Susie nodded. She was out of reach, so Siobhan handed the note to Angie. ‘Same thing applies to you.’ Angie nodded and folded the note in two.
The door rattled open and a stooped, elderly woman came in.
‘Mrs Prentice,’ Angie called out in greeting.
‘Bit earlier than I told you, Angie dear. Can you fit me in?’
Angie was already on her feet. ‘For you, Mrs Prentice, I’m sure I can shuffle my diary.’ Susie relinquished the chair so that Mrs Prentice could sit in it, once she’d divested herself of her coat. Siobhan got up, too. ‘One last thing, Susie,’ she said.
‘What?’
Siobhan walked over to the alcove, Susie following her. Siobhan lowered her voice when she spoke. ‘The Jardines tell me Donald Cruikshank’s out of prison.’
Susie’s face hardened.
‘Have you seen him?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Once or twice... piece of scum that he is.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘As if I would! Council gave him a place of his own — can you credit it? His mum and dad wouldn’t have anything to do with him.’
‘Did Ishbel mention him at all?’
‘Just that she felt the same as me. You think that’s what drove her out?’
‘Do you?’
‘He’s the one we should be running out of town,’ Susie hissed.
Siobhan nodded her agreement. ‘Well,’ she said, slinging her bag on to her shoulder, ‘remember to give me a call if anything else comes to you.’
‘Sure,’ Susie said. She studied Siobhan’s hair. ‘Can’t do something with that for you, can I?’
Involuntarily, Siobhan’s right hand went to her head. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I don’t know... It just... it makes you look older than you probably are.’
‘Maybe that’s the look I’m aiming for,’ Siobhan replied defensively, making her way to the door.
‘Wee perm and a touch-up?’ Angie was asking her client as Siobhan stepped outside. She stood for a moment, wondering what next. She’d meant to ask Susie about Ishbel’s ex-boyfriend, the one she was still friends with. But she didn’t want to go back in, and decided it could wait. There was a newsagent’s open. She thought about chocolate, but decided to look into the pub instead. It would give her something to tell Rebus; maybe even score her some points if it turned out to be one of the few bars in Scotland not to count him as a one-time customer.
She pushed open the black wooden door and was confronted by pockmarked red linoleum and matching flock wallpaper. A design mag would call it ‘kitsch’ and enthuse over its revival of seventies naff... but this was the real, unreconstructed thing. There were horse brasses on the walls, and framed cartoons showing dogs urinating, bloke-style, against a wall. Horse-racing on the TV and a haze of cigarette smoke between her and the bar. Three men stared up from their dominoes game. One of them got up and walked behind the bar.
‘What can I get you, love?’
‘Lime juice and soda,’ she said, resting on a bar stool. There was a Glasgow Rangers scarf draped over the dartboard, a pool table alongside with ripped and patched baize. And nothing to justify the knife and fork on the motorway exit sign.
‘Eighty-five pence,’ the barman said, placing the drink in front of her. At this point, she knew she had only one gambit — Does Ishbel Jardine ever come in? — and couldn’t see what she’d gain from it. For one thing, the bar would be alerted to the fact that she was a cop. For another, she doubted these men would add anything to her sum of knowledge, even if they had known Ishbel. She raised the glass to her lips, and knew there was too much cordial in it. The drink was sickly sweet, and not gassy enough.
‘All right?’ the barman said. It was challenge more than query.
‘Fine,’ she replied.
Satisfied, he came back out from behind the bar and resumed his game. There was a pot of small change on the table, ten- and twenty-pence pieces. The men he was playing with looked like pensioners. They slapped each domino down with exaggerated force, tapped three times if they couldn’t go. Already, they’d lost interest in her. She looked around for a ladies’ loo, spotted it to the left of the dartboard and headed inside. Now they’d think she’d only come in for a pee, the soft drink conscience-money. The toilet was clean, though the mirror above the sink had gone, pen-written graffiti replacing it.
Sean’s a shag
The buns on Kenny Reilly!!!
Sluts unite!
Bane Bunnies Rool
Siobhan smiled and went into the only cubicle. The lock was broken. She sat down, ready to be entertained by more of the graffiti.
Donny Cruikshank — Dead Man Walking
Donny Pervo
Fry the fucker
Cook the Cruik
Claimed in blood, sisters!!!
God bless Tracy Jardine
There was more — much more — by no means all of it in the same hand. Black marker pen, blue biro, gold felt-tip. Siobhan decided that the three exclamation marks must be by the same person as above the sink. When she’d walked in, she’d thought herself a rare example of a female customer; now she knew differently. She wondered if any of the sentiments came from Ishbel Jardine: a handwriting comparison would tell. She rummaged in her bag but realised her digital camera was in the Peugeot’s glovebox. Well, she’d just go get it. To hell with what the dominoplayers would think.
Pulling open the door, she noticed that a new customer had arrived. He was leaning his elbows against the bar, head down low, hips wiggling. Her stool was right next to him. He heard the creak of the toilet door and turned towards her. She saw a shaved head, a jowly white face, two days’ growth of beard.
Three lines on the right cheek — scar tissue.
Donny Cruikshank.
Last time she’d seen him had been in an Edinburgh courtroom. He wouldn’t know her. She’d not given evidence, never had the chance to interview him. She was pleased to see him looking so dissipated. His scant time in jail had still been enough to rob him of some youth and vitality. She knew there was a pecking order in every prison, and that sex offenders were at the bottom of the tree. His mouth had opened in a slack grin, ignoring the pint which had just been placed in front of him. The barman stood stony-faced with hand held out for payment. It was clear to Siobhan that he wasn’t keen on Cruikshank’s presence in his pub. One of Cruikshank’s eyes was bloodshot, as though he’d been punched and it had failed to heal.
‘All right, darling?’ he called. She walked towards him.
‘Don’t call me that,’ she said icily.
‘Ooh! “Don’t call me that”.’ The attempted mimicry was grotesque; only Cruikshank was laughing. ‘I like a doll with balls.’
‘Keep talking and you’ll soon be missing yours.’
Cruikshank couldn’t believe his ears. After a stunned moment, he tipped back his head and howled.
‘Did you ever hear the like, Malky?’
‘Pack it in, Donny,’ Malky the barman warned.
‘Or what? You’ll red-card me again?’ He looked around. ‘Aye, I’d certainly miss this place.’ His eyes rested on Siobhan, taking in every inch of her. ‘Of course, things have picked up on the totty front just lately...’
Incarceration had eroded him physically, but given him something in return, a kind of bravado, with attitude to spare.
Siobhan knew that if she stayed, she’d end up lashing out. She knew she was capable of hurting him; but knew also that hurting him physically would not damage him in any other way. Meaning he’d have won, by making her weak. So instead she walked, trying to shut out his words to her retreating back.