As he showed Oram’s photo to the few punters, there were wary shakes of the head. No one asked him why he was there, because no one wanted to know. The female cashier, still in her teens, was equally dismissive, hardly raising her eyes from her phone. As Rebus stepped outside, he realised he only had one real option left. But before he could enter the Moorfoot, there were shuffling footsteps behind him. A small, hunched man had followed him from the betting shop, cheeks sunken and teeth largely absent from his gaping mouth.
‘Might’ve seen him,’ the man said, his voice croaky. ‘Not for a month or so, though.’ He looked around to check no one was unduly interested in him or the stranger he was talking to. ‘Not calling himself Jack these days, though. Davie Loach, he’s going by.’
‘But this Davie Loach is Jack Oram — you’re sure of that?’
‘Looked a lot like him, that’s all I’m saying. You’re Rebus, aren’t you?’
Rebus was beginning to think the man seemed familiar. He gave a slow nod.
‘I’m Ralph. I used to work nights at the baker’s on Nicolson Street. You’d drop by sometimes when the rolls were just out of the oven.’
Rebus couldn’t help but smile at the memory. He dug a five-pound note from his pocket and pressed it on the man.
‘No need,’ Ralph said, not looking like he was about to refuse.
Rebus gestured towards the betting shop. ‘Have a flutter on me.’ Then, ‘Davie Loach, you’re positive?’
Ralph nodded definitively.
‘Did you speak to him at all?’
‘Always kept his head down.’
‘And where was it you last saw him?’
Ralph gestured once more towards the door he’d just left. ‘You need to give a name when you place a bet. I asked Debs what he’d called himself.’
‘Debs being the cashier? And she just told you?’
‘She’s my granddaughter. Don’t hold it against her that she didn’t say anything. All sorts come round here. Usually there’s money owed and a beating in the offing.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘You got a phone on you?’ He proceeded to recite his own number while the man dabbed it in. ‘If you think of anything else or you see him, it’ll be worth your while.’
It was Ralph’s turn to nod, after which he pocketed his phone and headed back indoors. Rebus had no memory of him, but that was hardly surprising. Hot night-time rolls would have been two or three decades back, and he’d have been well refreshed, as the saying went. Speaking of which, there was a bar waiting for him. A half couldn’t do any harm before home.
The Moorfoot comprised a long, narrow room. Rebus could just about imagine a couple of pool tables fitting in. The bar itself took up almost no space at all, and across from it sat two betting terminals and what looked like a quiz machine. In place of piped music, there was a venerable Dansette record player behind the bar along with a selection of LPs and singles.
‘Nice touch,’ Rebus said, pointing towards it.
‘A blast of Mott the Hoople helps clear the place at closing time,’ the barman explained. He was tall and barrel-chested, and Rebus doubted he’d have too many problems with unruly clients, Mott or no Mott.
Rebus ordered a half of IPA, and the man turned to retrieve a clean glass. Rebus noticed that his belt had been tightened a couple of notches too far, which only served to highlight the flab around his middle. His polo shirt had a vodka manufacturer’s branding on it, and there were a couple of faded tattoos on his arms. They looked home-made, probably stretching back to teenage years. There were only three other customers: a young couple glued to one of the machines, and an older man at a corner table, seemingly hypnotised by the near-empty glass in front of him.
Rebus had brought out a debit card, but the barman shook his head. ‘Cash only.’
‘Card reader broken?’
‘What card reader?’
So it wasn’t only the music that was vintage. He handed the man a ten. ‘You been here long?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Are you Mr Crosbie?’ He had registered the name of the licensee on a small noticeboard outside.
‘I just work for him.’ The barman handed Rebus his change — a good amount of it. When Rebus took a sip, he realised why. They should have been paying him to drink the stuff.
‘Beer okay?’ the barman enquired.
‘Nectar. Have you happened to see this guy in here?’ He was holding up the photo of Oram.
The barman’s small, deep-set eyes moved from Rebus to the photo and back again. ‘Can’t say I have. Who is he?’
‘Surprised you don’t recognise him. He used to own this joint, back when it was the Potter’s Bar.’
‘Well before my time.’
‘You’ll have heard the story, though.’
‘Got into trouble and headed for the hills.’
‘Except it seems he’s back on the scene and calling himself Davie Loach.’
‘Is he aye?’ The barman was pouring himself some lemonade from a nozzle. He set the glass aside as the young couple approached. The man wanted a note changed for coins he could feed into the machine.
‘Losing streaks never last for ever,’ the barman commiserated. The customer made a clucking sound. He noticed that Rebus was holding a photograph up for inspection, but quickly decided he could safely ignore it and its owner.
‘Two more rum cola,’ he said. His date was stroking the back of his neck and he turned to give her a kiss. Once their mouths had met, neither seemed in any hurry to come up for air, the barman watching as if he had front-row seats at the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Rebus reckoned he was left with two options — finish the beer or walk over to the table in the corner. He opted for the latter.
The man seated there didn’t look up at his approach, or even when Rebus held the photograph out in front of him. He lowered it a little so it rested next to the man’s beer glass.
‘Not ringing any bells?’ he cajoled. ‘Maybe the belfry’s empty, eh?’ The man looked up at him then, but his mind seemed to loiter elsewhere. Fair enough. Rebus would have been the same if the alternative was facing the reality of this soulless room. Contrary to the barman’s words, here was incontestable evidence that some losing streaks were for life.
‘You’ve been a wonderful audience,’ he concluded, folding the photo back into his pocket.
‘Missing you already,’ the barman said as he made his exit. ‘Bring some records next time.’
‘Not sure I’ve got anything suitable for a wake,’ Rebus retorted, giving the bar and everyone in it a final look before leaving.
4
Clarke was on her way to the interview room when her phone alerted her to an incoming call. When she saw Rebus’s name, she almost didn’t answer, but she knew he wouldn’t give up.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
‘Top of the world, DI Clarke. How about you — blood pressure higher than normal?’
‘What makes you ask?’
‘You sound like an elastic band that’s about to snap.’
‘You freelancing for NHS 24?’