‘They say they saw Damon,’ she yelled, fighting the music.
‘He was getting into a taxi,’ one of the girls repeated for the newcomer’s benefit.
‘Where?’ Rebus asked.
‘Outside The Dome.’
‘Other side of the road,’ her friend corrected. They were wearing too much make-up, trying for a look they’d probably call ‘sophisticated’, trying to look older than their years. Soon enough, they’d be reversing the process. They wore incredibly short skirts. Rebus could see Brian trying not to stare.
‘What time was this?’
‘About quarter past twelve. We were late for a party.’
‘You’re sure about the date?’ Rebus asked. Janice looked at him accusingly, not wanting this fragile bubble to burst.
One girl got a diary out of her handbag, tapped a page. ‘That’s the party.’
Rebus looked: it was the same date Damon had disappeared. ‘How come you noticed him?’
‘We’d seen him in here earlier.’
‘Just standing at the bar,’ her friend added. ‘Not dancing or anything.’
A couple of young men, still in their day-job suits, had peeled off from an office party and were approaching, ready to ask for a dance. The girls tried to look disinterested, but a glower from Rebus sent the suitors back in the direction they’d come.
‘We were after a taxi ourselves,’ one girl explained. ‘Saw them waiting across the road. Only they got lucky, we ended up walking.’
‘“They”?’
‘Him and his girl.’
Rebus looked to Janice, then handed over the photo.
‘Yeah, that looks like her.’
‘Blonde out of a bottle,’ the other agreed.
Janice took the photo from them, looked at it herself.
‘Who is she, John?’
Rebus shook his head, telling her he didn’t know. Glancing towards the bar, he saw two things. One was that Archie Frost was watching him intently over the rim of a fresh glass. The other was that his non-drinking friend had gone.
‘Maybe they’ve run off together,’ one of the girls was saying, trying hard to be helpful. ‘That would be romantic, wouldn’t it?’
Janice and Brian hadn’t eaten, so Rebus took them to an Indian on Hanover Street, where he explained the little he knew about the woman in the photograph. Janice kept the photo in one hand as she ate.
‘It’s a start, isn’t it?’ Brian said, pulling apart a nan bread.
Rebus nodded agreement.
‘I mean,’ Brian went on, ‘we know now he left with someone. He’s probably still with her.’
‘Only he didn’t go off with her,’ Janice said. ‘John’s already told us, Damon left on his own.’
In fact, Rebus hadn’t even gone that far. They only had the girls’ word for it that Damon had left the club at all...
‘Well,’ Brian stumbled on, ‘thing is, he wouldn’t want his mates seeing them together, not when he was supposed to be engaged.’
‘I can’t believe it of Damon.’ Janice’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘He loves Helen.’
Rebus nodded. ‘But it happens, doesn’t it?’
She gave a rueful smile. Brian saw a look passing between them, but chose to ignore it.
‘Anyone want any more rice?’ he asked instead, lifting the salver from its hotplate.
‘We should be getting home,’ his wife said. ‘Damon might have tried phoning.’ She was getting to her feet. Rebus gestured towards the photo, and she handed it back. It was smudged, creased at the corners. Brian was looking down at the food still on his plate.
‘Brian...’ Janice said. He sniffed and got up from his chair. ‘Get the bill, will you?’
‘This is on me,’ Rebus said. ‘They’ll stick it on my tab.’
‘Thanks again, John.’ She held out her hand and he took it. It was long and slender. Rebus remembered holding it when they danced, remembered the way it would be warm and dry, unlike other girls’ hands. Warm and dry, and his heart pounding in his chest. She’d been so slender at the waist, he’d felt he could encircle her with just his hands.
‘Yes, thanks, Johnny.’ Brian Mee laughed. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Johnny?’
‘Why should I mind?’ Rebus said, still looking into Janice’s eyes. ‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’
10
First thing, Rebus looked through the newspapers, but he didn’t find anything to interest him.
He headed down to Leith police station, where Jim Margolies had been stationed. He’d told the Farmer he was looking for a connection between Rough’s reappearance and Jim’s death, but he wasn’t particularly confident of finding one. Still, he really did want to know why Jim had done it, had done something Rebus had thought about doing more than once — taking the high walk. He was met in Leith by a wary Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan.
‘I know I owe you a favour or two, John,’ Hogan began. ‘But do you mind telling me what it’s all about? Margolies was a good man, we’re missing him badly.’
They were walking through the station, making for CID. Hogan was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had been on the force for longer. He could take retirement any time he wanted, but Rebus doubted the man would ever want it.
‘I knew him, too,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I’m probably just asking myself the same question all of you have been asking.’
‘You mean why?’
Rebus nodded. ‘He was headed for the top, Bobby. Everyone knew it.’
‘Maybe he got vertigo.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘The notes aren’t going to tell you anything, John.’
They had stopped outside an interview room.
‘I just need to see them, Bobby.’
Hogan stared at him, then nodded slowly. ‘This makes us even, pal.’
Rebus touched him on the shoulder, walked into the room. The manila file was sitting on the otherwise empty desk. There were two chairs in the room.
‘Thought you’d like some privacy,’ Hogan said. ‘Look, if anyone wonders...’
‘My lips are sealed, Bobby.’ Rebus was already sitting down. He examined the folder. ‘This won’t take long.’
Hogan fetched a cup of coffee, then left him to it. It took Rebus precisely twenty minutes to sift through everything: initial report and back-up, plus Jim Margolies’ history. Twenty minutes wasn’t long for a CV. Of course, there was little about his home life. Speculation was for after-work drinks, for cigarette breaks and coffee-machine meetings. The bare facts, set down between double margins, gave no clues at all. His father was a doctor, now retired. Comfortable upbringing. The sister who’d committed suicide in her teens... Rebus wondered if his sister’s death had been at the back of Jim Margolies’ mind all these years. There was no mention of Darren Rough, no mention of Margolies’ short time at St Leonard’s. His last night on earth, Jim had been out to dinner at some friends’ house. Nothing out of the ordinary. But afterwards, in the middle of the night, he’d slipped from his bed, got dressed again, and gone walking in the rain. All the way to Holyrood Park...
‘Anything?’ Bobby Hogan asked.
‘Not a sausage,’ Rebus admitted, closing the file.
Walking in the rain... A long walk, from The Grange to Salisbury Crags. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him. Inquiries had been made, cabbies questioned. Perfunctory for the most part: you didn’t want to linger over a suicide. Sometimes you could find out things that were better left undisturbed.