“No,” Linford said, but he shifted his gaze to the car park, just in case . . . “I was actually wondering if any smokers were down here.”
“You don’t smoke,” Rebus reminded him. He was breathing hard.
“I thought maybe I should give it a go. Christ knows, this is as good a time as any.”
Ward laughed, seeming to forget all about Rebus. “Welcome to the club,” he said, offering his packet to Linford. “Templer gave you a hard time, did she?”
“It’s the fucking embarrassment as much as anything,” Linford admitted with a sheepish grin, while Ward lit the cigarette for him.
“Forget about it. Everybody’s saying Dow’s into kickboxing. You don’t want to mess with that.”
Ward seemed to be cheering Linford up. Rebus was wondering about Linford. He’d come across them brawling, yet hadn’t asked why, being busy with his own concerns. Rebus decided to leave them to it.
“Hey, John, no hard feelings, eh?” Ward suddenly announced. Rebus didn’t say anything. He knew that once he’d gone, Linford — now reminded — would probably ask about the fight, and his new best buddy would explain about the night out and Jean.
And suddenly Linford would have ammunition. Rebus wondered how long it would take him to use it. He was even starting to worry about the fact that Linford had been chosen to replace him on the Marber case. Why Linford, of all people? As Rebus walked back into the station, he could feel how the tension was making his every movement more sluggish. He tried rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck. He remembered an old piece of graffiti: Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you . . . Was he becoming paranoid, seeing enemies and traps everywhere? Blame Strathern, for picking him in the first place. I don’t even trust the man I’m working for, Rebus thought, so how can I trust anyone else? Passing one of the officers from the Marber inquiry, he thought how nice it would be to be seated at a desk in the murder room, making routine telephone calls, knowing how little any of it mattered. Instead, he seemed to be digging himself an ever-deeper hole. He’d promised Jazz an “idea,” a plan to make some money. Now all he had to do was deliver . . .
That evening, Rebus went drinking alone. He’d told the syndicate he had something to do, but might catch up with them later. They were undecided about whether to stay in Edinburgh for a few drinks, or head straight back to Tulliallan. Jazz was thinking of Broughty Ferry, but his car was back at the college. Ward was thinking of treating Phyllida Hawes to a Mexican place near St. Leonard’s. They were still arguing over strategies and alternatives when Rebus slipped away. After three drinks in the Ox, only half listening to the latest batch of jokes, he started feeling hungry. Didn’t know where to eat . . . last thing he wanted was to walk into a restaurant and bump into Ward and Hawes playing footsie under the table. He knew he could cook himself something at home; knew, too, that this wouldn’t happen. All the same, maybe he should be at home. What if Jean rang? Had she got the flowers yet? His mobile was in his pocket, just waiting for her call. In the end, he ordered another drink and the last leftover scotch egg.
“Been there since lunchtime, has it?” he asked Harry the barman.
“I wasn’t on at lunchtime. You want it or not?”
Rebus nodded. “And a packet of nuts.” There were times he wished the Ox did a bit more in the catering line. He remembered the previous owner, Willie Ross, dragging some hapless punter outside after the man had asked to see the menu, pointing up at the Oxford Bar sign and asking: “Does that say ‘Bar’ or ‘Restaurant’?” Rebus doubted the client had become a regular.
The Ox was quiet tonight. Murmurs of conversation from a couple of tables in the lounge, and only Rebus himself in the front bar. When the door creaked open, he didn’t bother turning to look.
“Get you one?” the voice beside him asked. It was Gill Templer. Rebus straightened up.
“My shout,” he said. She was already easing herself onto a bar stool, letting her shoulder bag slump to the floor. “What’ll it be?”
“I’m driving. Better make it a half of Deuchars.” She paused. “On second thought, a gin and tonic.” The TV was playing quietly, and her eyes drifted towards it. One of the Discovery Channel programs favored by Harry.
“What’re you watching?” Gill asked.
“Harry puts this stuff on to scare away the punters,” Rebus explained.
“That’s right,” Harry agreed. “Works with every bugger but this one.” He nodded in Rebus’s direction. Gill offered a tired smile.
“Bad one?” Rebus guessed.
“It’s not every day someone does a runner from the interview room.” She gave him a sly look. “I suppose you’re pleased enough?”
“How?”
“Anything that makes Linford look bad . . .”
“I hope I’m not that petty.”
“No?” She considered this. “Looks like he might be, though. Word’s going around that you and another of the Tulliallan crew had a punch-up in the car park.”
So Linford had been talking.
“Just thought I’d warn you,” she went on, “I think it’s already reached the ears of DCI Tennant.”
“You came looking for me to tell me?”
She shrugged.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I suppose I was also hoping to have a word . . .”
“Look, if it’s about the mug of tea . . .”
“Well, you did give it some welly, John, be honest.”
“If I’d pushed it off the desk with my pinkie, you’d hardly have had reason to send me into purdah.” Rebus paid for her drink, raised his own pint glass to her in a toast.
“Cheers,” she said, taking a long swallow and exhaling noisily.
“Better?” he asked.
“Better,” she confirmed.
He smiled. “And people wonder why we drink.”
“One’ll be enough for me, though — how about you?”
“Would you settle for a ballpark figure?”
“I’d settle for knowing how things are going at Tulliallan.”
“I’ve not made much headway.”
“Is that likely to change?”
“It might.” He paused. “If I take a few risks.”
She looked at him. “You’ll talk to Strathern first, won’t you?”
He nodded, but could see she wasn’t convinced.
“John . . .”
Same tone Siobhan had used earlier in the day. Listen to me . . . trust me . . .
He turned towards Gill. “You could always take a cab,” he told her.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you could have another drink.”
She examined her glass. It was already mostly ice. “I could probably manage one more,” she conceded. “It’s my round anyway. What are you having?”
After the third gin and tonic, she confided to him that she had been seeing someone. It had lasted about nine months, then fizzled out.
“You kept that pretty quiet,” he said.
“There’s no way I was ever going to introduce him to you lot.” She was playing with her glass, watching the patterns it made on the bar. Harry had retreated to the other end of the small room. Another regular had arrived, and the two of them were talking football.
“How are things with Jean and you?” Gill asked.
“We had a bit of a misunderstanding,” Rebus admitted.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Want me to act as peacemaker?”
He looked at her and shook his head. Jean was Gill’s friend; Gill had introduced them to one another. He didn’t want her feeling awkward about it. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “We’ll sort it out.”
She glanced at her watch. “I better get going.” Slid off the stool and collected her shoulder bag. “This place isn’t so bad,” she decided, studying the bar’s faded decor. “I might grab something to eat. Have you had dinner?”
“Yes,” he lied, feeling that a meal with Gill would be a betrayal of sorts. “I hope you’re not going to drive in that condition,” he called as she made for the door.
“I’ll see how I feel when I get outside.”