“You ever crossed the line, Jazz? I don’t mean the little things, the shortcuts we take . . . I mean, something big, something you had to learn to live with?”
Jazz stared at him. “Why? Have you?”
Rebus wagged a finger. “I asked first.”
Jazz grew thoughtful. “Maybe,” he said. “Just the once.”
Rebus nodded. “Ever wished you could go back and change it?”
“John . . .” Jazz paused. “Are we talking about me or you here?”
“I thought we were talking about both of us.”
Jazz took half a step closer. “You know something about Dickie Diamond, don’t you? Maybe even about Rico’s murder . . . ?”
“Maybe,” Rebus conceded. “So what’s your big secret, Jazz? Is it something we can work out between us?” Rebus’s voice was almost a whisper, inviting confession.
“I hardly know you,” Jazz stated.
“I think we know one another well enough.”
“I . . .” Jazz swallowed. “You’re not ready yet,” he said with something akin to a sigh.
“I’m not ready? What about you, Jazz?”
“John . . . I don’t know what it is you . . .”
“I’ve been getting an idea, something to make my pension that touch more secure. Thing is, I’d need help, people I could trust.”
“We’re talking something illegal?”
Rebus nodded. “You’d need to cross that line again.”
“How risky?”
“Not very.” Rebus considered. “Maybe medium . . .”
Jazz was about to say something, but the door flew open and George Silvers sauntered in.
“Afternoon, gents,” he said.
Neither Rebus nor Jazz returned the greeting, being too busy staring one another out.
Then Jazz leaned towards Rebus. “Talk to Francis,” he whispered. And then he was gone.
Silvers had gone into one of the cubicles, but re-emerged almost immediately. “No bloody bog roll,” he complained. Then he stopped. “What you grinning at?”
“Progress, George,” Rebus said.
“Then you’re doing a sight better than our lot,” Silvers muttered, disappearing into the second cubicle and slamming shut the door.
16
Derek Linford wasn’t best pleased. Rebus and his cronies had been installed in Interview Room 1, which was larger than IR2, where Linford now sat. Also, in IR2, the windows didn’t open. The place was stifling, an airless box. The desk was narrow and screwed to the floor. This was where you brought the suspects with a record of violence. There was a dual cassette recorder bolted to the wall, and a video camera high up above the door. There was a panic button, disguised to look like an ordinary light switch.
Linford was seated alongside George Silvers. Opposite them sat Donny Dow. Dow was short and skinny, but his squared-off shoulders told you there was muscle on him. He had straight blond hair — a dye job — and three days’ growth of dark stubble. He wore gold studs and loops in both ears, another stud in his nose. A small golden sphere glinted from where his tongue had been pierced. He had his mouth open, licking the edges of his teeth.
“What you working at these days, Donny?” Linford asked. “Still a doorman?”
“I’m answering nothing till you tell me what this is all about. Shouldn’t I have a solicitor or something?”
“What do you want us to charge you with, son?” Silvers asked.
“I don’t do drugs.”
“Good boy.”
Dow scowled and gave Silvers the middle finger.
“It’s your ex we’re interested in,” Linford revealed.
Dow didn’t blink. “Which one?”
“Alexander’s mum.”
“Laura’s a hooker,” Dow stated.
“And you left her for a prop forward?” Silvers asked with a smile. But Dow stared at him blankly: not a rugby man then.
“What’s she done anyway?” Dow asked Linford.
“A man she was seeing, we’re interested in him.”
“Seeing?”
Linford nodded. “Rich guy, set her up in a nice little flat. Well, not so little, actually . . .”
Dow bared his teeth and thumped the desk with both fists. “That wee slut! And she’s the one got custody!”
“Did you fight her for it?”
“Fight . . . ?”
Fighting meant only one thing to someone like Dow. “I mean,” Linford rephrased, “did you want custody of Alexander?”
“He’s my son.”
Linford nodded again, knowing the answer to his question was no.
“Who’s this fucker anyway? This rich guy?”
“He’s an art dealer, lives out in Duddingston Village.”
“And she’s in his flat, her and Alex? Shagging this bastard there! With Alex . . .” Dow’s face had gone puce with rage. In the momentary silence, Linford could hear voices — maybe a laugh — from IR1. Those sods were probably laughing at the idea of him demoted to IR2.
“So what’s this got to do with me?” Dow was asking. “You just trying to get me wound up or what?”
“You’ve got quite a record of violence, Mr. Dow,” Silvers said. Dow’s file was on the desk, and Silvers patted its brown cardboard cover.
“What? A couple of assaults? I’ve been hit more times than I can count. See when I was bouncing, wasn’t a week went by when I didn’t have some knobhead having a go at me. You won’t find any of that in there.” He pointed towards the file. “You lot only see what it suits you to see.”
“You might have a point there, Donny,” Silvers said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.
“What we see, Donny,” Linford said quietly, “is a man with a record of violence who has just gone into a rage over his ex’s relationship with another bloke.”
“Fuck her! See if I care!” Dow slid his chair back and stuffed his hands into his pockets, both legs going like pistons.
Linford made a show of flipping through the file. “Mr. Dow,” he began, “did you happen to read about a murder in the city?”
“Only if it made the sports pages.”
“An art dealer, struck repeatedly on the head outside his home in Duddingston Village.”
Dow’s legs stopped pumping. “Hold on a fucking minute,” he said, raising both hands, palms out.
“What did you say you did for a living?” George Silvers asked.
“What? Wait a second . . .”
“Laura’s gentleman friend is dead, Mr. Dow,” Linford was saying.
“You worked as a bouncer for Big Ger Cafferty, didn’t you?” Silvers asked. Dow couldn’t keep up with this; he needed time to think; couldn’t think, and knew if he said anything — anything — it might . . .
A tapping at the door and Siobhan Clarke’s head appeared.
“Any chance I could sit in?” she asked. Then, seeing the thunderous looks on both her colleagues’ faces, she started to retreat. But Dow had sprung to his feet and was on his way to the door. Silvers went for him, but Dow gave him a straight-fingered chop to the throat. Silvers started wheezing, hands going to his collar. Linford was effectively trapped between Silvers, the desk and the wall. Dow lifted a foot and hefted Silvers backwards into Linford, whose fingers sought the panic button. Siobhan had been trying to close the door, with herself on the outside, but Dow couldn’t have that. He yanked the door open, grabbed her by her hair and threw her into the room. An alarm was going off in the corridor, but he ran. There were men in the room next door: they watched him as he sped past. One more corner, a set of doors, and he would be gone.
Back in IR2, Silvers was hunched in his seat, still trying to catch a breath. Linford was squeezing past him. Siobhan was lifting herself from the floor. A whole clump of hair seemed to be missing from the top of her head.
“Shit, shit, shit!” she squealed. Linford ignored her and ran into the corridor. His left leg was aching from where Silvers had connected with it. But it was his pride that felt the most bruised. “Where is he?” he yelled.