‘Costello?’
‘The newsagent next door,’ the letting agent said.
‘Nothing so far,’ Brian Holmes said over a lunchtime drink. ‘No record the company ever existed.’
Rebus chewed on his last piece of bridie. ‘I’m beginning to think it didn’t. Where’s Siobhan, by the way?’
‘At the gym.’
‘What’s a gym?’
Brian Holmes smiled at that. He’d put on weight this past year or so, and now sported a dough-ring stomach and the beginnings of beer jowls. Perks of the job, some people said.
‘I thought you worked out some lunchtimes?’ he said.
‘Haven’t done it for ages.’
But Rebus went swimming that afternoon, managing twenty thoughtful lengths, after which he had to sit in his cubicle for a while. That was the problem with exercise: it wasn’t any fun. None of the fit and active people he saw around him seemed any happier than anyone else. No point exercising to elongate your life, when you weren’t getting any more out of life than any other poor sod. He made up for the swimming by arriving early at the Ox, waiting to have a word with Salty Dougary, but Dougary didn’t come, and Rebus decided to break the rules.
He’d visit Dougary at his home.
Dougary was divorced and rented the top floor of a sizeable house not a conversion-kick away from Murrayfield Stadium. He couldn’t have looked more surprised to see Rebus if he’d found him servicing his ex-wife on the doorstep.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I need a word, Salty.’
‘I didn’t feel like a drink tonight. Our boss is driving us like slaves, a big order with the deadline approaching, and Mathieson screaming down the telephone.’
‘Mathieson?’
‘Head honcho at PanoTech. You should see the way our boss — ’
‘Salty? Sorry to bring it up, but it’s freezing out here.’
Dougary stepped aside to let Rebus in. ‘I’ll warn you,’ he said, ‘the place is a midden.’
Certainly, Rebus thought, it was no advert for the bachelor life.
‘Have you run out of binbags or something?’
‘I never seem to get time to clean up. Want a beer?’
‘Thanks.’ Rebus lifted pizza boxes, crisp bags and a couple of empty cans off the sofa and sat down. Salty came back with a couple of cans and handed one over.
‘So what’s the emergency?’
Rebus sipped froth from the top of the can. ‘You said Mensung was at the top of Leith Walk.’ Dougary nodded. ‘Next to a newsagent’s?’ Another nod. ‘Well, I took a look this morning, and nobody’s heard of them.’
‘So?’
‘So, are you sure that’s where they were?’
‘That was the address on their letter-heading.’
‘You’re sure you wouldn’t have any of their letters lying around?’ Rebus scanned the room. His meaning was clear: you seem to hang on to everything else.
‘Everything got chucked when Fiona and me split up. I mean everything. Letters, photos, I even lost my birth certificate. See, John, I never actually went to see Mensung at that address. The courses I did, they were held at a place on Corstorphine Road.’
‘Do you remember the number?’
Dougary nodded. ‘One-six-five Corstorphine Road. See, it’s the date Fiona and me got married, sixteen-five, that’s how I remember.’ His face turned wistful. ‘Two chips soldered together on the motherboard of life.’
Rebus tried to remember when he and Rhona had married. He thought it was probably June or July, but that was as much as he could recall.
First thing next morning, he drove along Corstorphine Road looking for number 165. Rebus didn’t exactly know what a paper-chase was, but this was beginning to feel like one. The American, Haldayne, had mentioned paper companies, and Rebus felt he was chasing one now, something no more substantial than the sum of its letter-heading. His visit to Corstorphine Road seemed to confirm it.
The present occupants of the office suite told him that back in ‘86 and ’87 the premises had been under a short let, sometimes for only days at a time. But there were no records of the actual occupants at that time. The suites had changed ownership several times since.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Rebus said.
Dead end, he thought. Dead company. He’d have to get Councillor Gillespie to talk to him, there was no other course left open. It was either that, or drop it altogether. That, after all, was what everyone wanted, but then he’d never been a crowd pleaser. He’d never played to the gallery.
He’d talk to Councillor Tom Gillespie. But after the weekend. And meantime, he had some fast shopping to do. New clothes. For some reason, he wanted new clothes to wear to Sir Iain’s.
Three ZUGZWANG
30
Two low-built stone pillars marked the start of the long, snaking driveway. Rebus turned off the main road on to the gravel track and stopped the car. There were no signs, nothing at all to tell him this was the right turning. He looked at the map on the back of his invitation and decided it was. The very anonymity of the track seemed to fit with Sir lain Hunter. Either side of Rebus were open fields, but these soon gave way to dense woodland. Dry-stane dykes overgrown with moss separated the driveway from the trees.
Finally, after half a mile, he emerged from the shade into a bright expanse of tended lawn with greenhouses and a walled vegetable garden off. And directly in front of him stood a grey stone house in the Scots baronial style, boasting two turrets — probably ornamental — which started at the level of the first floor and tapered to slate-covered points above the roof-line. There were three cars — a Rover 800, Jaguar, and Maserati — parked on the clean pink gravel. Rebus stopped beside them and got out, trying not to be impressed. In the distance, a stream bisected the trim lawn, with a narrow humpbacked bridge across it. It reminded him of nothing so much as one of the fairways at St Andrews.
‘It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?’ The voice was Sir Iain’s. He was walking towards Rebus, leaning lightly on a carved walking-stick. At home, it would appear the brolly wasn’t necessary.
‘Just thinking I should have brought my three iron.’
‘Ah, you play golf?’
‘Only with a three iron.’
Hunter laughed and placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Find the place all right?’
‘No trouble.’
‘Good.’ Hunter was steering Rebus towards the house. ‘I thought we’d have a drink first, then do a spot of shooting and just have a light lunch.’
‘Shooting?’
‘I take it you’ve handled a gun, Inspector?’
‘I’ve handled a lot of things.’
‘I did wonder if we might try for pheasant or winter hare, but decided on clay pigeon.’
‘Well, it tastes nicer, doesn’t it?’
Sir Iain Hunter shook his head, amused. ‘There’s no telling what you’ll say next, Inspector.’
They entered a capacious hall with white marble floor and paintings on the walls: modern art, which surprised Rebus. A lot of the stuff looked ill at ease in a setting of wood panelling and fluted columns. A staircase with a wrought-iron balustrade climbed up the middle of the hall and peeled off to left and right.
‘In here,’ Hunter said. ‘Let me take your coat.’
Rebus slipped off his new raincoat and shrugged himself back into his sports jacket. He patted his tie flat and walked into the morning room.
A servant was dispensing drinks from a series of decanters on a trolley. So, Rebus thought, I was important enough to be met by the boss rather than the flunky. He stood there, not really looking at anyone, biding his time until Sir lain came back into the room.
‘Hello, John,’ someone said, walking towards him, hand held out. The man held a heavy crystal tumbler in his other hand, and looked slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t until Rebus had taken the man’s hand that he recognised him.