She ate the roll, filled with prawn mayonnaise, without any pleasure or sense of taste. She knew she’d drunk her coffee only because the cup was empty. One pale prawn sat on the rim of the plate, where it had fallen from the roll. She left it where it was and got up from the table.
Outside the St James’ Centre she crossed Princes Street and headed for Waverley Station. A line of taxi cabs snaked from the underground concourse back up on to Waverley Bridge. The drivers sat behind their wheels, some reading or eating or listening to their radios. Others staring into space or sharing news with fellow drivers. She started at the back of the queue and worked her way forwards. John Rebus had given her some names. One of them was Henry Wilson. The drivers all seemed to know him, called him ‘The Lumberjack’. They put out a call to him. Meantime, she showed them her pictures of Damon and explained that he’d been picked up on George Street.
‘Anyone with him, love?’ one driver asked.
‘A woman... short blonde hair.’
The driver shook his head. ‘I’ve a good memory for blondes,’ he said, handing back the flyer.
The problem was, a couple of trains had just arrived — London and Glasgow. The taxis were moving faster than she could, heading down to where their passengers waited. She looked back up the slope. More taxis were joining the back of the queue. She couldn’t tell who she’d talked to and who was new. Engines were starting, fumes getting into her lungs. Cars sounding their horns as they moved past her, heading down into the station, wondering what she was doing on the roadway when there was a pavement the other side. Day-trippers looked at her, too. They knew she’d never get a taxi here, knew the system: you queued at the rank.
Her mouth felt sour and gritty. The coffee had been strong: she could feel her heart pounding. And then another car sounded its horn.
‘All right, all right,’ she said, passing down the line to the next taxi, which was already moving off. The car-horn sounded again: right behind her. She turned on it, glowering, saw it was another black cab, window open. Nobody in the back, just the driver, leaning towards her. Short black hair, long black beard, green tartan shirt.
‘Lumberjack?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘That’s what they call me.’
She smiled. ‘John Rebus gave me your name.’ Cars were held up behind him. One flashed its lights.
‘You better get in,’ he said. ‘Before they have my licence off me for obstruction.’
Janice Mee got in.
The taxi went down into the station, and took the exit ramp back up, then turned right and crossed the traffic, settling at the back of the queue of cabs. Henry Wilson pulled on the handbrake and turned in his seat.
‘So what does the Inspector want this time?’
And Janice Mee told him.
It had to be serious: instead of summoning him, the Farmer had come looking for Rebus, who was out in the car park having a cigarette and thinking about Janice Playfair aged fifteen...
‘Is it the surveillance?’ Rebus asked, thinking maybe something had happened.
‘No, it bloody well isn’t.’ The Farmer stuck his hands in his pockets: he meant business.
‘What have I done this time?’
‘The press have got hold of Darren Rough. One paper printed the story this morning, the rest are busy catching up. My secretary’s fielded so many calls, she doesn’t know if she’s in St Leonard’s or St Pancras.’
‘How did they get the story?’ Rebus asked, ditching his cigarette.
The Farmer narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s what Rough’s social worker wants to know. He’s ready to make a formal complaint.’
Rebus rubbed at his nose. ‘He thinks I did it?’
‘John, I know bloody well you did it.’
‘With respect, sir—’
‘John, just shut up, will you? The reporter you spoke to, first thing he did when you’d put the phone down was hit 1471. He got the number you were calling from.’
‘And?’
‘And it was The Maltings.’ Public house: almost directly across the street from St Leonard’s. ‘But better than that, our intrepid reporter asked the punter who answered about the person who’d last used the phone. Want me to read you the description?’
‘Male, white, middle-aged?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Could be a thousand blokes.’
‘Could be. Which hasn’t stopped Rough’s social worker thinking it’s you.’
Rebus looked out towards Salisbury Crags. ‘I’m glad somebody shopped him.’ He paused. ‘If that was what it was going to take.’
‘Take to do what? To run him out of town? To get a mob baying for his blood? John, I’d hate to see what you’d do to Ince and Marshall.’
Ince and Marshalclass="underline" the Shiellion accused.
‘You wouldn’t have to watch,’ Rebus said. He squared up to his boss. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Steer clear of Rough, that’s number one. Stay on the Oakes surveillance, at least that way you’ll keep out of trouble for six hours at a stretch. And give Jane Barbour a bell.’ He handed Rebus a slip of paper with a phone number on it.
‘Barbour? What does she want?’
‘No idea. Probably something to do with Shiellion House.’
Rebus stared at the phone number. ‘Probably,’ he said.
The Farmer left him to it, and instead of going back into the station, Rebus walked down the lane towards the main road, checked for traffic and walked briskly across. Stepped into The Maltings. It was quiet most daytimes. When he’d made the call, there’d only been one other drinker in the place. A minute after opening time, the same man was alone at the bar with a half-pint and a whisky in front of him.
‘Alexander,’ Rebus said, ‘a word with you, please.’ He pulled the drinker by his arm towards the gents’ toilets: didn’t want the barmaid listening in.
‘Christ, man, what is it?’ The drinker’s name was Alexander Jessup. He didn’t like Alex or Alec or Sandy or Eck: it had to be Alexander. He’d run his own business at one time: a printer’s. Did headed paper, account books, raffle tickets and the like. Sold it on and was quietly drinking the proceeds away. As a man about town, he heard things, but never gave Rebus much that proved useful. He did like to talk though; he’d talk to anyone who’d listen.
‘Any reporters been after you?’ Rebus asked.
Jessup looked at him with rheumy eyes, like those of an old dog. He shook his head. His face was a mess of puffiness and burst capillaries.
‘You spoke to one on the phone,’ Rebus reminded him.
‘Was he a reporter?’ Jessup looked stung. ‘He never said.’
‘You gave him my description.’
‘I might’ve done.’ He thought about it, nodded, then held up a finger. ‘But no names, you know me, John. I never gave him your name.’
Rebus kept his voice low. ‘If anyone comes looking, keep the description as vague as you can, understood? You never saw the guy on the phone before, he’s not a regular.’ He waited for the message to sink in. Jessup gave him an enormous wink.
‘Message received.’
‘And understood?’
‘And understood,’ Jessup confirmed. ‘I didn’t get you into trouble, did I?’ Dying to know. ‘You know I’d never do something like that.’
Rebus patted his shoulder. ‘I know, Alexander. Just remember who brings you your breakfast when they’ve put you in the cells for the night.’
‘Right enough, John.’ Jessup gave an ‘OK’ sign with his hand. ‘Sorry if I got you into any bother.’