extension to the casino.
‘It seems to be all right.’ Andrews tried not to sound smug. Tommy McCall laughed.
‘I’ll bet it does,’ he said. ‘Would your neighbours find the going as smooth if they tried to stick a big bloody extension on the back of their premises?’
Andrews gave a smile as cold as the Chablis. ‘Each case is considered individually and scrupulously, Tommy, so far as I know. Maybe you know better?’
‘No, no.’ McCall had finished his first glass of wine, and was reaching for a second. ‘I’m sure it’s all totally above board, Finlay.’ He looked conspiratorially at Rebus. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell tales, John.’
‘No.’ Rebus glanced towards Andrews, who was finishing his soup. ‘Over lunch, my ears are closed.’
Watson nodded agreement.
‘Hello there, Finlay.’ A large man, heavily built but with the accent on muscularity, was standing by the table. He was wearing the most expensive-looking suit Rebus had ever seen. A silken sheen of blue with threads of silver running through it. The man’s hair was silvered, too, though his face looked to be fortyish, no more. Beside him, leaning in towards him, stood a delicate Oriental woman, more girl than woman. She was exquisite, and everyone at the table rose in a kind of awe. The man waved an elegant hand, demanding they be seated. The woman hid her pleasure beneath her eyelashes.
‘Hello, Malcolm.’ Finlay Andrews gestured towards the man. ‘This is Malcolm Lanyon, the advocate.’ The last two words were unnecessary. Everyone knew Malcolm Lanyon, the gossip column’s friend. His very public lifestyle provoked either hatred or envy. He was at the same time all that was most despised about the law profession, and a walking TV mini-series. If his lifestyle occasionally scandalised the prurient, it also satisfied a deep need in the readers of Sunday tabloids. He was also, to Rebus’s sure knowledge, an extraordinarily good lawyer. He had to be, otherwise the rest of his image would have been wallpaper, nothing more. It wasn’t wallpaper. It was bricks and mortar.
‘These,’ Andrews said, gesturing now to the occupants of the table, ‘are the working members of that committee I was telling you about.’
‘Ah.’ Lanyon nodded. ‘The campaign against drugs. An excellent idea, Superintendent.’
Watson almost blushed at the compliment: the compliment was that Lanyon knew who Watson was.
‘Finlay,’ Lanyon continued, ‘you’ve not forgotten tomorrow night?’
‘Firmly etched in my diary, Malcolm.’
‘Excellent.’ Lanyon glanced over the table. ‘In fact, I’d like you all to come. Just a little gathering at my house. No real reason for it, I just felt like having a party. Eight o’clock. Very casual.’ He was already moving off, an arm around the porcelain waist of his companion. Rebus caught his final words: his address. Heriot Row. One of the most exclusive streets in the New Town. This was a new world. Although he couldn’t be sure that the invitation was serious, Rebus was tempted to take it up. Once in a lifetime, and all that.
A little later, conversation moved to the anti-drugs campaign itself and the waiter brought more bread.
‘Bread,’ the nervous young man said, carrying another bound file of newspapers over to the counter where Holmes stood. ‘That’s what worries me. Everybody’s turning into a bread head. You know, nothing matters to them except getting more than anyone else. Guys I went to school with, knew by the age of fourteen that they wanted to be bankers or accountants or economists. Lives were over before they’d begun. These are May.’
‘What?’ Holmes was shifting his weight from one leg to another. Why couldn’t they have chairs in this place? He had been here over an hour, his fingers blackened by old newsprint as he flicked through each day’s editions, one daytime, one evening. Now and then, a headline or some football story he’d missed first time around
‘It seems to be all right.’ Andrews tried not to sound smug. Tommy McCall laughed.
‘I’ll bet it does,’ he said. ‘Would your neighbours find the going as smooth if they tried to stick a big bloody extension on the back of their premises?’
Andrews gave a smile as cold as the Chablis. ‘Each case is considered individually and scrupulously, Tommy, so far as I know. Maybe you know better?’
‘No, no.’ McCall had finished his first glass of wine, and was reaching for a second. ‘I’m sure it’s all totally above board, Finlay.’ He looked conspiratorially at Rebus. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell tales, John.’
‘No.’ Rebus glanced towards Andrews, who was finishing his soup. ‘Over lunch, my ears are closed.’
Watson nodded agreement.
‘Hello there, Finlay.’ A large man, heavily built but with the accent on muscularity, was standing by the table. He was wearing the most expensive-looking suit Rebus had ever seen. A silken sheen of blue with threads of silver running through it. The man’s hair was silvered, too, though his face looked to be fortyish, no more. Beside him, leaning in towards him, stood a delicate Oriental woman, more girl than woman. She was exquisite, and everyone at the table rose in a kind of awe. The man waved an elegant hand, demanding they be seated. The woman hid her pleasure beneath her eyelashes.
‘Hello, Malcolm.’ Finlay Andrews gestured towards the man. ‘This is Malcolm Lanyon, the advocate.’ The last two words were unnecessary. Everyone knew Malcolm Lanyon, the gossip column’s friend. His very public lifestyle provoked either hatred or envy. He was at the same time all that was most despised about the law profession, and a walking TV mini-series. If his lifestyle occasionally scandalised the prurient, it also satisfied a deep need in the readers of Sunday tabloids. He was also, to Rebus’s sure knowledge, an extraordinarily good lawyer. He had to be, otherwise the rest of his image would have been wallpaper, nothing more. It wasn’t wallpaper. It was bricks and mortar.
‘These,’ Andrews said, gesturing now to the occupants of the table, ‘are the working members of that committee I was telling you about.’
‘Ah.’ Lanyon nodded. ‘The campaign against drugs. An excellent idea, Superintendent.’
Watson almost blushed at the compliment: the compliment was that Lanyon knew who Watson was.
‘Finlay,’ Lanyon continued, ‘you’ve not forgotten tomorrow night?’
‘Firmly etched in my diary, Malcolm.’
‘Excellent.’ Lanyon glanced over the table. ‘In fact, I’d like you all to come. Just a little gathering at my house. No real reason for it, I just felt like having a party. Eight o’clock. Very casual.’ He was already moving off, an arm around the porcelain waist of his companion. Rebus caught his final words: his address. Heriot Row. One of the most exclusive streets in the New Town. This was a new world. Although he couldn’t be sure that the invitation was serious, Rebus was tempted to take it up. Once in a lifetime, and all that.
A little later, conversation moved to the anti-drugs campaign itself and the waiter brought more bread.
‘Bread,’ the nervous young man said, carrying another bound file of newspapers over to the counter where Holmes stood. ‘That’s what worries me. Everybody’s turning into a bread head. You know, nothing matters to them except getting more than anyone else. Guys I went to school with, knew by the age of fourteen that they wanted to be bankers or accountants or economists. Lives were over before they’d begun. These are May.’
‘What?’ Holmes was shifting his weight from one leg to another. Why couldn’t they have chairs in this place? He had been here over an hour, his fingers blackened by old newsprint as he flicked through each day’s editions, one daytime, one evening. Now and then, a headline or some football story he’d missed first time around
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