Friday, July 8, 2005
The front pages were carnage. Large color photos of the red London double-decker. Survivors speckled with blood and soot, eyes vacant. One woman with a huge white compress held to her face. Edinburgh had a post-traumatic feel to it. The bus on Princes Street, the one with the suspect package, had been towed away, once a controlled explosion had been carried out. Same procedure with a shopping bag left in one of the nearby stores. Some shards of glass on the road, and a few flower beds still ruptured by the Wednesday riot. But it all seemed such a long time ago. People were back at work, boards removed from windows, barriers lifted onto flatbed trucks. The protesters were melting away from Gleneagles, too. Tony Blair had flown back from London in time for the closing ceremony. There would be speeches and signings, but people seemed unsure how to feel about any of it. The London bombs had given the perfect excuse for trade talks to be curtailed. There would be extra aid for Africa, but not as much as the campaigners had wanted. Before poverty could be tackled, the politicians had a more immediate war to wage.
Rebus folded the newspaper closed and tossed it onto the small table next to his chair. He was in a corridor on the top floor of Lothian and Borders Police HQ, Fettes Avenue. The summons had come just as Rebus was stirring from bed. The chief constable’s secretary had been insistent when Rebus had tried querying the time frame.
“At once,” she’d stipulated. Which was why Rebus had stopped off just long enough for a coffee, bun, and paper. He still had the last chunk of dough ring in his hand when James Corbyn’s door opened. Rebus stood, thinking he would be going inside, but Corbyn seemed content that their conversation would take place right there in the corridor.
“I thought you’d been given fair warning, DI Rebus-you were off the case.”
“Yes, sir,” Rebus agreed.
“Well then?”
“Well, sir, I knew I wasn’t allowed to work the Auchterarder case, but thought I’d tie up a few loose ends regarding Ben Webster.”
“You were suspended from duty.”
Rebus looked dumbfounded. “Not just the one case?”
“You know damned well what a suspension means.”
“Sorry, sir-age creeping up…”
“It is indeed,” Corbyn purred. “You’re already on the maximum pension. Makes me wonder why you stick around.”
“Nothing better to do, sir.” Rebus paused. “Incidentally, sir, is it a crime for a constituent to ask his MP a question?”
“He’s minister for trade, Rebus. That means he has the PM’s ear. The G8 finishes today, and we don’t want a black mark against us at this stage.”
“Well, I’ve no reason to bother the minister again.”
“Bloody right you haven’t-or anyone else, for that matter. This is your last chance. At the moment, you might escape with an official reprimand, but if your name comes sailing onto my desk one more time…” Corbyn held up a finger for effect.
“Message received, sir.” Rebus’s phone started ringing. He lifted it from his pocket and checked the number: no one he knew. Put the little silver box to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Rebus? It’s Stan Hackman. Meant to call you yesterday, but with everything that happened…”
Rebus could feel Corbyn’s eyes on him. “Sweetheart,” he crooned into the phone, “I’m going to call you back, promise.” He made a kissing sound and killed the call. “Girlfriend,” he explained to Corbyn.
“She’s a brave woman,” the chief constable said, opening the door to his office.
Meeting over.
“Keith?”
Siobhan was seated in her car, window down. Keith Carberry was walking toward the door of the pool hall. The place opened at eight, and Siobhan had been there since quarter to, just to be on the safe side, watching sluggish workers trudging to the bus stop. She motioned him toward the car with her hand. He looked to left and right, fearing some sort of ambush. There was a thin black carrying case under his arm-his personal cue. Siobhan reckoned it would come in handy as a weapon should occasion demand.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Remember me?”
“I can smell the bacon from here.” The hood of his navy top had been pulled over his pale baseball cap. Same outfit he’d been wearing in the photos. “Knew I’d be seeing you again-you were gagging for it that night.” He reinforced the message by adjusting his crotch with a cupped hand.
“How was your day in court?”
“Lovely.”
“Charged with breach of the peace,” she recited. “Bailed on condition you steer clear of Princes Street and sign in daily at Craigmillar police station.”
“You stalking me? I’ve heard of women who get obsessed like that.” He laughed and straightened up. “We done here?”
“Just getting started.”
“Fine.” He turned away. “See you inside then.” She called out his name again but he ignored her. Yanked open the door and went into the pool hall. Siobhan wound her window up, got out, and locked the car. Followed him into Lonnie’s Pool Academy -Best Tables in Restalrig.
It was dimly lit and fuggy, as though never quite cleaned properly at the end of each day. There were already two tables in play. Carberry was sticking coins into a drinks machine, pulling out a can of cola. Siobhan couldn’t see any staff, which meant they were probably playing. Balls clattered and dropped into pockets. Swearing seemed to be mandatory between shots.
“Lucky bastard.”
“Fuck off. Six in the top corner, watch this, ya moron…”
“Fanny alert.”
Four pairs of eyes looked up at Siobhan. Only Carberry ignored her, drinking his drink. There was a radio playing in the background, its signal distorted.
“Help you, sweetheart?” one of the players asked.
“Looking to play a few games,” she said, handing him a five-pound note. “Any chance of some change?”
He was still in his teens, but obviously ran the early shift. Took the note from her and keyed open the register behind the food counter, counted out ten fifty-pence pieces.
“Cheap tables,” she told him.
“Crap tables,” one of the players corrected her.
“Fuckin’ shut it, Jimmy,” the teenager said. But Jimmy was just getting into his stride.
“Hey, sweetheart, ever see that film The Accused? If you feel a Jodie Foster moment coming on, we can make sure the door’s bolted.”
“Try anything, you’ll be the one doing the bolting,” Siobhan snapped back.
“Just ignore him,” the teenager advised her. “I’ll give you a game if you want.”
“It’s me she wants to take on,” Keith Carberry called out, stifling a burp as he crushed the empty can in his fist.
“Maybe after,” Siobhan told the teenager, making her way to Carberry’s table. She crouched to slot home the coin. “Rack them up,” she said. Carberry got busy with the triangle while she chose a cue. The tips were ragged, and there was no sign of chalk. Carberry had opened his case, screwed his two-piece cue together. Drew a fresh cube of blue from his pocket and got to work. The chalk went back into his pocket and he winked at her.
“Want some, you’ll have to reach in and get it. Going to toss me for break?”
There were guffaws at this, but Siobhan was already leaning down over the cue ball. The rust-colored baize was snagged in places, despite which she made pretty good contact, splitting open the pack, a stripe finding the middle pocket. Potted two more before she missed an angle.
“She’s better than you are, Keith,” one of the other players chipped in.
Carberry ignored him and potted three in a row. Tried doubling the fourth the length of the table. Missed by half an inch. Siobhan played safe, and he decided to get out of the snooker by coming off three cushions. Fouled it.
“Two shots,” Siobhan reminded him. She needed both to pot her next ball, then succeeded with a double of her own, bringing a whoop from one of the other tables. The games had paused so they could watch. The last two pots were straightforward, leaving only the black. She ran it along the bottom cushion, but it stopped in the jaws of the pocket. Carberry cleaned up.
“Want another tanning?” he asked with a smirk.
“Think I’ll get a drink first.” She walked over to the machine and got a Fanta. Carberry followed her. The other games were back in play; seemed to Siobhan she’d won some level of acceptance.
“You’ve not told them who I am,” she stated quietly. “Thanks for that.”
“What is it you’re after?”
“I’m after you, Keith.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. It was a printout of the photo from Princes Street Gardens. He took it from her and studied it, then tried handing it back.
“So?” he said.
“The woman you hit…take another look at her.” She swigged from her can. “Notice any family resemblance?”
He stared at her. “You’re joking.”
She shook her head. “You put my mother in the hospital, Keith. Didn’t matter to you who it was, or how badly they were injured. You went down there for a fight, and you were going to get one.”
“And I’ve been to court for it.”
“I looked at the notes, Keith. Prosecutor doesn’t know about this.” Siobhan tapped the photo. “All he’s got on you is witness testimony from the cop who pulled you out of the crowd. Saw you tossing the stick away. What do you think you’ll get? Fifty-pound fine?”
“Payable at a pound a week directly out of my account.”
“But if I give them this photo-and all the others I’ve got-suddenly it’s looking more like jail, isn’t it?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with confidence.
She nodded. “Because you’ve been inside more than once. But there’s time,” she paused, “and then there’s time.”
“Eh?”
“A word from me, and suddenly the screws aren’t so friendly. There are wings they can put you on where only the bad men go: sex offenders, psychopaths, lifers with nothing to lose. Your record says you’ve done juvenile time, open prisons with day release. See, the reason you say you can handle it is that you haven’t had to try.”
“All this because your mum got in the way of a swing?”
“All this,” she corrected him, “because I can. Tell you something though-your pal Tench knew about this last night, funny he didn’t think to warn you.”
The teenager in charge of the hall was getting a text message. He called across to them: “Hey, lovebirds-boss wants a word.”
Carberry tore his eyes away from Siobhan. “What?”
“Boss.” The teenager was pointing to a door marked PRIVATE. Above it, screwed to the wall, sat a surveillance camera.
“I think we better oblige,” Siobhan said, “don’t you?” She led him toward the door and tugged it open. Hallway behind it, and stairs leading up. The roof space had become an office: desk, chairs, filing cabinet. Broken cues and an empty water cooler. Light coming in through two dusty skylights.
And Big Ger Cafferty waiting for them.
“You must be Keith,” he said, holding out a hand. Carberry shook it, his eyes flitting between the gangster and Siobhan. “Maybe you know who I am?” Carberry hesitated, then nodded. “Of course you do.” Cafferty gestured for the young man to sit. Siobhan stayed on her feet.
“You own this place?” Carberry asked with the slightest of tremors.
“Have done for years.”
“What about Lonnie?”
“Dead before you were born, son.” Cafferty brushed a hand over one of his trouser legs, as if he’d found some chalk dust there. “Now, Keith…I hear good things about you-but seems to me you’ve been led astray. Got to get back on the strait and narrow before it’s too late. Mum worries about you…dad’s lost the plot now he can’t hit you without getting hit twice as hard back. Older brother already in Shotts for thieving cars.” Cafferty gave a slow shake of his head. “It’s like your life’s mapped out, nothing you can do but go along with it.” He paused. “But we can change that, Keith, if you’re willing to let us help.”
Carberry looked confused. “Am I getting a whipping or what?”
Cafferty shrugged. “We can arrange that, too, of course-nothing DS Clarke here would like better than to see you cry like a baby. Only fair, when you think what you did to her mum.” Another pause. “But then there’s the alternative.”
Siobhan shifted a little, part of her wanting to haul Carberry out of there, getting both of them away from Cafferty’s hypnotic voice. The gangster seemed to sense this and shifted his gaze to her for a moment, awaiting her decision.
“What alternative?” Keith Carberry was asking. Cafferty didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on Siobhan.
“Gareth Tench,” she explained to the young man. “We want him.”
“And you, Keith,” Cafferty added, “are going to deliver.”
“Deliver?”
Siobhan noticed that Carberry’s legs were all but refusing to hold him up. He was terrified of Cafferty; terrified of her, too, most probably.
You wanted this, she told herself.
“Tench is using you, Keith,” Cafferty was saying, his voice as soft as a bedtime lullaby. “He’s not your friend, never has been.”
“Never said he was,” the youth felt compelled to argue.
“Good lad.” Cafferty was rising slowly to his feet, almost as wide as the desk he now stood behind. “Just keep telling yourself that,” he advised. “It’ll make everything so much easier when the time comes.”
“Time?” Carberry echoed.
“To turn him over to us.”
“Sorry about earlier,” Rebus told Stan Hackman.
“What was I interrupting?”
“A whipping from my chief constable.”
Hackman laughed. “You’re a man after my own heart, Johnny boy. But why did I have to become your sweetheart?” He held up a hand. “No, let me guess. You didn’t want him to know it was business…meaning you’re not supposed to have any business-am I right?”
“I’ve been suspended,” Rebus confirmed. Hackman clapped his hands together and laughed again. They were sitting in a pub called the Crags. It had just opened, and they were the only customers. It was the nearest watering hole to Pollock Halls and catered to students with its array of video and board games, a sound system, and cheap burgers.
“Glad someone finds my life such a source of fun,” Rebus muttered.
“So how many anarchists did you thump?”
Rebus shook his head. “I just kept sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”
“Like I say, John-a man after my own heart. By the way, I haven’t thanked you properly for introducing me to the Nook.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Did you end up bedding the pole dancer?”
“No.”
“Tell you what, she was the best of a mediocre bunch. I didn’t even bother with the VIP booth…” His eyes glazed over for a moment, lost to memories, then he blinked and shook himself back to the present. “So now that you’ve been red-carded, what do I do? Offer you the info I’ve gleaned, or stick it in the pending pile?”
Rebus took a sip from his glass-fresh orange. Hackman had already seen off half his lager. “We’re just two combatants having a chat,” Rebus told him.
“That we are.” The Englishman nodded thoughtfully. “And sharing a final drink before I’m off.”
“You’re shipping out?”
“Later today,” he confirmed. “I won’t say it hasn’t been fun.”
“Come back another time,” Rebus offered, “I’ll show you the rest of the sights.”
“Well, that just about finalizes the deal.” He slid a little farther forward on his chair. “Remember I told you Trevor Guest spent some time up here? Well, I asked one of the lads back at base to dust off the archives.” He reached into his pocket for a notebook, and opened it at a page of jottings. “Trevor was in the Borders for a bit, but he spent more time right here in Edinburgh.” He jabbed the tabletop with a fingertip. “Had a room in Craigmillar and helped out at a day center-they can’t have been doing background checks back then.”
“A day center for adults?”
“Old people. He wheeled them from shit house to dinner table. At least, that’s what he told us.”
“He had a criminal record by then?”
“Couple of burglaries…class-A possession…roughed up a girlfriend but she wouldn’t take it to court. Means two of your victims have a local connection.”
“Yes,” Rebus agreed. “How far back are we talking?”
“Four, five years.”
“Can you give me a minute, Stan?” He got up and walked into the parking lot, took out his cell, and called Mairie Henderson.
“It’s John,” he told her.
“About bloody time. Why’s everything gone quiet on the Clootie Well case? My editor’s nagging me stupid.”
“I’ve just discovered that the second victim spent some time in Edinburgh. Worked in a day center in Craigmillar. I’m wondering if he got himself into any trouble while he was here.”
“Don’t the police have computers to tell them things like that?”
“I prefer to use good old-fashioned contacts.”
“I can do a search of the database, maybe ask our court guy if he knows anything. Joe Cowrie’s been doing the job for decades-and he remembers every bloody case.”
“Just as well-this may go back five years. Call me with whatever you get.”
“You think the killer could be right here under our noses?”
“I wouldn’t go telling your editor; might have to dash his hopes at a later date.” Rebus ended the call and went back inside. Hackman had settled down with a fresh pint. He nodded toward Rebus’s glass.
“I wouldn’t insult you by offering to buy another of those.”
“I’m fine,” Rebus assured him. “Thanks for taking a bit of trouble with this.” He tapped the open notebook.
“Anything for a fellow officer in his hour of need.” Hackman toasted him with the glass.
“Speaking of which, what’s the mood like at Pollock?”
Hackman’s face hardened. “Last night was grim. Lot of the Met lads were on their phones nonstop. Others had already shipped out. I know we all hate the place, but when I saw those Londoners on the TV, determined to keep going no matter what…”
Rebus nodded agreement.
“Bit like yourself, eh, John?” He laughed again. “I can see it in your face-you’re not about to give up just because they’re out to nail you.”
Rebus took a moment to consider his response, then asked Hackman if he happened to have an address for the day center in Craigmillar.
It wasn’t much more than a five-minute drive from the Crags.
On the way, Rebus took a call from Mairie, who was drawing blanks on Trevor Guest’s time in Edinburgh. If Joe Cowrie didn’t remember him, he hadn’t ended up in court. Rebus thanked her anyway and promised she still had first refusal on anything he dug up. Hackman had gone back to Pollock to begin packing. They’d parted with a handshake and a reminder from Hackman about Rebus’s “promised tour of the fleshpots beyond the Nook.”
“You have my word,” Rebus had told him, neither man really believing it would ever happen.
The day center was next door to an industrial factory. Rebus could smell diesel fumes and something like burning rubber. Gulls were on the scrounge, cackling overhead. The center itself was an extended bungalow with a sun trap added. Through the windows, he could see old people listening to accordion music.
“Ten years from now, John,” he muttered to himself. “And that’s if you’re lucky.”
The very efficient secretary was called Mrs. Eadie-no first name offered. But although Trevor had only worked a couple of hours a week, and then only for a month or so, she still had his paperwork in the filing cabinet. No, she couldn’t show it to him-right to privacy and so on. If he applied for permission, well, that might be another story.
Rebus nodded his understanding. The building’s thermostat was set to death ray, and sweat was pouring down his back. The office was tiny and airless, with a sickly background aroma of talcum powder.
“This guy,” he told Mrs. Eadie, “he’d had some trouble with the police. How come you didn’t know that when you hired him?”
“We knew he’d had problems, Inspector. Gareth told us as much.”
Rebus stared at her. “Councilman Tench? Tench brought Trevor Guest here?”
“Never easy to get strong young men to work in a place like this,” Mrs. Eadie explained. “The councilman’s always been a good friend to us.”
“Finding you volunteers, you mean?”
She nodded. “We owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“I’m sure he’ll be round to collect it one of these days.”
Five minutes later, as Rebus emerged into the fresh air, he could hear that the accordion had been replaced by a recording of Moira Anderson. There and then he made a vow to off himself rather than sit with a shawl across his lap being spoon-fed boiled eggs to the strains of “Charlie Is My Darling.”
Siobhan sat in her car outside Rebus’s tenement. She’d already been upstairs: he wasn’t home. Probably just as well-she was still shaking. Felt jittery inside and didn’t think she could blame the caffeine. When she checked herself in the rearview mirror, her face was paler than usual. She gave her cheeks a few pats, trying to cheat some of the color back. She had the radio on, but had given up on the news stations: all the voices sounded either too brittle and urgent, or syrupy and colluding. She’d settled instead for classic FM. Recognized the tune but couldn’t name it. Couldn’t even be bothered trying.
Keith Carberry had walked out of Lonnie’s Pool Academy like a man whose lawyers had just secured his release from death row. If there was a world outside, he wanted a taste of it. The manager had had to remind him to pick up his cue on the way out. Siobhan had watched the whole thing on surveillance cameras. The screen had been greasy, blurring the figures. Cafferty had wired the place for sound, too, voices crackling from a battered-looking speaker some feet away from the monitor.
“Where’s the fire, Keith?”
“Get lost, Jim-Bob.”
“What about your light saber?”
Carberry pausing just long enough to replace the cue in its case.
“I think,” Cafferty had said quietly, “we can safely say we’ve got him.”
“For what it’s worth,” Siobhan had added.
“Got to be patient,” Cafferty advised. “A lesson well worth the learning, DS Clarke.”
Now, in her car, she pondered her options. The simplest would be to hand the evidence over to the public prosecutor, get Keith Carberry in court again on the more serious charge. That way, Tench would go untouched, but so what? Even supposing the councilman had set up those attacks on the Niddrie campsite, he really had come to her rescue in the gardens behind the flats-Carberry hadn’t been toying with her. His blood was up, adrenaline pumping…
The threat had been for real.
He’d wanted to taste her fear, see her panic.
Not always controllable. Tench just managing to rescue the situation.
She owed him that much…
On the other hand, Carberry in exchange for her mother didn’t sound like a fair deal. Didn’t taste like justice. She wanted more. Beyond an apology or a show of remorse, beyond a custodial sentence of weeks or months.
