Jacky shook her head. No, no one seemed to have seen her before, nobody knew who she was. Unlikely then that she was local.
‘Were there any buses in that night?’
‘That doesn’t happen at Gaitanos,’ she told him. ‘It’s not “in” enough any more. There’s a new place in Dunfermline. That gets the busloads.’ Jacky tapped the photo. ‘You think she’s gone off with Damon?’
Rebus looked at her and saw behind the eyeliner to a sharp intelligence. ‘It’s possible,’ he said quietly.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t be interested, and he wouldn’t have had the guts.’
On his way home, Rebus dropped into St Leonard’s. The amount he was paying in bridge tolls, he was thinking about a season ticket. There was a fax on his desk. He’d been promised it in the afternoon, but there’d been a delay. It identified the owner of the Rolls-Royce as a Mr Richard Mandelson, with an address in Juniper Green. Mr Mandelson had no criminal record outstanding, whether for motoring offences or anything else. Rebus tried to imagine some poor parking warden trying to give the Roller a ticket with the fat man behind the wheel. There were a few more facts about Mr Mandelson, including last known occupation.
Casino manager.
Seven
Matty and Stevie Scoular saw one another socially now. Stevie would sometimes phone and invite Matty to some party or dinner, or just for a drink. At the same time as Matty was flattered, he did wonder what Stevie’s angle was, had even come out and asked him.
‘I mean,’ he’d said, ‘I’m just a toe-rag from the school playground, and you… well, you’re SuperStevie, you’re the king.’
‘Aye, if you believe the papers.’ Stevie had finished his drink – Perrier, he had a game the next day. ‘I don’t know, Matty, maybe it’s that I miss all that.’
‘All what?’
‘Schooldays. It was a laugh back then, wasn’t it?’
Matty had frowned, not really remembering. ‘But the life you’ve got now, Stevie, man. People would kill for it.’
And Stevie had nodded, looking suddenly sad.
Another time, a couple of kids had asked Stevie for his autograph, then had turned and asked Matty for his, thinking that whoever he was, he had to be somebody. Stevie had laughed at that, said something about it being a lesson in humility. Again, Matty didn’t get it. There were times when Stevie seemed to be on a different planet. Maybe it was understandable, the pressure he was under. Stevie seemed to remember a lot more about school than Matty did: teachers’ names, the lot. They talked about Gullane, too, what a boring place to grow up. Sometimes they didn’t talk much at all. Just took out a couple of dolls: Stevie would always bring one along for Matty. She wouldn’t be quite as gorgeous as Stevie’s, but that was all right. Matty could understand that. He was soaking it all up, enjoying it while it lasted. He had half an idea that Stevie and him would be best friends for life, and another that Stevie would dump him soon and find some other distraction. He thought Stevie needed him right now much more than he needed Stevie. So he soaked up what he could, started filing the stories away for future use, tweaking them here and there…
Tonight they took in a couple of bars, a bit of a drive in Stevie’s Beamer: he preferred BMWs to Porsches, more space for passengers. They ended up at a club, but didn’t stay long. Stevie had a game the next day. He was always very conscientious that way: Perrier and early nights. Stevie dropped Matty off outside his flat, sounding the horn as he roared away. Matty hadn’t spotted the other car, but he heard a door opening, looked across the road and recognised Malibu straight off. Malibu was Mr Mandelson’s driver. He’d eased himself out of the Roller and was holding open the back door while looking over to Matty.
So Matty crossed the street. As he did so, he walked into Malibu’s shadow, cast by the sodium street lamp. At that moment, though he didn’t know what was about to happen, he realised he was lost.
‘Get in, Matty.’
The voice, of course, was Mandelson’s. Matty got into the car and Malibu closed the door after him, then kept guard outside. They weren’t going anywhere.
‘Ever been in a Roller before, Matty?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’d remember if you had. I could have had one years back, but only by buying secondhand. I wanted to wait until I had the cash for a nice new one. That leather smell – you don’t get it with any other car.’ Mandelson lit a cigar. The windows were closed and the car started filling with sour smoke. ‘Know how I came to afford a brand new Roller, Matty?’
‘Hard work?’ Matty’s mouth was dry. Cars, he thought: Rebus’s, Stevie’s, and now this one. Plus, of course, the one he’d borrowed that night, the one that had brought him to this.
‘Don’t be stupid. My dad worked thirty years in a shop, six days a week and he still couldn’t have made the down-payment. Faith, Matty, that’s the key. You have to believe in yourself, and sometimes you have to trust other people – strangers some of them, or people you don’t like, people it’s hard to trust. That’s the gamble life’s making with you, and if you place your bet, sometimes you get lucky. Except it’s not luck – not entirely. See, there are odds, like in every game, and that’s where judgment comes in. I like to think I’m a good judge of character.’
Only now did Mandelson turn to look at him. There seemed to Matty to be nothing behind the eyes, nothing at all.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, for want of anything better.
‘That was Stevie dropped you off, eh?’ Matty nodded. ‘Now, your man Stevie, he’s got something else, something we haven’t discussed yet. He’s got a gift. He’s had to work, of course, but the thing was there to begin with. Don’t ask me where it came from or why it should have been given to him in particular – that’s one for the philosophers, and I don’t claim to be a philosopher. What I am is a businessman… and a gambler. Only I don’t bet on nags or dogs or a turn of the cards, I bet on people. I’m betting on you, Matty.’
‘Me?’
Mandelson nodded, barely visible inside the cloud of smoke. ‘I want you to talk to Stevie on my behalf. I want you to get him to do me a favour.’
Matty rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He knew what was coming but didn’t want to hear it.
‘I saw a recent interview,’ Mandelson went on, ‘where he told the reporter he always gave a hundred and ten per cent. All I want is to knock maybe twenty per cent off for next Saturday’s game. You know what I’m saying?’
Next Saturday… An away tie at Kirkcaldy. Stevie expected to run rings around the Raith Rovers defence.
‘He won’t do it,’ Matty said. ‘Come to that, neither will I.’
‘No?’ Mandelson laughed. A hand landed on Matty’s thigh. ‘You fucked up in London, son. They knew you’d end up taking a croupier’s job somewhere else, it’s the only thing you know how to do. So they phoned around, and eventually they phoned me. I told them I’d never heard of you. That can change, Matty. Want me to talk to them again?’
‘I’d tell them you lied to them the first time.’
Mandelson shrugged. ‘I can live with that. But what do you think they’ll do to you, Matty? They were pretty angry about whatever scheme it was you pulled. I’d say they were furious.’
Matty felt like he was going to heave. He was sweating, his lungs toxic. ‘He won’t do it,’ he said again.
‘Be persuasive, Matty. You’re his friend. Remind him that his tab’s up to three and a half. All he has to do is ease off for one game, and the tab’s history. And Matty, I’ll know if you’ve talked to him or not, so no games, eh? Or you might find yourself with no place left to hide.’
Eight
Rebus searched his flat, but came up with only half a dozen snapshots: two of his ex-wife Rhona, posing with Samantha, their daughter, back when Sammy was seven or eight; two further shots of Sammy in her teens; one showing his father as a young man, kissing the woman who would become Rebus’s mother; and a final photograph, a family grouping, showing uncles, aunts and cousins whose names Rebus didn’t know. There were other photographs, of course – at least, there had been – but not here, not in the flat. He guessed Rhona still kept some, maybe his brother Michael had the others. But they could be anywhere. Rebus hadn’t thought of himself as the kind to spend long nights with the family album, using it as a crutch to memory, always with the fear that remembrance would yield to sentiment.