“Cracking chips.”
“Almost like homemade.”
Bob nodded. “Peacock makes the best chips I know, crispy at the edges.”
“Peacock does a bit of cooking, eh?”
“Last time, we had to go before he’d finished…”
Rebus stared ahead as the young man crammed home more chips. He picked up his can and held it, just for something to do. His heart was pounding, felt like it was squeezing itself into his windpipe. He cleared his throat. “Marty’s kitchen, was it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. Bob nodded, scouring the corners of the carton for crumbs of batter. “I thought they’d fallen out over Rachel?”
“Yeah, but when Peacock got the phone call -” Bob stopped chewing, horror filling his eyes, realizing suddenly that this wasn’t just another chat with a pal.
“What phone call?” Rebus asked, allowing the chill to creep into his voice.
Bob was shaking his head. Rebus pushed open his door, snatched the keys from the ignition. Out of the car, scattering chips on the road, around to the back, opening the trunk.
Bob was next to him. “You can’t! You said…! You bloody said…!”
Rebus pushing aside the spare tire, revealing the gun, not wrapped in anything. A Walther PPK.
“It’s a replica,” Bob stuttered. Rebus felt its heft, gave it a good look.
“No, it’s not,” he hissed. “You know it and I know it, and that means you’re going to jail, Bob. Next night at the theater for you will be in five years’ time. Hope you enjoy it.” He kept one hand on the gun, placed the other on Bob’s shoulder. “What phone call?” he repeated.
“I don’t know.” Bob sniffing and trembling. “Just some guy in a pub… next thing, we’re in the car.”
“Some guy in a pub saying what?”
Shaking his head violently. “Peacock never said.”
“No?”
The head going from side to side, eyes suddenly tearful. Rebus gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around. Nobody was paying much attention: buses and taxis on Lothian Road, a bouncer in the doorway of a nightclub nine or ten doors up. Rebus wasn’t really seeing any of it, mind spinning.
Could have been any of the drinkers in the pub that night, spotting him having a long talk with Fairstone, the two men seeming too pally… thinking Peacock Johnson might be interested. Peacock, who’d once known Fairstone as a friend. Then the falling-out over Rachel Fox. And… And what? Peacock worried that Martin Fairstone had turned rat? Because Fairstone knew something Rebus might be interested in.
The question was, what?
“Bob.” Rebus’s voice all balm now, trying to soothe and calm. “It’s all right, Bob. Don’t worry about it. Nothing to worry about. I just need to know what Peacock wanted with Marty.”
Another shake of the head, not as violent now, resignation taking hold. “He’ll kill me,” he stated quietly. “That’s what he’ll do.” Staring at Rebus, eyes an accusation.
“Then you need me to help you, Bob. You need me to start being your friend. Because if you’ll let that happen, it’ll be Peacock in jail, not you. You’ll be right as rain.”
The young man paused, as though taking this in. Rebus wondered what a halfway decent defense counsel would do to him in court. They’d question his ability and his wits, argue that he didn’t make a competent witness.
But he was all Rebus had.
They drove the route back to Rebus’s car in silence. Bob parked his own car on a side road, then got into Rebus’s.
“Best if you kip at my place tonight,” Rebus explained. “That way we both know you’re safe.” Safe: a nice euphemism. “Tomorrow, we’ll have a chat, okay?” Chat: another euphemism. Bob nodded, not saying anything. Rebus found a parking space at the top of Arden Street, then led Bob down the sidewalk towards the tenement’s main door. Pushed the door open, and noticed the light in the stairwell wasn’t working. Realizing too late what it might mean… hands grabbing him by the lapels, hurling him against the wall. A knee sought his groin, but Rebus was wise to the move, twisted his lower half so the blow connected with his thigh. He thudded his own forehead into his attacker’s face, connecting with a cheekbone. One of the hands was at his throat, seeking the carotid artery. Pressure there, and Rebus would start to lose consciousness. He clenched his fists, went for kidney blows, but the attacker’s leather jacket took most of the brunt.
“There’s someone else,” a woman’s voice hissed.
“What?” The attacker was male, English.
“Someone’s with him!”
The pressure on Rebus’s throat eased, the attacker backing off. Sudden flashlight illuminated the half-open door, Bob standing there, mouth gaping.
“Shit!” Simms said.
Whiteread was carrying the flashlight. She shone it in Rebus’s face. “Sorry about that… Gavin can get a bit too zealous at times.”
“Apology accepted,” Rebus said, getting his breathing back under control. Then he swung a punch. But Simms was quick, dodged out of its way and held his own fists up.
“Boys, boys,” Whiteread chided them. “We’re not in the playground now.”
“Bob,” Rebus ordered, “up here!” He started climbing the stairs.
“We need to talk.” Whiteread spoke calmly, as though nothing had just happened. Bob was moving past her, making to follow Rebus.
“We really do need to talk!” she called, angling her head upwards, able to make out Rebus’s silhouette as he reached the first landing.
“Fine,” he said eventually. “But put the lights back on first.”
He unlocked his door, motioned Bob down the hall, showing him the kitchen and the bathroom, then the spare bedroom, single bed prepared for visitors who seldom came. He touched the radiator. It was cold. Crouched down and turned the thermostat.
“It’ll warm up soon enough.”
“What was going on back there?” Bob sounded curious, but not altogether concerned. A lifetime’s experience of keeping out of other people’s business.
“Nothing for you to worry about.” When Rebus stood again, blood rushed into his ears. He steadied himself. “Best if you wait in here while I talk to them. D’you want a book or something?”
“A book?”
“To read.”
“I’ve never been a great one for reading.” Bob sat down on the edge of the bed. Rebus could hear his front door closing, which meant Whiteread and Simms were in the hall.
“Just wait here, then, okay?” he told Bob. The young man nodded, studying the room as if it were a cell. Punishment rather than refuge.
“No TV?” he asked.
Rebus left the room without answering. Motioned with his head for Whiteread and Simms to follow him into the living room. The photocopy of Herdman’s file was on the dining table, but Rebus didn’t mind them seeing it. He poured himself a glass of malt, not bothering to share. Downed it as he stood by the window, where he could watch their reflections.
“Where did you get the diamond?” Whiteread began, holding her hands in front of her.
“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Rebus smiled to himself. “The reason Herdman took so many precautions… he knew you’d come back someday.”
“You found it on Jura?” Simms guessed. He looked calm, unruffled.
Rebus shook his head. “I just worked it out, that’s all. Knew if I waved a diamond at you, you’d start jumping to conclusions.” He raised his empty glass towards Simms. “Which you’ve just done… cheers for that.”
Whiteread narrowed her eyes. “We’ve confirmed nothing.”
“You came running here… confirmation enough in my book. Plus you were in Jura last year, failing to pass yourself off as a tourist.” Rebus poured himself another drink, took a sip. This one was going to last him. “Army brass, negotiating an end to hostilities in Northern Ireland… stood to reason there’d be a price attached. Paying off the paramilitaries. Those guys are greedy, weren’t about to go broke. The government was buying them off with diamonds. Only the stash went down with that helicopter, SAS sent on a mission to retrieve them. Armed to the teeth in case the terrorists came looking for them, too.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing so far?”