‘There was a wreath left at the gates — I took it in with me. Card was from someone called Rob. Stephanie screwed it up and tossed it in the bin.’
‘Rob Driscoll,’ Clarke stated.
‘Tynecastle, right?’
‘Did the wreath go the same way?’
‘How did you guess? Can I assume you’re treating all those colleagues as suspects? Stephanie seems to have made up her mind that it has to be one of them.’
‘We’re ruling nothing in and nothing out.’
‘This isn’t a journalist you’re talking to, Siobhan.’
Clarke’s drink arrived. She thanked the waiter and stirred the wedge of lemon around the glass. ‘Constitution Street wasn’t a break-in,’ she said. ‘Nothing taken. Probably someone he knew and trusted.’ She concentrated on her drink for a moment. ‘Cheryl’s never mentioned drug use to you?’
‘Hers or his?’
‘Either.’
‘I got the feeling alcohol was their fuel of choice. Did he dabble?’
‘He definitely dabbled.’
Hendry looked thoughtful. ‘One thing I’ve been feeling the past couple of visits...’
‘What?’
‘A bit of edge between the sisters. Just a slight crackle, like static.’
‘The trauma of death rubbing up against the trauma of divorce?’
‘Not much sign that Stephanie is suffering. A few more weeks and she reckons she’ll be loaded. I know we’re not supposed to get attached, but I did enjoy hanging out with the pair of them.’
‘They do seem very close, edge or no edge.’
They focused on their drinks for a bit. The room was growing busier and noisier as more offices emptied and shops slid down the shutters.
‘You having another?’ Hendry asked. Clarke shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t either. Quiet night at home will make a change.’
‘I’ll probably head back to the office.’
‘You’re a glutton for punishment. Unless...’ Hendry paused for effect, ‘someone there has you smitten?’
‘No such luck.’ But Clarke’s phone was letting her know she had a message. It was from Michael Leckie. Fancy dinner some time? I categorically promise no shop talk.
‘Good news?’ Hendry nudged.
‘Might be,’ Clarke said, her fingers busy on the screen. It didn’t take long to compose her two-word reply.
Why not?
23
Ishbel Oram didn’t seem to recognise Rebus when she opened the door, which was fine by him.
‘Is Tommy in?’ he asked. She drew on her cigarette before replying.
‘He do that to you?’ She watched Rebus shake his head. From her reaction, he knew there must be swelling and bruising. His eyes felt puffy and there were still probably smears of dried blood on his upper lip and chin. ‘Didn’t think so, he’s not the type.’
‘Any idea where I could find him?’
‘Have you tried phoning?’
‘No reply,’ Rebus lied. Because phoning was what a friend would have done. Because a friend would have had Tommy’s number.
‘Pub maybe. Tell him to remember the pizza — and no bloody olives.’
‘No olives, right,’ Rebus said to the closing door. He walked around the corner to the Moorfoot and headed in. All three TV screens were tuned to the same football match, and the place was busy. Tommy Oram was in front of the one-armed bandit, not that they had arms these days. He was slapping at the flashing buttons as if his life depended on it.
‘No girlfriend tonight?’ Rebus enquired.
Tommy seemed to recognise the voice, but wasn’t about to take his eyes off the prize.
‘I told you, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s just someone I see.’
‘Your mum says no olives, by the way.’
This elicited a smile. ‘I only do it to piss her off.’
‘Fetch you a drink?’
‘Rum and Coke.’
‘You sure?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I’m just not a fan of rum, that’s all.’
Rebus headed to the bar. The barman had already clocked him. He bided his time while the orders before him were dealt with. Then it was his turn.
‘Forgot to bring some records,’ he said. ‘Next time for sure, and for now I’ll have a dark rum and Coke and a Highland Park — always supposing that’s what’s in the Highland Park bottle.’
With a scowl, the drinks started to be poured.
‘You’re Kenny Beecham?’ Rebus tried to make the question sound casual. ‘I hadn’t noticed the scar before.’
Unable to stop himself, Beecham’s fingers went to the pale raised line just below his jaw. ‘So what if I am?’
‘Still handing over a cut of the proceeds to Big Ger Cafferty?’
‘Drink your drink and get the hell out,’ Beecham said, snatching the twenty-pound note Rebus was holding out to him. Although Rebus’s palm was ready when the change arrived, Beecham slapped it down onto the bar instead.
‘Nice shooting the breeze as always,’ Rebus said.
Over at the machine, Tommy Oram’s luck had run out. Rebus placed the two drinks on a nearby table and pulled out a stool, Oram taking the one next to him.
‘What happened to your face?’
‘Nose job.’
‘I’d ask for a refund.’
‘Know why I’m here, Tommy?’ Rebus asked, not bothering to wait for an answer. ‘Those kids you use as lookouts at your lock-up. Turns out you’re far from their only source of income.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘It can’t have escaped your notice that they’re being used to shift drugs around the estate. Probably further afield, too, thanks to those bikes.’
‘News to me.’ Oram gulped from his glass and looked around the room. Rebus did the same, and noted the barman over in one corner, talking to the bald heavyweight who’d been the only other customer last time Rebus had been in. He was seated alone at a table with no view of any of the TVs.
‘Somebody must be in charge of them, though,’ Rebus pressed. ‘Strikes me you’re the ideal candidate. You know your boss Fraser Mackenzie is at the top of the pecking order? How about his daughter? She in on it too?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Oram had taken his phone out and was tapping the screen.
‘Calling the cavalry?’
He turned the screen towards Rebus. ‘Ordering the pizza, if you must know.’
‘Whole point of me coming here is to stop you getting in any deeper than you already are.’
Oram stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘I just think maybe that slot machine isn’t the only thing in your life that’s left you short-changed.’
‘Not your fault, is it?’ Oram broke off as he noticed a shadow falling across the table.
‘Everything all right, Tommy?’
It was the ogre from the corner. Oram managed a nervous smile. Not that the man was paying attention. His eyes were drilling into Rebus’s. ‘Yeah, fine, fine. Cheers, man. Might see you later?’
The heavyweight was pulling the hood of his dark fleece over the dome of his head. Rebus probably looked to him like one of his easier KOs.
‘You should see the other guy,’ Rebus commented.
The man seemed unwilling to pull his stare away, but eventually he left, letting in a blast of cold clear air.
‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked Oram.
‘Crosbie,’ the young man answered. ‘Most folk call him C.’
‘This is his pub?’
‘Sort of, I suppose.’
‘Him and Kenny Beecham are buddies?’
‘Since school.’
‘He’s a doorman, aye?’ Oram looked up at Rebus from his phone. ‘I saw what he was clutching in that paw of his,’ Rebus explained. ‘One of those armbands they all wear these days. He’ll be working Gaby’s nightclub, then? That’s why you might see him later?’ He leaned in towards Oram. ‘I know Gaby owns the club as well as doing the DJing.’ He started holding up his fingers one by one. ‘Gaby — doormen — enforcers — drugs — the Mackenzies.’ His palm was now splayed. ‘You’re the webbing between them, Tommy. And if I’ve worked it out, maybe your dad did too...’