When her phone rang she had to ease her fingers from around the steering wheel. The screen said it was Eric Bain. She whispered an oath before answering.
“What can I do for you, Eric?” she asked, just a little too brightly.
“How’s it all going, Siobhan?”
“Slowly,” she admitted with a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose. No hysterics, girl, she warned herself.
“Well, I’m not sure about this, but I might have someone you should talk to.”
“Oh, yes?”
“She works at the university. I helped her out months back with a computer simulation.”
“Good for you.”
There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, Eric. How’s everything with you? How’s Molly?”
“Molly’s great…I, uh, was telling you about this lecturer?”
“Of course you were. You think I should go see her.”
“Well, maybe just call her up first. I mean, it might turn out to be a dead end.”
“It usually does, Eric.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
Siobhan closed her eyes and sighed loudly into the phone. “Sorry, Eric, sorry. Shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”
“Taking what out on me?”
“A week’s worth of crap.”
He laughed. “Apology accepted. I’ll call again later, when you’ve had a chance to-”
“Just hang on a sec, will you?” She reached across to the passenger seat, extracting her notebook from her bag. “Give me her number and I’ll talk to her.”
He recited the number and she jotted it down, adding the name as best she could, neither of them being totally sure how it was spelled.
“So what is it you think she might have for me?” Siobhan asked.
“A few crackpot theories.”
“Sounds great.”
“Can’t do any harm to listen,” Bain advised.
But by now, Siobhan knew differently. Knew that listening could have repercussions.
Bad ones at that…
Rebus hadn’t been to the city chambers in a while. The building was situated on the High Street, opposite St. Giles Cathedral. Cars were supposedly banned from the road between the two, but like most locals Rebus ignored the signs and parked curbside. He seemed to remember hearing that the council’s HQ had been built as some sort of merchants’ meeting place, but the local traders had shunned it and carried on as before. Rather than concede defeat, the politicians had moved in and made it their own. Soon, however, they’d be on the move-a parking lot next to Waverley Station had been earmarked for development. No way of telling as yet how far over budget it would run. If it turned out anything like the parliament, the bars of Edinburgh would soon have a fresh topic to inflame the drinkers’ indignation.
The city chambers had been built on top of a plague street called Mary King’s Close. Years back, Rebus had investigated a murder in the dank underground labyrinth-Cafferty’s own son the victim. The place had been tidied up now and was a tourist haunt in the summer. One of the staff was busy on the pavement, handing out flyers. She wore a housemaid’s cap and layered petticoats and tried to offer Rebus a discount coupon. He shook his head. The papers said local attractions were feeling the bite of the G8week tourists had been steering clear of the city.
“Hi-ho, silver lining,” Rebus muttered, starting to whistle the song’s first verse. The receptionist at the front desk asked him if it was Madonna, then smiled to let him know she was teasing.
“Gareth Tench, please,” Rebus said.
“I doubt he’ll be here,” she warned. “Friday, you know…A lot of our councilmen do district business on a Friday.”
“Giving them an excuse to knock off early?” Rebus guessed.
“I don’t know what you’re implying.” But her smile was back, meaning she knew damned well. Rebus liked her. Checked for a wedding ring and found one. Changed his whistling to “Another One Bites the Dust.”
She was looking down a list on the clipboard in front of her. “Seems you’re in luck,” she announced. “Urban regeneration committee subgroup…” She glanced at the clock behind her. “Meeting’s due to break up in five minutes. I’ll tell the secretary you’re here, Mr…?”
“Detective Inspector Rebus.” He offered a smile of his own. “John, if you prefer.”
“Take a seat, John.”
He gave a little bow of his head in thanks. The other receptionist was having a lot less luck, trying to fend off an elderly couple who wanted to talk to someone about the trash bins in their street.
“Through wi’ they lazy bastards.”
“We’ve got the car numbers an’ ev’thing, but naebody’s been near…”
Rebus took a seat, and decided against any of the reading material: council propaganda disguised as newsletters. They appeared regularly in Rebus’s mailbox, helping him contribute to the recycling effort. His cell sounded, and he flipped it open. Mairie Henderson’s number.
“What can I do for you, Mairie?” he asked.
“I forgot to tell you this morning…I’m getting somewhere with Richard Pennen.”
“Tell me more.” He moved outside into the quadrangle again. The lord provost’s Rover was parked by the glass-paneled doors. He stopped next to it and lit a cigarette.
“Business correspondent on one of the London broadsheets put me on to a freelancer who sells stuff to the likes of Private Eye. He in turn set me up with a TV producer who’s been keeping an eye on Pennen ever since the company split off from the MoD.”
“Okay, so you’ve earned your pennies this week.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just head to Harvey Nicks and start spending them…”
“All right, I’m shutting up now.”
“Pennen has links to an American company called TriMerino. They’ve got people on the ground in Iraq just now. During the war, a lot of equipment got trashed, including weaponry. TriMerino are in the business of re-arming the good guys-”
“Whoever they are-”
“Making sure the Iraqi police and any new armed forces can hold their own. They see it as-wait for this-a humanitarian mission.”
“Meaning they’re looking for aid money?”
“Billions are being poured into Iraq -quite a bit’s already gone missing, but that’s another story. The murky world of foreign aid: that’s the TV producer’s pitch.”
“And he’s lassoing Richard Pennen?”
“Hoping to.”
“And how does this tie in to my dead politician? Any sign that Ben Webster had control of Iraqi aid money?”
“Not yet,” she conceded. Rebus noticed that some of his ash had landed on the Rover’s gleaming hood.
“I get the feeling you’re holding something back.”
“Nothing to do with your deceased MP.”
“Going to share with Uncle John?”
“Might not come to anything.” She paused. “I can still make a story though. I’m the first print journalist the producer’s told the whole story to.”
“Good for you.”
“You could try that again with a bit more enthusiasm.”
“Sorry, Mairie…mind’s on other things. If you can tighten the screws on Pennen, so much the better.”
“But it doesn’t necessarily help you?”
“You’ve been doing me a lot of favors-only right you get something out of it.”
“My feelings exactly.” She paused again. “Any progress your end? I’m betting you visited the day center where Trevor Guest worked?”
“Didn’t get much.”
“Anything worth sharing?”
“Not yet.”
“That sounds like evasion.”
Rebus moved aside as some people started to emerge from the building-a liveried driver, followed by another man in uniform carrying a small case. And behind them, the lord provost. She seemed to notice the flecks of ash on her vehicle, gave Rebus a scowl, and disappeared into the back of the car. The two men got into the front, Rebus guessing that the case held her chain of office.
“Thanks for letting me know about Pennen,” he told Mairie. “Keep in touch.”
“It’s your turn to phone me,” she reminded him. “Now we’re back on speaking terms, I don’t want one-way traffic.”
He ended the call, stubbed out his cigarette, and headed back indoors, where his receptionist had joined in the debate about trash bins.
“It’s environmental health you need to speak to,” she was stressing.
“Nae good, hen, that lot never listen.”
“Summat’s got to be done!” his wife shouted. “Folk are fed up being treated like numbers!”
“All right,” the first receptionist said, caving in with a sigh. “I’ll see if someone’s available to talk to you. Take a ticket from over there.” She nodded toward the dispenser. The old man pulled a sliver of paper from it and stared at what he’d been given.
A number.
Rebus’s receptionist beckoned him over, leaned forward to whisper that the councilman was on his way down. She glanced toward the couple, letting him know she didn’t want them to share in the information.
“I’m assuming it’s official business?” she asked, fishing for some inside info. Rebus leaned even closer to her ear, smelling perfume rising from her nape.
“I’m wanting my drains cleaned,” he confided. She looked shocked for a moment, then gave a lopsided grin, hoping he was joking.
Moments later, Tench himself emerged grimly into the reception area. He was clasping a briefcase to his chest as though it could afford some useful protection.
“This is a bollock hair away from serious harassment,” he hissed. Rebus nodded as if in agreement, then stretched out an arm in the direction of the waiting couple.
“This is Councilman Tench,” he informed them. “He’s the helpful sort.” They were already on their feet and shuffling toward the glowering Tench.
“I’ll be waiting outside when you’re done,” Rebus told him.
He’d smoked another cigarette by the time Tench emerged. Through the window, Rebus could see that the couple had taken their seats again, looking satisfied for the moment, as though some further meeting had been arranged.
“You’re a bastard, Rebus,” Tench growled. “Give me one of those cigs.”
“I didn’t know you indulged.”
Tench lifted a cigarette from the pack. “Only when I’m stressed…but this smoking ban’s on the horizon so I figure I should claim my share while I can.” With the cigarette lit, he inhaled deeply, letting the smoke pour down his nostrils. “Only real pleasure some people have, you know. Remember John Reid talking about single mums in the projects?”
Rebus remembered it well. But Reid, the defense secretary, had given up the smokes so wasn’t much of an apologist for the habit.
“Sorry I did that,” Rebus offered, nodding in the direction of the window.
“They’ve got a point,” Tench conceded. “Someone’s coming to talk to them…wasn’t too happy about me calling him, mind. I think his tee shot had just clipped the ninth green. Chip and run for a birdie.”
He smiled, and Rebus smiled with him. They smoked in silence for a moment. The atmosphere could almost have been called companionable. But then Tench had to spoil it.
“Why do you side with Cafferty? He’s a badder bugger than I could ever be.”
“I’m not disputing it.”
“Well then?”
“I don’t side with him,” Rebus stated.
“Not what it looks like.”
“Then you’re refusing to see the whole picture.”
“I’m good at what I do, Rebus. If you don’t believe me, talk to the people I represent.”
“I’m sure you’re terrific at what you do, Mr. Tench. And sitting on the regeneration committee must tip a load of cash into your district, making your constituents cheerful, healthy, and well behaved…”
“Slums have been replaced by new housing, local industry offered incentives to stay put-”
“Nursing homes given upgrades?” Rebus added.
“Absolutely.”
“And staffed by your own recommendations. Trevor Guest being a case in point.”
“Who?”
“While back you placed him in a day center. He was from Newcastle originally.”
Tench was nodding slowly. “He’d had a few problems with drink and drugs. Happens to some of us, doesn’t it, Inspector?” Tench gave Rebus a meaningful look. “I was looking to integrate him into the community.”
“Didn’t work. He headed back south to be murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“One of the three whose effects we found in Auchterarder. Another was Cyril Colliar. Funnily enough, he used to work for Big Ger Cafferty.”
“You’re at it again-trying to pin something on me!” Tench made jabbing motions with the cigarette.
“Just want to ask about the victim. How you met him, why you felt the need to help.”
“It’s what I do-I keep telling you that!”
“Cafferty thinks you’re muscling in.”
Tench rolled his eyes. “We’ve been through all this. All I want is for him to be consigned to the scrap heap.”
“And if we won’t do it, you will?”
“I’ll do my damnedest-I’ve already said as much.” He rubbed his palms across his face, as though washing. “Has the penny not dropped yet, Rebus? Always supposing you’re not in his pocket, hasn’t it occurred to you that he might be using you to get to me? Big drug problem in my ward-something I’ve vowed to control. With me out of the way, Cafferty has free rein.”
“You’re in charge of the gangs down there-”
“I’m not!”
“I’ve seen the way it works. Your little runt of a hood runs amok, gives you the chance to state your case for more cash from the authorities. You’ve turned havoc into a nice little earner.”
Tench stared at him, then gave a loud exhalation. He looked to the left and right. “Between us?” But Rebus wasn’t about to comply. “All right, maybe there’s an element of truth in what you say. Money for regeneration: that’s the bottom line. I’m happy to show you the books-you’ll see that every last cent and penny is accounted for.”
“What’s Carberry listed under on the balance sheet?”
“You don’t control someone like Keith Carberry. A bit of channeling sometimes…” Tench offered a shrug. “What happened in Princes Street had nothing to do with me.”
Rebus’s cigarette was down to its filter. He flicked it away. “And Trevor Guest?”
“…was a damaged man who came to me for help. He said he wanted to give something back.”
“For what?”
Tench shook his head slowly, stubbing his cigarette underfoot, and began to look thoughtful. “I got the feeling something had happened…put the fear of death into him.”
“What sort of thing?”
A shrug. “The drugs maybe…dark night of the soul. He’d had a bit of trouble with the police, but seemed to me there was more to it than that.”
“He went to jail eventually. Aggravated burglary, assault, attempted sexual assault. Your Good Samaritan act didn’t exactly win him over.”
“I hope it’s never been an act,” Tench said quietly, eyes focused on the street beneath him.
“You’re putting on an act right now,” Rebus told him. “I think you do it because you’re good at it. Same sort of act that got Ellen Wylie’s sister out of her panties-bit of wine and sympathy at your end, and no mention of the missus back home in front of the TV.”
Tench made a pained face, but all Rebus did was give a cold chuckle.
“I’m curious,” he went on. “You looked at the BeastWatch site-it’s how you snared Ellen and her sister. So you had to’ve seen your old pal Trevor’s picture there. Seems odd to me that you never said…”
“And put myself further in the frame you’ve been trying to nail together around me?” Tench shook his head slowly.
“I’ll need something in your own words about Trevor Guest-everything you’ve told me, and anything else you can add. You can drop it off at Gayfield Square…this afternoon will do. Hope that’s not going to eat into your golf time.”
Tench looked at him. “How do you know I play?”
“Way you spoke earlier-like you knew what you were talking about.” Rebus leaned toward him. “You’re easy enough to read, Councilman. Compared to some I’ve known, you’re Dick and fucking Jane.”
The line was adequate, and Rebus left Tench with it. Back at the car, a warden was hovering. Rebus pointed out the POLICE notice on his dashboard.
“At our discretion,” the warden reminded him.
Rebus blew the man a kiss and got behind the steering wheel. As he pulled away, he checked in his rearview and saw that someone was watching from outside the cathedral. Same outfit he’d been wearing that day at court: Keith Carberry. Rebus slowed the car but kept moving. Carberry’s attention shifted, and Rebus stopped the Saab, kept watching in the rearview. Expected Carberry to cross the street, go say a few words to his employer, but he stayed where he was, hands tucked into the front of his hooded jacket, some sort of narrow black carry case held beneath one arm. Content to stand in the midst of what tourists there were.
Paying them no heed.
Staring across the road.
Toward the city chambers.
The city chambers…and Gareth Tench.
What have you been up to?” Rebus asked.
She’d been waiting for him on Arden Street. He’d said maybe he should give her a key, if they were going to keep using his place as an office.
“Not much,” Siobhan replied, taking off her jacket. “How about you?”
They went into the kitchen and he boiled the kettle, telling her about Trevor Guest and Councilman Tench. She asked a few questions, watching him spoon coffee into two mugs.
“Gives us our Edinburgh connection,” she agreed.
“Of a kind.”
“You sound doubtful?”
He shook his head. “You said so yourself…so did Ellen. Trevor Guest could be the key. Started off looking different from the others with all those wounds-” He broke off.
“What is it?”
But he shook his head again, stirred a spoon in his mug. “Tench thinks something happened to him. Guest had been taking drugs, hitting the bottle pretty hard. Then he scurries north and ends up in Craigmillar, meets the councilman, works with old people for a few weeks.”
“Nothing in the case notes to suggest he did anything like that before or since.”
“Funny thing to do when you’re a thief and you probably need a bit of cash.”
“Unless he was planning to fleece them in some way. Did the day center mention anything about money going missing?”
Rebus shook his head, but took out his phone and called Mrs. Eadie to ask. By the time she’d answered in the negative, Siobhan was seated at the dining table in the living room, delving into the files again.
“What about his time in Edinburgh?” she asked.
“I got Mairie to check.” She looked at him. “Didn’t want anyone else getting wind that we’re still active.”
“So what did Mairie say?”
“Her answer wasn’t definitive.”
“Time to call Ellen?”
He knew she was right and made that call, too, but warned Ellen Wylie to be careful.
“Start searching the computer and you’ll be leaving a calling card.”
“I’m a big girl, John.”
“Maybe so, but the chief constable’s keeping a beady eye.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He wished her luck and slid the phone back into his pocket. “You all right?” he asked Siobhan.
“Why?”
“Seemed to be in a dream. Have you spoken to your parents?”
“Not since they left.”
“Best thing you can do is hand those photos to the public prosecutor, make sure of a conviction.”
She nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “That’s what you’d do, right?” she asked. “If someone had lashed out at your nearest and dearest?”
“There’s not much room on the ledge, Shiv.”
She stared at him. “What ledge?”
“The one I always seem to be perched on. You know you don’t want to be standing too close.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means hand over the photos, leave the rest to judge and jury.”
Her eyes were still boring into his. “You’re probably right.”
“No alternative,” he added. “None you’d ever want to consider.”
“That’s true.”
“Or you could always ask me to kick the crap out of Mr. Baseball Cap.”
“Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth for that?” she asked with the hint of a smile.
“Probably,” he acknowledged. “Might not stop me trying, though.”
“Well, there’s no need. I only wanted the truth-” She considered for a moment. “I mean, when I thought it was one of us…”
“Way this week’s gone, it might well have been,” he said quietly, pulling out a chair and seating himself across from her.
“But I couldn’t have stood it, John. That’s what I’m getting at.”
He made a show of turning some of the paperwork toward him. “You’d have thrown it in?”
“It was an option.”
“But now it’s all right again?” He was hoping for some reassurance. She gave a slow nod, picking up some paperwork of her own. “Why hasn’t he struck again?”
It took Rebus’s brain a moment to shift gears. He’d been on the verge of telling her about seeing Keith Carberry outside the city chambers. “I’ve no idea,” he eventually conceded.
“I mean, they speed up, right? Once they get a taste for it?”
“That’s the theory.”
“And they don’t just stop?”
“Maybe some do. Whatever it is inside them…maybe it gets buried somehow.” He shrugged. “I don’t pretend to be an expert.”
“Me neither. That’s why we’re meeting someone who claims she is.”
“What?”
Siobhan was checking her watch. “In an hour from now. Which just gives us time to decide what questions we need to ask.”
The University of Edinburgh department of psychology was based in George Square. Two sides of the original Georgian development had been flattened and replaced with a series of concrete boxes, but the psychology department was based in an older building sandwiched between two such blocks. Dr. Roisin Gilreagh had a room on the top floor, with views over the gardens.
“Nice and quiet this time of year,” Siobhan commented. “The students being gone, I mean.”
“Except that in August the gardens play host to various fringe shows,” Dr. Gilreagh countered.
“Offering a whole new human laboratory,” Rebus added. The room was small and awash with sunlight. Dr. Gilreagh was in her midthirties, with thick curly blond hair falling past her shoulders, and pinched cheeks that Rebus took to be clues as to her Irish ancestry, despite the resolutely local accent. When she smiled at Rebus’s comment, her sharp nose and chin seemed to become even more jagged.
“I was telling DI Rebus on the way here,” Siobhan interrupted, “that you’re considered a bit of an expert in the field.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dr. Gilreagh felt obliged to argue. “But there are interesting times ahead in the field of offender profiling. The Crichton Street parking light is being turned into our new Center for Informatics, part of which will be dedicated to behavior analysis. Add in neuroscience and psychiatry and you begin to see that there are potentials…” She beamed at both her visitors.
“But you work for none of those particular departments?” Rebus couldn’t help pointing out.
“True, true,” she was happy to acknowledge. She kept twitching in her seat, as though stillness were a crime. Motes of dust danced across the sunbeams in front of her face.
“Could we maybe draw the blind?” he suggested, squinting a little for effect. She leaped to her feet and apologized as she pulled the blind down. It was pale yellow and made from something like tent canvas, doing little to relieve the room’s glare. Rebus gave Siobhan a look, as if to suggest that Dr. Gilreagh was kept locked in the attic for a reason.
