Rebus washed his hands, splashing some of the water on to his face and the back of his neck. Then of course there was only an electric hand-drier, so he had to use his handkerchief as a towel. Which was when Bobby Hogan walked in.
‘See you’re bottling it too,’ Hogan said, making for the urinals.
‘Ever heard me sing, Bobby?’
‘We should do a duet: “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”.’
‘We’d be about the only buggers who knew it.’
Hogan chuckled. ‘Remember when it was us that were the young turks?’
‘Long dead,’ Rebus said, half to himself. Hogan thought he’d misheard, but Rebus just shook his head.
‘So who’s next for the golden cheery-bye?’ Hogan asked, ready to head out again.
‘Not me,’ Rebus stated.
‘No?’
Rebus was wiping at his neck again. ‘I can’t retire, Bobby. It would kill me.’
Hogan snorted. ‘Same here. But then the job’s killing me too.’ The two men studied one another, then Hogan winked and yanked open the door. They walked back out into the heat and noise, Hogan opening his arms wide to greet an old friend. One of the Farmer’s cronies pushed a glass towards Rebus.
‘Ardbeg, right?’
Rebus nodded, sucked at where some had spilled on to the back of his hand, then, picturing a small boy with news to impart, raised the glass and downed it.
He took the set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the main door of the tenement block. The keys were shiny new, cut just that day. His shoulder rubbed against the wall as he headed for the stairs, and he kept a tight grip on the banister as he climbed. The second and third shiny keys unlocked the door to Philippa Balfour’s flat.
There was no one inside, and the alarm hadn’t been set. He switched on the lights. The loose rug underfoot seemed to want to wrap itself around his ankles, and he had to fight his way loose, holding on to the wall. The rooms were just as he’d left them, except that the computer was now missing from its desk, having been transferred to the station, where Siobhan was certain someone from Balfour’s Internet service provider could help bypass the password.
In the bedroom, someone had removed the neat pile of David Costello’s clothes from the chair. Rebus presumed the culprit to be Costello himself. He wouldn’t have done so without permission — nothing left the flat unless okayed by the bosses. Forensics would have checked the clothes first, maybe taken samples from them. Already there were rumours of belt-tightening. A case like this, the cost could spiral skywards like smoke.
In the kitchen, Rebus poured himself a big glass of water and went through to sit in the drawing room, pretty much where David Costello had sat. A little of the water dribbled down his chin. The paintings on the walls — framed abstracts — were playing tricks, moving with him as he moved his eyes. He bent down to place the empty glass on the floor, and ended up on his hands and knees. Some bastard had spiked the drinks, only explanation. He turned and sat down, closed his eyes for a moment. MisPers: sometimes you worried in vain; they either turned up, or didn’t want to be found. So many of them... photos and descriptions were always passing through the office, the faces slightly out of focus as though they were in the process of becoming ghosts. He blinked open his eyes and raised them to the ceiling, with its ornate cornicing. Big flats, the New Town had, but Rebus preferred it where he lived: more shops, not quite so smug...
The Ardbeg, it had to’ve been spiked. He probably wouldn’t drink it again. It would come with its own ghost. He wondered what had happened to the boy: had it been accident or design? The boy would be a parent himself these days, maybe even a grandparent. Did he still dream about the sister he’d killed? Did he remember the young, nervous uniform standing behind the reception desk? Rebus ran his hands over the floor. It was bare wood, sanded and sealed. They hadn’t taken the boards up, not yet. He felt for a gap between two planks and dug his nails in, but couldn’t get any purchase. Somehow he knocked the glass and it started rolling, the noise filling the room. Rebus watched it until it stopped in the doorway, progress blocked by a pair of feet.
‘What in the hell’s going on?’
Rebus stood up. The man in front of him was in his mid-forties, hands in the pockets of a three-quarter-length black woollen overcoat. The man opened his stance a little, filling the doorway.
‘Who are you?’ Rebus asked.
The man slid a hand from his pocket, angled it towards his ear. He was holding a mobile phone. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.
‘I’m a police officer.’ Rebus reached into his own pocket, brought out his warrant card. ‘DI Rebus.’
The man studied the card and handed it back. ‘I’m John Balfour,’ he said, his voice losing a little of its edge. Rebus nodded; he’d already figured as much.
‘Sorry if I...’ Rebus didn’t finish the sentence. As he put the warrant card away, his left knee unlocked for a second.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ Balfour said.
‘Sorry, yes. Retirement do. Not on duty or anything, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then might I ask what you’re doing in my daughter’s flat?’
‘You might,’ Rebus agreed. He looked around. ‘Just wanted to... well, I suppose I...’ But he couldn’t find the words.
‘Will you leave, please?’
Rebus bowed his head a little. ‘Of course.’ Balfour moved so that Rebus could pass him without any contact. Rebus stopped in the hallway, half turned, ready with a further apology, but Philippa Balfour’s father had walked over to the drawing-room window and was staring out at the night, hands gripping the shutters at either side.
He walked downstairs quietly, halfway sober now, closed the main door after him, not looking back, not looking up at the first-floor window. The streets were deserted, pavements glistening from an earlier downpour, street light reflected in them. Rebus’s shoes were the only noise to be heard as he started the climb back up the slope: Queen Street, George Street, Princes Street, and then North Bridge. People were heading home from pubs, seeking taxis and lost friends. Rebus took a left at the Tron Kirk and headed down the Canongate. A patrol car was parked kerbside, two bodies inside: one awake, the other asleep. They were detective constables from Gayfield, and had either drawn the short straw or were disliked by their boss: no other way to explain this thankless night-shift. Rebus was just another passer-by to the one who was awake. He had a newspaper folded in front of him, angled towards what light there was. When Rebus thumped the roof of the patrol car, the paper flew, landing on the head of the sleeper, who jerked awake and clawed at the smothering sheets.
As the passenger-side window was wound down, Rebus leaned on the sill. ‘Your one o’clock alarm call, gentlemen.’
‘I nearly shat myself,’ the passenger said, trying to gather up his newspaper. His name was Pat Connolly, and he’d spent his first few years in CID waging a campaign against the nickname ‘Paddy’. His colleague was Tommy Daniels, who seemed at ease — as he did in all things — with his own nickname of ‘Distant’. Tommy to Tom-Tom to Distant Drums to Distant was the logic behind the name, but it also said much about the young man’s character. Having been so rudely awakened from sleep, upon seeing and recognising Rebus all he’d done was roll his eyes.