In a House of Lies

‘Does Larry Huston live here?’

The woman peered at Rebus from behind glasses that needed cleaning. She was in her forties and hadn’t exercised in a while. Her hair either needed a wash or was already damp, and as it wasn’t raining outside, Rebus suspected the former.

The house was on an estate of identical terraced properties, reminiscent of Restalrig. But this was Murrayburn, across the city, yet another side of Edinburgh the tourists would never see.

‘My name’s John Rebus,’ he said.

‘Too old to be a rozzer, so what are you?’

‘You’re sharp,’ Rebus told her. ‘I used to be police. If Larry’s in, you can tell him I’m here on behalf of Darryl Christie.’

The name meant something to her, though she tried not to let it show. She told Rebus to wait there and headed indoors. She was back half a minute later.

‘In you come then. I’m his daughter, Brie, like the cheese — God knows why; him and my mum never even visited France, and the only cheese in the house was Co-op Cheddar. You wanting a drink?’

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus assured her. The living room was cramped, stuff everywhere — mugs and dirty plates, a clothes horse draped with laundry. Brie lifted a dozing black cat by the scruff of its neck, offering the chair to Rebus. Larry Huston sat in the chair opposite. It looked as frayed as its occupant. The spectacles must have been a two-for-one deaclass="underline" Huston’s were identical to his daughter’s, right down to the smudges and smears.

‘I’ll take a cup, Brie,’ he said.

‘There’s a surprise,’ she snapped back, but she turned and left the room anyway. The brown wallpaper was starting to part company with the walls, and the floor-to-ceiling shelf unit would need a dust before any self-respecting skip would accept it.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Huston rasped from behind a cough. ‘Proceeds of crime and all that...’

He’d be in his early seventies, hair scraped across the dome of his head, buttoned cardigan sagging, slippers split at the join between sole and upper. The room smelled faintly of urine — Rebus hoped it was the cat’s. Huston’s face was blotchy and his teeth stained by nicotine. He lit up while Rebus watched. Rebus was surprised to find he wasn’t even remotely tempted, not that Huston was offering. He slid a hand into his pocket, just managing to stop himself bringing out a handkerchief to hold over his face. No way of knowing what germs were floating around; maybe the smoke would kill them.

‘Christie still at the Bar-L?’ Huston was asking.

‘Transferred to Saughton.’

‘Never met the lad, but I know who he is.’

‘And what he is, I dare say,’ Rebus offered. ‘Sort you might have worked for once upon a time.’

‘That was then, back when safe-cracking was a noble pursuit. Never any violence, you see, not on my part. Get me into an office or jeweller’s and I could get you what it was you wanted.’

‘How many times did you get caught?’