‘Bon appetit,’ he said to himself, unwrapping it.
Hutton spent an hour in the club. Linford was keeping a record of his movements, and duly noted the time to the minute. He was alone when he came out, his hair damp from the shower, holdall swinging. He had that sheen, that scrubbed confidence which came with a workout. Back into his car, and heading towards Abbeyhill. Linford checked his mobile phone. The battery was dead. He plugged it into the cigar lighter, got it charging. He wondered about calling Rebus, but to say what exactly? To ask his consent? You’re doing the right thing; keep at it. The action of a weak man.
He wasn’t weak. And here was the proof.
They were on Easter Road now, Hutton busy on his own mobile. The whole trip he’d been carrying on conversations, hardly ever glancing in rearview or side mirrors. Not that it would have mattered — Linford was three cars back.
But then suddenly they were in Leith, taking side roads. Linford hung back, hoping someone would overtake, but there was nobody there, nobody but the suspect and him. Left and right, the roads getting narrower, tenements either side of them, front doors opening directly on to the pavement. Children’s playgrounds, broken glass sparkling in the headlights. Dusk. Hutton pulling over suddenly. Down by the docks, Linford guessed. He didn’t know this part of town at all; tried to avoid it: schemes and hard-man dives. Weapons of choice: the bottle and the kitchen knife. The assaults tended to be on friends and ‘loved ones’.
Hutton had parked outside one of the hard-man dives: a tiny pub, with narrow curtained windows seven feet off the ground. Solid-looking door: you’d think the place was locked. But Hutton knew better, pushed open the door and walked straight in. He left his holdall on the Ferrari’s front seat, shopping bags in the back, the whole lot in full view.
Stupid or confident. Linford would bet the latter. He thought of the Leith pub in Trainspotting, the American tourist asking for the toilet, the schemies following him in, divvying the spoils after. That was this kind of pub. The place didn’t even have a name, just a sign outside advertising Tennent’s Lager. Linford checked his watch, entered the details in his log. A textbook surveillance. He checked his phone for messages. There weren’t any. He knew the singles club was having a night out, starting at nine. He wasn’t sure whether to go or not. Maybe Siobhan would be there again — it wasn’t her case now but you never knew. He hadn’t heard any stories about him being at the club that night, so probably Siobhan had kept her word, not said anything to anyone. That was good of her, considering... He’d given her the ammo, and after what he’d done, she still hadn’t used it.
Then again, what had he done? Loitered outside her flat like a lovelorn teenager. Not such a heinous crime, was it? It had only been the three times. Even if Rebus hadn’t found him... well, he’d have given up soon enough, and that would have been an end of it. It was down to Rebus really, wasn’t it? Landing him in it with Siobhan, leaving him marginalised at work. Christ, yes, exactly what Rebus had wanted all along. One in the eye for the Fettes fast-stream. He could rise to chief constable and it would be there, hanging over him. Rebus would be retired, of course, maybe even have drunk himself to death, but Siobhan would be around, unless she went off to get married, have kids.
Always with the power to hurt him.
He didn’t know what to do about that. The ACC had told him, no one’s irreplaceable.
He passed the time reading whatever was in the car: owner’s manual, service log, some leaflets from the passenger-side pocket: tourist attractions; old grocery lists... He was poring over his map book, looking at how much of Scotland he didn’t know, when his phone sounded, shocking him with its sudden shrill cry. He picked it up, fumbled to switch it on.
‘It’s Rebus,’ the voice said.
‘Something happened?’
‘No, it’s just... nobody’d seen you this afternoon.’
‘And you were worried?’
‘Let’s say I was curious.’
‘I’m following Hutton. He’s in a pub down in Leith. Been in there...’ He checked his watch. ‘An hour and a quarter.’
‘Which pub?’
‘No name above the door.’
‘Which street?’
Linford realised that he didn’t know. He looked around, saw nothing to help him.
‘How well do you know Leith?’ Rebus asked. Linford felt his confidence ebb.
‘Well enough,’ he said.
‘So are you North Leith or South? Port? Seafield? What?’
‘Near the port,’ Linford spluttered.
‘Can you see any water?’
‘Look, I’ve been on his tail all afternoon. He did some shopping, had a business meeting, went to his health club...’
Rebus wasn’t listening. ‘He’s got a pedigree, whether he’s straight or not.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean he used to work for his uncle. He probably knows more about this sort of thing than you do.’
‘Look, I don’t need you to tell me about—’
‘Hello? Anyone home? What do you do when you need a pee?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Or something to eat?’
‘Ditto.’
‘I said you should look at people who work for him. I didn’t mean like this.’
‘Don’t tell me how to do my job!’
‘Just don’t go into that pub, okay? I’ve half an idea where you are, I’ll come down there.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Try and stop me.’
‘Look, this is my—’ But Linford’s caller had gone.
He cursed silently, tried calling Rebus back. ‘I’m sorry,’ said the recording, ‘but the phone you have called may be switched off...’
Linford cursed again.
Did he want Rebus here, sharing his inquiry, sticking his nose in? Meddling? Soon as he arrived, he’d be told where he could go.
The pub door rattled open. All the time Hutton had been inside — one hour and twenty minutes — no one else had gone in or come out. But now here he was, emerging, bathed in light from the open door. And there was another man with him. They stood chatting in the doorway, Linford, parked across the road and down a ways, peering at this new figure. He ticked off the Holyrood description in his mind, came up with a close match.
Denims, dark bomber jacket, white trainers. Black cropped hair. Big round eyes and a permanent-looking scowl.
Hutton punched the man’s shoulder. The man didn’t seem too happy about what was being said. He put out a hand for Hutton to shake, but Hutton wasn’t having any of it. Went and unlocked his Ferrari, started the engine and headed off. The man looked like he was going to turn back into the pub. Linford had a new scenario now: in he walks with Rebus as back-up, takes the man in for questioning. Not a bad day’s work.
But the man was just shouting his goodbyes to someone. Then he headed off on foot. Linford didn’t think twice, slid from his car, made to lock it, then remembered the little squeak of acknowledgement which the alarm made. Left it unlocked.
Forgot to take his mobile.
The man seemed drunk, weaving slightly, arms hanging loose. He went into another pub, came out again scant minutes later, stood by the doorway lighting a cigarette. Then back on his travels, stopping to talk to someone he seemed to know, then slowing as he fished a mobile phone out of his jacket and took a call. Linford patted his own pockets, realised the mobile was back in his car. He’d no idea where they were, tried memorising the few street names on show. Another pub: three minutes and out again. A short cut down a lane. Linford waited till the suspect had turned left out of the lane before entering it himself, sprinting to the other end. A housing scheme now, high fences and curtained windows, sounds of TVs and kids playing. Dark passageways smelling faintly of urine. Graffiti: Easy, Provos, Hibs. More walkways, the man pausing now, knocking at a door. Linford sticking to the shadows. The door opened and the man stepped quickly inside.