‘Bye.’
Grogan was refilling a cup. There were at least a couple of crates of whisky, and three of bottled beer.
‘Where do you get this stuff?’ Rebus asked.
Grogan smiled. ‘Oh, you know.’
‘Pubs? Clubs? Places you’re owed a favour?’
Grogan just winked. More officers were arriving all the time — uniforms, civilian staff, even people who looked to be off-duty: all had heard, and all wanted to be part of it. The top brass looked stiff but smiling, declining refills.
‘Maybe Ludovic Lumsden gets it for you?’
Grogan’s face creased. ‘I know you think he shafted you, but Ludo’s a good copper.’
‘Where is he?’
Grogan looked around. ‘No idea.’
In fact, no one knew where Lumsden was; he hadn’t been seen all day. Someone had called him at home, but only got an answering machine. His bleeper was turned on, but he wasn’t responding. A patrol car, detouring past his house, reported no sign of him, though his car was outside. Rebus got an idea, and went downstairs to the comms room. There were people at work here — taking incoming calls, keeping communications open with patrol cars and beat officers. But they had a bottle of whisky of their own, and plastic cups to go round. Rebus asked if he could see the day’s sheets.
He only had to look back an hour. A call from a Mrs Fletcher, reporting her husband missing. He’d gone to work that morning as usual, but hadn’t arrived, and hadn’t come home since. The sheet listed details of his car and a brief description. Patrols had been requested to keep a look-out. In another twelve hours or so, they’d start to deal with it more seriously.
Christian name of missing spouse: Hayden.
Rebus recalled Judd Fuller talking about dumping bodies at sea, or inland, places they’d never be found because no one ever went there. He wondered if that would be the fate of Lumsden and Fletcher... No, he couldn’t do it. He wrote a message on the back of one of the sheets and handed it to the duty officer, who read it silently before reaching for the mike.
‘Any patrol in the vicinity of the city centre, to College Street, Burke’s Club. Apprehend Judd Fuller, co-owner, and bring to Queen Street for questioning.’ The comms officer turned to Rebus, who nodded. ‘And check the cellar,’ he continued, ‘persons possibly being held there against their will.’
‘Please repeat,’ one patrol car said. The message was repeated. Rebus went back upstairs.
In spite of the party, some work was still being done. Rebus saw Jack manoeuvring one of the secretaries into a corner, chatting her up twenty to the dozen. Near them, a couple of desk-bound officers were making phone calls. Rebus picked up a spare receiver, called Gill.
‘It’s me.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Listen, you passed all the stuff about Toal and Aberdeen on to the Scottish Crime Squad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s your contact there?’
‘Why?’
‘Because whoever it is, I’ve a message for them. I think Judd Fuller has picked up DS Ludovic Lumsden and a man called ‘Hayden Fletcher, and intends to make sure they’re not seen again.’
‘What?’
‘A patrol car’s gone out to the club, God knows what they’ll find, but the Squaddies should keep an eye on it. If they’re found, they’ll be brought back to Queen Street. The Squaddies might want someone on the scene.’
‘I’ll get on it. Thanks, John.’
‘Any time.’
I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought. Or maybe I’ve just relocated my conscience.
He went walkabout, asked a few drinkers the same question, and eventually had the Oil Liaison officer, DI Jenkins, pointed out to him. Rebus just wanted to look at him. His name was mentioned in Stanley’s confession, along with Lumsden. The Squaddies would be wanting a word with him. He was smiling, looking unconcerned, tanned and rested after his holiday. It gave Rebus a warm glow to realise the man would soon be sweating under an internal inquiry.
Maybe he wasn’t getting so soft after all.
He walked over to the working officers, looked down over their shoulders. They were doing the preliminary work on the murder of Martin Davidson, collating information from neighbours and employer, trying to track down a next of kin, and all the time keeping the media at bay.
One of them slammed his phone down and suddenly had a big grin on his face. He reached for his mug of whisky and drained it.
‘Something?’ Rebus asked.
A balled-up piece of paper hit the officer on the head. Laughing, he threw it back.
‘Neighbour came off the night shift,’ he said, ‘found a car blocking his drive. Had to park on the street. Says he hadn’t seen the car before, and took a good look so he’d know it again. Woke up around lunchtime, and it was gone. Metallic blue BMW, 5 Series. He even got part of the licence plate.’
‘Hell’s bells.’
The officer was reaching for his phone. ‘Shouldn’t take too long.’
‘It better not,’ Rebus replied, ‘or DCI Grogan may not be sober enough to take it in.’
34
Grogan caught Rebus in the hallway, slapped an arm around him. He was missing his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open, showing tufts of wiry grey hair. He’d danced a jig with a couple of WPCs and was sweating profusely. The shift had changed; or rather, a new shift had come on, while the old shift stayed put, not wanting to break the spell. There was occasional talk of pubs and restaurants, nightclubs and bowling alleys, but nobody seemed to leave, and there was communal applause when an Indian restaurant nearby delivered boxes and bags full of food — courtesy of the brass, who by then actually had left the scene. Rebus had helped himself to pakora, keema nan, and chicken tikka, while one CID officer tried to explain to another why his saying ‘Bhajis, we don’ need no steenking bhajis’ was a joke.
Judging by Grogan’s breath, he hadn’t taken a meal break. ‘My wee Lowland laddie,’ he said. ‘How are you doing? Enjoying our Highland hospitality?’
‘It’s a great party.’
‘So why the face like a thistle?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘It’s been a long day.’ And a long night before it, he could have added.
Grogan patted his back. ‘You’re welcome back here any time, any time at all.’ Grogan made towards the toilets, paused and turned. ‘Any sign of Ludo?’
‘He’s in the City Hospital, next bed along from a man called Hayden Fletcher.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a Crime Squad officer on the ward, too, waiting for them to wake up and give their statements. That’s how clean Lumsden is. About time you woke up to the fact.’
Rebus went downstairs to the interview rooms, opened the door of the one he’d been interviewed in. There were two more Squaddies inside. And smoking a cigarette at the table, Judd Fuller. Rebus had come down earlier, just for a look, and to explain to the officers what had happened, referring them back to Gill’s tapes and notes.
‘Evening, Judd,’ Rebus said now.
‘Do I know you?’
Rebus walked up to him. ‘You stupid bastard, you let me get away but you still went on using the cellar.’ He shook his head. ‘Erik will be disappointed.’
‘Screw Erik.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Every man for himself now, eh?’
‘Let’s get it over with.’
‘What?’
‘Why you’re here.’ Fuller looked up at him. ‘You want a free hit at me, this is the only chance you’re ever going to get. So make it good.’
‘I don’t need to hit you, Judd.’ Rebus grinned, showing the stunted tooth.
‘Then you’re yellow.’