“We’ve not seen all the transcripts yet,” Rebus reminded him.
“Lads in Newcastle being their usual efficient selves? Got an e-mail address on you, John?” Rebus recited it. “Check your computer in about an hour’s time. But be warned-POETS day, meaning the CID cupboard might be a bit on the Mother Hubbard side.”
“Appreciate anything you can get for us, Stan. Happy trails.” Rebus clicked the phone shut. “POETS day,” he reminded Siobhan.
“Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she recited.
“Speaking of which-you still going to T in the Park tomorrow?”
“Not sure.”
“You fought hard enough for the ticket.”
“Might wait till evening. I can still catch New Order.”
“After a hard Saturday’s work?”
“You were thinking of a walk along the seafront at Portobello?”
“Depends on Newcastle, doesn’t it? Been a while since I took a day trip to the Borders.”
She double-parked and climbed the two flights with him. The plan was to have a quick recon of the case notes, decide what might be useful to Dr. Gilreagh, and head to a copy shop with them. Ended up with a pile an inch thick.
“Good luck,” Rebus said as she headed out the door. He could hear a horn blaring downstairs-a motorist she’d managed to block. He pulled the window open to let in some air, then collapsed into his chair. He felt dog tired. His eyes stung and his neck and shoulders ached. He thought again of the massage Ellen Wylie had wanted him to offer. Had she really meant anything by it? Didn’t matter-he was just relieved now nothing had happened. His waist strained against his trouser belt. He undid his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. Felt the benefit, so worked the belt loose, too.
“Jumpsuit’s what you need, fatso,” he chided himself. Jumpsuit and slippers. And a home-help nurse. In fact, everything short of “Charlie Is My Darling.”
“And just a touch more self-pity.”
He rubbed a hand over one knee. Kept waking in the night with a sort of cramp there. Rheumatics, arthritis, wear and tear-he knew there was no point troubling his doctor. He’d been there before with the blood pressure: less salt and sugar, cut down the fat, get some exercise. Kick the booze and ciggies to the curb.
Rebus’s response had been shaped as a question: “Ever felt you could just write it on a board, stick it on your chair, and bugger off home for the afternoon?”
Producing one of the weariest smiles he’d ever seen on a young man’s face.
The phone rang and he told it to get stuffed. Anyone wanted him that much, they’d try the cell. Sure enough, it rang thirty seconds later. He took his time picking it up: Ellen Wylie.
“Yes, Ellen?” he asked. Didn’t feel she needed to know he’d just been thinking of her.
“Only the one wee spot of trouble for Trevor Guest during his stay in our fine city.”
“Enlighten me.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair, letting his eyes close.
“Got into a fight on Ratcliffe Terrace. You know it?”
“Where the taxi drivers buy their gas. I was there last night.”
“There’s a pub across the street called Swany’s.”
“I’ve been in a few times.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Well, Guest went there at least the once. A drinker seemed to take against him, and it ended up outside. One of our cars happened to be in the garage forecourt-stocking up on provisions, no doubt. Both combatants were taken into custody for the night.”
“That was it?”
“Never went to court. Witnesses saw the other man swing the first punch. We asked Guest if he wanted to press charges, and he declined.”
“I don’t suppose you know what they were fighting about?”
“I could try asking the arresting officers.”
“I don’t suppose it matters. What was the other guy’s name?”
“Duncan Barclay.” She paused. “He wasn’t local though…gave an address in Coldstream. Is that in the Highlands?”
“Wrong end of the country, Ellen.” Rebus had opened his eyes, was easing himself upright. “It’s bang in the middle of the Borders.” He asked her to wait while he readied some paper and a pen, then picked up the phone again.
“Okay, give me what you’ve got,” he told her.
24
The driving range was floodlit. Not that it was completely dark yet, but the brilliance of the illumination made it look like a film set. Mairie had hired a three-wood and a basket containing fifty balls. The first two stalls were taken. Plenty of gaps after that. Automatic tees-meant you didn’t have to go to the trouble of bending down to replace the ball after each shot. The range was broken up into fifty-yard sections. Nobody was hitting 250. Out on the grass, a machine resembling a miniaturized combine-harvester was scooping up the balls, its driver protected by a mesh screen. Mairie saw that the very last stall was in use. The golfer there was getting a lesson. He addressed the tee, took a swing, and watched his ball hit the ground no more than seventy yards away.
“Better,” the instructor lied. “But try to focus on not bending that knee.”
“I’m scooping again?” his pupil guessed.
Mairie placed her metal basket on the ground, next stall over. Decided to take a few practice swings, loosen up her shoulders. Instructor and pupil seemed to resent her presence.
“Excuse me?” the instructor said. Mairie looked at him. He was smiling at her over the partition. “We actually booked that bay.”
“But you’re not using it,” Mairie informed him.
“Point is, we paid for it.”
“A matter of privacy,” the other man butted in, sounding irritated. Then he recognized Mairie.
“Oh, for pity’s sake…”
His instructor turned to him. “You know her, Mr. Pennen?”
“She’s a bloody reporter,” Richard Pennen said. Then, to Mairie: “Whatever it is you want, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Fine by me,” Mairie answered, readying for her first shot. The ball sailed into the air, making a clean, straight line to the 200-yard flag.
“Pretty good,” the instructor told her.
“My dad taught me,” she explained. “You’re a professional, aren’t you?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen you on the circuit.” He nodded his agreement.
“Not at the Open?”
“Didn’t qualify,” he admitted, cheeks reddening.
“If the two of you have finished,” Richard Pennen interrupted.
Mairie just shrugged and prepared for another shot. Pennen seemed to be doing likewise, but then gave up.
“Look,” he said, “what the hell do you want?”
Mairie said nothing until she’d watched her ball sail into the sky, dropping just short of 200 and a little to the left.
“Bit of fine-tuning needed,” she told herself. Then, to Pennen: “Just thought I should offer fair warning.”
“Fair warning of what exactly?”
“Probably won’t make the paper till Monday,” she mused. “Time enough for you to prepare some sort of response.”
“Are you baiting me, Miss…?”
“ Henderson,” she told him. “Mairie Henderson-that’s the byline you’ll read on Monday.”
“And what will the headline be? ‘Pennen Industries Secures Scottish Jobs at G8’?”
“That one might make the business pages,” she decided. “But mine will be page one. Up to the editor how he phrases it.” She pretended to think. “How about ‘Loans Scandal Envelops Government and Opposition’?”
Pennen gave a harsh laugh. He was swinging his club one-handed, to and fro. “That’s your big scoop, is it?”
“I daresay there’s plenty of other stuff to come out in the wash: your efforts in Iraq, your bribes in Kenya and elsewhere. But for now, I think I’ll stick with the loans. See, a little birdie tells me that you’ve been bankrolling both Labor and the Tories. Donations are a matter of record, but loans can be kept hush-hush. Thing is, I very much doubt either party knows you’re backing the other. Makes sense to me: Pennen split off from the MoD because of decisions made under the last Tory government; Labor decided the sell-off could go ahead unhindered-favors owed to both.”