‘Meaning what sort of time?’
‘Around half past nine.’
‘Does the description fit?’
‘There isn’t much of a description. A woman saw it from her tenement window. She was two floors up and fifty yards across the other side of the street. But she’s a law-abiding busybody, so she came forward to tell us.’
‘What does she say happened?’
‘Couple of younger guys arguing with an older guy. He seemed to be waiting for a bus as they were walking past. Words were exchanged. A taxi came along and the man stuck his hand out. Got in, and one of the kids gave the back of the cab a bit of a kick as it headed off.’
‘Which direction?’
‘Haymarket.’
Fox was thoughtful. ‘Which buses go that route?’
Breck shook his head. ‘Needle in a haystack, Malcolm – they go all over: west towards Corstorphine and the Gyle, north to Barnton, east to the likes of Ocean Terminal…’
‘Vince used to go to a casino near Ocean Terminal,’ Fox mused. ‘Him and his gaffer, plus the gaffer’s wife and my sister…’
‘Is that the Oliver?’ Breck asked, sounding interested. Fox nodded.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘No real reason. You ever been there?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’ Breck had something on his mind. He was rubbing the underside of his jaw with the back of his hand.
‘Are you trying to track down the taxi driver?’ Fox asked into the silence.
‘Yes.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard – if nothing else, he’ll remember the kicking his cab got.’
‘Mmm.’ Breck seemed to make up his mind, slapping his hands against his knees. ‘I really do fancy a drink, Malcolm – are you allowed to join me?’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘I meant, can you come out to the pub?’
‘Sure,’ Fox said after a moment’s hesitation. He checked his watch. They’d have picked up the van by now… checked its equipment. They’d be discussing tactics before heading out. ‘But it’s getting pretty late.’
Breck looked at his own watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not even ten.’
‘All I meant was, just a quick one.’
‘A quick one,’ Breck agreed. ‘Is it all right if we take your car?’
‘Where did you have in mind?’
‘The Oliver. I’m guessing it’ll have a bar.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t thinking about options now, but consequences. ‘Why there?’
‘Maybe we can ask if Vince Faulkner visited on Saturday night.’
‘That’s not exactly going by the rules, Jamie. Your boss’ll have a fit if he finds out.’
‘Rules are there to be broken, Malcolm.’
Fox wagged a finger. ‘Careful who you say that to.’
Breck just smiled and got to his feet. ‘Are you game?’ he asked.
‘Long way to go for one drink…’ Breck was neither budging nor about to say anything. With a sigh, Fox placed his hands on the arms of his chair and began to rise.
The area around Ocean Terminal was an odd amalgam of dockside wasteland, warehouse conversions and new buildings. Ocean Terminal itself was a shopping centre and cinema complex, with the royal yacht Britannia berthed permanently as a tourist attraction in a marina to the far side of the building. Nearby a vast, shiny construction housed the city’s army of civil servants – or at least a few battalions of them. A handful of lauded restaurants had opened up, perhaps with one eye on the cruise ships that occasionally docked in Leith. The Oliver was rotunda-shaped, and liked to think that it had been the harbourmaster’s residence at some time. Fox wasn’t even sure they’d be allowed inside – Breck was wearing trainers – but Breck had waved his objection aside and reached for his warrant card.
‘Accepted nationwide,’ he’d said, waving it in Fox’s face. So they’d parked between a Mercedes and a sporty Toyota in the car park. Liveried doormen stood guard at the well-lit entrance. Breck pointed out the CCTV camera to Fox, though Fox had already spotted it. He was wondering if he should text Kaye to let him know there was no point in tonight’s stakeout. On the other hand, if they did only stay for the one drink…
‘Good evening,’ one of the doormen said. It sounded more warning than greeting.
‘How are you doing?’ Breck asked. ‘Busy, is it?’
‘Just starting to be.’ The man looked him up and down, eyes lingering on the denim jacket. ‘Sightseeing trip, is it?’
Breck patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got some cash burning a hole.’
The other man was staring at Fox. ‘This one’s a cop,’ he informed his colleague. ‘I’d bet my life on it.’
‘Are cops not allowed a night off?’ Fox asked him, taking a step forward so he was in the man’s face.
‘Long as you’re not looking for freebies,’ the first doorman said.
‘We can pay our way,’ Breck assured him.
‘You better,’ the man warned him. And then they were in. Breck left his jacket at the cloakroom, which helped him blend in a little. At first glance the place offered glitz, but it was fairly casuaclass="underline" businessmen playing some tables, their wives and girlfriends the others. A few onlookers stood around, sizing things up. One of them looked to Fox like the waiter who’d taken his order earlier at the Chinese restaurant – confirmed when the man grinned and waved and gave him a little bow.
‘Friend of yours?’ Breck asked.
There were slot machines as well as the tables for cards, dice and roulette, plus a well-lit bar. Each croupier had someone from the house staff watching over them, just to be on the safe side. Fox had heard stories of croupiers who were too regular in their actions; meant the players could work out which quadrant of the wheel the roulette ball was most likely to stop, cutting the odds. Down the years, a few cops had got into trouble over gambling debts, entering the orbit of the Complaints as a result – not everyone was good at reading cards and roulette wheels.
A curving staircase, each step artfully illuminated, led to the mezzanine level. Fox followed Breck up. There was another bar here, and the casino’s restaurant off to one side. The restaurant itself was just half a dozen booths and three or four extra tables, doing no business at all tonight. All the stools at the bar were taken, and other drinkers were watching the action beneath from the relative safety of the balcony.
‘What can I get you?’ Breck asked.
‘Tomato juice,’ Fox said. Breck nodded and squeezed between two of the bar stools. The barman was pouring a cocktail into an old-fashioned champagne glass. Fox joined the other drinkers and peered down towards the floor below. The added attraction seemed to be that you could occasionally catch a glimpse down the front of a woman’s dress, but the tables had been angled and lit so that it was impossible to make out the contents of any hand of cards. The man nearest Fox nodded a half-greeting. He looked to be in his early sixties, his face deeply lined, eyes rheumy.
‘Table three’s the lucky one tonight,’ he offered in an undertone. Fox puckered his mouth, as if considering this.
‘Thanks,’ he said. He had three twenty-pound notes in his pocket, and knew he would have to offer to break one of them to buy Breck back a drink. Hopefully Breck wouldn’t accept, and they’d go home instead. Fox certainly had no intention of handing any of the cash to the tables, even lucky number three.
‘Virgin Mary,’ Breck said, handing him his drink. Fox thanked him and took a sip. It was spiced to the hilt: Worcestershire Sauce, Tabasco, black pepper. Fox felt his lips go numb.
‘Reckoned that’s how you’d like it. Cheers.’
Breck was holding a chunky glass filled with ice and a dark concoction. ‘Rum and Coke?’ Fox guessed, receiving a nod of confirmation.
‘Used to be my dad’s drink,’ Breck said.
‘Used to be?’
‘He’s like you – off the booze. Being a doctor, he’s seen more than his fair share of damaged livers.’