‘Forgotten the number?’ a drinker asked as Rebus got his coin back.
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘what’s the Samaritans’ again?’
The drinker surprised him, knew the number pat.
Four blinks from his answering machine meant four messages. He lifted the instruction manual. It was open at page six, the ‘Playback’ section boxed with red pen, paragraphs underlined. He followed the instructions. The machine decided to work.
‘It’s Brian.’ Brian Holmes. Rebus opened the Black Bush and poured, listening. ‘Just to say... well, thanks. Minto’s recanted, so I’m off the hook. Hope I can return the favour.’ No energy in the voice, a mouth tired of words. End message. Rebus savoured the whiskey.
Blip: message two.
‘I was working late and thought I’d give you a call, Inspector. We spoke earlier, Stuart Minchell, personnel manager at T-Bird Oil. I can confirm that Allan Mitchison was in our employ. I can fax through the details if you have a number. Call me at the office tomorrow. Bye.’
Goodbye and bingo. A relief to know something about the deceased other than his taste in music. Rebus’s ears were roaring: the concert and the alcohol, blood pounding.
Message three: ‘It’s Howdenhall here, thought you were in a hurry but I can’t find you. Typical CID.’ Rebus knew the voice: Pete Hewitt at the police lab, Howdenhall. Pete looked fifteen, but was probably early twenties, smart-mouthed with a brain to match. Fingerprints a speciality. ‘I got mostly partials, but a couple of beauties, and guess what? Their owner’s on the computer. Past convictions for violence. Phone me back if you want a name.’
Rebus checked his watch. Pete doing his usual tease. It was gone eleven, he’d be home or out on the ran-dan, and Rebus didn’t have a home number for him. He kicked the sofa, wished he’d stayed home: carting off bootleggers a pure waste of time. Still, he had the Black Bush and a bagful of CDs, T-shirts he’d never wear, a poster of four tykes with acne close-ups. He’d seen their faces before, couldn’t think where...
One message to go.
‘John?’
A woman’s voice, one he recognised.
‘If you’re home, pick up, please. I hate these things.’ Pause, waiting. A sigh. ‘OK then, look, now that we’re not... I mean, now I’m not your boss, how about some socialising? Dinner or something. Give me a call at home or office, OK? While there’s time. I mean, you won’t be at Fort Apache for ever. Take care.’
Rebus sat down, staring at the machine as it clicked off. Gill Templer, Chief Inspector, one-time ‘significant other’. She’d become his boss only recently, frost on the surface, no sign of anything but iceberg beneath. Rebus took another drink, toasted the machine. A woman had just asked him for a date: when had that last happened? He got up and went to the bathroom, examined his reflection in the cabinet mirror, rubbed his chin and laughed. Twilit eyes, lank hair, hands that trembled when he lifted them level.
‘Looking good, John.’ Yes, and he could fib for Scotland. Gill Templer, looking as good these days as when they’d first met, asking him out? He shook his head, still laughing. No, there had to be something... A hidden agenda.
Back in the living room, he emptied his lucky-bag, found that the poster of the four tykes matched the cover of one of the CDs. He recognised it: The Dancing Pigs. One of Mitchison’s tapes, their latest recording. He recalled a couple of the faces from the hospitality tent: We fucking killed them out there! Mitchison had owned at least two of their albums.
Funny he hadn’t had a ticket to the gig...
His front door belclass="underline" short, two rings. He walked back down the hall, checking the time. Eleven twenty-five. Put his eye to the spy-hole, didn’t believe what he saw, opened the door wide.
‘Where’s the rest of the crew?’
Kayleigh Burgess stood there, heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, hair tucked up under an oversized green beret, strands curling down past both ears. Cute and cynical at the same time: Don’t-Muck-Me-About-Unless-I-Want-You-To. Rebus had seen the model and year before.
‘In their beds, most likely.’
‘You mean Eamonn Breen doesn’t sleep in a coffin?’
A guarded smile; she adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder. ‘You know,’ not looking at him, fussing with the bag instead, ‘you’re doing yourself no favours refusing to even discuss this with us. It doesn’t make you look good.’
‘I was no pin-up to start with.’
‘We’re not taking sides, that’s not what The Justice Programme’s about.’
‘Really? Well, much as I enjoy a blether on the doorstep last thing at night...’
‘You haven’t heard, have you?’ Now she looked at him. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Too soon. We’ve had a unit out in Lanzarote, trying to interview Lawson Geddes. I got a phone call this evening...’
Rebus knew the face and tone of voice; he’d used them himself on many grim occasions, trying to break the news to family, to friends...
‘What happened?’
‘He committed suicide. Apparently he’d been suffering from depression since his wife died. He shot himself.’
‘Aw, Christ.’ Rebus swivelled from the door, legs heavy as he made for the living room, the whiskey bottle. She followed him, placed her bag on the coffee table. He motioned with the bottle and she nodded. They chinked glasses.
‘When did Etta die?’
‘About a year ago. Heart attack, I think. There’s a daughter, lives in London.’
Rebus remembered her: a cheeky-faced pre-teen with braces. Her name was Aileen.
‘Did you hound Geddes the way you’ve hounded me?’
‘We don’t “hound”, Inspector. We just want everyone to have their say. It’s important to the programme.’
‘The programme.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’ve not got a programme now, have you?’
The drink had brought colour to her face. ‘On the contrary, Mr Geddes’ suicide could be construed as an admission of guilt. It makes a hell of a punch-line.’ She’d recovered well; Rebus wondered how much of her earlier timidity had been an act. He realised she was standing in his living room: records, CDs, empty bottles, books piled high on the floor. He couldn’t let her see the kitchen: Johnny Bible and Bible John spread across the table, evidence of an obsession. ‘That’s why I’m here... partly. I could have given you the news over the telephone, but I thought it was the sort of thing best done face to face. And now that you’re alone, the only living witness so to speak...’ She reached into the bag, produced a professional-looking tape deck and microphone. Rebus put down his glass and walked over to her, hands out.
‘May I?’
She hesitated, then handed over the equipment. Rebus walked down the hall with it. The front door was still open. He stepped into the stairwell, reached a hand over the guard-rail, and let go the recorder. It fell two flights, case splintering on impact with the stone floor. She was right behind him.
‘You’ll pay for that!’
‘Send me the bill and we’ll see.’
He walked back inside and closed the door after him, put the chain on as a hint, and watched through the spy-hole till she’d gone.
He sat in his chair by the window, thinking of Lawson Geddes. Typical Scot, he couldn’t cry about it. Crying was for football defeats, animal bravery stories, ‘Flower of Scotland’ after closing time. He cried about stupid things, but tonight his eyes remained stubbornly dry.