“Tell DI Rebus about your research,” Siobhan said encouragingly.
“Well.” Dr. Gilreagh clapped her hands together, straightened her back, gave a little wriggle, and took a deep breath. “Behavioral patterning in offenders is nothing new, but I’ve been concentrating on victims. It’s by delving into the behavior of the victim that we begin to see why offenders act the way they do, whether on impulse or through a more deterministic approach…”
“Almost goes without saying,” Rebus offered with a smile.
“Term time being over, and thus having room for some smaller personal projects, I was intrigued by the little shrine-I suppose the description is fitting-in Auchterarder. The newspaper reports were sometimes sketchy, but I decided to take a look anyway…and then, as if it were meant to be, Detective Sergeant Clarke asked for a meeting.” She took another deep breath. “I mean, my findings aren’t really ready to…no, what I mean is, I’ve only scratched the surface as yet.”
“We can get the case notes to you,” Siobhan assured her, “if that would help. But in the meantime, we’d be grateful for any thoughts you might have.”
Dr. Gilreagh clapped her hands together again, stirring the cloud of dust particles in front of her.
“Well,” she said, “interested as I am in victimology”-Rebus tried to catch Siobhan’s eye, but she wouldn’t let him-“I have to admit that the site stirred my curiosity. It’s a statement, isn’t it? I’m guessing you’ve considered the possibility that the killer lives locally, or has some long-standing knowledge of the immediate area?” She waited till Siobhan had nodded. “And you will also have speculated that the murderer knows of the Clootie Well because its existence is recorded in various guidebooks and also extensively on the World Wide Web…?”
Siobhan sneaked a glance at Rebus. “Actually, we hadn’t really followed that particular path,” she admitted.
“It’s mentioned on various sites,” Dr. Gilreagh assured her. “New Age and pagan directories…myths and legends…world mysteries. Allied to which, anyone with a knowledge of the sister site on the Black Isle might have come across the one in Perthshire.”
“I’m not sure this gets us anywhere we haven’t already been,” Rebus said. Siobhan looked at him again.
“People who accessed the BeastWatch site,” she stated. “What if they also accessed sites referring to the Clootie Well?”
“And how would we find out?”
“The inspector raises a fair question,” Dr. Gilreagh admitted, “though of course you may have computer experts of your own…But in the interim, one has to concede that the location must have some significance for the perpetrator.” She waited until Rebus had nodded. “In which case, might it also have significance for the victims?”
“In what way?” Rebus asked, eyes narrowing.
“Countryside…deep woods…but close to human dwellings. Is this the sort of terrain the victims inhabited?”
Rebus snorted. “Hardly likely-Cyril Colliar was an Edinburgh bouncer fresh out of jail. Can’t see him with a knapsack and bar of Kendall mint cake.”
“But Edward Isley traveled up and down the M6,” Siobhan countered, “and that’s the Lake District, isn’t it? Plus, Trevor Guest spent time in the Borders…”
“As well as Newcastle and Edinburgh.” Rebus turned to the psychologist. “All three served time…that’s your link right there.”
“Doesn’t mean there aren’t others,” Siobhan warned.
“Or that you’re not being led astray,” Dr. Gilreagh said with a kindly smile.
“Led astray?” Siobhan echoed.
“Either by patterns that don’t exist, or patterns the killer is placing in full view.”
“To toy with us?” Siobhan guessed.
“It’s a possibility. There is such a huge sense of playfulness-” She broke off, her face falling into a frown. “You’ll have to forgive me if that sounds frivolous, but it’s the only word I can think of. This is a killer determined to be seen, as shown by the display he left at Clootie Well. And yet, as soon as his work is discovered, he withdraws, perhaps behind a smoke screen.”
Rebus leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re saying all three victims are a smoke screen?”
She gave a little wriggle of her shoulders, which he interpreted as a shrug.
“A smoke screen for what?” he persevered.
She wriggled again. Rebus threw an exasperated look toward Siobhan.
“The display,” Gilreagh said at last, “is slightly wrong. A piece cut from a jacket…a sports shirt…a pair of cord trousers…inconsistent, you see. A serial killer’s trophies would normally be more similar-only shirts, or only patches. It’s an untidy collection and ultimately not quite right.”
“This is all very interesting, Dr. Gilreagh,” Siobhan said quietly. “But does it get us any further?”
“I’m not a detective,” the psychologist stressed. “But coming back to the rural motif and the display, which may be a classic magician’s feint…I’d wonder again about why those particular victims were chosen.” She began nodding to herself. “You see, sometimes victims choose themselves almost, in that they fulfill the killer’s basic needs. Sometimes all that means is a lone woman in a vulnerable situation. But most often there are other considerations.” She focused her attention on Siobhan. “When we spoke on the phone, DS Clarke, you mentioned anomalies. Those can be signifiers in themselves.” She paused meaningfully. “But scrutiny of the case notes might help me toward a more thorough determination.” She was looking at Rebus now. “I can hardly blame you for your skepticism, Inspector, but contrary to all your available visual evidence, I’m not in the least bit batty.”
“I’m sure you’re not, Dr. Gilreagh.”
She clapped her hands together again, and this time leaped to her feet to indicate that their time was up.
“Meantime,” she said, “rurality and anomalies, rurality and anomalies.” She held up two fingers to stress the point, then added a third. “And, perhaps above all else, wanting you to see things that aren’t really there.”
“Is rurality even a word?” Rebus asked.
Siobhan turned the ignition. “It is now.”
“And you’re still going to give her the notes?”
“Worth a shot.”
“Because we’re that desperate?”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea.” But he had no answer for that, and rolled down the window so he could smoke. They passed the old parking lot.
“Informatics,” Rebus muttered. Siobhan signaled right, making toward the Meadows and Arden Street.
“The anomaly is Trevor Guest,” she ventured, once a few more minutes had elapsed. “We’ve said that from the start.”
“So?”
“So we know he spent time in the Borders-doesn’t get much more rural than that.”
“Hell of a long way from either Auchterarder or Black Isle,” Rebus stated.
“But something happened to him in the Borders.”
“We’ve only got Tench’s word for that.”
“Fair point,” she conceded. All the same, Rebus got out Hackman’s number and gave him a call.
“Ready for me?” he asked.
“Are you missing me already?” Hackman replied, recognizing Rebus’s voice.
“One question I meant to ask…where in the Borders did Trevor Guest spend time?”
“Do I hear the sound of a hand grasping at straws?”
“You do,” Rebus conceded.
“Well, I’m not sure I can be much of a lifeguard. I seem to think Guest mentioned the Borders during one of our sessions with him.”
“We’ve not seen all the transcripts yet,” Rebus reminded him.
“Lads in Newcastle being their usual efficient selves? Got an e-mail address on you, John?” Rebus recited it. “Check your computer in about an hour’s time. But be warned-POETS day, meaning the CID cupboard might be a bit on the Mother Hubbard side.”
“Appreciate anything you can get for us, Stan. Happy trails.” Rebus clicked the phone shut. “POETS day,” he reminded Siobhan.
“Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she recited.
“Speaking of which-you still going to T in the Park tomorrow?”
“Not sure.”
“You fought hard enough for the ticket.”
“Might wait till evening. I can still catch New Order.”
“After a hard Saturday’s work?”
“You were thinking of a walk along the seafront at Portobello?”
“Depends on Newcastle, doesn’t it? Been a while since I took a day trip to the Borders.”
She double-parked and climbed the two flights with him. The plan was to have a quick recon of the case notes, decide what might be useful to Dr. Gilreagh, and head to a copy shop with them. Ended up with a pile an inch thick.
“Good luck,” Rebus said as she headed out the door. He could hear a horn blaring downstairs-a motorist she’d managed to block. He pulled the window open to let in some air, then collapsed into his chair. He felt dog tired. His eyes stung and his neck and shoulders ached. He thought again of the massage Ellen Wylie had wanted him to offer. Had she really meant anything by it? Didn’t matter-he was just relieved now nothing had happened. His waist strained against his trouser belt. He undid his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. Felt the benefit, so worked the belt loose, too.
“Jumpsuit’s what you need, fatso,” he chided himself. Jumpsuit and slippers. And a home-help nurse. In fact, everything short of “Charlie Is My Darling.”
“And just a touch more self-pity.”
He rubbed a hand over one knee. Kept waking in the night with a sort of cramp there. Rheumatics, arthritis, wear and tear-he knew there was no point troubling his doctor. He’d been there before with the blood pressure: less salt and sugar, cut down the fat, get some exercise. Kick the booze and ciggies to the curb.
Rebus’s response had been shaped as a question: “Ever felt you could just write it on a board, stick it on your chair, and bugger off home for the afternoon?”
Producing one of the weariest smiles he’d ever seen on a young man’s face.
The phone rang and he told it to get stuffed. Anyone wanted him that much, they’d try the cell. Sure enough, it rang thirty seconds later. He took his time picking it up: Ellen Wylie.
“Yes, Ellen?” he asked. Didn’t feel she needed to know he’d just been thinking of her.
“Only the one wee spot of trouble for Trevor Guest during his stay in our fine city.”
“Enlighten me.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair, letting his eyes close.
“Got into a fight on Ratcliffe Terrace. You know it?”
“Where the taxi drivers buy their gas. I was there last night.”
“There’s a pub across the street called Swany’s.”
“I’ve been in a few times.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Well, Guest went there at least the once. A drinker seemed to take against him, and it ended up outside. One of our cars happened to be in the garage forecourt-stocking up on provisions, no doubt. Both combatants were taken into custody for the night.”
“That was it?”
“Never went to court. Witnesses saw the other man swing the first punch. We asked Guest if he wanted to press charges, and he declined.”
“I don’t suppose you know what they were fighting about?”
“I could try asking the arresting officers.”
“I don’t suppose it matters. What was the other guy’s name?”
“Duncan Barclay.” She paused. “He wasn’t local though…gave an address in Coldstream. Is that in the Highlands?”
“Wrong end of the country, Ellen.” Rebus had opened his eyes, was easing himself upright. “It’s bang in the middle of the Borders.” He asked her to wait while he readied some paper and a pen, then picked up the phone again.
“Okay, give me what you’ve got,” he told her.
The driving range was floodlit. Not that it was completely dark yet, but the brilliance of the illumination made it look like a film set. Mairie had hired a three-wood and a basket containing fifty balls. The first two stalls were taken. Plenty of gaps after that. Automatic tees-meant you didn’t have to go to the trouble of bending down to replace the ball after each shot. The range was broken up into fifty-yard sections. Nobody was hitting 250. Out on the grass, a machine resembling a miniaturized combine-harvester was scooping up the balls, its driver protected by a mesh screen. Mairie saw that the very last stall was in use. The golfer there was getting a lesson. He addressed the tee, took a swing, and watched his ball hit the ground no more than seventy yards away.
“Better,” the instructor lied. “But try to focus on not bending that knee.”
“I’m scooping again?” his pupil guessed.
Mairie placed her metal basket on the ground, next stall over. Decided to take a few practice swings, loosen up her shoulders. Instructor and pupil seemed to resent her presence.
“Excuse me?” the instructor said. Mairie looked at him. He was smiling at her over the partition. “We actually booked that bay.”
“But you’re not using it,” Mairie informed him.
“Point is, we paid for it.”
“A matter of privacy,” the other man butted in, sounding irritated. Then he recognized Mairie.
“Oh, for pity’s sake…”
His instructor turned to him. “You know her, Mr. Pennen?”
“She’s a bloody reporter,” Richard Pennen said. Then, to Mairie: “Whatever it is you want, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Fine by me,” Mairie answered, readying for her first shot. The ball sailed into the air, making a clean, straight line to the 200-yard flag.
“Pretty good,” the instructor told her.
“My dad taught me,” she explained. “You’re a professional, aren’t you?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen you on the circuit.” He nodded his agreement.
“Not at the Open?”
“Didn’t qualify,” he admitted, cheeks reddening.
“If the two of you have finished,” Richard Pennen interrupted.
Mairie just shrugged and prepared for another shot. Pennen seemed to be doing likewise, but then gave up.
“Look,” he said, “what the hell do you want?”
Mairie said nothing until she’d watched her ball sail into the sky, dropping just short of 200 and a little to the left.
“Bit of fine-tuning needed,” she told herself. Then, to Pennen: “Just thought I should offer fair warning.”
“Fair warning of what exactly?”
“Probably won’t make the paper till Monday,” she mused. “Time enough for you to prepare some sort of response.”
“Are you baiting me, Miss…?”
“ Henderson,” she told him. “Mairie Henderson-that’s the byline you’ll read on Monday.”
“And what will the headline be? ‘Pennen Industries Secures Scottish Jobs at G8’?”
“That one might make the business pages,” she decided. “But mine will be page one. Up to the editor how he phrases it.” She pretended to think. “How about ‘Loans Scandal Envelops Government and Opposition’?”
Pennen gave a harsh laugh. He was swinging his club one-handed, to and fro. “That’s your big scoop, is it?”
“I daresay there’s plenty of other stuff to come out in the wash: your efforts in Iraq, your bribes in Kenya and elsewhere. But for now, I think I’ll stick with the loans. See, a little birdie tells me that you’ve been bankrolling both Labor and the Tories. Donations are a matter of record, but loans can be kept hush-hush. Thing is, I very much doubt either party knows you’re backing the other. Makes sense to me: Pennen split off from the MoD because of decisions made under the last Tory government; Labor decided the sell-off could go ahead unhindered-favors owed to both.”
“There’s nothing illegal about commercial loans, Miss Henderson, secret or not.” Pennen was still swinging the club.
“Doesn’t stop it from being a scandal, once the papers get hold of it,” Mairie retorted. “And like I say, who knows what else will come bubbling to the surface?”
Pennen brought the clubhead down with force against the partition. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked this week, arranging contracts worth tens of millions to UK industry? And what have you been doing, apart from some useless muckraking?”
“We all have our place in the food chain, Mr. Pennen.” She smiled. “Won’t be Mr. for much longer, will it? Money you’ve been shelling out, that peerage can’t be far off. Mind you, once Blair finds out you’re bankrolling his enemies…”
“Any trouble here, sir?”
Mairie turned to see three police uniforms. The one who’d spoken was looking at Pennen; the other two had eyes for her and her alone.
Unfriendly eyes.
“I think this woman was just leaving,” Pennen muttered.
Mairie made a show of peering over the partition. “Got a magic lamp there or something? Any time I’ve ever called the cops, they’ve taken half an hour.”
“Routine patrol,” the group’s leader stated.
Mairie looked him up and down: no markings on his uniform. The face tanned, hair cropped, jaw set.
“One question,” she said. “Do any of you know the penalty for impersonating a police officer?”
The leader scowled and made a grab at her. Mairie wriggled free and ran from the safety of the driving area onto the grass surface itself. Fled toward the exit, dodging shots from the first two bays, the players yelling in outrage. She reached the door just before her pursuers. The woman at the register asked where her three-wood was. Mairie didn’t answer. Pushed open another door and found herself in the parking lot. Ran to her car, stabbing the remote. No time to look around. Into the driver’s seat and all four doors locked. Key in the ignition. A fist thumping at her window. The lead uniform trying the handle, then shuffling around to the front of the car. Mairie gave him a look that said she didn’t care. Gunned the accelerator.
“Watch out, Jacko! The bint’s crazy!”
Jacko had to dive sideways; that or be killed. In the wing mirror, she could see him picking himself up. A car had drawn up alongside him. No markings on it either. Mairie screamed out onto the main highway-airport to her left, city to the right. The road back into Edinburgh gave her more options, more chances to lose them.
Jacko: she’d remember that name. Bint, one of the others had called her. It was a term she’d only heard from the mouths of soldiers. Ex-military…with tans picked up in hot climes.
Iraq.
Private security disguised as constabulary.
She looked in the rearview: no sign of them. Didn’t mean they weren’t there. A8 to the bypass, breaking the speed limit all the way, flashing her lights to let the drivers in front know she was coming.
Where to next, though? It would be easy for them to get her address; absurdly easy for a man like Richard Pennen. Allan was on a job, wouldn’t be back in town until Monday. Nothing to stop her driving to the Scotsman and working on her article. Her laptop was in the trunk, all the information inside it. Notes and quotes and her rough drafts. She could stay in the office all night if need be, topped up by coffee and snacks, cocooned from the outside world.
Writing Richard Pennen’s destruction.
It was Ellen Wylie who gave Rebus the news. He in turn called Siobhan, who picked him up in her car twenty minutes later. They drove to Niddrie in silence through the dusk. The Jack Kane Center ’s campground had been dismantled. No tents, no showers or toilets. Half the fencing had been removed, and the security guards were gone, replaced for the moment by uniformed officers, ambulance men, and the same two morgue assistants who had collected Ben Webster’s shattered remains from the foot of Castle Rock. Siobhan parked alongside the line of vehicles. Rebus recognized some of the detectives-they were from St. Leonard ’s and Craigmillar. They nodded a greeting toward the new arrivals.
“Not exactly your turf,” one of them commented.
“Let’s just say we’ve an interest in the deceased,” Rebus replied. Siobhan was by his side. She leaned toward him so as not to be overheard.
“News hasn’t leaked that we’re on suspension.”
Rebus just nodded. They were nearing a circle of crouched Scene of Crime officers. The duty doctor had pronounced death and was signing his name to some forms on a clipboard. Flash photographs were being taken, flashlights scouring the grass for clues. Onlookers were being kept at a distance by a dozen uniforms while the area was taped off. Kids on bikes, mums with their toddlers in carriages. Nothing drew a crowd quite like a crime scene.
Siobhan was getting her bearings. “This is pretty much where my parents’ tent was pitched,” she told Rebus.
“I’m assuming they’re not the ones who left the mess.” He flicked an empty plastic bottle into the air with his toe. Plenty of other debris strewn across the park: discarded banners and leaflets, fast-food cartons, a scarf and a single glove, a baby’s rattle and a rolled-up diaper…Some of it was being bagged by the SOCOs, to be checked for blood or fingerprints.
“Love to see them get the DNA from that,” Rebus said, nodding toward a used condom. “You think maybe your mum and dad…?”
Siobhan gave him a look. “I’m not going any closer.”
He shrugged, and left her behind. Councilman Gareth Tench was growing cold on the ground. He lay on his front, legs bent as if he’d collapsed in a heap. His head was turned to one side, eyes not quite shut. There was a dark stain on the back of his jacket.
“I’m guessing stabbed,” Rebus told the doctor.
“Three times,” the man confirmed. “In the back. Wounds don’t look all that deep to me.”
“Doesn’t take much,” Rebus stated. “What sort of knife?”
“Hard to tell as yet.” The doctor peered over his half-moon glasses. “Blade about an inch wide, maybe a little less.”
“Anything missing?”
“He’s got some cash on him…credit cards and such. Made identification that bit easier.” The doctor gave a tired smile and turned his clipboard toward Rebus. “If you could countersign here, Inspector.”
But Rebus held his hands up. “Not my case, Doc.” The doctor looked toward Siobhan, but Rebus shook his head slowly and walked off to join her.
“Three stab wounds,” he informed her.
She was staring at Tench’s face, and seemed to be trembling a little.
“Feeling the chill?” he asked.
“It’s really him,” she said quietly.
“You thought he was indestructible?”
“Not quite.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the body.
“I suppose we should tell someone.” He looked around for a likely candidate.
“Tell them what?”
“That we’ve been giving Tench a bit of grief. Bound to come out sooner or-”
She had snatched his hand and was dragging him toward the sports center’s gray concrete wall.
“What’s up?”
But she wasn’t about to answer, not until she felt they were far enough away. Even then, she stood so close to him that they could have been readying to waltz. Her face was hidden in shadow.
