‘I can work from home.’
‘Really?’
‘Only I don’t want to. I don’t want to become dependent on just these four walls.’
Rebus nodded. ‘If there’s anything you need...’
‘Got any disco tapes?’
He smiled. ‘I was more Rory Gallagher and John Martyn.’
‘Well, nobody’s perfect,’ she said, wrapping the towel around her neck. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Patience?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘I talk to her on the phone.’
‘Oh?’
‘She says I speak to her more than you do.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
‘Don’t you?’
Rebus looked at his daughter. Had she always had this edge to her? Was it something to do with the accident?
‘We get along fine,’ he said.
‘On whose terms?’
He stood up. ‘I think your dinner’s nearly ready. Want me to help you into the chair?’
‘Ned likes to do it.’
He nodded slowly.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘I’m a policeman. Usually we ask the questions.’
She draped the towel over her head. ‘Is it because of me?’
‘What?’
‘Ever since...’ She looked down at her legs. ‘It’s like you blame yourself.’
‘It was an accident.’ He wasn’t looking at her.
‘It pushed the two of you back together. Do you see what I’m saying?’
‘You’re saying I’m busy blaming myself for your accident, while you’re busy blaming yourself for Patience and me.’ He glanced towards her. ‘Does that just about sum it up?’
She smiled. ‘Stay and have something to eat.’
‘Don’t you think I should head home to Patience?’
She lifted the towel from her eyes. ‘Is that where you’re going?’
‘Where else?’ He gave her a wave as he left the room.
9
Being down Newhaven Road, he stopped off at a couple of waterfront bars, a pint in one, nip of whisky in the other. Plenty of water in the whisky. It was dark, but he could see streetlights across the Forth in Fife. He thought of Janice and Brian Mee, who had never left their home town. He wondered how he’d have turned out if he’d stayed. He thought again of Alec Chisholm, the boy who had never been found. They’d scoured the countryside, sent men down into disused coal-shafts, dredged the river. A long hot summer, the Beatles and the Stones on the café jukebox, ice-cold bottles of Coke from the machine. Glass coffee cups topped with frothed milk. And questions about Alec, questions which showed that none of them had ever really known him, not deep down, not the way they thought they knew each other. And Alec’s parents and grandparents, walking the streets late at night, stopping to ask strangers the same thing: have you seen our boy? Until the strangers became acquaintances, and they ran out of people to stop.
Now Damon Mee had stepped away from the world, or had been yanked out of it by some irresistible force. Rebus got back in his car and drove along the coast, came up on to the Forth Bridge, and headed into Fife. He tried telling himself he wasn’t escaping — from Sammy’s words and Patience and Edinburgh, from all the ghosts. From thoughts of paedophiles and suicide leaps.
When he got to Cardenden, he slowed the car, finally coming to a stop on the main drag. There seemed to be flyers in every shop window: Damon’s picture and the word MISSING. There were more taped to lamp-posts and the bus shelter. Rebus started the car again and headed for Janice’s house. But there was no one at home. A neighbour supplied the information Rebus needed, information which sent him straight back to Edinburgh and Rose Street, where he found Janice and Brian sticking more flyers on to lamp-posts and walls, pushing them through letterboxes. Photocopied sheets of A4. Holiday photo of Damon, and handwritten plea: DAMON MEE IS MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? Physical description, including the clothes he’d been wearing, and the Mees’ telephone number.
‘We’ve covered the pubs,’ Brian Mee said. He looked tired, eyes dark, face unshaven. The roll of sellotape he held was nearly finished. Janice leaned against a wall. Looking at the pair of them was far from like stepping into the past — present worries had scarred them.
‘The one place they don’t want to know,’ Janice said, ‘is that club.’
‘Gaitano’s?’
She nodded. ‘Bouncers wouldn’t let us in. Wouldn’t even take flyers from us. I stuck one on the door but they took it down.’ She was almost in tears. Rebus looked back along the street towards the flashing neon sign above Gaitano’s.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the magic word this time.’
And when he got to the door, he flashed his ID and said, ‘Police.’ The three were ushered inside while someone got on the phone to Charmer Mackenzie. Rebus looked to Janice and winked.
‘Open Sesame,’ he said. She was looking at him as if he’d done something wonderful.
‘Mr Mackenzie’s not here,’ one of the bouncers said.
‘So who’s in charge?’
‘Archie Frost. He’s assistant manager.’
‘Lead me to him.’
The bouncer looked unhappy. ‘He’s having a drink at the bar.’
‘No problem,’ Rebus said. ‘We know our way.’
Bass music was pulsing, the club’s interior dark and hot. Couples were hitting the dancefloor, others smoking furiously, knees pumping as they scanned the dimness for action. Rebus leaned towards Janice, so his mouth was an inch from her ear.
‘Go round the tables, ask your questions.’
She nodded, passed the message along to Brian, who was looking uncomfortable with the noise.
Rebus walked towards the bar, walked through beams of indigo light. There were people waiting for drinks, but only two men actually drinking at the bar. Well, one of them was drinking. The other — who looked thirsty — was listening to what was being said to him.
‘Sorry to butt in,’ Rebus said.
The speaker turned to him. ‘You will be in a minute.’
Maybe twenty or twenty-one, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Stocky, wearing a suit with no lapels and a dazzling white T-shirt. Rebus pushed his warrant card into the face, identified himself.
‘Been taking charm-school lessons from your boss?’ he asked. Archie Frost said nothing, just finished his drink. ‘I want a word, Mr Frost.’
‘They don’t look like polis,’ Frost said, nodding towards where Janice and Brian Mee were working the room.
‘That’s because they’re not. Their son went missing. Disappeared from here, in fact.’
‘I know.’
‘Well then, you’ll know why I’m here.’ Rebus brought out the photograph of the mystery blonde. ‘Seen her before?’
Frost shook his head automatically.
‘Take a closer look.’
Frost took the photo grudgingly, and angled it towards the light. Then he shook his head and tried handing it back.
‘What about your pal?’
‘What about him?’
The ‘pal’ in question, the young man without a drink, had half-turned from them, so he was watching the dancefloor.
‘He’s not in here much,’ Frost said.
‘All the same,’ Rebus persisted. So Frost stuck the photo in front of his friend’s nose. An immediate shake of the head.
‘I’m going to take this around your punters,’ Rebus said, lifting the photo from Frost’s hand, ‘see if their memories are any better.’ He wasn’t looking at Frost; he was looking at his companion. ‘Do I know you from somewhere, son? Your face looks familiar.’
The young man snorted, kept his eyes on the dancing.
‘I’ll let you get back to your business then,’ Rebus said. He did a circuit of the room, following behind Janice and Brian. They’d left flyers on most of the tables. A couple had already been crumpled up. Rebus fixed the culprits with a stare. He wasn’t faring any better with his own picture, but saw that ahead of him Janice and Brian had seated themselves at a table and were deep in conversation with two girls there. Eventually, he caught up with them. Janice looked up at him.