Mackenzie reached into a desk drawer, lifted out a brick of twenties, pulled about five notes free. ‘Will this do it?’
Rebus sat back. ‘Am I to understand you’re trying to offer me a cash incentive to leave the premises?’
‘Whatever. Just slope off, eh?’
Rebus stood up. ‘To me, Mr Mackenzie, that’s an open invitation to stay.’
So he stayed.
The looks he got from staff made him feel like a football fan trapped on the opposition’s turf. The way they all shook their heads as soon as he held up the photo, he knew word had gone around. He had a little more luck with the punters. A couple of lads had seen the woman before.
‘Last week, was it?’ one asked the other. ‘Maybe the week before.’
‘Not long ago anyway,’ the other agreed. ‘Cracker, isn’t she?’
‘Has she been in since?’
‘Haven’t seen her. Just that one night. Didn’t quite get the nerve up to ask for a dance.’
‘Was she with anyone?’
‘No idea.’
They didn’t recognise Damon Mee though. They said they never paid much attention to blokes.
‘We’re not that way inclined, sweetie.’
The place was still only half full, but the bass was loud enough to make Rebus feel queasy. He managed to order an orange juice at the bar and just sat there, looking at the photo. The woman interested him. The way her head was angled, the way her mouth was open, she could have been saying something to Damon. A minute later, he was gone. Had she said she’d meet him somewhere? Had something happened at that meeting? He’d shown the photo to Damon’s mates from that night. They remembered seeing her, but swore Damon hadn’t introduced himself.
‘She seemed sort of cold,’ one of them had said. ‘You know, like she wanted to be left alone.’
Rebus had studied the video again, watched her progress towards the bar, showing no apparent interest in Damon’s leaving. But then she’d turned and started pushing her way back through the throng, no drink to show for her long wait.
At midnight exactly, she’d left the nightclub. The final shot was of her turning left along the pavement, watched by a few people who were waiting to get in. And now Charles Mackenzie wanted to give Rebus money.
At three quid for an orange juice, maybe he should have taken it.
If the place had been heaving, maybe he wouldn’t have noticed them.
He was finishing his second drink and trying not to feel like a leper in a children’s ward when he recognised one of the doormen. There was another man with him, tall and fat and pale. His idea of clubbing was probably the connection of baseball bat to skull. The bouncer was pointing Rebus out to him. Here we go, Rebus thought. They’ve brought in the professionals. The fat man said something to the bouncer, and they both retreated to the foyer, leaving Rebus with an empty glass and only one good reason to order another drink.
Get it over with, he thought, sliding from his bar stool and walking around the dance floor. There was always the fire exit, but it led on to the alley and, if they were waiting for him there, the only witness would be Mackenzie’s Mercedes. He wanted things kept as public as possible. The street outside would be busy, no shortage of onlookers and possible good Samaritans. Or at the very least, someone to call for an ambulance.
He paused in the foyer and saw that the bouncer was back at his post on the front door. No sign of the fat man. Then he glanced along the corridor towards Mackenzie’s office, and saw the fat man planted outside the door. He had his arms folded in front of him and wasn’t going anywhere.
Rebus walked outside. The air had seldom tasted so good. He tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths. There was a car parked at the kerbside, a gold-coloured Rolls-Royce, with nobody in the driver’s seat. Rebus wasn’t the only one admiring the car, but he was probably alone in memorising its number plate.
He moved his own car to where he could see the Roller, then sat tight. Half an hour later, the fat man emerged, looking to left and right. He walked to the car, unlocked it and held open the back door. Only now did another figure emerge from the club. Rebus caught a swishing full-length black coat, sleek hair and chiselled face. The man slipped into the car, and the fat man closed the door and squeezed in behind the steering wheel.
Like them or not, you had to admire Rollers. They carried tonnage.
Five
Back in Edinburgh he parked his car and sat in it, smoking his eleventh cigarette of the day. He sometimes played this game with himself – I’ll have one more tonight, and deduct one from tomorrow’s allowance. Or he would argue that any cigarette after midnight came from the next day’s stash. He’d lost count along the way, but reckoned by now he should be going whole days without a ciggie to balance the books. Well, when it came down to it, ten cigarettes a day or twelve, thirteen, fourteen – what difference did it make?
The street he was parked on was quiet. Residential for the most part with big houses. There was a basement bar on the corner, but it did mostly lunchtime business from the offices on neighbouring streets. By ten, the place was usually locked up. Taxis rippled past him and the occasional drunk, hands in pockets, would weave slowly homewards. A few of the taxis stopped just in front of him and disgorged their fares, who would then climb half a dozen steps and push open the door to the Morvena Casino. Rebus had never been inside the place. He placed the occasional bet on the horses, but that was about it. Gave up doing the football pools. He bought a National Lottery ticket when opportunity arose, but often didn’t get round to checking the numbers. He had half a dozen tickets lying around, any one of which could be his fortune. He quite liked the notion that he might have won a million and not know it; preferred it, in fact, to the idea of actually having the million in his bank account. What would he do with a million pounds? Same as he’d do with fifty thou – self-destruct.
Only faster.
Janis had asked him about Mitch – Roy Mitchell, Rebus’s best friend at school. The more time Rebus had spent with her, the less he’d seen of Mitch. They’d been going to join the army together, hoping they might get the same regiment. Until Mitch lost his eye. That had been the end of that. The army hadn’t wanted him any more. Rebus had headed off, sent Mitch a couple of letters, but by the time his first leave came, Mitch had already left Bowhill. Rebus had stopped writing after that…
When the Morvena’s door opened next, it was so eight or nine young people could leave. The shift changeover. Three of them turned one way, the rest another. Rebus watched the group of three. At the first set of lights, two kept going and one crossed the road and took a left. Rebus started his engine and followed. When the lights turned green, he signalled left and sounded his horn, then pulled the car over and wound down his window.
‘Mr Rebus,’ the young man said.
‘Hello, Matty. Let’s go for a drive.’
Officers from other cities, people Rebus met from time to time, would remark on how cushy he had it in Edinburgh. Such a beautiful place, and prosperous. So little crime. They thought to be dangerous a city had to look dangerous. London, Manchester, Liverpool – these places were dangerous in their eyes. Not Edinburgh, not this sleepy walking-tour with its monuments and museums. Tourism aside, the lifeblood of the city was its commerce, and Edinburgh’s commerce – banking, insurance and the like – was discreet. The city hid its secrets well, and its vices too. Potentially troublesome elements had been moved to the sprawling council estates which ringed the capital, and any crimes committed behind the thick stone walls of the city centre’s tenements and houses were often muffled by those same walls. Which was why every good detective needed his contacts.
Rebus took them on a circuit – Canonmills to Ferry Road, back up to Comely Bank and through Stockbridge into the New Town again. And they talked.