‘Same again, Harry,’ he said, bouncing on his toes.
‘You’ll wait your turn like everyone else,’ Harry growled at him. It didn’t matter to Rebus; didn’t bother him at all.
He was ten minutes early.
She walked in only five minutes later, so she was early too. ‘Nice place,’ he told her.
‘Isn’t it?’ She was wearing a black two-piece over a grey silk blouse. A blood-red brooch sparkled just above her left breast.
‘Do you live nearby?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly: Portobello.’
‘But that’s miles away! You should have said.’
‘Why? I like this place.’
‘You eat out a lot?’ He was still trying to digest the fact that she’d come all the way into Edinburgh for lunch.
‘Whenever I can. One of the perks of my PhD is that I call myself “Dr Burchill” whenever I’m making a booking.’
Rebus looked around. Only one other table was occupied: down near the front, a family party by the look of it. Two kids, six adults.
‘I didn’t bother booking for today. It’s never too busy at lunchtime. Now, what shall we have...?’
He thought about a starter and a main course, but she seemed to know that really he wanted the fry-up, so that was what he ordered. She went for soup and duck. They decided to order coffee and wine at the same time.
‘Very brunchy,’ she said. ‘Very Sunday somehow.’
He couldn’t help but agree. She told him he could smoke if he liked, but he declined. There were three smokers at the family table, but the craving was still a little way off.
They talked about Gill Templer to start with, finding common ground. Her questions were canny and probing.
‘Gill can be a bit driven, wouldn’t you say?’
‘She does what she has to.’
‘The pair of you had a fling a while back, didn’t you?’
His eyes widened. ‘She told you that?’
‘No.’ Jean paused, flattened her napkin against her lap. ‘But I guessed it from the way she used to speak about you.’
‘Used to?’
She smiled. ‘It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Prehistoric,’ he was forced to agree. ‘What about you?’
‘I hope I’m not prehistoric.’
He smiled. ‘I meant, tell me something about yourself.’
‘I was born in Elgin, parents both teachers. Went to Glasgow University. Dabbled in archaeology. Doctorate from Durham University, then post-doctoral studies abroad — the USA and Canada — looking at nineteenth-century migrants. I got a job as a curator in Vancouver, then came back here when the opportunity arose. The old museum for the best part of twelve years, and now the new one.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’
‘How do you know Gill?’
‘We were at school together for a couple of years, best mates. Lost touch for a while...’
‘You never married?’
She looked down at her plate. ‘For a while, yes, in Canada. He died young.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Bill drank himself to death, not that his family would ever believe it. I think that’s why I came back to Scotland.’
‘Because he died?’
She shook her head. ‘If I’d stayed, it would have meant participating in the myth they were busy establishing.’
Rebus thought he understood.
‘You’ve got a daughter, haven’t you?’ she said suddenly, keen to change the subject.
‘Samantha. She’s... in her twenties now.’
Jean laughed. ‘You don’t know how old exactly though?’
He tried a smile. ‘It’s not that. I was going to say that she’s disabled. Probably not something you want to know.’
‘Oh.’ She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘But it’s important to you, or it wouldn’t have been the first thing you thought of.’
‘True. Except that she’s getting back on her feet again. Using one of those Zimmer frames old people use.’
‘That’s good,’ she said.
He nodded. He didn’t want to go into the whole story, but she wasn’t going to ask him anyway.
‘How’s the soup?’
‘It’s good.’
They sat in silence for a minute or two, then she asked him about police work. Her questions had reverted to the kind you asked of a new acquaintance. Usually Rebus felt awkward talking about the job. He wasn’t sure people were really interested. Even if they were, he knew they didn’t want to hear the unexpurgated version: the suicides and autopsies; the petty grudges and black moods that led people to the cells. Domestics and stabbings, Saturday nights gone wrong, professional thugs and addicts. When he spoke, he was always afraid his voice would betray his passion for the job. He might be dubious about methods and eventual outcomes, but he still got a thrill from the work itself. Someone like Jean Burchill, he felt, could peer beneath the surface of this and watch other things swim into focus. She would realise that his enjoyment of the job was essentially voyeuristic and cowardly. He concentrated on the minutiae of other people’s lives, other people’s problems, to stop him examining his own frailties and failings.
‘Are you planning to smoke that thing?’ Jean sounded amused. Rebus looked down and saw that a cigarette had appeared in his hand. He laughed, took the packet from his pocket and slid the cigarette back in.
‘I really don’t mind,’ Jean told him.
‘Didn’t realise I’d done it,’ he said. Then, to hide his embarrassment: ‘You were going to tell me about these other dolls.’
‘After we’ve eaten,’ she said firmly.
But after they’d eaten, she asked for the bill. They went halves on it, and found themselves outside, the afternoon sun doing its best to remove the chill from the day. ‘Let’s walk,’ she said, sliding her arm through his.
‘Where to?’
‘The Meadows?’ she suggested. So that was where they went.
The sun had brought people out to the tree-lined playing field. Frisbees were being thrown, while joggers and cyclists sped past. Some teenagers were lying with their T-shirts off, cans of cider beside them. Jean was painting some of the area’s history for him.
‘I think there was a pond here,’ she said. ‘There were certainly stone quarries in Bruntsfield, and Marchmont itself was a farm.’
‘More like a zoo these days,’ he said.
She threw him a glance. ‘You work hard on your cynicism, don’t you?’
‘It gets rusty otherwise.’
At Jawbone Walk she decided they should cross the road and start up Marchmont Road. ‘So where exactly is it you live?’ she asked.
‘Arden Street. Just off Warrender Park Road.’
‘Not far then.’
He smiled, trying for eye contact. ‘Are you angling for an invitation?’
‘To be honest, yes.’
‘The place is a tip.’
‘I’d be disappointed if it were anything else. But my bladder says it’ll settle for what’s available...’
He was desperately tidying the living room when he heard the toilet flush. He looked around and shook his head. It was like picking up a duster after a bomb-strike: futile. So instead he went back into the kitchen and spooned coffee into two mugs. The milk in the fridge was Thursday’s, but usable. She was standing in the doorway, watching him.
‘Thank God I have an excuse for all the mess,’ he said.
‘I had my place rewired a few years back,’ she commiserated. ‘At the time, I was thinking of selling.’ When he looked up, she saw she’d hit a chord.
‘I’m putting it on the market,’ he admitted.
‘Any particular reason?’