‘That they were forewarned?’ She nodded again, her eyes on his. ‘And you think maybe it was the dad who tipped them the wink?’
‘He admitted as much.’
‘But he was Glasgow-based.’
‘So there had to be someone else right here in Edinburgh.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Did you happen to know Alex Shankley back in the day, John?’
Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘You know what the job’s like, Siobhan. Gangs, drugs, acts of violence... there are webs and connections and chains. Murder squads have always pooled and shared.’
‘Alex Shankley was a friend?’
‘We did one another a few favours, just now and then.’ Rebus had risen again to stand by the uncurtained window. ‘Even before I had Brillo, I’d often walk down to the Meadows of an evening. Late, after the pubs had shut. I’d stand there in the middle of it all, listening to the night. You can hear the city, you know. If you train your ears. But hearing it isn’t always enough.’
‘Did Alex Shankley ask for your help when Stuart Bloom went missing?’
‘You know damned fine he did — he wanted his son’s name kept out of it. I spoke to a few of the seasoned hacks, made my case...’
‘Promised them favours if they complied?’
‘Quid pro quo, Siobhan — just like you and Laura Smith. Not so many laptop warriors back then; it was easier to manage the way news got out, the words used and the ones left unsaid. Christ, was it only twelve years ago? Seems like a different age.’
‘The handcuffs, John.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It wasn’t Alex Shankley. He’d worked murders half his life. He would know handcuffs were going to scream police involvement.’
‘Would the Chuggabugs have known the same?’
‘Up to a point.’ He returned to his chair and sat down, the bottle clutched in his hand. ‘Isn’t it more likely those cuffs are there to send us on a wild goose chase? The cuffs and the gully both.’
‘Why tie the ankles rather than the wrists?’
‘I refer you to my previous answer.’ Rebus dug a pack of gum from his pocket and held it up. ‘Every time I feel like smoking, I’m supposed to chew one of these little bastards instead. From experience, however, they make the beer taste weird.’ Having said which, he drained the bottle before sliding a lozenge of gum into his mouth.
‘How many are you on?’ Clarke asked, watching him chew.
‘Twenty a day — is that the definition of irony or what?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Clarke’s smile was fleeting. ‘John, if it gets out you were jeopardising police operations...’
‘By warning two young men to stay out of a club?’
‘Nothing was ever found in those raids. Doesn’t that sound to you like word got around?’
‘Or else the club was squeaky clean. There’d been a bad consignment, a few kids OD’ing, one of them dying. That’s what the raids were for — not just at Rogues but across the city. For a while, the dealers kept their heads down, job done.’ Rebus grew thoughtful, his chewing slowing. ‘You think ACU have an inkling about me and Alex Shankley?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Malcolm hasn’t said?’
‘He doesn’t know I know about the meeting.’
‘And how do you know?’
‘Sources.’
‘Would that be Laura again?’ Rebus gave a half-smile. ‘Steele and Edwards were assigned to at least a couple of the Rogues visits in the months before Bloom disappeared. Then they worked the misper case. Could be they found out I was friends with Alex Shankley, joined the dots and then tucked it away for future use.’
Clarke picked up the thread. ‘They also know that you, me and Malcolm are friends, so they tell him that if he does them a favour, they won’t use the information.’
‘Hearsay rather than information,’ Rebus felt the need to qualify.
‘All the same...’
‘Aye.’ Rebus raised the empty bottle towards her. ‘Well, here’s to you, Siobhan. Your visit’s fair cheered up an old man.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Rebus had picked up his phone and was tapping away at it with one finger. ‘Who are you messaging?’
‘Malcolm, of course. I’m letting him know: if they want to come at me, let them come.’
‘He’ll wonder how you know.’
‘It’ll be more evidence of my almost supernatural powers.’ Rebus pressed send, then gave Clarke an almighty wink.
13
She was on Clerk Street when her phone sounded. The call box again. She pressed her foot to the accelerator. Canongate was only a couple of minutes away. Maybe when she didn’t answer they would stick around and try again. She signalled right, saw the two call boxes in front of her and cursed under her breath — no sign of anyone. She drove on for fifty yards, examining the few pedestrians, not recognising any faces. The street was quiet, so she managed a U-turn, heading back to the call boxes. There were plenty of narrow routes leading off Canongate. Her anonymous caller could have vanished down any one of them. She noticed that her smoking friend was back outside McKenzie’s, so she parked and got out. He recognised her and jutted his chin by way of greeting.
‘All right?’
She sought his name, pointed at him. ‘Robbie, right?’
He pointed back. ‘Siobhan.’
‘I had another call, Robbie, not more than five minutes ago.’
‘I’ve only just stepped out.’
‘I don’t suppose you passed anyone going in?’
‘Didn’t notice.’
‘Meaning they might have?’
He offered a shrug, and then a cigarette.
‘Don’t smoke,’ Clarke told him. ‘I’ll maybe see you inside.’ She yanked open the door.
The place was busy and noisy. Thumping music, Sky Sports on the various muted TVs. Mostly a young crowd, maybe students, voices raised in raucous competition with the bass line. A row of older regulars stood at the bar, inured to everything around them, a collie asleep on the floor next to a stool and a dish of drinking water. The bar itself was well-enough lit, but there were shadowy booths and alcoves, which Clarke explored as she pretended to weave her way to the toilets. The toilets themselves were down a flight of stairs, and she paused for a moment halfway, wondering if anyone might emerge. No one did, so she headed back up. Another sweep of the bar and its clients. She was about to leave when a head rose from behind the counter. The barman had obviously been into the cellar, emerging through a trapdoor. He was passing bottles of spirits to a colleague. Clarke knew she knew him from somewhere. Had she been in here before? She didn’t think so. Had he maybe worked one of the city’s many other bars? It was possible.
She was pushing open the door as Robbie the smoker made to come indoors again.
‘Not staying?’ he asked.
‘Maybe next time,’ she replied.
She got into her car and sat there, thinking hard. Late thirties, early forties, thick black hair and sideburns tapering to a point. Tattooed arms, hooded eyes, stubble. Romany? She had an image of him wandering through woodland, a guitar strapped across him. Hang on... Yes, because the last time she’d seen him he’d worn a black leather waistcoat over a white T-shirt and she’d thought the same. Where, though? In a courtroom. Not the accused. Not giving evidence. A tattooed arm draped around a woman’s shoulders.
And then she knew.
He was Ellis Meikle’s uncle, brother of Ellis’s father. Comforting Ellis’s mother at the end of the trial after her son was sentenced. Sentenced to life for murder.
‘Ellis Meikle,’ Clarke intoned, head turned to gaze at McKenzie’s. Then she started the car and headed home, on autopilot all the way.