‘To do what exactly?’
‘Convince myself it’s a dead end.’
The way Jean looked at him across the table, he knew she wanted to offer him something, some form of comfort: a squeeze of the hand maybe, or a few well-intentioned words. He was glad there were other people present, making the gesture impossible. Otherwise he might have blurted something out, something about comfort being the last thing he needed.
Unless comfort and oblivion were the same thing.
Daytime drinking was special. In a bar, time ceased to exist, and with it the outside world. For as long as you stayed in the pub, you felt immortal and ageless. And when you stumbled back out from twilight into raging daylight, people all around you going about their afternoon’s business, the world had a new shine to it. After all, people had been doing the same damned thing for centuries: plugging the holes in their consciousness with alcohol. But today... today Rebus was just having the two drinks. He knew he could walk out after two. To stay for three or four would mean staying either until closing time or until he keeled over. But two... two was a manageable number. He smiled at that word: number, with its possible other meaning — that which made you numb. Comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd would say.
Vodka and fresh orange: not his first choice, but it didn’t leave a smell. He could walk back into St Leonard’s and no one would know. It was just that the world would seem a little softer to him. When his mobile sounded, he thought of ignoring it, but its trilling was disturbing the other drinkers, so he pushed the button.
‘Hello?’
‘Let me guess,’ the voice said. It was Siobhan.
‘In case you’re wondering, I’m not in a pub.’ Which was the cue for the young guy at the bandit to hit a big win, the coins disgorging noisily.
‘You were saying?’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Do these excuses get any better?’
‘What do you want anyway?’
‘I need to pick a Mason’s brain.’
He misheard. ‘You need to pick “Amazing Grace”?’
‘A Mason. You know, funny handshakes, trousers rolled up.’
‘Can’t help. I failed the audition.’
‘But you must know a few?’
He thought about it. ‘What’s all this about anyway?’
So she told him the latest clue.
‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘How about the Farmer?’
‘Is he one?’
‘Going by his handshake.’
‘Do you think he’d mind me calling him?’
‘Quite the opposite.’ There was a pause. ‘Now you’re going to ask if I know his home number, and as it happens you’re in luck.’ He took out his notebook, recited the number.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘How’s it going anyway?’
‘Okay.’
Rebus detected a slight reticence. ‘Everything all right with Grant?’
‘Fine, yes.’
Rebus raised his eyes to the gantry. ‘He’s there with you, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Message received. We’ll talk later. Oh, hang on.’
‘What?’
‘You ever had anything to do with someone called Steve Holly?’
‘Who is he?’
‘A local hack.’
‘Oh, him. I think we might have talked once or twice.’
‘He ever call you at home?’
‘Don’t be daft. That’s one number I keep close to my chest.’
‘Funny, he has it pinned to the wall in his office.’ She didn’t say anything. ‘No idea how he could have come by it?’
‘I suppose there are ways. I’m not giving him tip-offs or anything, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘The only thing I’m implying, Siobhan, is that he needs watching. He’s as smooth as a fresh-laid turd and gives off the same smell.’
‘Charming. I’ve got to go.’
‘Yes, me too.’ Rebus cut the call and drained his second drink. Right, that was that then, time to call it a day. Except there was another race coming up on TV, and he had his eye on the chestnut, Long Day’s Journey. Maybe one more wouldn’t do any harm... Then his phone rang again, and, cursing, he pushed his way outdoors, squinting into the sudden light.
‘Yes?’ he snapped.
‘That was a bit naughty.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Steve Holly. We met at Bev’s house.’
‘Funny, I was just talking about you.’
‘Only, I’m glad we met that day, or I might not have been able to place you from Margot’s description.’ Margot: the blonde receptionist with the earpiece. Not enough of a conspirator to resist grassing Rebus up...
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Rebus. The coffin.’
‘I heard you’d finished with it.’
‘Is it evidence then?’
‘No, I was just returning it to Ms Dodds.’
‘I’ll bet. Something’s going on here.’
‘Bright boy. That “something” is a police investigation. In fact, I’m up to my eyes in it right now, so if you wouldn’t mind...’
‘Bev said something about all these other coffins...’
‘Did she? Maybe she misheard.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Holly waited, but Rebus wasn’t saying anything. ‘Fine,’ the journalist said into the silence. ‘We’ll talk later.’ We’ll talk later, the very words Rebus had used to Siobhan. For a split second, he wondered if Holly had been listening in. But it wasn’t possible. As the phone went dead, two things struck Rebus. One was that Holly hadn’t mentioned the phone numbers missing from his wall, so probably hadn’t noticed them yet. The other was that he’d just called Rebus on his mobile, meaning he knew the number. Normally, Rebus gave out his pager rather than his mobile. He wondered which he had given to Bev Dodds...
Balfour’s Bank wasn’t much like a bank at all. For a start, it was sited on Charlotte Square, one of the most elegant parts of the New Town. Shoppers queued grimly for non-existent buses outside, but inside was very different: thick carpets, an imposing staircase, and a huge chandelier, walls recently given a coat of startling white. There were no cashiers, no queues. Transactions were dealt with by three members of staff seated at their own desks, far apart so that discretion was assured. The staff were young and well dressed. Other customers sat in comfortable chairs, selecting newspapers and magazines from the coffee table as they waited to be ushered into one of the private rooms. The atmosphere was rarefied: this was a place where money wasn’t so much respected as worshipped. It reminded Siobhan of a temple.
‘What did he say?’ Grant Hood asked.
She slipped her mobile back into her pocket. ‘He thinks we should talk to the Farmer.’
‘Is that his number?’ Grant nodded towards Siobhan’s notebook.
‘Yes.’ She’d placed the letter F beside the number: F for Farmer. It made the various addresses and phone numbers in her notebook harder to identify, should the book fall into the wrong hands. She was annoyed that a journalist she barely knew should have access to her home number. Not that he’d called her there, but all the same...
‘Reckon anyone here has an overdraft?’ Grant asked.
‘The staff might. Not so sure about their clients.’
A middle-aged woman had come from behind one of the doors, closing it softly behind her. She made no noise at all as she walked towards them.
‘Mr Marr will see you now.’
They’d expected to be led back to the door, but instead the woman headed for the staircase. Her brisk pace kept her four or five steps ahead of them: no chance for conversation. At the end of the first-floor hall she knocked on a double set of doors and waited.
‘Enter!’ At which command she pushed open both the doors, gesturing for the two detectives to walk past her and into the room.