‘Are you married, Bruce?’
Collier fetched milk from the fridge and handed it to Rebus, along with the mug. ‘She’s in India, travelling with a pal of hers. That’s why the place is so clean — no cooking here since she left.’
‘I’m just remembering something,’ Rebus said, while Collier returned the milk to the fridge. ‘Wasn’t there some scandal about Brough’s back in the seventies?’
‘Scandal?’ Collier had swapped the milk for white wine. He unscrewed the bottle and poured a slug into a waiting glass.
‘A murder at some hotel.’
‘That was right around the corner!’ Collier exclaimed. ‘The dear old Caley. I was staying there at the time.’
‘Usher Hall, 1978? I think I saw you there.’
‘Supposed to be the ticker-tape-parade homecoming celebration. Local lad made good and all that.’
‘But there was a murder instead?’
Collier studied him above the rim of his almost-full glass. ‘You must remember it. When did you join the police?’
‘I’m not as old as I look. So are you still recording, Bruce?’
Collier’s face creased. His hair was unnaturally brown and unnaturally thick. A weave, a wig, or good genes and a dye job? Rebus couldn’t decide. ‘Bits and pieces,’ he said eventually.
‘Do you have a studio?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Rebus followed him out of the kitchen and across the hall. It was a small room with no natural light. Behind a window was a smaller room again. Rebus could make out the mixing desk.
‘If I need a grand piano or drums, we do those elsewhere, but this is fine otherwise. Some bands these days record straight to a laptop and sort it all out with apps and the internet.’
‘You’ve not quite gone that route yet,’ Rebus commented, studying the dozen or so platinum and gold discs framed along three walls. A selection of electric and acoustic guitars sat on stands. Collier grabbed one and settled on a stool. He played a few chords, eyes on Rebus.
‘That’s “A Monument in Time”,’ Rebus said.
‘How about this?’ More chords, Collier making a mistake and starting again.
‘ “Woncha Fool Around With Me”,’ Rebus stated.
‘You know your stuff,’ Collier said. He made to replace the guitar on its stand, then held it out towards Rebus instead.
‘I don’t play,’ Rebus informed him.
‘Everybody should learn an instrument.’
‘Did you start at school?’
‘Our music teacher played in a jazz band. I used to rib him about it, so he got me to go along one night — I was underage but he sneaked me in.’
‘You loved it?’
‘I hated it. Took up guitar the very next day, determined to learn stuff he would loathe.’
The two men shared a smile. Collier was still smiling as he took a step towards Rebus. ‘You’re not really here about this investment guy, are you?’
‘Actually, I am. But it’s a bit of a coincidence...’
‘What?’
‘You and the Broughs and the Caley.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘A man called Robert Chatham was pulled from Leith Docks this morning.’
‘I heard about it on the news. Suicide, was it?’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything to you? Robert Chatham? Detective Inspector Robert Chatham?’
Collier thought for a moment, then began to nod. ‘Shit, yes, he grilled me a few years back! Your lot had reopened that bloody case because my road manager wanted to make as much trouble as he could before he pegged it — bugger had just had the first of his heart attacks. So now this Chatham guy has gone and topped himself? I suppose that is a coincidence.’
‘It wasn’t suicide, sir. His hands had been tied behind his back.’
Collier’s eyes widened as he puckered his mouth.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to do with him recently?’ Rebus asked, placing the half-empty mug on the stool.
‘Not in however many years it is.’
‘Eight,’ Rebus reminded him.
‘Eight years, then.’
‘Your friend Dougie Vaughan — do you still see him around?’
All previous traces of humour had left Collier’s face. ‘I’m going to ask you to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll be straight on the phone to my lawyer.’
‘You invited me in, Mr Collier.’
‘Because you lied and said you were interested in one of my neighbours — something I doubt your bosses will be happy about.’
‘I’m what you might call self-employed.’
‘You told me you were with the police.’
‘I really didn’t.’
‘Well, cop or no cop, I want you out.’
‘But I can still bring a few LPs round for an autograph?’
‘You can fucking whistle, Mr Whoever-you-are.’
‘I’m really not very good at whistling.’
‘And I’m not very patient when it comes to people who’ve conned their way into my house.’ Collier had taken hold of Rebus’s forearm. Rebus just stared at him until he released it.
‘Good boy,’ Rebus said, exiting the studio and making for the stairs. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the tour. Maybe I’ll see you at a concert one of these days.’
‘I’ll make sure your name’s on the door — to be admitted under no circumstances.’
Rebus paused on the staircase. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said, without turning back towards Collier.
‘What is?’
‘Robert Chatham worked as a doorman all over the city — maybe you did happen across him without knowing it.’
‘I don’t drink in places that need doormen.’
Rebus had started climbing the stairs again. ‘Nice talking to you, Bruce,’ he said.
Rebus had texted Siobhan Clarke from his flat, suggesting a catch-up. Her reply — Bringing doggy bag — had puzzled him until he opened his door and saw her holding up the carrier from Pataka.
‘And soft drinks all round,’ Fox added, hoisting another carrier filled with cans.
‘It’s like New Year came early — go on through, then.’
Brillo was waiting in the living room. Clarke and Fox gave him plenty of attention while Rebus filled a plate. Fox was browsing the Maria Turquand file when Rebus returned from the kitchen.
‘This has to go to Alvin James,’ Fox reminded him.
‘First thing tomorrow,’ Rebus promised.
‘Malcolm tells me you kept my name out of it,’ Clarke added. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I’m a lot of things, but a grass isn’t one of them.’ Rebus settled in his chair and started scooping up curry with a spoon. Fox eventually joined Clarke on the sofa and she offered him an Irn-Bru.
‘Actually, I got the San Pellegrino for me,’ he complained.
‘Tough,’ she informed him, having nabbed it for herself.
‘So how are things in the big school?’ Rebus asked, eyes on Fox.
‘I’ve not had to report any bullying yet,’ Fox replied.
‘Team seem decent enough. Talk me through them.’
‘The two DS’s are pretty hard-nosed. Sean Glancey’s from Aberdeen originally.’
‘He’s the one who keeps sweating?’
Fox nodded. ‘Cut his teeth on hairy-arsed oilmen fighting their way through Friday and Saturday night. Wallace Sharpe is a Dundonian. Parents worked for Timex and wanted him to go into electronics. He reckons that if he had, he’d have designed a million-selling game by now and be living on a yacht. When he speaks you can hardly hear him, but he’s sharp as they come.’