“Siobhan?” he prompted her.
“You must know who did this,” she said.
“Who?”
“Keith Carberry,” she growled. Then, when he didn’t respond, she raised her face to the heavens and screwed shut her eyes. Rebus noticed that her hands had become clenched fists, her whole body tensed.
“What is it?” he asked quietly. “Siobhan, what the hell have you done?”
Eventually, she opened her eyes, blinking back tears and getting her breathing back under control. “I saw Carberry this morning. We told him-” She paused. “I told him I wanted Gareth Tench.” She glanced back in the direction of the corpse. “Must be his way of delivering…”
Rebus waited for her to meet his eyes. “I saw him this afternoon,” he said. “He was keeping watch on Tench at the city chambers.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “You said we, Siobhan…”
“Did I?”
“Where did you talk to him?”
“The pool hall.”
“Same one Cafferty told us about?” He watched as she nodded. “Cafferty was there, too, wasn’t he?” Her look was the only answer he needed. He pulled his hands from his pockets and slapped one of them against the wall. “For Christ’s sake!” he spat. “You and Cafferty?” She just nodded again. “When he gets his claws into you, Shiv, they don’t come out. All these years you’ve known me, you must’ve seen that.”
“What do I do now?”
He thought for a moment. “If you keep your mouth shut, Cafferty knows he’s got you.”
“But if I own up-”
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “Bounced back into uniform maybe.”
“Might as well type out my resignation right now.”
“What did Cafferty say to Carberry?”
“Just that he was to hand us the councilman.”
“Who’s the us, Cafferty or the law?”
She gave a shrug.
“And how was he going to deliver?”
“Hell, John, I don’t know…You’ve said yourself, he was shadowing Tench.”
Rebus looked toward the murder scene. “Bit of a leap from there to stabbing him in the back three times.”
“Maybe not in Keith Carberry’s mind.”
Rebus thought about this for a moment. “We keep it quiet for now,” he decided. “Who else saw you with Cafferty?”
“Just Carberry. There were people in the pool hall, but upstairs it was just the three of us.”
“And you knew Cafferty would be there?” He watched her nod. “Because you’d set the whole thing up with him?” Another nod. “Without thinking to tell me.” He struggled to keep the anger out of his voice.
“Cafferty came to my flat last night,” Siobhan confessed.
“Jesus…”
“He owns the pool hall…that’s how he knew Carberry goes there.”
“You’ve got to stay away from him, Shiv.”
“I know.”
“Damage is done, but we can try some running repairs.”
“Can we?”
He stared at her. “By we I meant I.”
“Because John Rebus can fix anything?” Her face had hardened a little. “I can take my own medicine, John. You don’t always get to do the knight-in-shining-armor thing.”
He placed his hands on his hips. “Are we finished mixing our metaphors?”
“You know why I listened to Cafferty? Why I went to that pool hall knowing he’d be there?” Her voice was shaking with emotion. “He was offering me something I knew I wouldn’t get from the law. You’ve seen it here this week-how the rich and powerful operate, how they get away with anything they like. Keith Carberry went down to Princes Street that day because he thought it’s what his boss wanted. He thought he had Gareth Tench’s blessing to cause as much mayhem as he liked.”
Rebus waited to see if there would be more, then touched his hands to her shoulders. “Cafferty,” he said quietly, “wanted Gareth Tench put out to pasture, and he was happy to use you as a means to that end.”
“He told me he didn’t want him dead.”
“And he told me he did. I had quite a descriptive little rant from him on that subject.”
“We didn’t tell Keith Carberry to kill him,” she stated.
“Siobhan,” Rebus reminded her, “you said it yourself just a minute ago-Keith does pretty much what he thinks people want him to do-powerful people, people who’ve got some measure of control over him. People like Tench…and Cafferty…and you.” He pointed a finger at her.
“So I’m to blame?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“We can all make a mistake, Siobhan.”
“Well, thanks for that.” She turned on her heels and started striding back across the playing field. Rebus looked down at his feet and gave a sigh, then reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.
The lighter was empty. He shook it, tipped it up, blew on it, rubbed it for luck…not so much as a spark. He sauntered back toward the line of police vehicles, asked one of the uniforms if he had a light. His colleague was able to oblige, and Rebus decided he might as well beg another favor.
“I need a lift,” he said, watching Siobhan’s taillights receding into the night. Couldn’t believe Cafferty had gotten his claws into her. No…he could believe it all too readily. Siobhan had wanted to prove something to her parents-not just that she’d made a success of her job, but that it meant something in the greater scheme. She’d wanted them to know there were always answers, always solutions. Cafferty had promised her both.
But at a price-his price.
Siobhan had stopped thinking like a cop, turning back into a daughter again. Rebus thought of how he had let his own family drift away from him, first his wife and daughter, and then his brother. Pushing them away because the job seemed to demand it, demanded his unconditional attention. No room for anyone else…Too late now to do anything about it.
But not too late for Siobhan.
“You still want that lift?” one of the uniforms was asking. Rebus nodded and got in.
His first stop: Craigmillar police station. He got himself a cup of coffee and waited for the team to reconvene. Stood to reason they’d set up the murder room here. Sure enough, the cars started to arrive. Rebus didn’t know the faces, but introduced himself. The detective angled his head.
“It’s DS McManus you want.”
McManus was just coming through the door. He was younger even than Siobhan-maybe not yet thirty. Boyish features, tall and skinny. Looked to Rebus as though he might have grown up locally. Rebus offered a handshake and introduced himself again.
“I was beginning to think you were a myth,” McManus said with a smile. “I hear tell you were based here a while back.”
“True.”
“Worked with Bain and Maclay.”
“For my sins.”
“Well, they’re both long gone, so you needn’t worry.” They were walking down the long hallway behind the reception desk. “What can I do for you, Rebus?”
“Just something I thought you ought to know.”
“Oh aye?”
“I’d had a few run-ins recently with the deceased.”
McManus glanced at him. “That right?”
“I’ve been working the Cyril Colliar case.”
“Still just the two additional victims?”
Rebus nodded. “Tench had links to one of them-guy worked at an adult day-care center not far from here. Tench got him the position.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’ll be interviewing the widow…she’ll probably say CID paid a visit.”
“And that was you?”
“Myself and a colleague, yes.”
They’d taken a left turn into an adjoining corridor, Rebus following McManus into the CID office, where the team was gathering.
“Anything else you think I should know?”
Rebus tried to look as though he were racking his brain. Finally, he shook his head. “That’s about it,” he said.
“Was Tench a suspect?”
“Not really.” Rebus paused. “We were a bit concerned by his relationship with a young rebel called Keith Carberry.”
“I know Keith,” McManus said.
“He was in court, charged with fighting and disturbing the peace in Princes Street. When he came out, Councilmen Tench was waiting for him. They seemed pretty friendly. Then surveillance cameras showed Carberry whacking some innocent bystander. Looked like he might be in deeper trouble than first thought. I happened to be at the city chambers this lunchtime, talking with Councilman Tench. When I left, I saw Carberry watching from across the street-” Rebus ended the speech with a shrug, as if to indicate that he’d no idea what any of this might mean. McManus was studying him.
“Carberry saw the pair of you together?” Rebus nodded. “And that was lunchtime?”
“I got the feeling he was tailing the councilman.”
“You didn’t stop to ask?”
“I was in my car by then…only caught a glimpse of him in the rearview.”
McManus was gnawing on his bottom lip. “Need a quick result on this,” he said, almost to himself. “Tench was hellish popular, did this area a power of good. There are going to be some very angry people.”
“No doubt,” Rebus confirmed. “Did you know the councilman?”
“Friend of my uncle’s…they go back to school days.”
“You’re from round here,” Rebus stated.
“Grew up in the shadow of Craigmillar Castle.”
“So you’d known Councilman Tench for some time?”
“Years and years.”
Rebus tried to make his next question sound casual. “Ever hear rumors about him?”
“What sort of rumors?”
“I don’t know, the usual stuff, I suppose-extramarital flings, money going astray from the coffers…”
“Guy’s not even cold yet,” McManus complained.
“Just wondering,” Rebus apologized. “I’m not trying to imply anything.”
McManus was looking toward his team-seven of them, including two women. They were trying to look as though they weren’t eavesdropping. McManus stepped away from Rebus and stood in front of them.
“We go to his house, inform the family. Need someone to make the formal ID.” He half turned his head toward Rebus. “After that, we bring in Keith Carberry. Few questions we need to ask him.”
“Such as, Where’s the knife, Keith?” one of the team offered.
McManus allowed the joke. “I know we’ve had Bush and Blair and Bono up here this past week, but in Craigmillar, Gareth Tench counts as royalty. So we need to be proactive. More boxes we can check off tonight, happier I’ll be.”
There were a few groans, but they lacked force. Seemed to Rebus that McManus was well liked. His officers would go the extra hour for him.
“Any overtime?” one of them asked.
“G8 wasn’t enough for you, Ben?” McManus retorted. Rebus stayed put for a moment, ready to say something like “thanks” or “good luck,” but McManus’s attention was on this fresh new case. He’d already started doling out tasks.
“Ray, Barbara, see if there’s any security-camera footage from around the Jack Kane Center. Billy, Tom, you’re going to light some fires under our esteemed pathologists-ditto those lazy sods at Forensics. Jimmy, you and Kate go pick up Keith Carberry. Sweat him in the cells till I get back. Ben, you’re with me, little trip to the councilman’s house in Duddingston Park. Any questions?”
No questions.
Rebus headed back down the corridor, hoping Siobhan could be kept out of it. No way of telling. McManus owed Rebus no favors. Carberry might spill his guts, which would be awkward, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Rebus was already forming the story in his head.
DS Clarke had information that Keith played pool in Restalrig. When she got there, the owner, Morris Gerald Cafferty, also happened to be present…
He doubted McManus would swallow it. They could always deny any meeting had taken place, but there’d been witnesses. Besides, the denial would only work if Cafferty played along, and the only reason he’d do that would be to tighten the noose around Siobhan. She would owe Cafferty her whole future, and so would Rebus. Which was why, out in reception, he asked for another lift, this time to Merchiston. The uniforms in the patrol car were chatty but didn’t question where he was headed. Maybe they thought CID could afford to own homes in this quiet, tree-lined enclave. The detached Victorian houses sat behind high walls and fences. The street lighting seemed subdued, so as not to keep the inhabitants awake. The wide streets were almost empty-no parking problems here: each house boasted a driveway for half a dozen cars. Rebus got the patrol car to stop on Ettrick Road-didn’t want to be too obvious. They seemed content to hang out and watch him enter whichever house was his final destination. But he waved them away, busying himself with lighting a cigarette. One of the uniforms had gifted him half a dozen matches. Rebus struck one against a wall and watched the patrol car signal right at the end of the street. At the foot of Ettrick Road he took a right-still no sign of the patrol car and no place they could be hiding. No sign of life anywhere: no traffic or pedestrians, no sounds from behind the thick stone walls. Huge windows muffled by wooden shutters. Bowling green and tennis courts deserted. He took another right and walked halfway up this new street. Holly hedge in front of one house. Its porch was lit, flanked by stone pillars. Rebus pushed open the gate. Yanked on the bellpull. Wondered if maybe he should go around to the back. Last time he was here, there was a hot tub there. But then the heavy wooden door gave a shudder as it was opened from within. A young man was standing there. His body had been sculpted in the gym, and he wore a tight black T-shirt to underline the fact.
“Need to go easy on those steroids,” Rebus warned him. “Is your lord and master home?”
“Does it look like he’d want whatever you’re selling?”
“I’m selling salvation, son-everybody needs a taste of that, even you.” Over the man’s shoulder, Rebus could see a pair of female legs descending the staircase. Bare feet, the legs slim and tanned and ending at a white terry-cloth robe. She stopped halfway and leaned down so she could see who was at the door. Rebus gave her a little wave. She’d been brought up well-waved back, even though she’d no idea who he was. Then she turned and started padding back upstairs.
“You got a warrant?” the bodyguard was saying.
“The penny drops,” Rebus exclaimed. “But me and your boss go back a ways.” He pointed a finger in the direction of one of the entrance hall’s many doors. “That’s the living room, and that’s where I’ll wait for him.” Rebus made to pass the man, but an open palm against his chest stopped him.
“He’s busy,” the bodyguard said.
“Shagging one of his employees,” Rebus agreed. “Which means I may have to hang around for all of two minutes-always supposing he doesn’t have a coronary halfway through.” He stared at the hand pressed like a lead weight against him. “You sure you want this?” Rebus met the bodyguard’s stare. “Every time we meet from now on,” he said quietly, “this is what I’ll be remembering…and believe me, son, whatever failings people may tell you I have, I’ve got a whole fistful of gold medals in carrying a grudge.”
“And the booby prize when it comes to timing,” a voice roared from the top of the stairs. Rebus watched Big Ger Cafferty descend, tying his own voluminous bathrobe around him. What hair he still possessed was rising in tufts from his head, and his cheeks were red from exertion. “What the bloody hell brings you here?” he growled.
“It’s a bit lame as an alibi,” Rebus commented. “Bodyguard, plus some girlfriend you probably pay by the hour-”
“What do I need an alibi for?”
“You know damned well. Clothes in the washing machine, are they? Blood can be hard to get out.”
“You’re making no sense.”
But Rebus could tell that Cafferty had bitten down on the hook; time to reel him in. “Gareth Tench is dead,” he stated. “Stabbed in the back-which is probably just your style. Want to discuss it in front of Arnie here, or should we step into the parlor?”
Cafferty’s face gave nothing away. The eyes were small dark voids, the mouth set in a thin, straight line. He placed his hands in the pockets of his robe and gave a little flick of the head, a signal the bodyguard seemed to read. The hand dropped, and Rebus followed Cafferty into the huge drawing room. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a baby grand piano taking up space next to the bay window, huge loudspeakers on either side of it and a state-of-the-art stereo on a rack by the wall. The paintings were brash and modern, violent splashes of color. Above the fireplace hung a framed copy of the jacket from Cafferty’s book. He was busying himself at the drinks cabinet. It meant his back was kept turned to Rebus.
“Whiskey?” he asked.
“Why not?” Rebus replied.
“Stabbed, you say?”
“Three times. Outside the Jack Kane Center.”
“Home turf,” Cafferty commented. “A mugging gone wrong?”
“I think you know better.”
Cafferty turned round and handed Rebus a glass. It was quality stuff, dark and peaty. Rebus didn’t bother offering a toast, just washed it around his mouth before swallowing.
“You wanted him dead,” Rebus went on, watching Cafferty take the smallest sip of his own drink. “I listened to you rant and rave on the subject.”
“I was a bit emotional,” Cafferty conceded.
“In which state I’d put nothing whatsoever past you.”
Cafferty was staring at one of the paintings. Thick blotches of white oil, melting into oozing grays and reds. “I won’t lie to you, Rebus-I’m not sorry he’s dead. Makes my life that bit less complicated. But I didn’t have him killed.”
“I think you did.”
Cafferty gave the slightest twitch of one eyebrow. “And what does Siobhan say to all this?”
“She’s the reason I’m here.”
Now Cafferty smiled. “Thought as much,” he said. “She told you about our little chat with Keith Carberry?”
“After which, I happened to catch him stalking Tench.”
“That was his prerogative.”
“You didn’t make him?”
“Ask Siobhan-she was there.”
“Her name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke, Cafferty, and she doesn’t know you the way I do.”
“Have you arrested Carberry?” Cafferty turned his attention back from the painting.
Rebus gave a slow nod. “And my money says he’ll talk. So if you did have a little word in his ear…”
“I didn’t tell him to do anything. If he says I did, he’s lying-and I’ve got the detective sergeant as my witness.”
“She stays out of this, Cafferty,” Rebus warned.
“Or what?”
Rebus just shook his head. “She stays out,” he repeated.
“I like her, Rebus. When they finally drag you kicking and screaming to the Twilight Benevolent Home, I think you’ll be leaving her in good hands.”
“You don’t go near her. You never speak to her.” Rebus’s voice had dropped to a near whisper.
Cafferty gave a huge grin and emptied the crystal tumbler into his mouth. Smacked his lips and exhaled loudly. “It’s the boy you should be worried about. Your money says he’ll talk. If he does, he could well end up dropping DS Clarke right in it.” He made sure he had Rebus’s full attention. “We could, of course, make sure he doesn’t get a chance to talk…?”
“I wish Tench was still alive,” Rebus muttered. “Because now I know I’d help him take you down.”
“But you’re changeable, Rebus…like a summer’s day in Edinburgh. Next week you’ll be blowing me kisses.” Cafferty puckered his lips for effect. “You’re already suspended from duty. Are you sure you can afford any more enemies? How long is it now since they started to outnumber your friends?”
Rebus looked around the room. “I don’t see you hosting too many parties.”
“That’s because you’re never invited-the book launch excepted.” Cafferty nodded toward the fireplace. Rebus looked again at the framed artwork from Cafferty’s book.
Changeling: The Maverick Life of the Man They Call Mr. Big.
“I’ve never heard you called Mr. Big,” Rebus commented.
Cafferty shrugged. “Mairie’s idea, not mine. I must give her a call…I think she’s been avoiding me. That wouldn’t be anything to do with your good self, I suppose?”
Rebus ignored him. “With Tench out of the way, you’ll be moving into Niddrie and Craigmillar.”
“Will I?”
“With Carberry and his ilk as your foot soldiers.”
Cafferty gave a chuckle. “Mind if I make some notes? I wouldn’t want to forget any of this.”
“When you talked to Carberry this morning, you were letting him know the outcome you wanted-the only outcome that would save his neck.”
“You’re assuming young Keith was the only person I spoke to.” Cafferty was dribbling more whiskey into his glass.
“Who else?”
“Maybe Siobhan herself flew off the handle. I assume the murder team will want to talk to her?” Cafferty’s tongue was protruding slightly from his mouth.
“Who else have you talked to about Gareth Tench?”
Cafferty swilled the liquid around his glass. “You’re supposed to be the detective around here. I can’t go fighting all your battles for you.”
“Judgment day’s coming, Cafferty. For you and me both.” Rebus paused. “You know that, right?”
The gangster shook his head slowly. “I see us in a couple of deck chairs, somewhere hot but with ice-cold drinks. Reminiscing about the sparring we used to do, back in the days when the good guys thought they knew the bad guys. One thing this week should have shown all of us-only takes a few moments for everything to change. Protests crumble, poverty returns to the back burner…some alliances are strengthened, others weaken. All that effort sidelined, the voices silenced. In the time it takes to snap your fingers.” He did just this, as if to reinforce his point. “Makes all your hard work seem a little bit petty and unimportant, wouldn’t you say? And Gareth Tench-a year from now, think anyone’s going to remember him?” He drained his glass for the second time. “Now I really have to get back upstairs. Not that I don’t always enjoy our little get-togethers, you understand.” Cafferty placed his empty glass on the coffee table and gestured for Rebus to do the same. As they left the room, he switched off the lights, said something about doing his bit for the planet. The bodyguard was in the hall, hands clasped in front of him.
“Ever worked as a bouncer?” Rebus asked. “One of your colleagues-name of Colliar-he ended up on a stainless-steel slab. Just one of many perks associated with your dangerous employer.”
Cafferty was already climbing the staircase. It gratified Rebus that he had to use the banister to haul himself up each step. But then, he did much the same thing these days in his tenement. The bodyguard held the door open. Rebus brushed past him none too gently-not even a ripple of movement from the younger man. The door slammed after him. He stood on the path a moment, walked back to the gate, and let it clank shut. Scratched another match and lit a cigarette. Headed up the street, but paused beneath one of the underpowered lampposts. Took out his phone and tried Siobhan’s number, but she didn’t pick up. He walked to the top of the road and back down again. While he was standing there, an emaciated fox trotted out of a driveway and into the one next door. He’d started seeing them a lot in the city. They never seemed to panic or be shy. The look they gave their human neighbors was close to disdain or disappointment. Hunts had been banned from chasing them across country; people in the towns left scraps out for them. Hard to think of them as predators-but it was in their nature.
