Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

He knew as he left that the drinkers would be talking about him. They’d smelt cop on him, and would want to know what he’d been after. The barman would tell them: no harm in that. By now it would be common knowledge — and when one of their own was attacked, the police always went in quickly and with prejudice. Leith would be expecting little else.

Outside, he got on the phone again, called the hotel and asked to be put through to Robert Hill’s room.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr Hill’s not answering.’

Rebus cut the call.

Pub three: a relief barman, and no faces Rebus recognised. He didn’t even stay for a drink. Two cafés after that, Formica tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, the vinegary haze of brown sauce and chip fat. And then a third café, a place the men from the docks came to for huge doses of reviving cholesterol, as if it were more doctor’s surgery than eating place.

And seated at one of the tables, scooping up runny egg with a fork, someone Rebus knew.

His name was Big Po. Sometime doorman for pubs and clubs of the parish, Po’s past included a long stint in the merchant navy. His fists were nicked and scarred, face weathered where it wasn’t hidden by a thick brown beard. He was massive, and watching him squashed in at the table was like watching a normal-sized adult seated in a primary-school classroom. Rebus had the impression that the whole world had been built on a scale out of kilter with Big Po’s needs.

‘Jesus,’ the man roared as Rebus approached, ‘it’s been a lifetime and a half!’ Flecks of saliva and egg peppered the air. Heads were turning, but didn’t stay turned long. No one wanted Big Po accusing them of nosing into his business. Rebus took the proffered hand and prepared for the worst. Sure enough, it was like a car going through a crusher. He flexed his fingers afterwards, checking for fractures, and pulled out the chair opposite the man mountain.

‘What’ll you have?’ Po asked.

‘Just coffee.’

‘That counts as blasphemy in here. This is the blessed church of St Eck the Chef.’ Po nodded towards where a fat, elderly man was wiping his hands on a cook’s apron and nodding towards him. ‘Best fry-up in Edinburgh,’ Po roared, ‘is that right, Eck?’

Eck nodded again, then got back to his skillet. He looked the nervous sort, and with Big Po on the premises, who could blame him?

When a middle-aged waitress came out from behind the counter, Rebus ordered his coffee. Big Po was still busy with his fork and egg yolk.

‘Be easier with a spoon,’ Rebus suggested.

‘I like a challenge.’

‘Well, could be I’ve another for you.’ Rebus paused while the coffee arrived. It was in a see-through Pyrex cup with matching saucer. In some cafés, they were becoming trendy again, but Rebus had the feeling this was an original. He hadn’t asked for milk, but it was already added, with bubbles of white froth breaking on the surface. He took a sip. It was hot and didn’t taste of coffee.

‘So tell me what’s on your mind,’ Big Po said.

Rebus gave him the background. Po listened as he ate, finishing with a mopping-up operation involving the addition to the bare greasy plate of a liberal squirt of brown sauce, and two further slices of toast. Afterwards, Big Po tried sitting back, but there wasn’t really the room. He slurped at his mug of dark brown tea and tried to turn his bear growl into something mere mortals might recognise as an undertone.

‘Gordie’s the man to talk to about Bellman’s; used to drink there till they barred him.’

‘Barred from Bellman’s? What did he do, machine-gun the place or ask for a gin and tonic?’

Big Po snorted. ‘I think he was shagging Houton’s missus.’

‘Houton being the owner?’

Po nodded. ‘Big bad bastard.’ Which meant a lot, coming from him.

‘Is Gordie a first or last name?’

‘Gordie Burns, drinks in the Weir O’.’

Meaning the Weir O’ Hermiston, on the shore road out towards Portobello. ‘How will I know him?’ Rebus asked.

Po reached into his blue nylon windcheater, brought out a mobile phone. ‘I’ll give him a call, make sure he’s there.’

As he did so, knowing the number by heart, Rebus stared out of the steamed-up window. At call’s end, he thanked Po and stood up.

‘Not finishing your coffee?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But this is on me.’ He walked up to the counter, handed over a fiver. Three fifty for the fry-up, cheapest coronary in town. On his way back past Big Po’s table, he patted the man’s shoulder, slid a twenty into the windcheater’s breast zip-up pocket.

‘God bless you, young sir,’ Big Po boomed. Rebus couldn’t have sworn to it, but as he closed the door behind him he got the feeling the big man was ordering another breakfast.

The Weir O’ was a civilised sort of pub: car park out front, and a chalkboard advertising a range of ‘home cooked fayre’. As Rebus stepped up to the bar and ordered a whisky, a drinker, two along, started finishing up. By the time Rebus’s drink arrived, the man was leaving, telling his companion that he’d be back in a wee while. Rebus took a minute or two to savour his own drink, then made for the door. The man was waiting for him around the corner, where the view was of disused warehouses and slag heaps.

‘Gordie?’ Rebus asked.

The man nodded. He was tall and gangly, late thirties with a long, sad face and thinning, ill-cut hair. Rebus made to hand him a twenty. Gordie paused just long enough to let Rebus know he had some pride, then pocketed the note.

‘Make it quick,’ he said, eyes darting from side to side. Traffic was thundering past, lorries mostly, travelling too quickly to take note of the two men.

Rebus kept it brief: description; pub; attack.

‘Sounds like Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie said, turning to walk away.

‘Whoah,’ Rebus said. ‘What about an address or something?’

‘Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie repeated, heading back into the pub.

John Michael Lorimer: known as Mick. Previouses for assault, entering lockfast premises, housebreaking. Bobby Hogan knew him, which was why they took Lorimer to Leith cop shop, let him sweat there for a little while before starting the questioning.

‘We’re not going to get much out of this one,’ Hogan warned. ‘Vocabulary of about a dozen words, half of which would make your granny shriek.’

And he’d been waiting for them, seated quietly in his two-storey house just off Easter Road. A ‘friend’ had let them in, and Lorimer had been in a chair in the living room, newspaper open on his lap. He’d said almost nothing, not even bothering to ask them why they were there, why they were asking him to go down to the station with them. Rebus had taken an address from the girlfriend. It was on the housing scheme where Linford had been attacked. Which was fair enough: even if they proved it was Lorimer Linford had been following, he now had an alibi — went to his girlfriend’s, didn’t leave the flat all night.

Convenient and cost-effective; no way she’d suddenly change her story, not if she knew what was good for her. From her washed-out eyes and slow movements, Rebus would guess she’d had a pretty good education at the hands of Mick Lorimer.

‘Are we wasting our time, then?’ Rebus asked. Bobby Hogan just shrugged. He’d been on the force as long as Rebus; both men knew the score. Getting them into custody was just the opening bell of the bout, and most times the fight seemed fixed.

‘We’ve got the line-ups anyway,’ Hogan said, pushing open the door to the interview room.

Leith police station wasn’t modern, not like St Leonard’s. It was a solid late-Victorian design, reminding Rebus of his old school. Cold stone walls covered with maybe their twentieth layer of paint, and lots of exposed pipework. The interview rooms were like prison cells, sparse and dulling the senses. Seated at the table, Lorimer looked as much at home as he had in his own living room.