‘As in Edinburgh, Scotland.’
‘Well, you might end up back there.’
Cary Oakes rubbed at his chin. Edinburgh might do for a while. He had unfinished business in Edinburgh. Was going to leave it till the heat had died down, but nevertheless... He leaned forward over the table.
‘How many murders did they pin on me?’
The lawyer blinked, sat there with palms flat on the table. ‘Two,’ he said at last.
‘How many did they start with?’
‘I believe it was five.’
‘Six actually.’ Oakes nodded slowly. ‘But who’s counting, eh?’ A chuckle. ‘They ever catch anyone for the others?’
The lawyer shook his head. There were beads of perspiration at his temples. He’d be making a detour home for a shower and fresh clothes.
Cary Oakes sat back again and angled his face into the sun, turning his head so every part felt the warmth. ‘Two’s not much of a tally, is it, in the scheme of things? You kill your old man, you’ll only be one behind.’
He was still chuckling to himself as his lawyer was led out of the room.
7
Younger runaways tended to take the same few routes: by bus, train or hitching, and to London, Glasgow or Edinburgh. There were organisations who would keep an eye open for runaways, and even if they wouldn’t always reveal their whereabouts to the anxious families, at least they could confirm that someone was alive and unharmed.
But a nineteen-year-old, someone with money to hand... could be anywhere. No destination was too distant — his passport hadn’t turned up. He took it with him to clubs as proof of age. Damon had a current account at the local bank, complete with cashcard, and an interest-bearing account with a building society in Kirkcaldy. The bank might be worth trying. Rebus picked up the telephone.
The manager at first insisted that he’d need something in writing, but relented when Rebus promised to fax him later. Rebus held while the manager went off to check, and had doodled half a village, complete with stream, parkland and pit-head, by the time the man came back.
‘The most recent withdrawal was a cash machine in Edinburgh’s West End. One hundred pounds on the fifteenth.’
The night Damon had gone to Gaitano’s. A hundred seemed a lot to Rebus, even for a good night out.
‘Nothing since then?’
‘No.’
‘How up to date is that?’
‘Up to the close of play yesterday.’
‘Could I ask you a favour, sir? I’d like tabs kept on that account. Any new withdrawals, I’d like to know about them pronto.’
‘I’d need that in writing, Inspector. And I’d probably also need the approval of my head office.’
‘I’d appreciate it, Mr Brayne.’
‘It’s Bain,’ the bank manager said coldly, putting down the phone.
Rebus called the building society and endured the same rigmarole before learning that Damon hadn’t touched his account in more than a fortnight. He made one last call to Gayfield police station and asked for DC Hawes. She didn’t sound too thrilled when he identified himself.
‘What’s the word on Gaitano’s?’ he asked.
‘Everyone calls it Guiser’s. Pretty choice establishment. Two stabbings last year, one in the club itself, one in the alley out back. Been quieter this year, which is probably down to a stricter door policy.’
‘You mean bigger bouncers.’
‘Front-of-house managers, if you please. Locals still complain about the noise at chucking-out time.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘Charles Mackenzie, nicknamed “Charmer”.’
A couple of uniforms had talked to Mackenzie about Damon Mee, and he’d offered up the security tape which had languished in Gayfield ever since.
‘Know how many MisPers there are every year?’ Hawes said with a sigh.
‘You told me.’
‘Then you should know that if there’s no suspicion of foul play, they’re not exactly a white-hot priority. God knows there are times I’ve felt like doing a runner myself.’
Rebus thought of his night-time car-rides, long, directionless hours, just filling in the blank spaces of his life. ‘Haven’t we all?’ he said.
‘Look, I know you’re doing this as a favour...’
‘Yes?’
‘But we’ve done all we can, haven’t we?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘So what’s the point?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Rebus could have told her that it had to do with the past, with some debt he felt he owed to Janice Playfair and Barney Mee — and to the memory of a friend he’d once had called Mitch. Somehow, he didn’t think explaining it to an outsider would help. ‘One last thing,’ he asked instead. ‘Did you get me a still of that woman?’
Gaitano’s was little more than a solid black door with a neon sign above it, flanked either side by pubs and with a hi-fi shop across the road. There were valve amplifiers and an outsized record deck in the shop window. The deck had an outsized price-tag to match. One of the pubs was called The Headless Coachman. It had changed its name a couple of years back and was touting for tourists.
Rebus pushed the door-buzzer to Gaitano’s and a woman opened it for him. She was the cleaner, and Rebus didn’t envy her the job. Glasses had been cleared from the tables, but the place still looked like a wreck. There was an industrial vacuum cleaner on the carpet which encircled the dance floor. The floor was littered with cigarette stubs, cellophane, the occasional empty bottle. She’d finished cleaning the foyer, but was only halfway through the main dance area. There were mirrors on all the walls, and in the right light the place would look many times its actual size. In bare white light and with no music, no punters, it looked and felt desolate. There was a fug of stale sweat and beer in the air. Rebus saw a security camera in one corner and gave it a wave.
‘Inspector Rebus.’
The man walking towards him across the dancefloor was about five feet four inches and as thin as a swizzle-stick. Rebus placed him in his mid-fifties. He wore a powder-blue suit and open-necked white shirt to show off his suntan and gold jewellery. His hair was silver and thinning, but as well-cut as the suit. They shook hands.
‘Do you want a drink?’
He was leading Rebus towards the bar. Rebus looked at the row of optics.
‘No thank you, sir.’
Charmer Mackenzie went behind the bar and poured himself a cola.
‘Sure?’ he said.
‘Same as you’re having,’ Rebus said. He examined one of the bar stools for cigarette ash, then pulled himself up on to it. They faced one another across the bar.
‘Not your normal tipple?’ Mackenzie guessed. ‘In my trade, you get a nose for these things.’ And he tapped his nose for effect. ‘The kid hasn’t turned up then?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Sometimes they get a notion...’ He shrugged, dismissing the foibles of a generation.
‘I’ve got a photograph.’ Rebus reached into his pocket, handed it over. ‘The missing person is second row.’
Mackenzie nodded, not really interested.
‘See just behind him?’
‘Is that his doll?’
‘Do you know her?’
Mackenzie snorted. ‘Wish I did.’
‘You haven’t seen her before?’
‘Picture’s not the best, but I don’t think so.’
‘What time do the staff clock on?’
‘Not till tonight.’
Rebus took the photo back, put it in his pocket.
‘Any chance of getting my video back?’ Mackenzie asked.
‘Why?’
‘Those things cost money. Overheads, that’s what can cripple a business like this, Inspector.’
Rebus wondered how he’d merited the nickname ‘Charmer’. He had all the charm of sandpaper. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we, Mr Mackenzie?’ he said, getting to his feet.