Predators being treated like pets.
Mavericks.
It was another thirty minutes before he began to hear the approaching taxi, its toiling diesel engine as distinctive as birdsong. Rebus climbed into the back and closed the door, but told the driver they were waiting for one more.
“Remind me,” he said, “is it cash or contract?”
“Contract.”
“MGC Holdings, right?”
“The Nook,” the driver corrected him.
“Dropping off at…?”
The driver now turned in his seat. “What’s the game, pal?”
“No game.”
“It’s a woman’s name on the pickup sheet-and if you’ve got a pussy, you should get on the phone to one of those Extreme Makeover programs.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Rebus tucked himself into the farthest corner of the cab as Cafferty’s door opened and closed. Heels clacking down the footpath, and then the cab’s door was opened, perfume wafting in.
“In you get,” Rebus said, before the woman could complain. “I just need a lift home.”
She hesitated, but climbed in eventually, and settled herself as far from Rebus as was possible. The red button was lit, meaning the driver would be able to listen in. Rebus found the right switch and turned it off.
“You work at the Nook?” he asked quietly. “Didn’t realize Cafferty’d got his mitts on it.”
“What’s it to you?” the woman snapped back.
“Just making conversation. Friend of Molly’s?”
“Never heard of her.”
“I was going to ask how she was. I’m the guy who dragged the diplomat off her the other night.”
The woman studied him. “Molly’s fine,” she said at last. Then: “How did you know you wouldn’t be waiting till dawn?”
“Human psychology,” he offered with a shrug. “Cafferty’s never struck me as the kind who’d let a woman stay the night.”
“Clever you.” There was just the hint of a smile. Hard to make out her features in the taxi’s shadowy interior. Clean hair, the sheen of lipstick, the smell of her perfume. Jewelry and high heels and a three-quarter-length coat, falling open to show a much shorter dress beneath. Plenty of mascara, the eyelashes exaggerated.
He decided on another nudge: “So Molly’s all right?”
“As far as I know.”
“What’s Cafferty like to work for?”
“He’s okay.” She turned to stare out at the passing scene, the street lighting showing him half her face. “He told me about you.”
“I’m CID.”
She nodded. “When he heard your voice downstairs, it was like someone had changed his batteries.”
“I do have that effect on people. Are we headed to the Nook?”
“I live in the Grassmarket.”
“Handy for work,” he commented.
“What is it you want?”
“You mean apart from a lift at Cafferty’s expense?” Rebus gave a shrug. “Maybe I just want to know why anyone would want to get close to him. See, I’m beginning to think he carries a virus-everyone he touches gets hurt in some way.”
“You’ve known him a lot longer than I have,” she replied.
“That’s true.”
“Meaning you must be immune?”
He shook his head. “Not immune, no.”
“He’s not hurt me yet.”
“That’s good…but the damage isn’t always immediate.” They were turning into Lady Lawson Street. The driver signaled to make a right. Another minute and they’d be in Grassmarket.
“Finished your Good Samaritan routine?” she asked, turning to face Rebus.
“It’s your life…”
“That’s right.” She leaned forward toward the driver’s panel. “Pull over next to the lights.”
He did as ordered. Started filling in the contract slip, but Rebus told him there was one last drop-off to make. She was climbing out of the cab. He waited for her to say something, but she slammed the door, crossed the road, and headed down a darkened alley. The driver kept the engine running until a beam of light showed him she’d opened her stairwell door.
“Always like to make sure,” he explained to Rebus. “Can’t be too careful these days. Where to, chief?”
“Quick U-turn,” Rebus answered. “Drop me at the Nook.” It was a two-minute ride, at the end of which Rebus told the driver to add twenty quid to the bill as a tip. Signed his name to it and handed it back.
“Sure about this, chief?” the driver asked.
“Easy when it’s someone else’s cash,” Rebus told him, getting out. The doormen at the Nook recognized him, which didn’t mean they were happy to renew the acquaintance.
“Busy night, lads?” Rebus asked.
“Paydays always are. Been a good week for overtime, too.”
Rebus got the bouncer’s meaning the moment he walked in. A large group of drunken cops seemed to have monopolized three of the lap dancers. Their table groaned with champagne flutes and beer glasses. Not that they looked out of place-a stag party on the far side of the room was enjoying the competition. Rebus didn’t know the cops, but their accents were Scottish-a last night on the town for this motley crew before they headed home to their wives and girlfriends in Glasgow, Inverness, Aberdeen…
Two women were gyrating on the small central stage. Another was parading along the top of the bar for the benefit of the lone drinkers seated there. She squatted to allow a five-pound note to be tucked into her G-string, earning the donor a peck on the pockmarked cheek. There was just the one stool left, and Rebus took it. Two dancers emerged from behind a curtain and started working the room. Hard to say if they’d been giving private dances or taking a cigarette break. One started to approach Rebus, her smile evaporating as he shook his head. The barman asked him what he was drinking.
“I’m not,” he said. “Just need to borrow your lighter.” A pair of high heels had stopped in front of him. Their owner wriggled her way down until she was at eye level with him. Rebus broke off lighting his cigarette long enough to tell her he needed a word.
“I’ve a break coming in five minutes,” Molly Clark said. She turned toward the barman. “Ronnie, give my friend here a drink.”
“Fine,” Ronnie answered, “but it’s coming out of your wages.”
She ignored him, stretching herself upright again and treading gingerly toward the other end of the bar.
“Whiskey, thanks, Ronnie,” Rebus said, pocketing the lighter unnoticed, “and I prefer to add my own water.”
Even so, Rebus could have sworn the stuff poured from the bottle had already seen its share of adulteration. He wagged a finger at the barman.
“You want to tell Trading Standards you’ve been here, that’s your business,” Ronnie shot back.
Rebus pushed the drink aside and turned on his stool as though interested in the dancers when actually he was watching the posse of cops. What was it, he wondered, that marked them out? A few had mustaches; all had neat haircuts. Most still wore ties, though their suit jackets were draped over their chairs. Various ages and builds, yet he couldn’t help feeling there was something uniform about them. They acted like a small, separate tribe, slightly at odds with the rest of the world. Moreover, all week they’d been in charge of the capital-saw themselves as conquerors, invincible, all-powerful.
Look on my works…
Had Gareth Tench really seen himself that way too? Rebus thought it was more complex. Tench had known he would fail, but was determined to give it a try all the same. Rebus had considered the outside chance that the councilman had been their killer, his “works” the little gallery of horror in Auchterarder. Determined to rid the world of its monsters-Cafferty included. Killing Cyril Colliar had put Cafferty briefly in the frame. A lazy investigation might have ended there, with Cafferty the chief suspect. Tench had also known Trevor Guest…helps the guy out then is incensed to come across his details on a Web site. Decides he’s been betrayed.
Leaving only Fast Eddie Isley. Nothing to connect Tench to him, and Isley had been the first victim, the one who set the whole train in motion. And now Tench was dead, and they were going to blame it on Keith Carberry.
Who else have you talked to about Gareth Tench?
You’re supposed to be the detective around here…
Or a poor excuse for one. Rebus reached for his drink again, just to give himself something to do. The dancers on the stage looked bored. They wanted to be down on the floor, where this week’s pay was being emptied into peekaboo bras and minuscule thongs. Rebus didn’t doubt there’d be a rotation-they’d get their chance. More men were coming inside, executive types. One of them was grinding to the room’s pounding sound track. He was fifteen pounds overweight and the moves didn’t suit him. But no one was about to ridicule him: that was the whole point of somewhere like the Nook. It was all about the shedding of inhibitions. Rebus couldn’t help thinking back to the 1970s, when most Edinburgh bars had offered a lunchtime stripper. The drinkers would hide their faces behind their pint glasses whenever the dancer looked in their direction. All that reticence had melted away in the course of the intervening decades. The businessmen were yelping encouragement as one of the lap dancers at the police table started doing her stuff, while her victim sat with legs parted, hands on knees, grinning and sweaty-faced.
Molly was standing next to Rebus. He hadn’t noticed her ending her routine. “Give me two minutes to throw a coat on, and I’ll see you outside.” He nodded distractedly.
“Penny for them,” she said, suddenly curious.
“Just thinking about how sex has changed over the years. We used to be such a shy wee nation.”
“And now?”
The dancer was gyrating her hips mere inches from her victim’s nose.
“Now,” Rebus mused, “it’s…well…”
“In your face?” she offered.
He nodded his agreement, and placed the empty glass back on the bar.
She offered him a cigarette from her own pack. She’d wrapped a long black woolen coat around her and was leaning against one of the Nook’s walls, just far enough from the doormen for eavesdropping to be a problem.
“You don’t smoke in the apartment,” Rebus commented.
“Eric’s allergic.”
“It was Eric I wanted to speak to you about, actually.” Rebus was making a show of examining his cigarette’s glowing tip.
“What about him?” She shuffled her feet and Rebus noticed she’d exchanged the stilettos for sneakers.
“When we talked before, you said he knows how you go about earning a wage. You even told me he’d been a customer at one point.”
“And?”
Rebus shrugged. “I don’t really want him getting hurt, which is why I think maybe you should leave him.”
“Leave him?”
“So I don’t have to tell him that you’ve been milking him for inside info, and passing everything he tells you back to your boss. See, I’ve just been talking to Cafferty, and it suddenly clicked. He’s known stuff he shouldn’t, stuff he’s been getting from the inside, and who knows more than someone like Brains?”
She snorted. “You call him Brains…why don’t you start crediting him with some?”
“How do you mean?”
“You think I’m the big bad hooker, wheedling stuff out of the poor sap.” She rubbed a finger across her top lip.
“I’d go a bit further actually-seems to me you’re only living with Eric because Cafferty tells you to-probably feeds that coke habit of yours to make it all worthwhile. First time we met, I thought it was just nerves.”
She didn’t bother denying it.
“Soon as Eric stops being useful,” Rebus went on, “you’ll drop him like a stone. My advice is to do that right now.”
“Like I said, Rebus, Eric’s no idiot. He’s known all along what the score is.”
Rebus narrowed his eyes. “In the apartment, you said you stopped him taking job offers-how will he feel when he finds out that was because he’d be no use to your boss in the private sector?”
“He tells me stuff because he wants to,” she went on, “and he knows damned fine where it’ll end up.”
“Classic honey trap,” Rebus muttered.
“Once you get a taste…” she said teasingly.
“You’re still going to walk away from him,” he demanded.
“Or what?” Her eyes burned into him. “You’ll go tell him something he already knows?”
“Sooner or later, Cafferty’s walking the plank-you really want to be there with him?”
“I’m a good swimmer.”
“It’s not water you’ll end up in, Molly-it’s jail. Time inside will play havoc with those looks, I guarantee it. See, slipping confidential info to a criminal is just about as serious as it gets.”
“You sell me out, Rebus, Eric gets sold out, too. So much for protecting him.”
“Price has to be paid.” Rebus flicked away the remains of the cigarette. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll be talking to him. Your bags had better be packed.”
“What if Mr. Cafferty doesn’t agree?”
“He will. Once your cover’s blown, CID could be feeding you any amount of manure dressed as caviar. Cafferty takes one bite, and we’ve got him.”
Her eyes were still fixed on his. “So why aren’t you doing that?”
“Sting operation means telling the brass…and that really would be the end of Eric’s career. You walk away now, I get Eric back. Too many lives shat on by your boss, Molly. I just want a few of them sluiced down.” He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, opened the pack, and offered her one. “So what do you say?”
“Time’s up,” one of the doormen called, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Clients three-deep in there.”
She looked at Rebus. “Time’s up,” she echoed, turning toward the backstage door. Rebus watched her go, lit himself another cigarette, and decided the walk home across the Meadows would do him good.
His phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. He picked it up from the chair.
“Rebus,” he said.
“It’s me,” Ellen Wylie said. “What the hell’s been happening?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had Siobhan on the phone. I don’t know what you’ve been saying to her, but she’s in a hell of a state.”
“Gareth Tench is dead.”
“It was me who told you, remember?”
“She thinks she should take some of the blame.”
“I tried telling her she’s crazy.”
“That’ll have helped.” Rebus started turning on the lights. He wanted them all on-not just the living room, but the hall and the kitchen, the bathroom and his bedroom.
“She sounded pretty pissed off with you.”
“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”
“I spent twenty minutes calming her down!” Wylie yelled. “Don’t you dare start accusing me of enjoying any of this!”
“Sorry, Ellen.” Rebus meant it, too. He sat on the edge of the bath, shoulders slumped, phone tucked in against his chin.
“We’re all tired, John, that’s the trouble.”
“I think my troubles go just that little bit deeper, Ellen.”
“So go beat yourself up about it-wouldn’t be the first time.”
He puffed air from his cheeks. “So what’s the bottom line with Siobhan?”
“Maybe give her a day to calm down. I told her she should drive up to T in the Park, let off some steam.”
“Not a bad idea.” Except that his own weekend plans included the Borders…looked like he’d be heading south unaccompanied. No way he could invite Ellen-didn’t want it getting back to Siobhan.
“At least we can rule Tench out as a suspect,” Wylie was saying.
“Maybe.”
“Siobhan said you’d be arresting some kid from Niddrie?”
“Probably already in custody.”
“So it has nothing to do with the Clootie Well or BeastWatch?”
“Coincidence, that’s all.”
“So what happens now?”
“Your notion of a weekend break sounds good. Everybody’s back to work on Monday…we can organize a proper murder inquiry.”
“You won’t be needing me then?”
“There’s a place for you if you want it, Ellen. You’ve got a whole forty-eight hours to think it over.”
“Thanks, John.”
“But do me a favor…give Siobhan a call tomorrow. Let her know I’m worried.”
“Worried and sorry?”
“I’ll leave the wording to you. Night, Ellen.” He ended the call and studied his face in the bathroom mirror. He was surprised not to see scourge marks and raw flesh. Looked much the same as ever: sallow and needing a shave, hair unkempt, bags under his eyes. He gave his cheeks a few slaps and headed through to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee-black; the milk had decided it was sour-and ended up seated at the dining table in the living room. The same faces stared down at him from his walls:
Cyril Colliar.
Trevor Guest.
Edward Isley.
He knew that on TV the main topic would still be the London bombs. Experts would be debating What Could Have Been Done and What to Do Next. All other news would have been pushed aside. Yet he still had his three unsolved murders-which were actually Siobhan’s now that he thought of it. Chief constable had put her in charge. Then there was Ben Webster, receding into obscurity with each turn of the news cycle.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting…
Nobody but the dead.
He rested his head on his folded arms. Saw the well-fed Cafferty descending that million-pound staircase. Saw Siobhan falling for his tricks. Saw Cyril Colliar doing his dirty work and Keith Carberry doing his dirty work and Molly and Eric Bain doing his dirty work. Cafferty coming downstairs, perfumed from the shower, smelling sweeter than any nosegay.
Cafferty the mobster knew Steelforth’s name.
Cafferty the author had met Richard Pennen.
Who else…?
Who else have you talked to…?
Cafferty with his tongue protruding…Maybe Siobhan herself…
No, not Siobhan. Rebus had seen the way she acted at the murder scene-she hadn’t known a thing.
Which didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted it to happen. Hadn’t wished it into existence by letting her eyes meet Cafferty’s for just that second too long. Rebus heard a plane climbing into the sky from the west. There weren’t many late flights out of Edinburgh. He wondered if maybe it was Tony Blair or some of his minions. Thank you, Scotland, and good night. The summit would have enjoyed the best the country had to offer-scenery, whiskey, ambience, food. The morsels turning to ash as that red London bus exploded. And meantime three bad men had died…and one good man-Ben Webster-and one Rebus wasn’t sure about even now. Gareth Tench might have been acting from the best of motives, but with his conscience hammered into submission by circumstance.
Or he could have been on the cusp of wrenching away Cafferty’s tarnished crown.
Rebus doubted he would ever know for sure. He stared at the phone lying in front of him on the dining table. Seven digits and he’d be connected to Siobhan’s apartment. Seven tiny points of pressure on the keypad. How could something be so difficult?
“What makes you think she’s not better off without you?” he found himself asking the silver lozenge. It replied with a bleep, and his head twitched upward. He snatched at it, but all it was trying to tell him was that its battery was low.
“No lower than mine,” he muttered, rising slowly to his feet to seek out the charger. He’d just plugged it in when it rang: Mairie Henderson.
“Evening, Mairie,” Rebus said.
“John? Where are you?”
“At home. What’s the problem?”
“Can I e-mail you something? It’s the story I’m writing on Richard Pennen.”
“You need my proofreading skills?”
“I just want-”
“What’s happened, Mairie?”
“I had a run-in with three of Pennen’s goons. They were wearing uniforms, but they were no more cops than I am.”
Rebus eased himself down onto the arm of his chair. “One of them called Jacko?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve met them, too. What happened?”
She told him, adding her suspicion that they might have spent time in Iraq.
“And now you’re scared?” Rebus guessed. “That’s why you want to make sure there are copies of your piece?”
“I’m sending out a few…”
“But not to other journalists, right?”
“Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”
“No copyright on scandal,” Rebus agreed. “Do you want to take things any further?”
“How do you mean?”
“You were right the first time-impersonating a cop is a serious matter.”
“Once I’ve filed my copy, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure, but thanks for asking.”
“If you need me, Mairie, you’ve got my number.”
“Thanks, John. Good night.”
She ended the call and left him staring at his phone. The charge symbol came on again, the battery taking its little sips of electricity. Rebus walked to the dining table and switched on his laptop. Plugged the cable into the phone socket and managed to get himself online. It never ceased to amaze him when it actually worked. Her e-mail was waiting for him. He clicked to download it and added her story to one of his folders, hoping he’d be able to find it again. There was another e-mail, this time from Stan Hackman.
Better late than never, it read. Here I am back in the Toon and about to hit a few nightspots. Just time to let you know about our Trev. Interview notes say he moved to Coldstream for a time-don’t say why or for how long. Hope this helps. Your pal, Stan.
Coldstream-same place as the man he’d had the fight with outside Swany’s on Ratcliffe Terrace…
“Clickety-click,” Rebus said to himself, deciding he was owed a drink.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
Only a week since Rebus had walked down to the Meadows and found all those people there, dressed in white.
A long time in politics, so the saying went. Every moment of every day, life moved on. The hordes of people making the pilgrimage north today would be headed for the outskirts of Kinross and T in the Park. Sports fans would venture farther west, to Loch Lomond and the final rounds of the Scottish Open golf championship. Rebus figured his own route south would take under two hours, but there were a couple of detours first-Slateford Road to start with. He sat in the idling car, staring up at the windows of the converted warehouse. Thought he could tell Eric Bain’s flat. The curtains were open. Rebus was playing the Elbow CD again, the singer comparing the leaders of the free world to kids chucking stones. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Bain himself shambling into view, returning from the corner shop. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. His shirt wasn’t tucked in. He carried a carton of milk and wore a dazed expression. In most people, Rebus might have put it down to tiredness. He rolled down his window and sounded the horn. Bain took a second or two to recognize him and crossed the road toward the car.
“Thought that was you,” Rebus stated. Bain said nothing, just nodded, mind elsewhere. “She’s left you then?” This seemed to focus Bain’s thoughts.
“Left a message saying someone would come by to pick up her stuff.”
Rebus nodded. “Get in, Eric. We need to have a little chat.”
