‘What’s this?’
‘Breakfast in bed.’
She sat up, arranged the pillows behind her. He laid the tray on her lap.
‘Have I forgotten some anniversary?’
He pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. ‘I just didn’t want you oversleeping.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because as soon as you get up, I’m into that bed and asleep.’
He dodged the butter-knife as she swiped it at him. They were both laughing as he started to unbutton his shirt.
Jim Stevens went down to breakfast, expecting to find Cary Oakes halfway through another fry-up. But there was no sign of him. He asked at reception, but nobody had seen him. He called up to Oakes’s room: no answer. He went up and banged on the door: ditto.
He was back in reception, ready to demand a duplicate key, when Cary Oakes came walking in through the hotel door.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Stevens asked, feeling almost dizzy with relief.
‘No caffeine for you this morning, Jim,’ Oakes said. ‘Look at you, you’ve got the shakes already.’
‘I asked where you’d been.’
‘Got up early. Guess I’m still on US time. Walked down by the docks.’
‘Nobody here saw you leave.’
Oakes looked over towards the reception desk, then back to Stevens. ‘Is there a problem? I’m here now, aren’t I?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Isn’t that what counts?’ He placed a hand on Stevens’ shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’ Started leading them towards the dining room. ‘Have I got some great stuff for you this morning. Your editor’s going to offer to blow you when he reads it...’
‘Just another day at the office then,’ Stevens said, wiping sweat from his brow.
18
The businessman who owned the Clipper Night-Ship asked Rebus if he wanted to make him an offer.
‘I’m serious. I’d be happy to make a loss, only no one wants to buy her.’
He explained that the Clipper had brought him little but headaches. Licensing hassles, complaints from local residents, a council investigation, police visits...
‘All that so punters can have a piss-up on a boat. I could run a pub with less grief and bigger takings.’
‘So why don’t you?’
‘I used to: the Apple Tree in Morningside. But at that time it seemed like every pub had to have a gimmick. God knows what it’s all about with Irish pubs: whoever came up with the notion they’re any better than Scottish ones? Then there’s the other theme pubs — Sherlock Holmes or Jekyll and Hyde, or pubs for Australians and South Africans.’ He shook his head. ‘I took one look at the Clipper and thought I was on a winner. Maybe I am, only sometimes it seems like a lot of hard work and sweet FA to show for it.’
They were seated in the offices of PJP: Preston-James Promotions. Rebus and Janice Mee were one side of the desk, Billy Preston the other side. Rebus didn’t think Preston would appreciate being informed that his namesake used to play keyboards for the Beatles and the Stones.
Billy Preston was in his mid-thirties, immaculately turned out in a grey collarless suit with a metallic shine to it. You got the feeling nothing would stick to him, a regular Teflon Man. His head was shaved, but his long square chin sported a Frank Zappa beard. The offices of PJP took up two rooms on the first floor of a building halfway down Canongate. Below was a shop specialising in antiquarian maps.
‘We’d move,’ Preston had told them, ‘find somewhere bigger, somewhere with parking, only my partner says to hold fire.’
‘Why?’ Rebus had asked.
‘The Parliament.’ Preston had pointed out of the window. ‘Two hundred yards that way. Property around here is rocketing. We’d be mugs to sell.’ He kept playing with his computer mouse, running it over its mat, clicking and double-clicking. It annoyed Rebus, who couldn’t see the screen. ‘Now if they’d chosen Leith instead of Holyrood...’ Preston rolled his eyes.
‘The Clipper wouldn’t be causing you this grief?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Bingo. We’d have bided our time, waited for the MPs and their staff, all on healthy salaries and looking to spend.’
‘The Clipper’s like a private club?’ Janice asked.
‘Not exactly. She’s for hire. If you guarantee me a minimum of forty punters on a week day, sixty at weekends, she’s yours gratis, so long as they’re drinking at the ship’s bar. You pay for the disco, that’s it.’
‘You say a minimum of forty. What’s the maximum?’
‘Public Safety regulations stipulate seventy-five.’
‘But forty guarantees you a profit?’
‘Just barely,’ Preston said. ‘I’ve got staff, overheads, power...’
‘So some nights you don’t open?’
‘It comes in waves, if you’ll pardon the pun. We’ve had good times. Now we’re in...’
‘The doldrums?’ Rebus offered.
Preston snorted, reached into a drawer for a ledger book. ‘So what date is it you’re interested in?’
Janice told him. She had both hands cupped around a mug of coffee. It had been tepid and stewed on delivery. Rebus wondered at the qualifications of the tall blonde secretary in the outer office. Paperwork all over the floor, unopened mail... If Preston wasn’t helpful, Rebus could foresee a phone call to the VAT inspectors.
But in fact he flicked quickly through the ledger. ‘Found this here when we moved in,’ he explained. ‘Thought I’d try to find a use for it.’ He looked up. ‘You know, a continuity kind of thing.’
His finger found the date, ran along the line.
‘Booking that night, private party. Fancy dress.’ He looked up at Janice. ‘Sure your son was headed for the Clipper?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Whose party was it?’ Rebus asked. He was already out of his chair. Preston, eyes on the ledger, didn’t seem to notice Rebus coming around the side of the desk. Rebus’s first impulse: look at the screen. A game of patience, sitting waiting for the player to start.
‘Amanda Petrie,’ Preston said. ‘I was there that night. I remember it. There was a theme... pirates or something.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No, it was Treasure Island. Some arsehole turned up dressed as a parrot. By the end of the night, he was as sick as one.’ He looked at Janice. ‘Can I see those photos again?’
She handed them over: Damon and the blonde from the security cameras; then Damon in a holiday snap.
‘They weren’t in fancy dress?’ Preston asked.
Janice shook her head.
Preston’s hands were busy with the ledger and the photos. Rebus, leaning over to examine the ledger, found that his elbow had nudged the mouse up the screen, to where it could close the game. Slight pressure on the mouse, and the screen changed. From a game of patience to the image of a woman on all fours. The photo had been taken from behind, the model turning her head to pout at the photographer. She was wearing white stockings and suspenders, nothing else. The pout was exaggerated. On the floor nearby, an empty champagne bottle. Rebus looked up to the windowsill, where an empty champagne bottle sat.
‘But is she any good at shorthand?’ Rebus said. Preston saw what he was looking at, switched the screen off. Rebus took the opportunity to lift the heavy ledger from the desk, walk back around to his chair with it.
‘So you were there that night?’ he asked.
Preston looked flustered. ‘Keeping an eye on things.’
‘And you didn’t see either Damon or the blonde?’
‘I don’t remember seeing them.’