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“Me?” Rebus considered for a moment. “I’m the janitor, I suppose…the one who sweeps up after you.” He paused, found his punch line. “After you and around you, if it comes to that.”
Exit stage right.
Before leaving the Balmoral, he’d wandered downstairs to the restaurant, breezing through the anteroom despite the best efforts of the staff. The place was busy, but there was no sign of Richard Pe
“Trade’s been lousy,” the manager confided. “ Lot of locals keeping their heads down the next few days.”
After two drinks, Rebus headed along George Street. The workmen had stopped digging the roads-council orders. A new one-way system was being introduced, and with it confusion for motorists. Even the traffic cops thought it ham-fisted, and weren’t going out of their way to enforce the new NO ENTRY signs. Again, the street was quiet. No sign of Geldof’s army. The bouncers outside the Dome told him the place was three quarters empty. On Young Street, the narrow lane’s one-way routing had been switched from one direction to the other. Rebus pushed open the door to the Oxford Bar, smiling at something he’d been told about the new system.
They’re doing it in easy stages: you can go in either direction for a while…
“Pint of IPA, Harry,” Rebus said, reaching for his cigarettes.
“Eight months and counting,” Harry muttered, pulling the pump.
“Don’t remind me.”
Harry was counting the days till Scotland ’s smoking ban took effect.
“Anything happening out there?” one of the regulars asked. Rebus shook his head, knowing that in the drinker’s sealed-off world, news of a serial killer wouldn’t quite qualify for the category of anything happening.
“Isn’t there some march on?” Harry added.
“Calton Hill,” one of the other drinkers confirmed. “Money this is costing, we could’ve sent every kid in Africa a picnic basket.”
“Putting Scotland on the world stage,” Harry reminded him, nodding in the direction of Charlotte Square, home to the first minister. “A price Jack says is worth every pe
“It’s not his money though,” the drinker grumbled. “My wife works at that new shoe shop on Frederick Street, says they might as well have shut down for the week.”
“Royal Bank’s going to be closed all tomorrow,” Harry stated.
“Aye, tomorrow’s going to be the bad one,” the drinker muttered.
“And to think,” Rebus complained, “I came in here to cheer myself up.”
Harry stared at him in mock disbelief. “Should know better than that by now, John. Ready for another?”
Rebus wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway.
A couple of pints later, and having demolished the last sandwich on display, he decided he might as well head home. He’d read the Evening News, watched the Tour de France highlights on TV, and listened to further opposition to the new road layout.
“If they don’t change it back, my wife says they might as well pull down the shutters where she works. Did I tell you? She’s in that new shoe shop on Frederick Street…”
Harry was rolling his eyes as Rebus made for the door. He considered walking home, or calling Gayfield to see if anyone was out in a patrol car and could maybe pick him up. A lot of the taxis were steering clear of the center, but he knew he could take a chance outside the Roxburghe Hotel, try to look like a wealthy tourist.
He heard the doors opening but was slow to turn around. Hands grabbed at his arms, pulling them behind his back.
“Had a bit too much to drink?” a voice barked. “Night in the cells will do you good, pal.”
“Get off me!” Rebus twisted his body, to no effect. He felt the plastic restraints going around his wrists, pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. No way to loosen them once they were on: you had to slice them off.
“Hell’s going on?” Rebus was hissing. “I’m bloody CID.”
“Don’t look like CID,” the voice was telling him. “Stink of beer and cigarettes, clothes like rags…” It was an English accent; London maybe. Rebus saw a uniform, then two more. The faces shadowy-maybe ta
“I’ve got ID in my pocket,” he said. There was a bench for him to sit on. The windows were blacked out and covered on the outside by a metal grille. There was a faint smell of sick. Another grille separated the back of the van from the front, with a sheet of plywood blocking any access.
“This is a big mistake!” Rebus yelled.
“Tell it to the marines,” a voice called back. The van started moving. Rebus saw headlights through the back window. Stood to reason: three of them couldn’t fit in the front; had to be another vehicle. Didn’t matter where they took him- Gayfield Square, West End, or St. Leonard ’s-he’d be a known face. Nothing to worry about, except the swelling of his fingers as the blood failed to circulate. His shoulders were in agony, too, drawn back by the tightness of the cuffs. He had to slide his legs apart to stop himself careering around the enclosure. They were doing maybe fifty, not stopping for lights. He heard two pedestrians squeal at a near miss. No siren, but the roof light was flashing. Car behind seemed to have neither siren nor flasher. Not a patrol car then…and this wasn’t exactly a regulation vehicle either. Rebus thought they were heading east, meaning Gayfield, but then they took a sharp left toward the New Town, barreling downhill so that Rebus’s head thumped the roof as they went.
“Where the hell…?” If he’d been drunk before, he was sober now. Only destination he could think of was Fettes, but that was HQ. You didn’t take drunks there to sleep off their binge. It was where the brass hung out, James Corbyn and his cronies. Sure enough, they took a left into Ferry Road, but didn’t make the turn to Fettes.
Which left only Drylaw police station, a lonely outpost in the north of the city-Precinct Thirteen, some called it. A gloomy shed of a place, and they were pulling to a halt at its door. Rebus was hauled out and taken inside, his eyes adjusting to the sudden glare of the strip lighting. There was no one on the desk; place seemed deserted. They marched him into the back where two holding cells waited, both with their doors wide open. He felt the pressure on one hand ease, the blood tingling its way back down the fingers. A push in the back sent him stumbling into one of the cells. The door slammed shut.
“Hey!” Rebus called out. “Is this some sick kind of joke?”
“Do we look like clowns, pal? Think you’ve wandered into an episode of Jackass?” There was laughter from behind the door.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” another voice added, “and don’t go giving us any trouble, else we might have to come in there and administer one of our special sedatives, mightn’t we, Jacko?”
Rebus thought he could hear a hiss. Everything went quiet, and he knew why. They’d made a mistake, given him a name.
Jacko.
He tried to remember their faces, the better to exact his eventual revenge. All that came to him was that they’d been either ta
Rebus kicked the door a few times, then reached into his pocket for his phone.
And realized it wasn’t there. They’d taken it from him, or he’d dropped it. Still had his wallet and ID, cigarettes and lighter. He sat on the cold concrete shelf which served as a bed and looked at his wrists. The plastic cuff was still encircling his left hand. They’d sliced open the one around his right. He tried to run his free hand up and down the arm, massaging the wrist, the palm and fingers, trying to get some blood going. Maybe the lighter could burn its way through, but not without searing his flesh in the process. He lit a cigarette instead, and tried to slow his heartbeat. Walked over to the door again and banged on it with his fist, turned his back to it and hammered his heel into it.