Which was fine by him.
Rebus took Brillo with him on the walk to Morningside Road. A wasted journey, it transpired, since the hardware shop didn’t quite have what he wanted. They suggested a DIY superstore at Newcraighall, so he untied Brillo from outside the shop and headed back to Marchmont. Before venturing out again, he sat in the living room getting his breath back. He realised his plan — such as it was — had more potential drawbacks than advantages. On the other hand, at least it would mean he was doing something, and if it worked, it would certainly shake things up.
When his phone rang, he saw that it was Laura Smith. He pressed the phone to his ear.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘but thanks for asking.’
‘In your line of work, if you’re not making enemies, you’re doing something wrong.’ He paused. ‘Both your lines of work, I should say.’
‘Siobhan told you? Well, I don’t suppose it matters now that I’ve taken off my mask.’
‘Like Kendo Nagasaki.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind. But just remember, the journalist shouldn’t become the story.’
‘Not so true these days.’
‘I hear you’re staying with Siobhan?’
‘Which is why I’ve just restocked her fridge. The woman seems to eat nothing but takeaway.’
‘How bad is your house?’
‘Getting rid of the smell might be the real challenge.’ She paused. ‘If you’d heard whispers, you’d have warned me, right?’
‘You think it was Tynecastle?’
‘They’re on my list.’
‘But they’re not the only names.’
‘Siobhan told you about James Pelham?’
‘And I told her that if someone had wanted to do you real harm, they’d have gone for stealth over spectacle.’
‘So it was a shot across the bows?’
‘You think otherwise?’
‘John, I don’t know what to think.’ He heard her give a sigh. ‘How about you — up to anything I should know about?’
‘Shopping for tools.’
‘Gardening or DIY?’
‘I’m in the market for a nice big crowbar.’
‘That sounds promising — will you keep me posted?’
‘I imagine I will.’
‘How soon till we can talk again?’
‘Could be tonight, maybe tomorrow.’
‘For a man your age, you give good phone sex,’ Smith told him, ending the call.
Rebus looked down at Brillo, seated at his feet. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’ve still got it, eh?’ he told the dog, before pulling himself to his feet and going to fetch the car keys.
They’d all had a look at the footage from the casino, including King and Ritchie, who’d returned having eventually extracted a usable statement from their long-winded taxi driver.
‘Swear to God,’ King had said, ‘all we asked him was how long he’d been working the cabs, and he was three generations deep into his family tree before we could stop him.’
‘His dad drove the cabs,’ Ritchie had added, ‘his grandad, his uncle Billy, his cousin...’
The two young detectives had become more deflated as the afternoon had worn on, their finding of the cab trumped by first the casino and then Francis Haggard’s subsequent journey. But they had added their findings to the murder wall and stood there for some time admiring their handiwork.
Esson was studying the casino footage on her monitor. ‘How much cash did he take out, do we think?’
‘Bank statement says two hundred,’ Siobhan Clarke answered, ‘though with fees it cost him a bit more.’
‘The statement doesn’t mention Till’s?’
‘Not every punter wants their nearest and dearest knowing they had to make a withdrawal at a gaming establishment — the transaction was kept nicely anonymous.’
‘How much did he have on him when he died?’ Esson found the details for herself. ‘Over a hundred. After he took the cash out, he settled his drinks bill and put some into a fixed-odds machine. Presumably the cab that took him away from Till’s got paid. That doesn’t leave much to spare.’
‘You reckon he went straight home?’
‘Was he in any fit state to do anything but? He’d been steering clear, reckoning we might be watching, ready to put him in custody. But by now his brain’s too full of booze fumes — where else is he going to go? He’s had one night of sleeping rough and can’t bring himself to do a second.’
Esson rewound the footage. Haggard could have relied on his various debit and credit cards, but he was old-school. He’d paid cash at the tiki bar and cash to the driver who’d taken him to Till’s. She would bet he’d been the type to press tens and twenties into the hands of nightclub staff and maître d’s, probably never ordering a drink, as he had done at Drifter’s, without adding the words ‘and one for yourself’. When the cash had appeared from the slot in the machine, he’d counted the notes a couple of times — either to check he wasn’t being short-changed or because his arithmetic had been blurred by drink — before pocketing them, adding the balance slip that had popped out at the same time. A member of the casino’s floor staff had been hovering at a discreet distance, but had then approached to suggest it was time for Haggard to call it a day. Haggard had held up a digit — wanting one more drink — and the employee had eventually relented, leading him to a table and indicating for a waiter to take the order.
And yes, he had tried tipping the man, but it had been refused.
‘Did you talk to this guy?’ Esson called across to Leighton and Gamble. ‘The one who let Haggard have a last drink?’
Leighton nodded.
‘Did he say why he turned the tip down?’
‘He only takes gratuities from the sober.’
‘Why?’
‘Because drunks don’t know they’re doing it, which makes it meaningless.’ Leighton nodded again at Esson’s raised eyebrow. ‘The guy’s a philosophy graduate,’ she explained.
‘For real?’
‘For real,’ she confirmed.
Esson gave Clarke a look before returning to the footage. A switch of cameras now, Haggard at his table, shot from further away, the resolution less clear. Then an approach by two members of staff who were an altogether more imposing presence than the philosopher. They watched Haggard drain his drink and then helped him to his feet. He didn’t put up any resistance and they didn’t have to use force. Cut to the front entrance, and the taxi was already waiting there. The same two men manoeuvred Haggard inside and closed the door. The taxi didn’t leave immediately, though. The door opened again, Haggard’s hand emerging. One of the men who’d led him from the casino took the banknote held out to him, folding it into his pocket. No philosopher he. His companion seemed to be angling for his share as they made their way back indoors and the taxi pulled away.
Fox, who had been on his phone, stood up and started snapping his fingers, gathering everyone’s attention. ‘Hang on,’ he said into the device, ‘I just want to put you on speaker.’ Then, to the room at large, ‘They’ve just patched me through to the driver who picked him up from Till’s.’ Having dabbed at the icon for the phone’s speaker, he held it in front of him and walked into the centre of the office.
‘You were saying you didn’t take him very far, Mr Bishop?’
‘It was supposed to be Leith,’ the broad local voice boomed. ‘That’s a good fare any time of day.’
‘Did he specify Constitution Street?’
‘Just Leith to start with. Told me he’d decide nearer the time where to stop.’
‘So then what happened?’
‘We’d hardly got any distance at all, and he started saying he wanted chips. I mentioned two or three places we’d be passing, but he didn’t want to wait. Said he’d get out right there and find somewhere.’