Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“I only see her on weekends, do I?” Rebus couldn’t help smiling.

“That’s all the time you can give her. Clean out the old pipes and then it’s back to the daily grind.”

“You’ve got it all worked out. Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here this time of night.”

“Couple of bits and pieces I’ve remembered about Trevor Guest.”

“And they’re mine for the price of a drink?” Rebus guessed.

Hackman nodded. “But there’s got to be a floor show, mind.”

“A floor show?”

“Chicks!”

“You’ve got to be joking…” But Rebus could tell from Hackman’s face that he was quite, quite serious.

They hailed a cab on Marchmont Road and headed for Bread Street. The driver gave a little smile into his rearview: two middle-aged men with a few drinks under their belts heading for the fleshpots.

“So tell me,” Rebus said.

“What?” Hackman asked.

“The info on Trevor Guest.”

But Hackman wagged a finger. “If I tell you now, what’s to stop you jumping ship?”

“My word as a gentleman?” Rebus offered. He’d had enough for tonight; no way he was embarking on a lap-dance crawl of Lothian Road. He’d get the info, then leave Hackman curbside, point him in the right direction.

“All the hippies are shipping out tomorrow, you know,” the Englishman said. “Busloads heading for Gleneagles.”

“What about you?”

Hackman shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”

“Well, I’m telling you to cough up what you know about Guest.”

“Okay, okay…so long as you promise not to beat it as soon as the taxi stops.”

“Scout’s honor.”

Hackman leaned back in the seat. “Trevor Guest had a short fuse, made a lot of enemies. Headed south to London once, but it didn’t work out. Ripped off by some tart or other…seemed to take against the fairer sex after that. You said Trev ended up on some Web site…?”

“BeastWatch.”

“Any idea who posted his details?”

“They did it anonymously.”

“But Trev was predominantly a burglar…a burglar with a temper-that’s why he went into the clink.”

“So?”

“So who put him on the Web site-and why?”

“You tell me.”

Hackman gave another shrug, gripping on to the handrail as the taxi made a sharp turn. “One more story,” he said, checking he had Rebus’s attention. “When Trev went to London, rumor was that a consignment of tasty drugs went with him-could even have been smack.”

“He was an addict?”

“Occasional user. I don’t think he injected…until the night he died, that is.”

“Did he rip someone off?”

“Could be. See…I’m wondering if there’s a connection you’re not getting.”

“And what connection might that be?”

“Small-time villains, maybe getting too big for their boots or ripping off those they shouldn’t.”

Rebus was thoughtful. “The Edinburgh victim worked for our local mobster.”

Hackman clapped his hands together. “There you are then.”

“I suppose Eddie Isley might have had-” But he broke off, unconvinced. The taxi was pulling to a stop, the driver telling them it would be a fiver. Rebus realized that they were directly outside the Nook, one of the city’s more respectable lap-dance bars. Hackman had jumped out and was paying the cabbie through the passenger-side window-a sure sign he was a visitor; locals paid up from the backseat. Rebus considered his options: stay in the cab, or get out and tell Hackman he was calling it a night.

The door was still open, the Englishman gesturing impatiently.

Rebus got out-just as the door of the Nook burst open, a man staggering from its darkened interior. The two doormen were right behind him.

“I’m telling you, I didn’t touch her!” the man was protesting. He was tall, well dressed, and dark-skinned. Rebus seemed to know the blue suit from somewhere…

“Bloody liar!” one of the doormen yelled, stabbing a finger at the customer.

“She robbed me,” the suit was protesting. “Her hand was trying to extract my wallet from my jacket. It was only when I stopped her that she started to complain.”

“Another bloody lie!” the same doorman spat.

Hackman had given Rebus a dig in the ribs. “You don’t half know some classy joints, John.” But he seemed happy enough. The other doorman was talking into his wrist microphone.

“She was attempting to take my wallet,” the suit kept arguing.

“So she didn’t rob you then?”

“Given the chance, she most certainly-”

“Did she rob you? You swore blind a minute ago that she did. And I’ve got witnesses to prove it.” The doorman’s head twitched toward Rebus and Hackman. The customer turned toward them and recognized Rebus straight off.

“My friend, do you see the situation I am in?”

“Sort of,” Rebus was forced to admit. The suit was shaking his hand.

“We met at the hotel, yes? At that delicious lunch hosted by my good friend Richard Pennen.”

“I wasn’t at lunch,” Rebus reminded him. “We chatted in the hallway.”

“You do get around, John.” Hackman chuckled, giving Rebus’s ribs another dig.

“This is a most unfortunate and serious situation,” the suit was saying. “I felt myself to be thirsty, and entered what I assumed would be a tavern of some description…”

Both doormen gave a snort. “Yeah,” the angrier of the two said, “after we’d told you the admission charge.”

Even Hackman had to laugh at that. But he was cut off by the door swinging open again. This time, it was a woman who emerged. One of the dancers, obviously, dressed in bra, G-string, and high heels. Her hair was piled atop her head and she was wearing too much makeup.

“Says I mugged him, does he?” she roared. Hackman looked as though he’d found the best ever ringside seat.

“We’re handling it,” the angry doorman said, staring daggers at his partner, who’d obviously passed the accusation along.

“He owes me fifty for the dances!” the woman shouted. She had a hand stretched out, ready to collect payment. “Then he starts pawing me! Right out of order…”

A marked patrol car cruised past, faces inside staring out. Rebus saw its brake lights come on, and knew it would be doing a U-turn.

“I am a diplomat,” the suit was declaring. “I have a right to protection from false allegations.”

“Swallowed a dictionary and all,” Hackman commented, laughing to himself.

“Legal immunity,” the suit went on, “as a member of the Kenyan delegation…”

The patrol car had stopped, two officers climbing out, fixing their caps to their heads.

“Seems to be the trouble here?” the driver asked.

“Just escorting this gentleman from the premises,” the no-longer-angry doorman said.

“I was forcibly removed!” the Kenyan protested. “And almost robbed of my wallet also!”

“Calm down, sir. Let’s get this sorted out.” The uniform had turned toward Rebus, aware of movement from the corner of his eye.

Rebus’s badge, shoved into his face.

“I want these two taken to the nearest cop-shop,” Rebus stated.

“No need for that,” the doorman began to argue.

“You want to go with them, pal?” Rebus demanded, shutting him up.

“Which cop-shop’s that then?” the uniform asked. Rebus stared at him.

“Where you from?”

“Hull.”

Rebus made an exasperated sound. “West End,” he said. “It’s on Torphichen Place.”

The uniform nodded. “Near Haymarket, yeah?”

“That’s the one,” Rebus confirmed.

“Diplomatic immunity,” the Kenyan was stressing. Rebus turned to him.

“There’s a necessary procedure,” he explained, trying to find words long enough to satisfy the man.