After years of following football only on pub televisions and in the back of the daily tabloid, Rebus was starting to go to matches again. DC Siobhan Clarke was to blame, coaxing him to a Hibs game one dreary afternoon. The men on the green sward weren’t half as interesting as the spectators, who proved by turns sharp-witted, vulgar, perceptive and incorrigible. Siobhan had taken him to her usual spot. Those in the vicinity seemed to know her pretty well. It was a good-humoured afternoon, even if Rebus couldn’t have said who scored the eventual three goals. But Hibs had won: the final-whistle hug from Siobhan was proof of that.
It was interesting to Rebus that, for all the barriers around the ground, this was a place where shields were dropped. After a while, it felt like one of the safest places he’d ever been. He recalled fixtures his father had taken him to in the fifties and early sixties – Cowdenbeath home games, and a crowd numbered in the hundreds; getting there necessitated a change of buses, Rebus and his younger brother fighting over who could hold the roll of tickets. Their mother was dead by then and their father was trying to carry on much as before, like they might not notice she was missing. Those Saturday trips to the football were supposed to fill a gap. You saw a lot of fathers and sons on the terraces but not many mothers, and that in itself was reminder enough. There was a boy of Rebus’s age who stood near them. Rebus had walked over to him one day and blurted out the truth.
‘I don’t have a mum at home.’
The boy had stared at him, saying nothing.
Ever since, football had reminded him of those days and of his mother. He stood on the terraces alone these days and followed the game mostly – movements which could be graceful as ballet or as jagged as free association – but sometimes found that he’d drifted elsewhere, to a place not at all unpleasant, and all the time surrounded by a community of bodies and wills.
‘I’ll tell you how to beat Rangers,’ he said now, addressing the whole office.
‘How?’ Siobhan Clarke offered.
‘Clone Stevie Scoular half a dozen times.’
There were murmurs of agreement, and then the Farmer put his head around the door.
‘John, my office.’
The Farmer – Chief Superintendent Watson to his face – was pouring a mug of coffee from his machine when Rebus knocked at the open door.
‘Sit down, John.’ Rebus sat. The Farmer motioned with an empty mug, but he turned down the offer and waited for his boss to get to his chair and the point both.
‘My birthday’s coming up,’ the Farmer said. This was a new one on Rebus, who kept quiet. ‘I’d like a present.’
‘Not just a card this year then?’
‘What I want, John, is Topper Hamilton.’
Rebus let that sink in. ‘I thought Topper was Mr Clean these days?’
‘Not in my books.’ The Farmer cupped his hands around his coffee mug. ‘He got a fright last time and, granted, he’s been keeping a low profile, but we both know the best villains have got little or no profile at all.’
‘So what’s he been up to?’
‘I heard a story he’s the sleeping partner in a couple of clubs and casinos. I also hear he bought a taxi firm from Big Ger Cafferty when Big Ger went into Barlinnie.’
Rebus was thinking back three years to their big push against Topper Hamilton: they’d set up surveillance, used a bit of pressure here and there, got a few people to talk. In the end, it hadn’t so much amounted to a hill of beans as to a fart in an empty can. The procurator fiscal had decided not to proceed to trial. But then God or Fate, call it what you like, had provided a spin to the story. Not a plague of boils or anything for Topper Hamilton, but a nasty little cancer which had given him more grief than the whole of the Lothian and Borders Police. He’d been in and out of hospital, endured chemo and the whole works, and had emerged a more slender figure in every sense.
The Farmer – who’d once settled an office argument by reeling off the books in both Old and New Testaments – wasn’t yet content that God and life had done their worst to Topper, or that retribution had been meted out in some mysterious divine way. He wanted Topper in court, even if they had to wheel him there on a trolley.
It was a personal thing.
‘Last time I looked,’ Rebus said now, ‘it wasn’t illegal to invest in a casino.’
‘It is if your name hasn’t come up during the vetting procedure. Think Topper could get a gaming licence?’
‘Fair point. But I still don’t see-’
‘Something else I heard. You’ve got a snitch works as a croupier.’
‘So?’
‘Same casino Topper has a finger in.’
Rebus saw it all and started shaking his head. ‘I made him a promise. He’ll tell me about punters, but nothing on the management.’
‘And you’d rather keep that promise than give me a birthday present?’
‘A relationship like that… it’s eggshells.’
The Farmer’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think ours isn’t? Talk to him, John. Get him to do some ferreting.’
‘I could lose a good snitch.’
‘Plenty more bigmouths out there.’ The Farmer watched Rebus get to his feet. ‘I was looking for you earlier. You were in the video room.’
‘A missing person.’
‘Suspicious?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Could be. He went up to the bar for a round of drinks, never came back.’
‘We’ve all done that in our time.’
‘His parents are worried.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Twenty-three.’
The Farmer thought about it. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
Two
The problem was the past. A week before, he’d received a phone call from a ghost.
‘Inspector John Rebus, please.’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, hello there. You probably won’t remember me.’ A short laugh. ‘That used to be a bit of a joke at school.’
Rebus, immune to every kind of phone call, had this pegged a crank. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, wondering which punchline he was walking into.
‘Because it’s my name: Mee.’ The caller spelt it for him. ‘Brian Mee.’
Inside Rebus’s head, a fuzzy photograph took sudden shape – a mouth full of prominent teeth, freckled nose and cheeks, a kitchen-stool haircut. ‘Barney Mee?’ he said.
More laughter on the line. ‘Aye, they used to call me Barney. I’m not sure I ever knew why.’
Rebus could have told him: after Barney Rubble in The Flintstones. He could have added, because you were a dense wee bastard. But instead he asked how this ghost from his past was doing.
‘No’ bad, no’ bad.’ The laugh again; Rebus recognised it now as a sign of nerves.
‘So what can I do for you, Brian?’
‘Well, me and Janis, we thought… Well, it was my mum’s idea actually. She knew your dad. Both my mum and dad knew him, only my dad passed away, like. They all used to drink at the Goth.’
‘Are you still in Bowhill?’
‘Never quite escaped. Ach, it’s all right really. I work in Glenrothes though. Lucky to have a job these days, eh? Mind, you’ve done well for yourself, Johnny. Do you still get called that?’
‘I prefer John.’
‘I remember you hated it when anyone called you Jock.’ Another wheezing laugh. The photo was even sharper now, bordered with a white edge the way photos always were in the past. A decent footballer, a bit of a terrier, the hair reddish-brown. Dragging his satchel along the ground until the stitching rubbed away. Always with some huge hard sweet in his mouth, crunching down on it, his nose running. And one incident: he’d lifted some nude mags from under his dad’s side of the bed and brought them to the toilets next to the Miners’ Institute, there to be pored over like textbooks. Afterwards, half a dozen twelve-year-old boys had looked at each other, minds fizzing with questions.