Free Dead Souls by Ian Rankin Page B

– present worries had scarred them.
    ‘The one place they don’t want to know,’ Janice said, ‘is that club.’
    ‘Gaitano’s?’
    She nodded. ‘Bouncers wouldn’t let us in. Wouldn’t even take flyers from us. I stuck one on the door but they took it down.’ She was almost in tears. Rebus looked back along the street towards the flashing neon sign above Gaitano’s.
    ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the magic word this time.’
    And when he got to the door, he flashed his ID and said, ‘Police.’ The three were ushered inside while someone got on the phone to Charmer Mackenzie. Rebus looked to Janice and winked.
    ‘Open Sesame,’ he said. She was looking at him as if he’d done something wonderful.
    ‘Mr Mackenzie’s not here,’ one of the bouncers said.
    ‘So who’s in charge?’
    ‘Archie Frost. He’s assistant manager.’
    ‘Lead me to him.’
    The bouncer looked unhappy. ‘He’s having a drink at the bar.’
    ‘No problem,’ Rebus said. ‘We know our way.’
    Bass music was pulsing, the club’s interior dark and hot. Couples were hitting the dancefloor, others smoking furiously, knees pumping as they scanned the dimness for action. Rebus leaned towards Janice, so his mouth was an inch from her ear.
    ‘Go round the tables, ask your questions.’
    She nodded, passed the message along to Brian, who was looking uncomfortable with the noise.
    Rebus walked towards the bar, walked through beams of indigo light. There were people waiting for drinks, but only two men actually drinking at the bar. Well, one of them was drinking. The other – who looked thirsty – was listening to what was being said to him.
    ‘Sorry to butt in,’ Rebus said.
    The speaker turned to him. ‘You will be in a minute.’
    Maybe twenty or twenty-one, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Stocky, wearing a suit with no lapels and a dazzling white T-shirt. Rebus pushed his warrant card into the face, identified himself.
    ‘Been taking charm-school lessons from your boss?’ he asked. Archie Frost said nothing, just finished his drink. ‘I want a word, Mr Frost.’
    ‘They don’t look like polis,’ Frost said, nodding towards where Janice and Brian Mee were working the room.
    ‘That’s because they’re not. Their son went missing. Disappeared from here, in fact.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Well then, you’ll know why I’m here.’ Rebus brought out the photograph of the mystery blonde. ‘Seen her before?’
    Frost shook his head automatically.
    ‘Take a closer look.’
    Frost took the photo grudgingly, and angled it towardsthe light. Then he shook his head and tried handing it back.
    ‘What about your pal?’
    ‘What about him?’
    The ‘pal’ in question, the young man without a drink, had half-turned from them, so he was watching the dancefloor.
    ‘He’s not in here much,’ Frost said.
    ‘All the same,’ Rebus persisted. So Frost stuck the photo in front of his friend’s nose. An immediate shake of the head.
    ‘I’m going to take this around your punters,’ Rebus said, lifting the photo from Frost’s hand, ‘see if their memories are any better.’ He wasn’t looking at Frost; he was looking at his companion. ‘Do I know you from somewhere, son? Your face looks familiar.’
    The young man snorted, kept his eyes on the dancing.
    ‘I’ll let you get back to your business then,’ Rebus said. He did a circuit of the room, following behind Janice and Brian. They’d left flyers on most of the tables. A couple had already been crumpled up. Rebus fixed the culprits with a stare. He wasn’t faring any better with his own picture, but saw that ahead of him Janice and Brian had seated themselves at a table and were deep in conversation with two girls there. Eventually, he caught up with them. Janice looked up at him.
    ‘They say they saw Damon,’ she yelled, fighting the music.
    ‘He was getting into a taxi,’ one of the girls repeated for the newcomer’s benefit.
    ‘Where?’ Rebus