But Bain stood his ground. “How did you know?”
“Talk to anyone, Eric, they’ll tell you I’m the last one who should be giving relationship advice-” Rebus paused. “On the other hand, we can’t have you passing inside information to Big Ger Cafferty.”
Bain stared at him. “You…?”
“I had a word with Molly last night. If she’s scampered, that means she’d rather keep working at the Nook than stay shacked up with you.”
“I don’t…I’m not sure I…” Bain’s eyes widened as though lit by a jolt of caffeine. The milk carton fell from his grasp. His hands reached in through the window and found Rebus’s throat. His teeth were bared with the effort. Rebus pushed himself back toward the passenger seat, one hand scrabbling at Bain’s fingers, the other finding the window button. Up went the glass, trapping Bain. Rebus slid all the way over to the passenger side and exited the car. Walked around to where Bain was extracting his arms from the door frame. As Bain turned, Rebus kneed him in the crotch, sending him down onto his knees in the widening pool of milk. Rebus swung a punch at Bain’s chin and sent him onto his back. Straddled him, holding his shirt by its open collar.
“Your fault, Eric, not mine. One whiff of pussy and you start spilling your guts. And according to your ‘girlfriend’ you were delighted to oblige, even after you’d figured out it wasn’t just natural curiosity on her part. Made you feel important, did it? That’s the reason most informers start gabbing.”
Bain wasn’t putting up any sort of a struggle, apart from a jerking of his shoulders-and even this fell far short of resistance. In point of fact, he was sobbing, face spattered with droplets of milk, like a kid whose favorite plaything had just been lost. Rebus rose to his feet, straightening his own clothes.
“Get up,” he ordered. But Bain seemed content to lie there, so Rebus hauled him to his feet. “Look at me, Eric,” he said, drawing out a handkerchief and holding it out. “Here, wipe your face.”
Bain did as he was told. There was a bubble of snot swelling from one of his nostrils.
“Now listen,” Rebus ordered. “The deal I made with her was that if she left, we’d let it go at that. Meaning I don’t go telling Fettes about any of this-and you get to keep your job.” Rebus angled his face until Bain met his eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Plenty more jobs.”
“In IT? Sure, and they all love an employee who can’t keep secrets from strippers.”
“I loved her, Rebus.”
“Maybe so, but she was playing you like Clapton with a six-string…What’re you smiling at?”
“I’m named after him…my dad’s a fan.”
“Is that a fact?”
Bain looked up at the sky, his breathing slowing a little. “I really thought she-”
“Cafferty was using you, Eric-end of story. But here’s the thing…” Rebus made sure he had eye contact. “You can’t go near her, you don’t go to the Nook pining for her. She’s sending someone for her stuff because she knows that’s how it works.” Rebus emphasized his point by chopping the air karate-style with his hand.
“You saw her that day in the apartment, Rebus. She must’ve liked me at least a little bit.”
“Keep thinking that if you like…just don’t go asking her. If I hear you’re trying to contact her, don’t think I won’t tell Corbyn.”
Bain mumbled something Rebus didn’t catch. He asked him to repeat it. Bain’s eyes drilled into him.
“It wasn’t about Cafferty at the start.”
“Whatever you say, Eric. But it was about him eventually…trust me on that.”
Bain was silent for a few moments. He stared down at the pavement. “I need more milk.”
“Best get yourself cleaned up first. Look, I’m heading out of town. You’re going to spend all day turning this over-what if I give you a ring tomorrow, you can let me know the score?”
Bain nodded slowly, tried handing Rebus back his handkerchief.
“You can keep that,” he was advised. “Got a friend you can talk to?”
“On the Net,” Bain said.
“Whatever works.” Rebus patted his shoulder. “Are you okay now? I need to get going.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good boy.” Rebus took a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for what I did, Eric…but I’m sorry you had to get hurt.”
Bain nodded again. “It’s me who should-”
But Rebus silenced him with a shake of the head. “All in the past now. Just got to pick yourself up and move on.”
“No use crying over spilled milk?” Bain offered with an attempt at a smile.
“Been trying my damnedest not to say it these past ten minutes,” Rebus admitted. “Go stick your head under the shower, wash it all away.”
“Might not be that easy,” Bain said quietly.
Rebus nodded agreement. “But all the same…it’s a start.”
Siobhan had spent a good forty minutes soaking in the bath. Normally, she only had time for a shower in the morning, but today she was determined to pamper herself. About a third of a bottle of Space NK bath foam, and a big glass of fresh orange juice. BBC 6 music on her digital radio and her cell phone switched off. The ticket to T in the Park was on the sofa in the living room, next to a list of things she would need-bottled water and snacks, her fleece, suntan lotion (well, you never could tell). Last night she’d been on the verge of calling Bobby Greig and offering him her ticket. But why should she? If she didn’t go, she’d just end up slouched on the sofa with the TV playing. Ellen Wylie had called first thing, told her she’d been talking to Rebus.
“He’s sorry,” Ellen had reported.
“Sorry for what?”
“For anything and everything.”
“Nice of him to tell you instead of me.”
“My fault,” Ellen had admitted. “I said he should leave you in peace for a day or so.”
“Thanks. How’s Denise?”
“Still in bed. So what’s the plan for today? Bopping yourself into a sweat at Kinross, or would you rather we go somewhere and drown all our sorrows?”
“I’ll bear that offer in mind. But I think you’re right-Kinross might be just what I need.”
Not that she’d be staying the night. Although her ticket was valid for both days, she’d had quite enough of the outdoors life. She wondered if the dope dealer from Stirling would be there, plying his trade. Maybe this time she would decide to indulge, break yet another rule. She knew plenty of officers who did a bit of pot; had heard rumors of some who even did coke at weekends. All kinds of ways to unwind. She considered the options, and decided she’d better pack a couple of condoms, just in case she did end up in someone’s tent. She knew two women PCs who were heading to the festival. They were hoping to rendezvous with her by text message. A wild pair they were, with a crush on the front men with the Killers and Keane. They were already in Kinross-wanted to be sure of a place front of stage.
“You better text us when you get there,” they’d warned Siobhan. “Leave it too long, we might be in a sorry state.”
Sorry…
For anything and everything.
But what had he to feel sorry about? Had he sat in the Bentley GT and listened to Cafferty’s plan? Had he climbed those stairs with Keith Carberry and stood with him as Cafferty held court? She screwed shut her eyes and ducked her head beneath the surface of the bathwater.
I’m to blame, she thought. The words kept bouncing around the inside of her skull. Gareth Tench…so vividly alive, voice booming…charismatic like all the best showmen-just “happening along” to chase Carberry and his pals away, proving to the outside world that he was the only man for the job. A bravura con trick, finessing grant aid for his constituents. Larger than life and seemingly indefatigable…and now lying cold and naked in one of the drawers at the city morgue, turned into a series of incisions and statistics.
Someone had told her once: an inch-long blade was all it took. A single slender inch of tempered steel could knock the whole world out of kilter.
She heaved herself up into daylight, spluttering and wiping the hair and suds from her face. She’d thought she could hear a phone ringing, but there was nothing, just a floorboard creaking in the apartment upstairs. Rebus had told her to stay away from Cafferty, and he was right. If she lost it in front of Cafferty, she’d be the loser.
But then she was already the loser, wasn’t she?
“And so much fun to be around,” she muttered to herself, rising to a crouch and stretching out a hand toward the nearest towel.
It didn’t take her long to pack-same bag she’d taken with her to Stirling. And even though she wouldn’t be staying the night, she dropped in her toothbrush and toothpaste anyway. Maybe once she was in the car, she’d just keep on driving. If she ran out of land, she could always take a ferry to Orkney. That was the thing about a car-it gave the illusion of freedom. The ads always played on that sense of adventure and discovery, but in her case ” would be more accurate.
“Not doing that,” she explained to the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand. She’d said as much to Rebus, told him she could take her own medicine.
Not that Cafferty was medicine-more like poison.
She knew the route she should take: go see James Corbyn and tell him how badly she’d messed up, then end up back in uniform as a result.
“I’m a good copper,” she told the mirror, trying to imagine how she would explain it to her dad…her dad who’d become so proud of her. And to her mother, who’d told her it didn’t matter.
Didn’t matter who’d hit her.
And just why had it mattered so much to Siobhan? Not really because of the anger at thinking it might be another cop, but because she could use it to prove she was good at her job.
“A good cop,” she repeated quietly. And then, wiping steam from the mirror: “Despite all the evidence to the contrary.”
Second and final detour: Craigmillar police station. McManus was already at work.
“Conscientious,” Rebus said, walking into the CID office. There was no else about as yet. McManus was dressed casually-sports shirt and denims.
“What does that make you?” McManus asked, wetting a finger so he could turn the page of the report he was reading.
“Autopsy results?” Rebus guessed.
McManus nodded. “I’m just back.”
“Déjà vu all over again,” Rebus commented. “I was in your shoes last Saturday-Ben Webster.”
“No wonder Professor Gates looked miffed-two Saturdays in a row.”
By now Rebus was standing next to McManus’s desk. “Any conclusions?”
“Serrated knife, seven eighths of an inch in width. Gates figures you’d find them in most kitchens.”
“He’s right. Is Keith Carberry still on the premises?”
“You know the drill, Rebus: after six hours, we charge or throw out.”
“Meaning you’ve not charged him?”
McManus looked up from the report. “He denies any involvement. Even has an alibi-he was playing pool at the time, seven or eight witnesses.”
“All of them doubtless good friends of his.”
McManus just shrugged. “Plenty of knives in his mum’s kitchen, but no sign any of them’s missing. We’ve lifted the lot for analysis.”
“And Carberry’s clothes?”
“Went through those, too. No traces of blood.”
“Meaning they’ve been disposed of, same as the knife.”
McManus leaned back in his chair. “Whose investigation is this, Rebus?”
Rebus held up his hands in surrender. “Just thinking aloud. Who was it interviewed Carberry?”
“I did it myself.”
“You think he’s guilty?”
“He seemed genuinely shocked when we told him about Tench. But just behind those nasty blue eyes of his, I thought I could see something else.”
“What?”
“He was scared.”
“Because he’d been found out?”
McManus shook his head. “Scared to say anything.”
Rebus turned away, not wanting McManus to see anything behind his eyes. Say Carberry didn’t do it…was Cafferty himself suddenly in the frame again? The young man scared because that was his thinking, too…and if Cafferty had struck at Tench, would Keith himself be next?
“Did you ask him about tailing the councilman?”
“Admitted waiting for him. Said he wanted to thank him.”
“For what?” Rebus turned to face McManus again.
“Moral support after he was bailed for fighting.”
Rebus gave a snort. “You believe that?”
“Not necessarily, but it wasn’t grounds to hold him indefinitely.” McManus paused. “Thing is…when we told him he could go, he was reluctant-tried not to show it, but he was. Looked to left and right as he walked out of the door, as though expecting something. Fairly hared away, too.” McManus paused again. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Rebus?”
Rebus nodded. “Hare rather than fox.”
“Along those lines, yes. Makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I’d still have him down as a suspect.”
“Agreed.” McManus rose from his chair, fixed Rebus with a look. “But is he the only one we should be speaking to?”
“Councilmen make enemies,” Rebus stated.
“According to the widow, Tench counted you among them.”
“She’s mistaken.”
McManus ignored this and concentrated on folding his arms instead. “She also thinks the family home was being watched-not by Keith Carberry though. Description she gave was a silver-haired man in a big, posh car. Does that sound to you like Big Ger Cafferty?”
Rebus shrugged a reply.
“Another little story I hear…” McManus was approaching Rebus. “Concerns you and a man answering that same description at a meeting in a church hall, just a few days back. The councilman had a few words with this third man. Care to enlighten me?”
He was close enough for Rebus to feel his breath on his cheek. “Case like this,” he speculated, “you’ll always get stories.”
McManus just smiled. “I’ve never had a case like this, Rebus. Gareth Tench was loved and admired-plenty of friends of his out there, angry at their loss and wanting answers. Some of them packing all sorts of clout…clout they’ve promised to share with me.”
“That’s nice for you.”
“An offer I’d find it very hard to refuse,” McManus went on. “Meaning this might be the only chance I’ll be able to give.” He took a step back. “So, DI Rebus, having apprised you of the situation…is there anything at all you want to tell me?”
There was no way to land Cafferty in it without embroiling Siobhan. Before he could do anything, he had to be sure she’d be safe.
“Don’t think so,” he said, folding his own arms. McManus nodded toward the gesture.
“Sure sign you’ve got something to hide.”
“Really?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. “How about you then?” He turned and headed for the door, leaving McManus to wonder just when it was exactly that he’d decided to fold his own arms.
Nice day for a drive, even if he spent half the journey behind a truck. South to Dalkeith and from there to Coldstream. At Dun Law, he passed a wind farm, turbines on either side of the road-it was as close as he’d ever come to them. Sheep and cattle grazing, and plenty of roadkill: pheasants and hares. Birds of prey hovering overhead, or peering intently from fence posts. Fifty miles and he hit Coldstream, passed through the town and over a bridge, finding himself suddenly in England. A road sign told him he was only sixty miles north of Newcastle. He turned at a hotel parking lot and headed back across the border, parking curbside. There was a police station, cleverly disguised as just another gabled house with a blue wooden door. The sign told him it was only open weekdays, nine till twelve. Coldstream’s main drag was dominated by bars and small shops. Day-trippers took up most of the space on the narrow pavements. A single-decker bus from Lesmahagow was pouring out its chatty cargo at the Ram’s Head. Rebus beat them inside and demanded a half of Best. Looking around, he saw that the tables had been reserved for lunch. There were sandwiches behind the bar, and he asked for cheese and pickle.
“We’ve soup, too,” the barmaid informed him. “Cock-a-leekie.”
“Canned?”
She gave a tut. “Would I poison you with that muck?”
“Go on then,” he said with a smile. She called his order out to the kitchen and he gave his spine a stretch, rolling his shoulders and neck.
“Where are you off to?” she asked on her return.
“I’m already there,” he replied, but before he could get a conversation going the tour-bus party started swarming in. She called out again to the kitchen and a waitress emerged, notepad in hand. The chef himself, ruddy-faced and wide of girth, delivered Rebus’s soup. He rolled his eyes as he calculated the average age of the new arrivals.
“Guess how many will want steak pie,” he said.
“All of them,” Rebus decided.
“And the goat cheese and filo starter?”
“Not a hope,” Rebus confirmed, unwrapping his spoon from its paper napkin. There was golf on TV. Looked breezy up at Loch Lomond. Rebus searched in vain for salt and pepper, then found that the soup needed neither. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt came and stood next to him. He was mopping his face with a vast handkerchief. What hair he possessed was slicked back from his forehead.
“Warm one,” he announced.
“Are those your lot?” Rebus said, indicating the throng at the tables.
“I’m theirs, more like,” the man stated. “Never seen so many backseat drivers.” He shook his head and begged the barmaid for a pint of orange and lemonade with plenty of ice. She winked as she placed it in front of him-no payment necessary. Rebus knew the score: by bringing his bus parties here, the driver was on freebies for life. The man seemed to read his mind.
“Way the world turns,” he confessed.
Rebus just nodded. Who was to say the G8 didn’t operate in much the same way? He asked the driver what Lesmahagow was like.
“Sort of place that makes a day out to Coldstream an attractive proposition.” He risked a glance toward his party. There was some sort of dispute over the seating plan. “I swear to God, the UN would have trouble with this crowd.” He gulped his drink. “You weren’t in Edinburgh last week, were you?”
“I work there.”
The driver feigned a wince. “I had twenty-seven Chinese tourists. Arrived by train from London on Saturday morning. Could I get anywhere near the station to pick them up? Could I buggery. And guess where they were staying? The Sheraton on Lothian Road. More security there than Barlinnie. On the Tuesday, we were halfway to Rosslyn Chapel when I realized we’d taken one of the Japanese delegates with us by mistake.” The driver started chuckling, and Rebus joined him. Christ, it felt good…
“So you’re just down for the day?” the man asked. Rebus nodded. “Some nice walks, if the fancy takes you…but you don’t seem the type.”
“You’re a good judge of character.”
“Comes with the job.” He gave a slight jerk of his head. “See that group back there? I could tell you right now which ones will tip at day’s end, and even how much they’ll give.”
Rebus tried to look impressed. “Buy you another?” The man’s pint glass was empty.
“Better not. I’ll just need a pit stop halfway through the afternoon, and that means most of them will follow suit. Might take half an hour to get them on board again.” The driver offered his hand for Rebus to shake. “Nice talking to you though.”
“You, too,” Rebus said, returning the firm grip. He watched the driver head for the door. A couple of elderly women cooed and waved, but he pretended not to have noticed. Rebus decided another half of Best was in order. The chance encounter had cheered him, because it was a taste of another life, a world running almost parallel to the one he inhabited.
The ordinary. The everyday. Conversation for its own sake. No search for motives or secrets.
Normality.
The barmaid was placing a fresh glass in front of him. “You look a bit better,” she stated. “When you came in, I wasn’t sure what to make of you. Looked as likely to throw a punch as blow a kiss.”
“Therapy,” he explained, lifting the glass. The waitress had finally worked out what each customer wanted, and was fleeing to the kitchen before minds could be changed again.
“So what brings you to Coldstream?” the barmaid continued to probe.
“I’m CID, Lothian and Borders. Doing background on a murder victim, name of Trevor Guest. He was from Newcastle, but lived round here a few years back.”
“I can’t say I know the name.”
“Might have been using another one.” Rebus held up a photo of Guest, taken around the time of his trial. She peered at it-needed spectacles but didn’t like the thought of them. Then she shook her head.
“Sorry, dear,” she apologized.
“Anyone else I could show it to? Maybe the chef?” So she took the photograph from him and disappeared behind the partition, toward the clanking sound of pots and bowls being moved. She was back less than a minute later, handed the photo back to him.
“To be fair,” she said, “Rab’s only been in town since last autumn. You say this guy was from Newcastle? Why would he come here?”
“Newcastle might’ve been getting too hot for him,” Rebus explained. “He didn’t always stay on the right side of the law.” Seemed glaringly obvious to him now-much more likely that whatever had changed Guest, it had happened in Newcastle itself. If fleeing, you might want to dodge the A1-too obvious. You could branch off at Morpeth onto a road that led you straight here. “I suppose,” he said, “it’s too much to ask you to cast your mind back four or five years. No spate of housebreakings locally?”
She shook her head. Some of the bus party had made it as far as the bar. They carried with them a jotted order list.
“Three halfs of lager, one lager and lime-Arthur, go check if that’s a half or a whole-a ginger ale, Advocaat and lemonade-ask if she wants ice in the Advocaat, Arthur! No, hang on, it’s two halfs of lager and a beer and lemonade…”
Rebus drained his drink and mouthed to the barmaid that he’d be back. He meant it, too-if not this trip, then some other time. Trevor Guest might have dragged him here, but it would be the Ram’s Head that brought him back. It was only when he was outside that he remembered he’d not asked about Duncan Barclay. He walked past a couple of shops and stopped at the newsdealer’s, went inside, and showed the photo of Trevor Guest. A shake of his head from the proprietor, who went on to say that he’d lived in the town all his life. Rebus then tried him with the name Duncan Barclay. This time he got a nod.
“Moved away a few years back though. A lot of the young folk do.”
“Any idea where?”
Another shake of the head. Rebus thanked him and moved on. There was a grocer’s, but he drew a blank there-the young female assistant only worked Saturdays, told him he might have more luck on Monday morning. Same story down the rest of that side of the street. Antique shop, hairdresser’s, tearoom, charity shop…Only one other person knew of Duncan Barclay.
“Still see him around.”
“He’s not moved far then?” Rebus asked.
