‘What about it?’
‘I’ve remembered what it was,’ Dougary said matter-of-factly. His drink had appeared, and he ordered some crisps.
‘So what is it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Salt and vinegar, Jon,’ Dougary told the barman. The volume on the TV was being turned up for some sports report. Dougary turned to Rebus. ‘It was a company.’ He took a mouthful of beer. ‘And a packet of ready salted,’ he told the barman.
‘Did you say a company?’
‘Eh?’ Dougary’s attention was already turning towards the TV. Rebus hauled him off the stool and out of the door, into the chill, dark street. Traffic rumbled past on Castle Street.
‘It’s freezing out here!’ Dougary protested.
‘Just tell me.’ Dougary looked longingly towards the pub door. ‘Tell me here,’ Rebus persisted.
‘Remember when I worked for that semiconductor company?’
‘It was called Mensung?’
‘It wasn’t called any such thing. But it had this policy of trying to retrain workers it turfed out.’
‘So?’
‘So I was a turfee, and there was this agency, outplacement sort of thing. The agency ran seminars, or was supposed to. It was supposed to have all these fancy retraining schemes and programmes, half of which never materialised. That bunch of cowboys was called Mensung.’
‘Is it still around?’
Dougary shrugged. ‘I’ve been laid off twice since, and never come across it again.’
‘Where was it based?’
‘By the Playhouse, top of Leith Walk.’
‘Do you still have any information on it, anything in writing?’
Dougary stared at him. ‘I’d have to check with my secretary.’ The irony was so heavy, you could hear it fall.
Rebus smiled. ‘Stupid question, Donny. Sorry.’
‘Can I go back in now?’
‘Sure.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You called me Donny instead of Salty.’
‘It’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Dougary, pushing open the door.
29
One of the reasons Rebus drank was to put him to sleep.
He had trouble sleeping when sober. He’d stare into the darkness, willing it to form shapes so that he might better understand it. He’d try to make sense of life — his early disastrous Army years; his failed marriage; his failings as father, friend, lover — and end up in tears. And if he did eventually stumble into sober sleep, there would be troubled dreams, dreams about ageing and dying, decay and blight. The dark took on shapes in his dreams, but he daren’t look at them. He’d run blindly instead, sometimes bumping into them, feeling the darkness mould itself around him.
Drunk, his sleep was dreamless, or seemed that way on waking. He might be drenched in sweat, but he wouldn’t be shaking. So he always tried to have a few drinks last thing at night, usually in his chair — and since he was already comfortable, what was the point of getting up and going through to the bedroom?
He was in the chair, dead to the world, when the buzzer sounded. He sat up and switched on the lamp, then blinked his eyes open to check his watch. It was one-thirty. He staggered into the hall like he was learning to walk, and unhooked the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Patience.’
‘Patience?’ Without thinking, he buzzed her up, then went back into the living room to put on his trousers. When he got back to the door, she had almost reached his landing. She walked slowly, with purpose. Her head was bowed, eyes on the steps, not looking at him. Her hair was unbrushed.
‘What’s happened?’
She stood directly in front of him, and he could see how angry she was. She was so angry, she was preternaturally calm.
‘I was lying in bed,’ she said quietly, ‘and I don’t know what happened … I suddenly saw it.’
‘What?’
‘You know Lucky’s dead?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
She nodded to herself. ‘Well, thanks for being there for me, I appreciate that. I was thinking, that’s pretty cold-hearted, even for him. Sammy told me she’d told you. I wondered why you hadn’t been in touch, and then I remembered. Stupid of me to forget. You were there on Sunday. You were sitting right next to the conservatory door.’ Her voice grew even quieter. ‘You locked Lucky out.’
‘Patience, I — ’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Look, it’s late, why don’t — ’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Christ, I don’t know … all right, yes, if it makes you feel any better.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Yes, the racket he was making was driving me mental, so I locked the flap and then forgot. I’m sorry.’
She had opened the shoulder bag and was lifting out a smaller plastic bag. ‘This is for you.’ And as he put out a hand to take the bag, she slapped him hard on the left cheek. Then she turned and started downstairs.
‘Patience!’
She didn’t even pause. She just kept on going. He held up the bag, then opened it and looked inside.
It was just some bits and pieces, that was all.
Bits and pieces of Lucky the cat.
In the morning, he took the bag out to the back garden.
The garden was actually a shared drying-green, with a flower border tended by Mrs Cochrane on the floor below Rebus. Just inside the back door of the tenement was a padlocked walk-in cupboard. It was communal storage space, only Rebus didn’t have anything he wanted communally stored. But he unlocked the door and lifted out the spade which had belonged to dear departed Mr Cochrane.
He sat the plastic bag down next to the flower border, looked around and up at the windows to see nobody was watching, then raised the shovel.
When it hit soil, he felt the collision all the way from his wrists to his spine. He tried again, and chipped away a sliver of frozen earth. He stooped to pick up his prize. It was like toffee, frozen toffee.
‘Jesus,’ he said, trying again. He could see his breath in the air. In the tenement across the back, someone making breakfast had come to their kitchen window. It wasn’t daylight yet, but Rebus knew they could see him clearly enough.
It was all the exposure he needed to convince him he should give up.
Instead, he drove to the Cowgate, parked the car, and carried the bag with him into the City Mortuary.
‘Inspector,’ one of the staff said. ‘What can we do for you today?’
Rebus handed over the bag, said thank you, and left.
He’d arranged to meet Holmes and Clarke in a trendy cafe near the university, but the place hadn’t opened for the day, so they walked along to Nicolson Street and found a clean, well-lit coffee shop.
He asked them how things were at St Leonard’s. They reckoned they were still under close scrutiny, but they could cope.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I’ve got something else I want you to do for me. I want to know about a company. It probably no longer exists, but it was around in ’86-‘87.’
‘A limited company?’
‘No idea.’
‘Directors?’
Rebus just shrugged. ‘About all I can tell you is that it was called Mensung.’
Clarke and Holmes looked at one another. ‘The councillor’s file?’ they said as one.
‘It was a retraining company, not a very good one apparently. It had premises at the top of Leith Walk, next to the Playhouse. I want you to check Companies House, any registers you can find, any lists of retraining companies in Scotland.’ He nodded to the waitress that they were ready to order. ‘Now don’t stint yourselves,’ he told them. ‘Believe me, you’re going to earn this meal.’
He checked Leith Walk himself.
Next to the Playhouse was a pub, and then a newsagent’s, but between them was a door, not quite shut. There were a couple of business plaques on the wall outside, and spaces where other plaques had been removed. Rebus pushed open the door, noting that it was none too steady on its hinges, and entered an unlit hallway smelling worse than many a bar’s convenience. The stone steps up were deeply worn, the walls decorated with graffiti.