‘That favour...’ Rebus prompted.
‘I’m on it.’
‘And?’
‘I’m on it!’
‘Go easy, son, we’re all friends here.’
Holmes seemed to deflate. He rubbed his eyes, clawed fingers through his hair.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m beat, that’s all it is.’
‘Would coffee help?’
‘Only if you can buy it by the vat.’
The canteen could stretch to an ‘Extra Large’. They sat down, Holmes tearing open sachets of sugar and pouring them in.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘about the other night, Mental Minto...’
‘We don’t talk about that,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘It’s history.’
‘Too much history around here.’
‘What else have the Scots got?’
‘You two look about as happy as nuns on a Club 18–30.’ Siobhan Clarke pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘Nice holiday?’ Rebus asked.
‘Relaxing.’
‘I see the weather was lousy.’
She ran a hand up one arm. ‘Took hours of work on the beach to get this.’
‘You’ve always been conscientious.’
She sipped Diet Pepsi. ‘So why’s everyone so down in the dumps?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Two tired, grey men; one young woman, tanned and brimming with life. Rebus knew he’d have to gee himself up for his evening date.
‘So,’ he asked Holmes casually, ‘that thing I asked you to look into...?’
‘It’s slow going. If you want my opinion,’ he looked up at Rebus, ‘whoever wrote up the notes was a master of circumlocution. There’s a lot of circling around the subject. I’d guess most casual readers would give up rather than plough on.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Why would the writer have done that?’
‘To put people off reading it. He probably thought they’d flick to the summing-up, miss out all the rubbish in the middle. Thing is, you can lose things that way, bury them in the text.’
‘Excuse me,’ Siobhan said, ‘have I walked into a masonic meeting by mistake? Is this some code I’m not supposed to get?’
‘Not at all, Brother Clarke,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘Maybe Brother Holmes will tell you about it.’
Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘Only if you promise not to show me any holiday snaps.’
‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Siobhan straightened her back. ‘I know naturist beaches aren’t your thing.’
Rebus was purposely early for the rendezvous. Bain hadn’t been lying: there were two restaurants with wood-slatted blinds. They were eighty yards apart, and Rebus walked relays between the two. He saw Gill rounding the corner at Tollcross and waved to her. She hadn’t over-dressed for the occasion: new-looking denims, plain cream blouse, and a yellow cashmere jumper tied around her neck. Sunglasses, gold-chain necklace, and two-inch heels — she liked to make a noise when she walked.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Hiya, Gill.’
‘Is this the place?’
He looked at the restaurant. ‘There’s another one just up the road if you’d prefer. Or there’s French, Thai...’
‘This is fine.’ She pulled open the door, walked in ahead of him. ‘Did you book a table?’
‘Didn’t think they’d be busy,’ Rebus said. The restaurant wasn’t empty, but there was a spare table for two by the window, directly beneath a distorting loudspeaker. Gill removed her brown leather shoulder-bag and laid it under her chair.
‘Something to drink?’ their waiter asked.
‘Whisky and soda for me,’ Gill said.
‘Whisky, no additives,’ Rebus ordered. As the first waiter left, another appeared with menus, popadums and pickles. After he’d gone, Rebus looked around, saw that no one at the other tables was paying attention, and reached up to tug at the speaker-cable, disconnecting it. The music above them stopped.
‘Better,’ Gill said, smiling.
‘So,’ Rebus said, laying his napkin across his thighs, ‘is this business or social?’
‘Both,’ Gill admitted. She broke off as the drinks arrived. The waiter knew something was wrong, eventually placed it. He looked up at the silent speaker.
‘It can be easily mended,’ he told them. They shook their heads, then studied the menus. Having ordered, Rebus raised his glass.
‘Slàinte.’
‘Cheers.’ Gill took a gulp of her drink, exhaled afterwards.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘niceties taken care of... to business.’
‘Do you know how many women make chief inspector in the Scottish force?’
‘I know we’re talking the fingers of a blind carpenter’s hand.’
‘Exactly.’ She paused, realigned her cutlery. ‘I don’t want to screw up.’
‘Who does?’
She glanced at him, smiled. Rebus: world’s supply of fuck-ups, his life a warehouse filled to the rafters with them. Harder to shift than eight-track cartridges.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘so I’m an authority.’
‘And that’s good.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Because I’m still fucking up.’
She smiled. ‘Five months, John, and I haven’t made a good collar yet.’
‘But that’s about to change?’
‘I don’t know.’ Another gulp of courage. ‘Someone’s passed me some information about a drug deal... a biggie.’
‘Which protocol dictates you should pass on to the Scottish Crime Squad.’
She gave him a look. ‘And hand those lazy bastards the glory? Come on, John.’
‘I’ve never been a great believer in protocol myself. All the same...’ All the same: he didn’t want Gill fucking up. He could see this was important to her: maybe too important. She needed perspective, same as he needed on Spaven.
‘So who passed you the info?’
‘Fergus McLure.’
‘Feardie Fergie?’ Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Wasn’t he one of Flower’s snitches?’
Gill nodded. ‘I took over Flower’s list when he moved.’
‘Jesus, how much did he screw out of you?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Most of Flower’s grasses are worse than anyone they could possibly snitch on.’
‘Nevertheless, he gave me his list.’
‘Feardie Fergie, eh?’
Fergus McLure had been in and out of private hospitals half his life. A nervous wreck, he drank nothing stronger than Ovaltine, and couldn’t watch anything more exciting than Pets Win Prizes. His constant supply of prescription drugs bolstered the profits of the British pharmaceutical industry. This said, he ran a nice little empire which just bordered on the legaclass="underline" jeweller by trade, he also put on sales of Persian rugs, fire-damaged and water-damaged merchandise, receivership auctions. He lived in Ratho, a village on the edge of the city. Feardie Fergie was a known homosexual, but lived quietly — unlike some judges of Rebus’s acquaintance.
Gill crunched on a popadum, dribbled chutney on the remaining piece.
‘So what’s the problem?’ Rebus asked.
‘How well do you know Fergus McLure?’
Rebus shrugged, lied. ‘Reputation only. Why?’
‘Because I want this watertight before I act on it.’
‘Problem with snitches, Gill, you can’t always have corroboration.’
‘No, but I can have a second opinion.’
‘You want me to talk to him?’
‘John, for all your flaws—’
‘For which I am famous.’
‘— you’re a good judge of character, and you know enough about informers.’
‘My back-up subject for Mastermind.’