‘Travel light, that’s my motto,’ Oakes informed them.
The Customs officer looked to Rebus, who nodded, keeping his stare fixed on Oakes. Everything was put back into the bag.
‘This is actually pretty low-key,’ Oakes said. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. Quiet life’s going to suit me for a while.’ He was nodding to himself.
‘Don’t plan on sticking around,’ Rebus said quietly.
‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Officer.’ Oakes thrust out a hand. Rebus saw that the back of it was dotted with ink tattoos: initials, crosses, a heart. After a moment, Oakes withdrew the hand, laughing to himself. ‘Not so easy to make new friends, I guess,’ he mused. ‘I’ve lost the old social skills.’
The Customs officer was zipping the holdall. Oakes grabbed its handles.
‘Now, gentlemen, if you’ve had your fun...?’
‘Where are you headed?’ the Immigration man asked.
‘A nice hotel in the city. Hotels for me from now on. They wanted to put me in some palace out in the country, but I said no, I want lights and action. I want some buzz.’ He laughed again.
‘Who’s they?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking.
Oakes just grinned and winked. ‘You’ll find out, partner. Won’t even have to do much detecting.’ He hefted the bag and slung it over his shoulder, whistling as he walked away, joining the throng headed for the exit.
Rebus followed. The reporters outside were getting their photos and footage, even if Oakes had slid the baseball cap down over his face. Questions were hurled at him. And then an overweight man was pushing his way through, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Rebus recognised him: Jim Stevens. He worked for one of the Glasgow tabloids. He grabbed Oakes by the arm and said something into his ear. They shook hands, and then Stevens was in charge, manoeuvring Oakes through the huddle, proprietorial hand on his shoulder.
‘Oh, Jim, for Christ’s sake,’ one of the other reporters cried.
‘No comment,’ Stevens said, the cigarette flapping at one corner of his mouth. ‘But you can read our exclusive serialisation, starting tomorrow.’
And with a final wave, he was through the doors and off. Rebus made for another exit, got into the car beside the Farmer.
‘Looks like he’s made a friend,’ Siobhan Clarke commented, watching Stevens put Oakes’s bag into the boot of a Vauxhall Astra.
‘Jim Stevens,’ Rebus told her. ‘He works out of Glasgow.’
‘And Oakes is now his property?’ she guessed.
‘So it would seem. I think they’re heading into town.’
The Farmer slapped the dashboard. ‘Should have guessed one of the papers would nab him.’
‘They won’t hang on to him forever. Soon as the story’s done...’
‘But till then, they’ve got their lawyers.’ The Farmer turned to Rebus. ‘So we can’t do anything that could be construed as harassment.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ Rebus said, starting the engine. He turned to the Farmer. ‘So do we head home now?’
The Farmer nodded. ‘Just as soon as we’ve tailed them. Let Stevens know the score.’
‘There’s a cop car after us,’ Cary Oakes warned.
Jim Stevens reached for the cigarette lighter. ‘I know.’
‘Welcoming committee at the airport, too.’
‘He’s called Rebus.’
‘Who is?’
‘Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’ve had a few run-ins with him. What did he say to you?’
Oakes shrugged. ‘Just stood there trying to look mean. Guys I met in prison, they’d have given him a nervous breakdown.’
Stevens smiled. ‘Save it till the recorder’s running.’
Oakes had the passenger-side window open all the way, angling his head into the fierce cold air.
‘Does smoking bother you?’ Stevens said.
‘No.’ Oakes moved his head to and fro, as if under a hair dryer. ‘Clever of you to have me paged at Heathrow.’
‘I wanted to be the first to make you an offer.’
‘Ten grand, right?’
‘I think we can manage ten.’
‘Exclusive rights?’
‘Got to be, for that price.’
Oakes brought his head back into the car. ‘I’m not sure how good I’ll be.’
‘You’ll be fine. You’re a Scot, aren’t you? We’re born storytellers.’
‘I guess Edinburgh’s changed.’
‘You’ve been away a while.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Do you still know anyone here?’
‘I can think of a couple of names.’ Oakes smiled. ‘Jim Stevens, John Rebus. That’s two, and I’ve only been in the country half an hour.’ Jim Stevens started to laugh. Oakes rolled the window back up, leaned down to switch off the music. Turned in his seat so Stevens had his full attention. ‘So tell me about Rebus. I’d like to get to know him.’
‘Why?’
Oakes’s eyes never left the reporter’s. ‘Someone takes an interest in me,’ he said, ‘I take an interest back.’
‘Does that put me in the frame too?’
‘You never know your luck, Jim. You just never know your luck.’
Stevens had wanted Oakes out of Edinburgh. He’d wanted him in seclusion for as long as it took to do the interviews. But Oakes had told him on the phone: it has to be Edinburgh. It just has to be. So Edinburgh it was; a discreet hotel in a New Town terrace. Stevens had to smile at ‘New Town’: everywhere else in Scotland, it meant the likes of Glenrothes and Livingston, places built from nothing in the fifties and sixties. But in Edinburgh, the New Town dated back to the eighteenth century. That was about as new as the city liked things. The hotel would have been a private residence at one time, spread over four floors. Understated elegance; a quiet street. Oakes took one look at it and decided it wouldn’t do. He didn’t say why, just stood on the steps outside, taking in the air, while Stevens made a couple of frantic calls on his mobile.
‘It would help if I knew what you wanted.’
Oakes just shrugged. ‘I’ll know when I see it.’ He waved a little wave towards where the police car had parked, its lights still on.
‘Right,’ Stevens said at last. ‘Back in the motor.’
They headed down Leith Walk, towards the port of Leith itself.
‘This still a rough part of town?’ Oakes said.
‘It’s changing. New developments, Scottish Office. New restaurants and a couple of hotels.’
‘But it’s still Leith, right?’
Stevens nodded. ‘Still Leith,’ he conceded. But when they hit the waterfront and Oakes saw their hotel, he started nodding straight away.
‘Atmosphere,’ he said, looking out across the docks. There was a container ship tied up there, arc lights on as men worked around it. A couple of pubs, both with restaurants attached. Across the basin was a permanent mooring, a boat which had become a floating nightclub. New flats being built across there too.
‘Scottish Office is just down there,’ Stevens said, pointing.
‘How long do you think they’ll keep this up?’ Oakes asked, watching the police car come to a stop.
‘Not long. If they try it on, I’ll phone our lawyers. I need to call them anyway, get your contract sorted.’
‘Contract.’ Oakes tried out the word. ‘Long time since I’ve had a job.’
‘Just talking into a microphone, posing for a few pictures.’
Oakes turned to him. ‘For ten thou, I’ll do re-enactments for you.’
Some of the colour slid from Stevens’ face. Oakes was watching him intently, measuring the reaction.
‘That probably won’t be necessary,’ Stevens said.
Oakes laughed, liking that ‘probably’.