“Kelso, I think.”
Next town along. Rebus paused for a moment in the afternoon sunshine and wondered why his blood was coursing. Answer: he was working. Old-fashioned, dogged police work-almost as good as a vacation. But then he noticed that his final destination was another pub, and this one didn’t look half as welcoming.
It was a far more basic affair than the Ram’s Head. A floor of faded red linoleum, pocked with cigarette burns. A frayed dartboard frequented by two equally frayed-looking drinkers. Three senior citizens hammering out a game of dominoes at a corner table. All of it shrouded in a cigarette haze. The color on the TV seemed to be bleeding, and even at this distance Rebus could tell that beyond the door to the men’s room the urinal needed cleaning. He felt his spirits dip, but realized this was probably more Trevor Guest’s sort of place. Problem was, that very fact meant his queries were less likely to yield a helpful smile. The barman had a nose like a chewed tomato-a real boozer’s face, etched with scars and nicks, each one hinting at a story for late at night. Rebus knew his own face contained a few explicit chapters of its own. He hardened his whole demeanor as he approached the bar.
“Pint of heavy.” No way he could ask for a half in a place like this. He already had his cigarettes out. “Ever see Duncan these days?” he asked the barman.
“Who?”
“Duncan Barclay.”
“Don’t seem to know the name. In trouble, is he?”
“Not especially.” One question in and already he’d been exposed. “I’m a detective inspector,” he declared.
“You don’t say?”
“Couple of questions I need to ask Duncan.”
“Doesn’t live here.”
“Moved to Kelso, right?” The barman just shrugged. “So which boozer does he now call home?” The barman had yet to make eye contact. “Look at me,” Rebus persisted, “and tell me I’m in the mood for this shit. Go on, do it!”
The sound of chairs scraping against floor as the old-timers got to their feet. Rebus half turned toward them.
“Still game, eh?” he said with a grin. “But I’m looking into three murders.” The grin vanished as he held up three fingers. “Any of you want to become part of that investigation, just keep standing.” He paused long enough for them to lower themselves back into their seats. “Clever boys,” he said. Then, to the barman: “Whereabouts in Kelso will I find him?”
“You could ask Debbie,” the barman muttered. “She always had a wee crush on him.”
“And where would I find Debbie?”
“Saturdays, she works in the grocery.”
Rebus pretended this was fine. He took out the creased and print-smeared photograph of Trevor Guest.
“Years back,” the barman admitted. “Buggered off back south, I heard.”
“You heard wrong-he headed for Edinburgh. Got a name for him?”
“Wanted to be called Clever Trevor-never quite saw why.”
Probably after the Ian Dury song, Rebus mused. “He drank in here?”
“Not for long-barred him for taking a swing.”
“He lived in the town though?”
The barman shook his head slowly. “Kelso, I think,” he said. Then he started nodding. “Definitely Kelso.”
Meaning Guest had lied to the cops in Newcastle. Rebus was starting to get a bad feeling. He left the pub without bothering to pay. Thought he’d played it just about right. Took him a few minutes outside to let the tension ebb. Tracked back to the grocer’s, and the Saturday girl-Debbie. She could see straightaway that he knew. Opened her mouth and began another version, but he waved a hand in front of her and she stuttered to a halt. Then he leaned across the counter, knuckles pressed down on it.
“So what can you tell me about Duncan Barclay?” he asked. “We can either do it here, or in a cop-shop in Edinburgh-your decision.”
She had the good grace to start blushing. In fact, her color became so heightened, he thought maybe she would burst like a balloon.
“He lives in a cottage down Carlingnose Lane.”
“In Kelso?”
She managed a slow nod. Put a hand to her forehead as though she felt dizzy. “But as long as there’s still light in the sky, he’s usually out in the woods.”
“The woods?”
“Behind the cottage.”
Woods. What had the psychologist said? Woods might be important.
“How long have you known him, Debbie?”
“Three…maybe four years.”
“He’s older than you?”
“Twenty-two,” she confirmed.
“And you’re…what? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Nineteen next birthday.”
“The two of you are an item?”
Bad choice of question: her color deepened further. Rebus had known paler blackberries. “We’re just friends…I don’t even see him that much these days.”
“What does he do?”
“Wood carvings-bowls and stuff. Sells them in the galleries in Edinburgh.”
“Artistic type, eh? Good with his hands?”
“He’s brilliant.”
“Nice sharp tools?”
She started to answer, but then stopped. “He hasn’t done anything!” she cried.
“Have I said he has?” Rebus tried to sound peeved. “What makes you think that?”
“He doesn’t trust you!”
“Me?” Now Rebus sounded confused.
“All of you!”
“Been in trouble before, has he?”
She shook her head slowly. “You don’t understand,” she said quietly. Her eyes were growing moist. “He said you wouldn’t…”
“Debbie?”
She burst out crying, and pulled open the hatch, emerging from behind the counter. She had her arms stretched out, and he did the same.
But she darted beneath them. And by the time he’d turned, she was at the door, hauling it open so its chimes rattled a complaint.
“Debbie!” he called. But when he got to the pavement, she was halfway down the street. He cursed under his breath, and realized that a woman toting an empty wicker basket was standing next to him. He reached back behind the door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. “Half-day on Saturday,” he told her.
“Since when?” she spluttered in outraged tones.
“Okay,” he conceded, “then let’s say it’s self-serve…just leave your money on the counter.” He pushed past her and headed for his car.
Siobhan felt like the specter at the feast: the crowd jostling her as it bounced on its toes. Off-key sing-alongs. Flags of all nations obscuring her view. Sweary, sweaty neds and nedettes dancing reels with college Henrys and Henriettas, cheap beer and cider spuming from shared cans. Pizza crusts slippery underfoot. And the bands performing on a stage a quarter mile away. Constant lines for the toilets. She allowed herself a small smile as she remembered her backstage pass at the Final Push. She’d dutifully texted her two friends, but so far without reply. Everybody looked so happy and boisterous, and she could feel none of it. All she could think about were:
Cafferty
Gareth Tench
Keith Carberry
Cyril Colliar
Trevor Guest
Edward Isley
She’d been entrusted by her own chief constable with a major case. A result would have been a big step toward promotion. But she’d been sideswiped by the assault on her mother. Finding the attacker had become all-consuming, throwing her too close to Cafferty. She knew she had to focus, had to get involved again. Monday morning, the investigation proper would be up and running-probably under DCI Macrae and DI Derek Starr-a team organized, as much manpower as was necessary.
And she’d been suspended. Only thing she could do was track down Corbyn and apologize…persuade him to let her back in. He would want her to swear she wouldn’t let Rebus anywhere near, all ties severed. The thought gave her pause. Sixty-forty chance she’d agree if asked. A new band had taken the main stage, and someone had turned the volume up. She checked her phone for texts.
One missed call.
She studied the caller’s number: Eric Bain.
“Last bloody thing I need,” she told herself. He’d left a message, but she wasn’t about to listen to it. Stuck the phone back in her pocket and pulled a fresh bottle of water from her bag. Sweet smell of dope wafting over her, but no sign of the dealer from Camp Horizon. The young men on the stage were working hard, but there was too much treble to their sound. Siobhan moved farther away. Couples were lying on the ground, snogging or staring up at the sky with dreamy smiles on their faces. She realized she was still walking-lacked the will to stop herself-heading for the field where she’d parked her car. New Order was hours away, and she knew she wouldn’t be coming back for them. What was waiting for her in Edinburgh? Maybe she would phone Rebus and tell him she was starting to forgive. Maybe she’d just find herself a wine bar and a chilled bottle of chardonnay, sit there with notebook and pen, rehearsing the speech she’d give the chief constable on Monday morning.
If I let you back on the team, there’s no room for your partner in crime-understood, DS Clarke?
Understood, sir. And I really do appreciate this.
And you agree to my terms? Well, DS Clarke? A simple yes will suffice.
Except that there was nothing simple about it.
Back onto the M90, heading south this time. Twenty minutes and she was at the Forth Road Bridge. No more vehicle searches; everything the way it had been before the G8. On the outskirts of Edinburgh, Siobhan realized she was near Cramond. She decided she would drop in on Ellen Wylie, thank her in person for listening to the previous night’s rant. She turned left down Whitehouse Road, parked outside the house. There was no answer. Called Ellen’s cell.
“It’s Shiv,” she said when Ellen answered. “I was going to bum a coffee off you.”
“We’re out walking.”
“I can hear the stream…are you just behind the house?”
There was silence on the line. Then: “Later would be better.”
“Well, I’m right here.”
“I thought maybe a drink in town…just you and me.”
“Sounds good.” But a frown had crept across Siobhan’s face. Wylie seemed almost to sense this.
“Look,” she said, “maybe a quick cup of coffee then…see you in five.”
Rather than wait, Siobhan walked to the end of the terrace and down a short path to the River Almond. Ellen and Denise had been as far as the ruined mill but were heading back. Ellen waved, but Denise didn’t seem so keen. She was gripping her sister’s arm. Just you and me…
Denise Wylie was shorter and thinner than her sister. Teenage fears about her weight had left her with a starved look. Her skin was gray, the hair mousy brown and lifeless. She refused to meet Siobhan’s eyes.
“Hiya, Denise,” Siobhan said anyway, receiving a grunt in reply. Ellen, on the other hand, seemed almost unnaturally buoyed, talking twenty to the dozen as they made their way back to the house.
“Go through to the garden,” Ellen insisted, “and I’ll stick the kettle on-or a glass of beer if you’d prefer-but you’re driving, aren’t you? Show wasn’t up to much then? Or did you not go in the end? I’m way past the age of going to watch pop groups-though I’d change my mind for Coldplay-even then I’d want to be sitting. Standing all day in a field? Isn’t that what scarecrows and potato pickers do? Are you upstairs, Denise? Shall I bring you a cup up?” Wylie emerged from the kitchen to place a plate of shortbread on the table. “You all right there, Shiv? Water’s boiling, can’t remember what you take in it.”
“Just milk.” Siobhan peered up at the bedroom window. “Is Denise all right?” At that moment, Wylie’s sister appeared behind the glass, eyes widening as she caught Siobhan staring at her. She yanked the curtains shut. Despite the clammy day, the window itself was closed, too.
“She’ll be fine,” Wylie said, dismissing the question with a flick of her hand.
“And what about you?”
Wylie gave a fluttering laugh. “What about me?”
“Pair of you look like you’ve raided the medicine cabinet but found different bottles.”
Another short, sharp laugh and Wylie retreated to the kitchen. Siobhan rose slowly from the hardwood chair and followed her, pausing at the threshold.
“Have you told her?” she asked quietly.
“About what?” Wylie opened the fridge and found the milk, but then started searching for a jug.
“Gareth Tench-does she know he’s dead?” The words almost caught in Siobhan’s throat.
Tench plays away from home…
There’s a colleague of mine, Ellen Wylie…her sister’s…
Skin’s more fragile than most…
“Oh, Christ, Ellen,” she said now, reaching out a hand to grip the doorjamb.
“What’s the matter?”
“You know, don’t you?” Siobhan’s voice was hardly above a whisper.
“You’re not making sense,” Wylie stated, fretting now with the tray, lifting saucers on and then off again.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re-”
“I asked you to look me in the eye.”
Ellen Wylie made the effort, her mouth a thin, determined line.
“You sounded so weird on the phone,” Siobhan told her. “And now all this jabbering while Denise shoots upstairs.”
“I think you should go.”
“You might want to reconsider, Ellen. But before you do, I want to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
Siobhan nodded, keeping her eyes on Wylie. “It was me who told Cafferty. Wouldn’t have been hard for him to get an address. Were you here?” She watched Wylie bow her head.
“He came here, didn’t he?” Siobhan persisted. “Came here and told Denise about Tench still being married. She was still seeing him?”
Wylie was shaking her head slowly. Tears splashed from her cheeks onto the tiled floor.
“Ellen…I’m so sorry.” There it was on the work surface near the sink-a wooden rack of knives, one slot empty. Kitchen spotless, no sign of washing-up anywhere.
“You can’t have her,” Ellen Wylie sobbed, still shaking her head.
“Did you find out this morning? After she got up? It’s bound to come out, Ellen,” Siobhan argued. “Keep denying it, it’ll destroy both of you.” Siobhan remembered Tench’s own words: Passion’s a snarling beast in some men. Yes, and in some women, too.
“You can’t have her,” Ellen Wylie repeated. But the words had taken on a resigned, lifeless sound.
“She’ll get help.” Siobhan had taken a couple of steps into the small, boxy room. She pressed her hand to Ellen Wylie’s arm. “Talk to her, tell her it’ll be all right. You’ll be there for her.”
Wylie rubbed the back of her forearm across her face, smearing the tears. “You’ve no evidence,” she mumbled; lines she’d walked herself through. A scripted denial, prepared for the eventuality.
“Do we need any?” Siobhan asked. “Maybe I should ask Denise-”
“No, please.” Another shake of the head, and eyes that burned into Siobhan’s.
“What are the chances no one saw her, Ellen? Think she won’t pop up somewhere on security tapes? Think the clothes she wore won’t turn up? The knife she ditched? If it were my case, I’d send a couple of frogmen to the riverbank. Maybe that’s why you went there-looking to retrieve it and make a better job of disposal-”
“Oh, God,” Wylie said, voice cracking. Siobhan gave her a hug, feeling the body beginning to tremble-delayed shock.
“You need to be strong for her, Ellen. Just for a little while longer, you need to hang on…” Siobhan’s thoughts churned as she rubbed a hand across Wylie’s back. If Denise was capable of killing Gareth Tench, what else might she have done? She felt Ellen Wylie tense and pull away from her. The two women’s eyes met.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Wylie said quietly.
“Do you?”
“But Denise never so much as looked at BeastWatch. I was the one who was interested, not her.”
“You’re also the one trying to hide Gareth Tench’s killer, Ellen. Maybe it’s you we should be looking at, eh?” Siobhan’s voice had hardened; so, too, had Wylie’s face, but after a moment it cracked into a sour smile.
“Is that the best you can do, Siobhan? Maybe you’re not as hot as people think. Chief constable might have put you in charge, but we both know it’s John Rebus’s show…though I don’t suppose that’ll stop you taking the credit-always supposing you get a result. So go ahead and charge me if you want.” She held out her wrists as if awaiting handcuffs; then, when Siobhan did nothing, began a slow, humorless laugh. “Not as hot as people think,” she repeated.
Not as hot as people think…
Rebus lost no time on the road to Kelso. It was only eight miles away. No sign of Debbie in any of the cars he saw. Didn’t mean she hadn’t contacted Barclay already by phone. The countryside would have been impressive if he’d given it any heed. He sped past the sign welcoming safe drivers to the town, and braked hard when he spotted his first pedestrian. She was dressed head to foot in tweed and walking a small, bug-eyed dog. Looked like she was on her way into the Lidl supermarket.
“Carlingnose Lane,” Rebus told her. “Know where it is?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” She was still apologizing as Rebus drove off. He tried again in the town center. Received half a dozen different possibilities from the first three locals he asked. Near Floors Castle…up by the rugby ground…the golf course…the Edinburgh road.
Eventually, he found that Floors Castle was on the road marked Edinburgh. Its high perimeter wall seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards. Rebus saw signs to the golf course, then spotted a park with sets of rugby posts. But the housing all around him looked too new, until a couple of schoolgirls walking a dog put him right.
Behind the new houses.
The Saab complained as he slammed it back into first. Engine was making a funny sound; he’d only just noticed it. Carlingnose Lane comprised a single row of tumbledown cottages. The first couple had been modernized and given a lick of paint. The track ended at the final cottage, its whitewashed walls turning yellow. A homemade sign proclaimed LOCAL CRAFTS FOR SALE. Bits of discarded tree lay strewn across the small front garden. Rebus stopped the car at a five-bar gate, beyond which a trail led across a meadow and into some woods. He tried Barclay’s door and peered in through the small window. Living room with kitchenette off it, and untidy at that. Part of the back wall had been removed and French doors fitted, meaning Rebus could see that the back garden was every bit as deserted and unkempt as the front. He looked up and saw that a pylon fed an electricity cable to the house. No antenna though, and no sign of a TV inside.
And no phone line. Next door had one-arcing toward it from a wooden telegraph pole in the meadow.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not got a cell,” Rebus muttered to himself-in fact, probably made it more likely. Barclay had to keep in touch with those Edinburgh galleries somehow. To the side of the cottage sat a venerable Land Rover. Didn’t look like it was used much, hood cool to the touch. But the key dangled from the ignition, meaning one of two things-no fear of car thieves, or ready for a quick getaway. Rebus opened the driver’s-side door and removed the key, tucking it into his top pocket. He stood by the meadow and lit a cigarette. If Debbie had managed to warn Barclay, he’d either hoofed it on foot, or had access to another vehicle…or he was on his way back.
He took out his own phone. Signal strength of a single bar. Angling the phone, the words NO SIGNAL came up. He climbed the gate and tried again.
NO SIGNAL.
Decided that what was left of the afternoon merited a walk into the woods. The air was warm; birdsong and distant traffic. A plane high overhead, its undercarriage glinting. I’m on my way, Rebus thought, to meeting a man, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone worth the name. A man who once got into a fight. A man who knows the police are coming and doesn’t like them…
“Just great, John,” he said out loud, his breathing a little ragged as he climbed toward the tree line. Couldn’t even say what kinds of trees they were. Brown ones with leaves-which ruled out conifers but not much else. He hoped to hear sounds of an ax or maybe a chain saw. No…scrub that-didn’t want Barclay holding any form of sharpened tool. Wondered if maybe he should call out. Cleared his throat but didn’t get any further. Now he was higher up, maybe his phone would…
NO SIGNAL.
Lovely views though. Pausing to catch his breath, he just hoped he would live to remember them. Why was Duncan Barclay nervous about seeing the police? Rebus would be sure to ask, if he ever found him. He’d entered the forest now, the ground yielding underfoot, a thick mulchy carpet. He had the feeling he was on a path of some kind, invisible to the untutored eye but there all the same-a route between saplings and shorn trunks, avoiding the low scrub. The place reminded him a lot of the Clootie Well. He kept glancing to left and right, stopping every few steps for another listen.
All alone.
And then another track appeared-this one wide enough for a vehicle. Rebus crouched down. The pattern of tires looked crusted-a few days old at the very least. He gave a little snort.
“Not exactly Tonto,” he muttered, straightening up and brushing dried mud from his fingers.
“Not exactly,” a man’s voice echoed. Rebus looked around and spotted its owner eventually. He was seated on a fallen tree, one leg crossed over the other. A few yards off the track, and dressed in olive green outerwear.
“Good camouflage,” Rebus said. “Are you Duncan?”
Duncan Barclay gave a little bow of his head. Rebus got closer and noted the sandy hair and freckled face. Maybe six feet tall, but wiry. The eyes were the same pale color as their owner’s jacket.
“You’re a policeman,” Barclay stated. Rebus wasn’t about to deny it.
“Did Debbie warn you?”
Barclay stretched out his arms. “No means…I’m a Luddite in that regard, as in several others.”
Rebus nodded. “I noticed at the cottage-no TV or phone line.”
“And no cottages either, soon enough-developer’s got his eye on them. Then it’ll be the field, and after that the woods…I thought you’d be coming.” He paused at Rebus’s look. “Not you personally, but someone like you.”
“Because…?”
“Trevor Guest,” the young man stated. “I didn’t know he was dead till I read it in the paper. But when they said the case was being handled in Edinburgh-well, I thought there might still be something about me in the files.”
Rebus nodded and lifted out his cigarettes. “Mind if I…?”
“I’d rather you didn’t-and so would the trees.”
