she?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘I’ve got some time off coming. Maybe I’ll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What’s her real name?’
‘She hasn’t told me.’
‘Has she any clothes?’
‘At a hotel. I’ll get a patrol car to bring them.’
‘She’s really in danger?’
‘She might be.’
Sammy looked at him. ‘But I’m not?’
‘No,’ her father said. ‘Because it’ll be our secret.’
‘And what do I tell Ned?’
‘Keep it short, just say you’re doing your dad a favour.’
‘You think a journalist’s going to be content with that?’
‘If he loves you.’
The kettle boiled, clicked off. Sammy poured water into three mugs. Through in the living-room, Candice’s interest had shifted to a pile of American comic books.
Rebus drank his coffee, then left them to their music and their comics. Instead of going home, he made for Young Street and the Ox, ordering a mug of instant. Fifty pee.Pretty good deal, when you thought about it. Fifty pence for … what, half a pint? A pound a pint? Cheap at twice the price. Well, one-point-seven times the price, which would take it to the price of a beer … give or take.
Not that Rebus was counting.
The back room was quiet, just somebody scribbling away at the table nearest the fire. He was a regular, a journalist of some kind. Rebus thought of Ned Farlowe, who would want to know about Candice, but if anyone could keep him at bay, Sammy could. Rebus took out his mobile, phoned Colquhoun’s office.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said.
‘What is it now?’ The lecturer sounded thoroughly exasperated.
‘Those refugees you mentioned. Any chance you could have a word with them?’
‘Well, I …’ Colquhoun cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I suppose I could talk to them. Does that mean …?’
‘Candice is safe.’
‘I don’t have their number here.’ Colquhoun sounded fuddled again. ‘Can it wait till I go home?’
‘Phone me when you’ve talked to them. And thanks.’
Rebus rang off, finished his coffee, and called Siobhan Clarke at home.
‘I need a favour,’ he said, feeling like a broken record.
‘How much trouble will it get me in?’
‘Almost none.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Think I’m stupid?’ Rebus smiled. ‘I want to see the files on Telford.’
‘Why not just ask Claverhouse?’
‘I’d rather ask you.’
‘It’s a lot of stuff. Do you want photocopies?’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Voices were raised in the front bar. ‘You’re not in the Ox, are you?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘Drinking?’
‘A mug of coffee.’
She laughed in disbelief and told him to take care. Rebus ended the call and stared at his mug. People like Siobhan Clarke, they could drive a man to drink.
7
It was 7 a.m. when the buzzer sounded, telling him there was someone at his tenement’s main door. He staggered along the hall to the intercom, and asked who the bloody hell it was.
‘The croissant man,’ a rough English voice replied.
‘The what?’
‘Come on, dick-brain, wakey-wakey. Memory’s not so hot these days, eh?’
A name tilted into Rebus’s head. ‘Abernethy?’
‘Now open up, it’s perishing down here.’
Rebus pushed the buzzer to let Abernethy in, then jogged back to the bedroom to put on some clothes. His mind felt numb. Abernethy was a DI in Special Branch, London. The last time he’d been in Edinburgh had been to chase terrorists. Rebus wondered what the hell he was doing here now.
When the doorbell sounded, Rebus tucked in his shirt and walked back down the hall. True to his word, Abernethy was carrying a bag of croissants. He hadn’t changed much: same faded denims and black leather bomber, same cropped brown hair spiked with gel. His face was heavy, pockmarked, and his eyes an unnerving, psychopath’s blue.
‘How’ve you been, mate?’ Abernethy slapped Rebus’s shoulder and marched past him into the kitchen. ‘Get the kettle on then.’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘I’ve got some time off coming. Maybe I’ll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What’s her real name?’
‘She hasn’t told me.’
‘Has she any clothes?’
‘At a hotel. I’ll get a patrol car to bring them.’
‘She’s really in danger?’
‘She might be.’
Sammy looked at him. ‘But I’m not?’
‘No,’ her father said. ‘Because it’ll be our secret.’
‘And what do I tell Ned?’
‘Keep it short, just say you’re doing your dad a favour.’
‘You think a journalist’s going to be content with that?’
‘If he loves you.’
The kettle boiled, clicked off. Sammy poured water into three mugs. Through in the living-room, Candice’s interest had shifted to a pile of American comic books.
Rebus drank his coffee, then left them to their music and their comics. Instead of going home, he made for Young Street and the Ox, ordering a mug of instant. Fifty pee.Pretty good deal, when you thought about it. Fifty pence for … what, half a pint? A pound a pint? Cheap at twice the price. Well, one-point-seven times the price, which would take it to the price of a beer … give or take.
Not that Rebus was counting.
The back room was quiet, just somebody scribbling away at the table nearest the fire. He was a regular, a journalist of some kind. Rebus thought of Ned Farlowe, who would want to know about Candice, but if anyone could keep him at bay, Sammy could. Rebus took out his mobile, phoned Colquhoun’s office.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said.
‘What is it now?’ The lecturer sounded thoroughly exasperated.
‘Those refugees you mentioned. Any chance you could have a word with them?’
‘Well, I …’ Colquhoun cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I suppose I could talk to them. Does that mean …?’
‘Candice is safe.’
‘I don’t have their number here.’ Colquhoun sounded fuddled again. ‘Can it wait till I go home?’
‘Phone me when you’ve talked to them. And thanks.’
Rebus rang off, finished his coffee, and called Siobhan Clarke at home.
‘I need a favour,’ he said, feeling like a broken record.
‘How much trouble will it get me in?’
‘Almost none.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Think I’m stupid?’ Rebus smiled. ‘I want to see the files on Telford.’
‘Why not just ask Claverhouse?’
‘I’d rather ask you.’
‘It’s a lot of stuff. Do you want photocopies?’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Voices were raised in the front bar. ‘You’re not in the Ox, are you?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘Drinking?’
‘A mug of coffee.’
She laughed in disbelief and told him to take care. Rebus ended the call and stared at his mug. People like Siobhan Clarke, they could drive a man to drink.
7
It was 7 a.m. when the buzzer sounded, telling him there was someone at his tenement’s main door. He staggered along the hall to the intercom, and asked who the bloody hell it was.
‘The croissant man,’ a rough English voice replied.
‘The what?’
‘Come on, dick-brain, wakey-wakey. Memory’s not so hot these days, eh?’
A name tilted into Rebus’s head. ‘Abernethy?’
‘Now open up, it’s perishing down here.’
Rebus pushed the buzzer to let Abernethy in, then jogged back to the bedroom to put on some clothes. His mind felt numb. Abernethy was a DI in Special Branch, London. The last time he’d been in Edinburgh had been to chase terrorists. Rebus wondered what the hell he was doing here now.
When the doorbell sounded, Rebus tucked in his shirt and walked back down the hall. True to his word, Abernethy was carrying a bag of croissants. He hadn’t changed much: same faded denims and black leather bomber, same cropped brown hair spiked with gel. His face was heavy, pockmarked, and his eyes an unnerving, psychopath’s blue.
‘How’ve you been, mate?’ Abernethy slapped Rebus’s shoulder and marched past him into the kitchen. ‘Get the kettle on then.’
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