his huge, weather-beaten face caving in on itself, most of the teeth having disappeared from the fleshy-lipped mouth.
“Not bad, Mr. Rebus.” There were no handshakes, just slight tilts of the head and occasional eye contact.
“This your local, then?” Rebus asked.
“Depends how you mean.”
“Thought you were living down the coast.”
“That was years back. People change, move on.” There was a pouch of tobacco on the table, next to a lighter and cigarette papers. Podeen picked it up and began to play with it.
“Got something for us?”
Podeen puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “I was here two nights back, and your man there wasn’t.” He nodded towards the flyer. “Know who he is, though, used to see him in here round about closing time. Bit of a nighthawk, if you ask me.”
“Like yourself, Big?”
“And your good self, too, I seem to remember.”
“Pipe and slippers these days, Big,” Rebus told him. “Cocoa and in bed by ten.”
“Can’t see it somehow. Guess who I bumped into the other day—our old friend Cafferty. How come you never managed to put him away?”
“We got him a couple of times, Big.”
Podeen wrinkled his nose. “A few years here and there. He always seemed to get back off the canvas, though, didn’t he?” Podeen’s eyes met Rebus again. “Word is, you’re for the gold watch. Not a bad heavyweight career, Mr. Rebus, but that’s what they’ll always say about you . . .”
“What?”
“That you lacked the knockout punch.” Podeen lifted his whisky glass. “Anyway, here’s to the twilight years. Maybe we’ll start seeing you in here more often. Then again, most of the pubs in this city, you’d have to keep your back to the wall—plenty of grudges, Mr. Rebus, and once you’re not the law anymore . . .” Podeen gave a theatrical shrug.
“Thanks for cheering me up, Big.” Rebus glanced towards the flyer. “Did you ever talk to him?” Podeen made a face and shook his head. “Anyone else in here we should be asking?”
“He used to stand at the bar, as near the door as possible. It was the drink he liked, not the company.” He paused for a moment. “You’ve not asked me about Cafferty.”
“Okay, what about him?”
“He said to say hello.”
Rebus stared him out. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“And where did this earth-shattering exchange take place?”
“Funnily enough, just across the road. I bumped into him as he was coming out of the Caledonian Hotel.”
Which was their next destination. The vast pink-hued edifice had two doors. One led into the hotel’s reception area and boasted a doorman. The other took you directly into the bar, which was open to residents and waifs alike. Rebus decided he was thirsty and ordered a pint. Clarke said she’d stick to tomato juice.
“Been cheaper across the road,” she commented.
“Which is why you’re paying.” But when the bill came, he slapped a five-pound note on it, hoping for change.
“Your chum in Mather’s was right, wasn’t he?” Clarke ventured. “When I go out for the night, I always keep watch on who’s coming and going, just in case I see a face I know.”
Rebus nodded. “Number of villains we’ve put away, stands to reason some of them are back on the street. Just make sure you frequent a better class of watering hole.”
“Like this place, for instance?” Clarke looked around her. “What do you think Todorov would see in it?”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Not sure,” he conceded. “Maybe just a different sort of vibe.”
“Vibe?” Clarke echoed with a smile.
“Must’ve picked that up from you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Tibbet then. Anyway, what’s wrong with it? It’s a perfectly decent word.”
“It just doesn’t sound right, coming from you.”
“Should have heard me in the sixties.”
“I wasn’t born in the sixties.”
“Don’t keep reminding me.” He’d downed half his drink and signaled for the barman, flyer at the
“Not bad, Mr. Rebus.” There were no handshakes, just slight tilts of the head and occasional eye contact.
“This your local, then?” Rebus asked.
“Depends how you mean.”
“Thought you were living down the coast.”
“That was years back. People change, move on.” There was a pouch of tobacco on the table, next to a lighter and cigarette papers. Podeen picked it up and began to play with it.
“Got something for us?”
Podeen puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “I was here two nights back, and your man there wasn’t.” He nodded towards the flyer. “Know who he is, though, used to see him in here round about closing time. Bit of a nighthawk, if you ask me.”
“Like yourself, Big?”
“And your good self, too, I seem to remember.”
“Pipe and slippers these days, Big,” Rebus told him. “Cocoa and in bed by ten.”
“Can’t see it somehow. Guess who I bumped into the other day—our old friend Cafferty. How come you never managed to put him away?”
“We got him a couple of times, Big.”
Podeen wrinkled his nose. “A few years here and there. He always seemed to get back off the canvas, though, didn’t he?” Podeen’s eyes met Rebus again. “Word is, you’re for the gold watch. Not a bad heavyweight career, Mr. Rebus, but that’s what they’ll always say about you . . .”
“What?”
“That you lacked the knockout punch.” Podeen lifted his whisky glass. “Anyway, here’s to the twilight years. Maybe we’ll start seeing you in here more often. Then again, most of the pubs in this city, you’d have to keep your back to the wall—plenty of grudges, Mr. Rebus, and once you’re not the law anymore . . .” Podeen gave a theatrical shrug.
“Thanks for cheering me up, Big.” Rebus glanced towards the flyer. “Did you ever talk to him?” Podeen made a face and shook his head. “Anyone else in here we should be asking?”
“He used to stand at the bar, as near the door as possible. It was the drink he liked, not the company.” He paused for a moment. “You’ve not asked me about Cafferty.”
“Okay, what about him?”
“He said to say hello.”
Rebus stared him out. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“And where did this earth-shattering exchange take place?”
“Funnily enough, just across the road. I bumped into him as he was coming out of the Caledonian Hotel.”
Which was their next destination. The vast pink-hued edifice had two doors. One led into the hotel’s reception area and boasted a doorman. The other took you directly into the bar, which was open to residents and waifs alike. Rebus decided he was thirsty and ordered a pint. Clarke said she’d stick to tomato juice.
“Been cheaper across the road,” she commented.
“Which is why you’re paying.” But when the bill came, he slapped a five-pound note on it, hoping for change.
“Your chum in Mather’s was right, wasn’t he?” Clarke ventured. “When I go out for the night, I always keep watch on who’s coming and going, just in case I see a face I know.”
Rebus nodded. “Number of villains we’ve put away, stands to reason some of them are back on the street. Just make sure you frequent a better class of watering hole.”
“Like this place, for instance?” Clarke looked around her. “What do you think Todorov would see in it?”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Not sure,” he conceded. “Maybe just a different sort of vibe.”
“Vibe?” Clarke echoed with a smile.
“Must’ve picked that up from you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Tibbet then. Anyway, what’s wrong with it? It’s a perfectly decent word.”
“It just doesn’t sound right, coming from you.”
“Should have heard me in the sixties.”
“I wasn’t born in the sixties.”
“Don’t keep reminding me.” He’d downed half his drink and signaled for the barman, flyer at the
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