Rebus was thinking: chopper simulator, ducked in a swimming pool.
‘So,’ Siobhan went on, ‘she spent time at OSC.’
‘The Offshore Survival Centre.’
‘Which deals with nothing but oil people. I got them to fax me staff and student rolls. So much for the first victim.’ She paused. ‘Victim two seemed completely different: older, different set of friends, different city. But she was a prostitute, and we know that a lot of businessmen use that sort of service when they’re away from home.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Victim four worked closely with the oil industry, which left Judith Cairns, the Glasgow victim. Variously employed, including part-time cleaning at a city-centre hotel.’
‘Businessmen again.’
‘So tomorrow they begin faxing me names. They weren’t keen, client confidentiality and all that.’
‘But you can be persuasive.’
‘Yes.’
‘So what are we hoping for? A guest at the Fairmount who’s got a connection with Robert Gordon’s?’
‘It’ll be in my prayers.’
‘How soon tomorrow will you know?’
‘That’s down to the hotel. I may have to drive over there and gee them up.’
‘I’ll phone you.’
‘If you get the machine, leave a number where I can reach you.’
‘Will do. Cheers, Siobhan.’ He put the telephone down, went along to Jack’s room. Jack was wearing his robe.
‘I might have to splash out on one of these,’ he said. ‘Sarnies are on their way up, ditto a big pot of coffee. I’m just going to take a shower.’
‘Fine. Listen, Siobhan might be on to something.’ He filled Jack in.
‘Sounds promising. Then again...’ Jack shrugged.
‘Christ, and I thought I was cynical.’
Jack winked, went into the bathroom. Rebus waited till he could hear the shower running, and Jack humming what sounded like ‘Puppy Love’. Jack’s clothes were on a chair. Rebus fished in the jacket pockets, came up with car keys, pocketed them for himself.
He wondered what time Burke’s closed on a Thursday night. He wondered what he was going to say to Judd Fuller. He wondered how badly Fuller would take it, whatever it was.
The shower stopped. ‘Puppy Love’ segued into ‘What Made Milwaukee Famous’. Rebus liked a man with catholic tastes. Jack emerged, wrapped in his robe and doing prize-fighter impressions.
‘Back to Edinburgh tomorrow?’
‘First thing,’ Rebus agreed.
‘To face the music.’
Rebus didn’t say he might well be facing the music long before that. But when the sandwiches arrived, he found he’d lost his appetite. Thirsty though: four cups of coffee. He needed to stay awake. Long night coming, no moon in the sky.
Darkness on the short drive in, thin rain falling. Rebus felt jolted by coffee, loose wires sparking where his nerves should be. One-fifteen in the morning: he’d rung Burke’s, the bar-side payphone, asked a punter what time the place shut.
‘Party’s nearly finished, ya radge!’ Phone slammed home. Background music: ‘Albatross’, so it was moon-dance time. Two or three slows, your last chance to grab a breakfast partner. Desperate times on the dance floor; as desperate in your forties as in your teens.
Albatross.
Rebus tried the radio — vacuous pop, pounding disco, telephone chat. Then jazz. Jazz was OK. Jazz was fine, even on Radio Two. He parked near Burke’s, watched a dumb-show as two bouncers took on three farm-boys whose girlfriends were trying to pull them away.
‘Listen to the ladies,’ Rebus muttered. ‘You’ve proved yourselves for tonight.’
The fight dissolved into pointed fingers and swearing, the bouncers, arms not touching their sides, waddling back inside. A final kick at the doors, saliva hitting the porthole-styled windows, then hauled away and up the road. Opening curtain on another north-east weekend. Rebus got out and locked the car, breathed the city air. Shouts and sirens up on Union Street. He crossed the road and headed for Burke’s.
The doors were locked. He kicked at them, but nobody answered: probably thinking the farm-boys were back. Rebus kept kicking. Someone poked a head round the interior doors, saw he didn’t look like a punter, shouted something back into the club. Now a bouncer came out, jangling a chain of keys. He looked like he wanted to go to bed, day’s work done. The door rattled, and he opened it an inch.
‘What?’ he growled.
‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Fuller.’
The bouncer stared at him, pulled the door wide. The lights were on in the main bar, staff emptying ashtrays and wiping down tables, collecting an enormous number of glasses. With the lights up, the interior looked as bleak as any moorland vista. Two men who looked like DJs — ponytails, black sleeveless T-shirts — sat smoking at the bar, sinking bottles of beer. Rebus turned to the bouncer.
‘Mr Stemmons around?’
‘I thought your appointment was with Mr Fuller.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Just wondered if Mr Stemmons was available.’ Talk to him first — the sane member of the cast; businessman, therefore a listener.
‘He might be upstairs.’ They went back into the foyer, climbed to where Stemmons and Fuller had their offices. The bouncer opened a door. ‘In you go.’
In Rebus went, ducking too late. The hand hit his neck like a side of beef, flooring him. Fingers sought his throat, probing for the carotid artery, applying pressure. No brain damage, Rebus thought, as the edges of his vision darkened. Please, God, let there be no damage...
31
He woke up drowning.
Sucking foam and water in through his nose, his mouth. Fizzing taste — not water, beer. He shook his head wildly, opened his eyes. Lager trickled down his throat. He tried coughing it out. Someone was standing behind him, holding the now-empty bottle, chuckling. Rebus tried turning and found his arms were on fire. Literally. He could smell whisky, see a shattered bottle on the floor. His arms had been doused in the stuff and set alight. He cried out, wriggled. A bar towel flapped at the flames and they died. The smouldering towel fell with a slap on to the floor. Laughter echoing around the walls.
The place reeked of alcohol. It was a cellar. Bare lightbulbs and aluminium kegs, boxes of bottles and glasses. Half a dozen brick pillars supporting the ceiling. They hadn’t tied Rebus to one of these. Instead, he hung suspended from a hook, the rope fraying his wrists, arms readying to pop from sockets. Rebus shifted more weight on to his feet. The figure from behind tossed the beer-bottle into a crate and came round to stand in front of him. Slick black hair with a kiss-curl at the front, and a large hooked nose in the centre of a face lush with corruption. A diamond glinted in one of the teeth. Dark suit, white T-shirt. Rebus took a wild guess — Judd Fuller — but reckoned the time for introductions was past.
‘Sorry I don’t have Tony El’s ingenuity with power tools,’ Fuller said. ‘But I do what I can.’
‘From where I’m standing, you’re doing fine.’
‘Thanks.’
Rebus looked around. They were alone in the cellar, and nobody’d thought to tie his legs together. He could kick Fuller in the balls and...
The punch came low, hitting him just above the groin. It would have doubled him up, if his arms had been free. As it was, he instinctively raised his knees, lifting his feet off the floor. His shoulder-joints told him this was not the brightest move.
Fuller was walking away, flexing the fingers of his right hand. ‘So, cop,’ he said, his back to Rebus, ‘how do you like it so far?’
‘I’m ready for a break if you are.’