person is second row.’
Mackenzie nodded, not really interested.
‘See just behind him?’
‘Is that his doll?’
‘Do you know her?’
Mackenzie snorted. ‘Wish I did.’
‘You haven’t seen her before?’
‘Picture’s not the best, but I don’t think so.’
‘What time do the staff clock on?’
‘Not till tonight.’
Rebus took the photo back, put it in his pocket.
‘Any chance of getting my video back?’ Mackenzie asked.
‘Why?’
‘Those things cost money. Overheads, that’s what can cripple a business like this, Inspector.’
Rebus wondered how he’d merited the nickname ‘Charmer’. He had all the charm of sandpaper. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we, Mr Mackenzie?’ he said, getting to his feet.
*
Back at the office, he played the tape again, watching the blonde. The way her head was angled, strong jawline, mouth open slightly. Could she be saying something to Damon? A minute later, he was gone. Had she said she’d meet him somewhere? After he’d gone, she’d stayed at the bar, ordering a drink for herself. At dead on midnight, fifteen minutes after Damon had vanished, she’d left the nightclub. The final shot was from a camera mounted on the club’s exterior wall. It showed her turning left along Rose Street, watched by a few drunks who were trying to get into Gaitano’s.
Someone put their head round the door and told him he had a call. It was Mairie Henderson.
‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ he said.
‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’
‘Quite the reverse.’
‘In that case, lunch is on me. I’m in the Engine Shed.’
‘How convenient.’ Rebus smiled: the Engine Shed was just behind St Leonard’s. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Make it two, or all the meatballs will have gone.’
Which was a joke of sorts, in that there was no meat in the meatballs. They were savoury balls of mushroom and chickpea with a tomato sauce. Though a one-minute walk from his office, Rebus had never eaten in the Engine Shed. Everything about it was too healthy, too nutritious. The drink of the day was organic apple juice, and smoking was strictly forbidden. He knew it was run by some sort of charity, and staffed by people who needed a job more than most. Typical of Mairie to choose it for a meeting. She was seated by a window, and Rebus joined her with his tray.
‘You look well,’ he said.
‘It’s all this salad.’ She nodded towards her plate.
‘Lifestyle still suit you?’
He meant her decision to quit the local daily paper and go freelance. They’d helped one another out on occasion, but Rebus was aware he owed her more brownie pointsthan she owed him. Her face was all clean, sharp lines, her eyes quick and dark. She’d restyled her hair to early Cilia Black. On the table beside her sat her notebook and cellphone.
‘I get the occasional story picked up by the London papers. Then my old paper has to run its own version the next day.’
‘That must annoy them.’
She beamed. ‘Have to let them know what they’re missing.’
‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve been missing a story that’s right under their noses.’ He pushed another forkful of food into his mouth, having to admit to himself that it wasn’t at all bad. Looking around the other tables, he realised all the other diners were women. Some of them were tending to kids in high chairs, some were involved in quiet gossip. The restaurant wasn’t big, and Rebus kept his voice down when he spoke.
‘What story’s that?’ Mairie said.
Rebus’s voice went lower. ‘Paedophile living in Greenfield.’
‘Convicted?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Served his time, now they’ve plonked him in a flat with a lovely view of a kids’ play-park.’
‘What’s he been up to?’
‘Nothing yet, nothing I can pin him for. Thing is, his neighbours don’t know what’s living next door to them.’
She was staring at him.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ She munched on more salad,
Mackenzie nodded, not really interested.
‘See just behind him?’
‘Is that his doll?’
‘Do you know her?’
Mackenzie snorted. ‘Wish I did.’
‘You haven’t seen her before?’
‘Picture’s not the best, but I don’t think so.’
‘What time do the staff clock on?’
‘Not till tonight.’
Rebus took the photo back, put it in his pocket.
‘Any chance of getting my video back?’ Mackenzie asked.
‘Why?’
‘Those things cost money. Overheads, that’s what can cripple a business like this, Inspector.’
Rebus wondered how he’d merited the nickname ‘Charmer’. He had all the charm of sandpaper. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we, Mr Mackenzie?’ he said, getting to his feet.
*
Back at the office, he played the tape again, watching the blonde. The way her head was angled, strong jawline, mouth open slightly. Could she be saying something to Damon? A minute later, he was gone. Had she said she’d meet him somewhere? After he’d gone, she’d stayed at the bar, ordering a drink for herself. At dead on midnight, fifteen minutes after Damon had vanished, she’d left the nightclub. The final shot was from a camera mounted on the club’s exterior wall. It showed her turning left along Rose Street, watched by a few drunks who were trying to get into Gaitano’s.
Someone put their head round the door and told him he had a call. It was Mairie Henderson.
‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ he said.
‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’
‘Quite the reverse.’
‘In that case, lunch is on me. I’m in the Engine Shed.’
‘How convenient.’ Rebus smiled: the Engine Shed was just behind St Leonard’s. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Make it two, or all the meatballs will have gone.’
Which was a joke of sorts, in that there was no meat in the meatballs. They were savoury balls of mushroom and chickpea with a tomato sauce. Though a one-minute walk from his office, Rebus had never eaten in the Engine Shed. Everything about it was too healthy, too nutritious. The drink of the day was organic apple juice, and smoking was strictly forbidden. He knew it was run by some sort of charity, and staffed by people who needed a job more than most. Typical of Mairie to choose it for a meeting. She was seated by a window, and Rebus joined her with his tray.
‘You look well,’ he said.
‘It’s all this salad.’ She nodded towards her plate.
‘Lifestyle still suit you?’
He meant her decision to quit the local daily paper and go freelance. They’d helped one another out on occasion, but Rebus was aware he owed her more brownie pointsthan she owed him. Her face was all clean, sharp lines, her eyes quick and dark. She’d restyled her hair to early Cilia Black. On the table beside her sat her notebook and cellphone.
‘I get the occasional story picked up by the London papers. Then my old paper has to run its own version the next day.’
‘That must annoy them.’
She beamed. ‘Have to let them know what they’re missing.’
‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘they’ve been missing a story that’s right under their noses.’ He pushed another forkful of food into his mouth, having to admit to himself that it wasn’t at all bad. Looking around the other tables, he realised all the other diners were women. Some of them were tending to kids in high chairs, some were involved in quiet gossip. The restaurant wasn’t big, and Rebus kept his voice down when he spoke.
‘What story’s that?’ Mairie said.
Rebus’s voice went lower. ‘Paedophile living in Greenfield.’
‘Convicted?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Served his time, now they’ve plonked him in a flat with a lovely view of a kids’ play-park.’
‘What’s he been up to?’
‘Nothing yet, nothing I can pin him for. Thing is, his neighbours don’t know what’s living next door to them.’
She was staring at him.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ She munched on more salad,
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