There was a large noticeboard in the middle of the hotel lobby. It told them that Our Little Angels could be found in the Devonshire Suite. Through a double set of doors and along a corridor, hearing a smattering of applause. At the door to the Devonshire Suite was a large woman in a fuchsia two-piece. She sat behind a small table with half a dozen name-tags left lying on it. She asked them their names.
‘We’re not expected,’ Rebus told her, taking out his warrant card. Her eyes widened, and stayed that way as Rebus led Janice into the room.
There was a temporary stage at one end, rows of chairs arranged in front of it, pink and blue drapes hanging behind it. Burgeoning vases of flowers sat along the front of the stage and at the ends of each row of chairs. The room was about half-full. Around the walls sat bags and coats. Mothers and daughters were busy at work, primping and preening. Hair was brushed and teased, make-up perfected, a dress straightened or a ribbon retied. The daughters looked around the room, studying the competition nervously — or occasionally with a hint of contempt. None of them could have been older than eight or nine.
‘It’s like a dog show,’ Janice whispered to Rebus.
A man at a microphone was reading from a prompt-card, introducing the next contestant.
‘Molly comes from Burntisland and attends the local primary school. Her hobbies are pony-trekking and dress-designing. She designed her own dress for today’s competition.’ He looked up at his audience. ‘How about that, eh, folks? The next Dior. Please welcome Molly.’
The mother patted her daughter on the shoulder, and with hesitant tread Molly made her way up the three wooden steps to the stage. The compère crouched down, microphone in hand. Fake tan and hair-weave — or maybe Rebus was just jealous. The judges were in the front row, trying to hide their voting papers from prying eyes.
‘And how old are you, Molly?’
‘Seven and three-quarters.’
‘Seven and three-quarters? You’re sure it’s not seven-eighths?’ The compère was smiling, but Molly’s face had turned panicky, unsure how to respond. ‘Not to worry, my darling,’ the compère went on. ‘So tell us about that lovely dress you’re wearing.’
Rebus looked around him. Make-up applied to faces not yet ready for it, so that the girls looked like clowns. Hair spun into grown-up shapes. Mothers fussing, looking fraught and expectant. The mothers wore make-up too, and bright clothes. Some of them had dyed hair. A few had probably been under the knife. Nobody was paying any attention to Rebus and Janice: there were plenty of couples in evidence. But this was a mother-and-daughter show, no doubt about that.
No sign of Ama Petrie, and he’d no idea what she’d be doing here anyway. The voice on the phone hadn’t had time to explain. Then he saw two figures he recognised. Hannah Margolies, long blonde hair curling past her shoulders. At her father’s funeral she’d worn white lace. Today she was in a pale-blue dress with white tights and glossy red shoes. There were blue bows in her hair, her mouth a glistening crimson button. Her mother, Katherine Margolies, was kneeling in front of her, giving a final pep-talk. Hannah kept her eyes on her mother’s, nodding slightly from time to time. Katherine took her hands and squeezed them, then stood up.
Jim Margolies’ widow had looked composed at the funeral; she looked more nervous now. She was still wearing black — skirt and jacket over a white silk blouse. She glanced towards the stage where Molly, aided by tape-recorded backing, was singing ‘Sailor’, a song Rebus associated with Petula Clark. Janice, who had found a seat at the end of a row, turned to look up at Rebus with disbelieving eyes. When he looked back at Hannah, he saw Katherine Margolies studying him, as if trying to work out where she’d met him before. Molly was finishing her act, taking the applause with a curtsey. She fairly skipped off the stage, grinning to show wide-spaced teeth.
‘Our next contestant,’ the compère was saying, ‘is Hannah, who lives right here in Edinburgh...’
When Hannah had taken the stage, Rebus wandered across to her mother.
‘Hello, Mrs Margolies.’
She put a finger to her lips, her concentration focused on the stage. She pressed her hands together in something like prayer as she watched Hannah’s performance, her mouth twisting when the compère asked what seemed to her a tricky question. Finally, the mother reached down into one of her bags and walked to the stage with a recorder, handing it to her daughter with a smile. Unaccompanied, Hannah played a tune which Rebus suspected was classical. He’d heard it on an advert somewhere, couldn’t think what the advert was for. Looking towards Janice, Rebus saw that seated next to her were an elderly couple, beaming at the stage. They held hands. In the man’s free hand was a walking stick. Rebus recognised them: Jim Margolies’ parents.
Finally: applause, and Hannah came back to her mother, who kissed her hair.
‘You were perfect,’ Katherine Margolies said. ‘Just perfect.’
‘I played a wrong note.’
‘I didn’t hear it.’
Hannah turned to Rebus. ‘Did you hear it?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Sounded fine to me.’
Hannah’s face relaxed a little. She whispered something to her mother.
‘Off you go then.’
As Hannah made her way to her grandparents, Katherine Margolies got slowly to her feet, watching her leave.
‘We haven’t actually met, Mrs Margolies,’ Rebus said, ‘but I was at Jim’s funeral. I used to work with him. My name’s John Rebus.’
She nodded distractedly. ‘You must think I’m...’ She sought the words. ‘I mean, so soon after Jim’s accident. But I thought it might take Hannah’s mind off things.’
‘Of course.’
‘She’s been so upset.’
‘I’m sure.’ He noticed that she was now studying the judges, the members of the audience, as if looking for some clue as to Hannah’s success. ‘You think Jim fell?’ he asked.
She looked at him. ‘What?’
‘People seem to think it was suicide.’
‘Let them think what they like,’ she snapped. Then she turned to him. ‘You want me to tell Hannah her father took his own life?’
‘Of course not...’
‘He was out walking, got too close to the edge. It was dark... a gust of wind maybe.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ She didn’t reply. ‘Did Jim often go out walking at night?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
He looked down at the carpet. ‘Frankly, none.’
‘Well then.’
‘It’s just that I’ve been trying to make sense of it.’
She looked at him again. ‘Why?’
‘For my own satisfaction.’ He held her stare. She was beautiful. Black hair pulled back to show the geometry of her face. Thin arched eyebrows, good cheekbones. Hannah’s eyes were blue, same as her father’s, but Katherine Margolies’ were hazel. ‘And because,’ Rebus went on, ‘I thought it might have something to do with Darren Rough.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Didn’t Jim mention him?’
She shook her head, sighed with impatience, and turned her gaze towards the judges again. One of them was having a conversation with the compère, who had switched his microphone off.
Rebus thought she was about to say something. When she didn’t, he tried another question.