Stevens had his notebook out. He wrote quickly in shorthand. There was someone else in the doorway, looking surprised at the assembly.
‘Inspector,’ Chick Ancram said, ‘time for lunch.’
They took one of the duty cars into the west end, Ancram driving. There was something different about him; he seemed at the same time more interested in Rebus and warier of him. Their conversation collapsed into point-scoring.
Eventually, Ancram pointed to a striped traffic-cone kerbside, protecting the only space left on the street.
‘Get out and move that, will you?’
Rebus obliged, placing the cone on the pavement. Ancram reversed the car inch-perfect into the space.
‘Looks like you’ve had practice.’
Ancram straightened his tie. ‘Patrons’ parking.’
They walked into The Lobby. It was a trendy-looking bar with too many high uncomfortable-looking bar-stools, black and white tiled walls, electric and acoustic guitars suspended from the ceiling.
There was a chalkboard menu behind the bar. Three staff were busy with the lunchtime crush; more perfume than alcohol in the air. Office girls, screeching over the slam of the music, nursing gaudy drinks; sometimes one or two men with them, smiling, saying nothing, older. They wore suits that said ‘management’: the banshees’ bosses. There were more cellphones and pagers on the tables than there were glasses; even the staff seemed to carry them.
‘What do you want?’
‘Pint of eighty,’ Rebus said.
‘To eat?’
Rebus ran down the menu. ‘Is there anything with meat?’
‘Game pie.’
Rebus nodded. They were a row back from the bar, but Ancram had caught a barman’s attention. He stood on tiptoe and yelled the order over the straw-perm heads of the teenagers in front. They turned, gave hostile looks: he’d jumped the queue.
‘All right, ladies?’ Ancram leered. They turned away again.
He led Rebus through the bar to a far corner, where a table groaned with green food: salads, quiche, guacamole. Rebus got himself a chair; there was one already waiting for Ancram. Three CID officers sat there, not one with a pint glass in front of him. Ancram made introductions.
‘Jack you already know.’ Jack Morton nodded, chewing pitta bread. ‘That’s DS Andy Lennox, and DI Billy Eggleston.’ The two men gave curt greetings, more interested in their food. Rebus looked around.
‘What about the drinks?’
‘Patience, man, patience. Here they come.’
The barman was approaching with a tray: Rebus’s pint and game pie; Ancram’s smoked salmon salad and gin and tonic.
‘Twelve pounds ten,’ the barman said. Ancram handed over three fives, told him to keep the change. He raised his glass to Rebus.
‘Here’s tae us.’
‘Wha’s like us,’ Rebus added.
‘Gey few, and they’re a’ deid,’ Jack Morton said, raising his own glass of what looked suspiciously like water. They all drank, got down to eating, exchanging the day’s gossip. There was a table of office girls nearby; Lennox and Eggleston tried intermittently to engage them in conversation. The girls got on with their own gossip. Clothes, Rebus reflected, did not necessarily make the man. He felt stifled, uncomfortable. There wasn’t enough space on the table; his chair was too close to Ancram’s; the music was using him as a punchbag.
‘So what do you reckon to Uncle Joe?’ Ancram asked at last.
Rebus chewed on a tough crescent of pastry. The others seemed to be waiting for his answer.
‘I reckon I’ll be visiting him some time today.’
Ancram laughed. ‘Let me know if you’re serious, we’ll lend you some armour.’ The others laughed too, and started eating again. Rebus wondered just how much of Uncle Joe’s money was floating around Glasgow CID.
‘John and me,’ Jack Morton was saying, ‘worked the Knots and Crosses case together.’
‘Is that right?’ Ancram looked interested.
Rebus shook his head. ‘Ancient history.’
Morton caught the tone of voice, lowered his head to his food, reached for the water.
Ancient history; and far, far too painful.
‘Speaking of history,’ Ancram said, ‘sounds like you’ve got a bit of trouble with the Spaven case.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘I read about it in the papers.’
‘It’s all hype for the TV show,’ was Rebus’s only comment.
‘We’ve got more problems with the DNAs, Chick,’ Eggleston was saying. He was tall, skinny, starched. He reminded Rebus of an accountant; he’d bet he was good with paperwork, lousy on the street — every station needed at least one.
‘They’re an epidemic,’ Lennox snarled.
‘Society’s problem, gentlemen,’ Ancram said, ‘which makes them our problem too.’
‘DNAs?’
Ancram turned to Rebus. ‘Do Not Accommodate. The council’s been turfing out a lot of “problem clients”, refusing to house them, even in the night shelters — druggies mostly, headers, the “psychologically disturbed” who’ve been returned to the community. Only the community’s telling them to fuck right off again. So they’re on the streets, making mischief, causing us grief. Kitting up in public, ODing on mainline Temazepam, you name it.’
‘Fucking shocking,’ Lennox offered. He had tight-curled ginger hair and crimson cheeks, his face heavily freckled, eyebrows and eyelashes fair. He was the only one smoking at the table. Rebus lit one up to join him: Jack Morton gave a reproachful look.
‘So what can you do?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Ancram said. ‘We’re going to round them up next weekend, into a fleet of buses, and we’re going to drop the whole lot of them off on Princes Street.’
More laughter at the table, directed at the visitor — Ancram waving the baton. Rebus checked his watch.
‘Somewhere to be?’
‘Yes, and I’d better get going.’
‘Well, look,’ Ancram said, ‘if you do get an invite to Uncle Joe’s abode, I want to know about it. I’ll be here this evening, seven until ten. OK?’
Rebus nodded, waved a general goodbye, and got out.
Once outside, he felt better. He began to walk, not very sure in which direction he was headed. The city centre was laid out American-style, a grid system of one-way streets. Edinburgh might have its monuments, but Glasgow was built to monumental scale, making the capital seem like Toytown. Rebus walked until he saw something that looked more his kind of bar. He knew he needed shoring up for the trip he was about to take. A TV was playing quietly, but no music. And what conversation there was was muffled, low-key. He couldn’t make out what the two men nearest him were saying, their accents were so thick. The only woman in the place was the barmaid.
‘What’ll it be today?’
‘Grouse, make it a double. And a half-bottle to take out.’
He trickled water into the glass, reflected that if he’d eaten a couple of pies here and had a couple of whiskies, it wouldn’t have been half as expensive as The Lobby. But then Ancram had paid at The Lobby; three crisp fivers from the pocket of a sleek suit.
‘Just a Coke, please.’
Rebus turned to the new customer: Jack Morton.
‘You following me?’
Morton smiled. ‘You look rough, John.’
‘And you and your cronies look too good.’
‘I can’t be bought.’
‘No? Who can?’
‘Come on, John, I was making a joke.’ Morton sat down next to him. ‘I heard about Lawson Geddes. Does that mean the stooshie’ll die down?’