What have I got to lose? You, on the other hand...’ He let the sentence drift away. ‘One more thing: it’s my case now. I want you to stay out of the way; do you understand?’
‘The brass won’t go for it,’ Linford scoffed. ‘Without me, they’ll take it away from you.’
‘Will they?’
‘Bet on it.’ Derek Linford turned and started down the stairs. Rebus watched him leave, then climbed to the next landing. From the window, he could see Siobhan’s living room and one of her bedrooms. Her curtains still weren’t closed. She was seated on her sofa, chin resting on one hand, staring into space. She looked utterly miserable, and somehow he didn’t think coffee was the answer.
He called her from his mobile as he headed home. She didn’t sound too upset. Back at his own flat, he collapsed into the chair with a single measure of Bunnahabhain. ‘Westering home’, it said on the bottle, and they’d quoted from the ballad: Light in the eye, and it’s goodbye to care. Yes, he’d known malts that could do that. But it was a sham relief. He got up, added a dribble of water to the drink and put some music on the hi-fi: Siobhan’s tape of the Blue Nile. There were messages on his anserphone.
Ellen Wylie: progress report, and reminding him he’d said he’d find out about Bryce Callan.
Cammo Grieve: wanting a meeting; suggesting time and place. ‘If it’s at all convenient, don’t bother getting back to me. I’ll see you there.’
Bryce Callan was long gone. Rebus checked his watch. He knew someone he could talk to. Wasn’t sure it would help, but he’d made the offer to Wylie and Hood. It didn’t do to go crapping on the junior officers.
Remembering how he’d just dumped a bucketload on Derek Linford, Rebus grew thoughtful.
Another ten minutes of the Blue Nile — ‘Walk Across the Roofops’, ‘Tinseltown in the Rain’ — and he decided it was time to take his own walk. Not across the rooftops, but down to his car. He was heading for the badlands of Gorgie.
Gorgie was the centre of Big Ger Cafferty’s operations. Cafferty had been Edinburgh’s biggest player until Rebus had put him in Barlinnie Prison. But Cafferty’s empire still existed, maybe even flourished, under the control of a man called the Weasel. Rebus knew that the Weasel operated out of a private cab company in Gorgie. The place had been torched a while back, but had risen from the ashes. There was a small front office, with a compound behind. But the Weasel did his business upstairs, in a room few people knew about. It was nearly ten by the time Rebus got there. He parked the car and left it unlocked: this was probably the safest place in the city.
The front office comprised a counter, with chair and telephone behind, and a bench-seat in front. The bench-seat was where you sat if you were waiting for your cab. The man seated behind the counter eyed Rebus as he walked in. He was on the phone, taking details of a morning booking: Tollcross to the airport. Rebus sat on the bench and picked up a copy of the evening paper from the day before. Fake wood panelling surrounded him. The floor was linoleum. The man finished his call.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
He had black hair so badly cut it looked like an ill-fitting wig, and a nose which hadn’t so much been broken in the past as thoroughly dismantled. His eyes were narrow, almond-shaped, and his teeth were crooked where they existed at all.
Rebus took a look around. ‘Thought the insurance money might have bought better than this.’