“They’re your friends?” Rebus asked, putting the pack away. Then: “So you only found out about Trevor Guest…?”
“When it was in the papers.” Barclay paused to consider. “Was it Wednesday? I didn’t actually buy a paper, you understand-I’ve no time for them. But I saw the headline on the front of the Scotsman. Went and got himself done in by some sort of serial killer.”
“Some sort of killer, yes.” Rebus took a step back as Barclay suddenly bounded to his feet, but all the young man did was gesture with a crooked finger and then start walking.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” he said.
“Show me what?”
“The whole reason you’re here.”
Rebus held back, but eventually relented, catching up with Barclay. “Is it far, Duncan?” he asked.
Barclay shook his head. He walked with large, purposeful strides.
“You spend a lot of time in the woods?”
“As much as I can.”
“Other woods, too? Not just these ones, I mean.”
“I find bits and pieces all over.”
“Bits and…?”
“Branches, uprooted trunks…”
“And the Clootie Well?”
Barclay turned his head toward Rebus. “What about it?”
“Ever been there?”
“Don’t think so.” Barclay stopped so suddenly, Rebus almost went past him. The young man’s eyes had widened. He slapped a hand to his forehead. Rebus could see the bruised fingernails and traces of scar tissue-evidence of an artisan’s life.
“Holy Christ!” Barclay gasped. “I can see what you’re thinking!”
“And what’s that, Duncan?”
“You think maybe I did it! Me!”
“Really?”
“Holy Mother of Christ.” Barclay gave a shake of the head and started walking again, almost faster than before so that Rebus struggled to keep up.
“Just wondering why you and Trevor Guest had that fight,” he asked between lungfuls of oxygen. “Background info, that’s all I’m here for.”
“But you do think I did it!”
“Well, did you?”
“No.”
“Nothing to worry about then.” Rebus looked around, not really sure of his bearings. He could retrace the vehicle track, but would he know where to branch off to reach the meadow and civilization?
“I can’t believe you think that.” Barclay gave another shake of his head. “I conjure new life from dead wood. The living world means everything to me.”
“Trevor Guest isn’t coming back as a fruit bowl anytime soon.”
“Trevor Guest was an animal.” As abruptly as before, Barclay stopped again.
“Aren’t animals part of the living world?” Rebus asked breathlessly.
“You know I don’t mean it like that.” He was sweeping the area with his eyes. “They said as much in the Scotsman…he was locked up for burglary, rape…”
“Sexual assault actually.”
Barclay continued regardless. “He was locked away because they’d finally caught up with him-the truth had come out. But he’d been an animal long before that.” He was heading into the woods again, Rebus trailing after him, trying to get images of Blair Witch out of his head. The landscape was sloping down a gradient, growing steeper. Rebus realized they were now on the other side of the track from civilization. He started looking around for a weapon of some kind; bent down and picked up a tree branch, gave it a shake, and it crumbled in his hand, its innards rotted away.
“What is it you’re going to show me?” he asked.
“One more minute.” Barclay held up a single digit for effect. “Hey, I don’t even know who you are.”
“Name’s Rebus. I’m a detective inspector.”
“I talked to you guys, you know…back when it happened. Tried to get you to look at Trevor Guest, but I don’t think you did. I was in my teens-already marked out as the weird kid. Coldstream’s like one big tribe, Inspector. When you don’t fit in, it’s not easy to pretend you do.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” A comment rather than the question Rebus really wanted to ask-What the hell are you talking about?
“It’s better now. People see the things I make, they can appreciate that there’s a glimmer of talent there.”
“When did you move to Kelso?”
“This is my third year.”
“Must like it then.”
Barclay looked at Rebus, then gave a quick smile. “Making conversation, eh? Because you’re nervous?”
“I don’t like games,” Rebus stated.
“I’ll tell you who does though-whoever left those trophies at the Clootie Well.”
“That’s something we agree on.” Rebus almost lost his footing, felt something tear in his ankle as he went over on it.
“Careful,” Barclay said, without stopping.
“Thanks,” Rebus replied, hobbling after him. But the young man stopped again almost immediately. There was a chain-link fence in front of them, and farther down the hill a modern bungalow.
“Great views,” Barclay offered. “Nice and quiet. You have to drive all the way down there”-he traced the route with a finger-“to reach the main road.” He turned his whole body toward Rebus. “This is where she died. I’d seen her in town, chatted with her. We were all in shock when it happened.” His look intensified as he saw Rebus was still in the dark. “Mr. and Mrs. Webster,” he hissed. “I mean, he died later, but that’s where his wife was murdered.” He stabbed a finger at the bungalow. “In there.”
Rebus’s mouth felt dry. “Ben Webster’s mother?” Yes, of course-vacation home in the Borders. He remembered the photos from the file Mairie had compiled. “You’re saying Trevor Guest killed her?”
“He’d moved here only a few months before; moved out again quick afterward. A few of his drinking pals said it was because he already had a history with the police in Newcastle. He used to hassle me in the street, tell me I was a teenager with long hair, so I had to know where he could get drugs…” He paused for a moment. “Then I was up in Edinburgh that night, drinking with a pal, and I saw him. I’d already told the cops I thought he did it. Seemed to me the whole case was shoddy.” He stared hard at Rebus. “You never followed it up!”
“You saw him in the pub?” Rebus’s head was reeling, the blood pounding in his ears.
“I lashed out, I admit it. Felt bloody wonderful. And then when I saw that he’d been killed…well, I felt better still-and vindicated, too. Said as much in the paper-he’d been in jail for burglary and rape.”
“Sexual assault,” Rebus said weakly. The anomaly…one of several.
“And that’s what he’d done here-broken in, killed Mrs. Webster, and ransacked the place.”
Then fled to Edinburgh, suddenly penitent and of a mind to help those older and weaker than himself. Gareth Tench had been right-something had happened to Trevor Guest. Something life-changing…
If Rebus were to believe Duncan Barclay’s story.
“He didn’t assault her,” Rebus argued.
“Say again?”
Rebus cleared his throat, spat out some gluey saliva. “Mrs. Webster wasn’t raped or assaulted.”
“No, because she was too old-the kid he did in Newcastle was in her teens.” Yes, and hadn’t Hackman confirmed it-liked them a bit on the young side.
“You’ve given it a lot of thought,” Rebus seemed to concede.
“But you wouldn’t believe me!”
“Well, I’m sorry about that.” Rebus leaned against a tree and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away coated in sweat.
“And I can’t be a suspect,” Barclay went on, “because I didn’t know the other two men. Three killings,” he stressed, “not just one.”
“That’s right…not just one.” A killer who likes games. Rebus thought back to Dr. Gilreagh-rurality and anomalies.
“I could tell he was trouble,” Barclay was saying, “from the first time I clapped eyes on him in Coldstream.”
“I could use one of those right now,” Rebus interrupted. A nice cool current of water to duck his head under.
Trevor Guest as the killer of Ben Webster’s mother.
The father dies of a broken heart…meaning Guest has destroyed the whole family.
Goes to jail for another offense, but when he gets out…
And soon after, Ben Webster, MP, takes a nosedive over the parapets of Edinburgh Castle.
Ben Webster?
“Duncan!” A yell in the distance, somewhere uphill.
“Debbie?” Barclay called back. “Down here!” He started clambering up the slope, Rebus toiling in his wake. By the time he reached the vehicle track, Barclay was enveloping Debbie with a hug.
“I wanted to tell you,” she was explaining, her words muffled by his jacket, “and I couldn’t get a lift, and I knew he’d be looking for me, and I got here as soon as-” She broke off as she caught sight of Rebus. Gave a little squeal and pulled back from Barclay.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Me and the inspector have just been talking, that’s all.” He looked over his shoulder at Rebus. “And what’s more, I actually think he’s been listening.”
Rebus nodded his agreement with this, and slid his hands into his pockets. “But I’ll need you in Edinburgh all the same,” he announced. “Everything you’ve just said could do with being a matter of record, don’t you think?”
Barclay smiled a tired smile. “After all this time, it’ll be my pleasure.”
Debbie bounced on her toes, one arm sliding around Duncan Barclay’s waist. “I want to come, too. Don’t leave me here.”
“Thing is,” Barclay said with a sly glance at Rebus, “the inspector here has me down as a suspect…which would make you my accomplice.”
She looked shocked. “Duncan wouldn’t hurt a soul!” she squealed, gripping him more tightly than ever.
“Or a wood louse, I daresay,” Rebus added.
“These woods have looked after me,” Barclay said quietly, eyes fixed on Rebus. “That’s why the stick you picked up fell apart in your hand.” He gave a huge wink. Then, to Debbie: “You sure about this? Our first date, a police station in Edinburgh?” She replied by going up onto her tiptoes again and planting a kiss on his lips. The trees started rustling in a sudden, gentle breeze.
“Back to the car, children,” Rebus commanded. He’d taken half a dozen tentative steps along the track when Barclay indicated that he was headed in completely the wrong direction.
Siobhan realized she was headed the wrong way.
Well, not the wrong way exactly-depended which destination she had in mind, and that was the problem: she couldn’t think of one. Home, probably, but what would she do there? As she was already on Silverknowes Road, she pushed on until Marine Drive, then pulled over at the side of the road. Other cars were already parked there. It was a popular spot on weekends, with views across the Firth of Forth. Dogs were being exercised, sandwiches eaten. A helicopter rose loudly into the air, taking its passengers on one of the regular sightseeing tours, reminding her of the chopper at Gleneagles. One year, Siobhan had bought Rebus a gift certificate for the tour as a birthday present. As far as she knew, he’d never used it.
She knew he’d want to hear about Denise and Gareth Tench. Ellen Wylie had promised to call Craigmillar and get them to come take a statement, which hadn’t stopped Siobhan requesting the selfsame thing as soon as she’d left the house. She’d had half a mind to get them to pull both women in, kept hearing Wylie’s laughter…more than a touch of hysteria to it. Maybe natural under the circumstances, but all the same…She lifted her phone now, took a deep breath, and punched in Rebus’s number. The woman who answered was just a recording: Your call cannot be taken…please try again later.
She stared at the liquid crystal display and remembered that Eric Bain had left a message.
“In for a penny,” she muttered to herself, pushing more buttons.
“Siobhan, it’s Eric…” The recorded voice sounded slurred. “Molly’s walked out and…Christ, I don’t know why I’m…” The sound of coughing. “Juss wann you to…’matryin’ to say?” Another dry cough, as though he was on the verge of being sick. Siobhan stared out at the scenery, not really seeing it. “Oh, hell and…taken…taken too many…”
She cursed under her breath and turned the ignition, slammed the car into gear. Headlights switched to high beam and her hand pressed to the horn at every red light. Managed to steer and call for an ambulance at the same time. Thought she’d still beat it. Twelve minutes and she was pulling to a stop outside his block-no damage other than a scrape to her bodywork and a dinged wing mirror. Meaning another trip to Rebus’s friendly repair shop.
Outside Bain’s place, she didn’t even have to knock-the door had been left ajar. She ran in, found him slumped on the floor in the living room, head resting against a chair. Empty Smirnoff bottle, empty Tylenol bottle. She snatched his wrist-it was warm, his breathing shallow but steady. A sheen of sweat on his face, and a stain at the crotch where he’d wet himself. She shouted his name a few times, slapping his cheeks, prying open his eyes.
“Come on, Eric, wakey-wakey!” Shaking his body. “Time to get up, Eric! Come on, you lazy fuck!” He was too heavy for her; no way she could haul him to his feet unaided. She checked that his mouth was clear-nothing impeding the airway. Shook him again. “How many did you take, Eric? How many tablets?”
The door left ajar was a good sign-meant he wanted to be found. And he’d called her, too…Called her.
“You always were a drama queen, Eric,” she told him, pushing the slick hair back from his forehead. The room was messy. “What if Molly comes back and sees how untidy you’ve made everything? Better get up right now.” His eyes were fluttering, a groan coming from deep within him. Noises at the door: paramedics in their green uniforms, one of them toting a box.
“What’s he taken?”
“Tylenol.”
“How long ago?”
“Couple of hours.”
“What’s his name?”
“Eric.”
She got up and moved back a little, giving them room. They were checking his pupils, taking out the instruments they’d need.
“Can you hear me, Eric?” one of them asked. “Any chance you can give me a nod? Maybe just move your fingers for me? Eric? My name’s Colin and I’m going to be looking after you. Eric? Just nod your head if you’re hearing me. Eric…?”
Siobhan stood there with arms folded. When Eric spasmed and then started to puke, one of the paramedics asked her to look around the rest of the apartment: “See what else he might have ingested.”
As she left the room, she wondered if maybe he was just trying to spare her the sight. Nothing in the kitchen-it was spotless, apart from a liter of milk that needed putting in the fridge…and next to it, the screw cap from the Smirnoff. She crossed to the bathroom. The door of the medicine cabinet stood open. Some unopened packets of flu remedy had ended up in the sink. She put them back. There was a fresh bottle of aspirin, its seal intact. So maybe the Tylenol bottle had been opened previously, meaning he might not have taken as many as she’d thought.
Bedroom: Molly’s things were still there, but strewn across the floor, as though Eric had planned some act of retribution upon them. A snapshot of the pair of them had been removed from its frame but was otherwise undamaged, as though he’d been unable to go through with it.
She reported back to the paramedics. Eric had stopped vomiting, but the room reeked of the stuff.
“So that’s two thirds of a bottle of neat vodka,” the one called Colin said, “and maybe thirty tablets as a chaser.”
“Most of which has just come back to say hello,” his colleague added.
“So he’ll be all right?” she asked.
“Depends on the internal damage. You said two hours?”
“He called me two…nearly three hours ago.” They looked at her. “I didn’t get the message until…well, seconds before I called it in.”
“How drunk was he when he called?”
“His speech was slurred.”
“No kidding.” Colin locked eyes with his partner. “How do we get him downstairs?”
“Strapped to a stretcher.”
“Stairwell has a few tight corners.”
“So give me an alternative.”
“I’ll call for backup.” Colin rose to his feet.
“I could take his legs,” Siobhan offered. “Those corners won’t seem nearly so tight if there’s no stretcher to maneuver…”
“Fair point.” The paramedics shared another look. Siobhan’s phone started ringing. She went to turn it off, but caller ID had flashed up the letters JR. She stepped out into the hall and answered the call.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she blurted out, realizing as she did so that Rebus was telling her the exact same thing.
He had decided on St. Leonard’s-figured there was less chance of being spotted there. No one on the front desk had seemed to know he was under suspension; they hadn’t even asked why he wanted the use of an interview room, and had let him borrow a constable to act as witness to the recording he was about to make.
Duncan Barclay and Debbie Glenister sat next to each other throughout, nursing cans of cola and feasting on chocolate from the vending machine. Rebus had broken open a fresh pack of cassette tapes, slotting two into the machine. Barclay had asked why two.
“One for you and one for us,” Rebus had answered.
The questioning had been straightforward, the constable sitting bemused throughout, Rebus having failed to explain any of the background to him. Afterward, Rebus had asked the officer if he could arrange transport for the visitors.
“Back to Kelso?” he’d guessed, sounding daunted. But Debbie had squeezed Barclay’s arm and said maybe they could be dropped somewhere along Princes Street instead. Barclay had hesitated, but finally agreed. As they were preparing to leave, Rebus had slipped him forty pounds. “Drinks here can be that bit more expensive,” he’d explained. “And it’s a loan rather than a handout. I want one of your best fruit bowls next time you’re in town.”
So Barclay had nodded and accepted the notes.
“All these questions, Inspector,” he’d said. “Have they helped you at all?”
“More than you might think, Mr. Barclay,” Rebus had said, shaking the young man’s hand before retreating to one of the empty upstairs offices. This was where he’d been based before the move to Gayfield Square. Eight years of crimes solved and shelved…It surprised him that no mark had been left. There was no visible trace of him here, or of all those convoluted cases-the ones he remembered best. The walls were bare, most of the desks unused and lacking even chairs to sit on. Before St. Leonard’s, he’d worked at the station on Great London Road…and the High Street before that…Thirty years he’d been a cop, and thought he’d seen just about everything.
Until this.
There was a large whiteboard on one wall. He wiped it clean with some paper towels from the men’s room. The ink was hard to erase, meaning it had been there for weeks-background to Operation Sorbus. Officers would have heaved their backsides onto the desks and sat there swigging coffee while their boss filled them in on what was to come.
Now safely erased.
Rebus searched in the drawers of the nearest desks until he found a marker. He began to write on the board, starting at the top and working down, with lines branching off to the sides. Some words he double underlined; others he encircled; a few he stuck question marks after. When he was finished, he stood back and surveyed his mind map of the Clootie Well killings. It was Siobhan who’d taught him about such maps. She seldom worked a case without them, though usually they stayed in her drawer or briefcase. She would bring them out to remind herself of something-some avenue not yet explored or connection meriting further inspection. It took a while for her to own up to their existence. Why? Because she’d thought he would laugh at her. But in a case as apparently complex as this, a mind map was the perfect tool, because when you started to look at it, the complexity vanished, leaving just a central core.
Trevor Guest.
The anomaly, his body attacked with unusual viciousness. Dr. Gilreagh had warned them to look out for feints, and she’d been right. The whole case had been almost nothing but a magician’s misdirection. Rebus slid his backside onto one of the desks. It gave only the mildest creak of complaint. His legs made little paddling motions as they hung above the floor. His palms were pressed against the surface of the desk on either side of him. He leaned forward slightly, gazing at the writing on the wall, the arrows and underlinings and question marks. He started to see ways to resolve those few questions. He started to see the whole picture, the one the killer had been trying to disguise.
And then he walked out of the office and the station, into the fresh air and across the road. Headed to the nearest shop and realized he didn’t really want anything. Bought cigarettes and a lighter and some chewing gum. Added the afternoon edition of the Evening News. Decided to call Siobhan at the hospital to ask how much longer she would be.
“I’m here,” she told him. Meaning St. Leonard’s. “Where the hell are you?”
“I must just have missed you.” The shopkeeper called out as he pulled open the door to leave. Rebus twitched his mouth in apology and reached into his pocket to pay the man. Where the hell was his…? Must’ve given Barclay his last two twenties. He pulled out some loose change instead, poured it onto the counter.
“Not enough for cigarettes,” the elderly Asian complained. Rebus shrugged and handed them back.
“Where are you?” Siobhan was asking into his ear.
“Buying chewing gum.”
And a lighter, he could have added.
But no cigarettes.
They sat down with mugs of instant coffee, silent for the first minute or so. Then Rebus thought to ask about Bain.
“Ironically,” she said, “given the amount of painkillers he’d scarfed, the first thing he complained of was a thumping headache.”
“My fault in a way,” Rebus told her, explaining first of all about his morning conversation with Bain, and then about his chat the night before with Molly.
“So we have a falling-out over Tench’s corpse,” Siobhan said, “and you head straight to a lap-dancing club?”
Rebus shrugged, deciding he had been right to leave out the visit to Cafferty’s home.
“Well,” Siobhan went on with a sigh, “while we’re playing the self-blame game…” And she filled him in on Bain and T in the Park and Denise Wylie, at the end of which there was another lengthy silence. Rebus was on his fifth piece of chewing gum-didn’t really go with coffee, but he needed some outlet for the current that was pounding through him.
“You really think Ellen’s turned her sister in?” he eventually asked.
“What else could she do?”
He gave a shrug, then watched as Siobhan picked up a handset and made a call to Craigmillar.
“Guy you want is DS McManus,” he informed her. She looked at him as if to say, How the hell do you know that? He decided it was time to get up and find a wastebasket in which to deposit the wad of flavorless gum. When she finished the call, Siobhan joined him in front of the whiteboard.
“Pair of them are there right now. McManus is going easy on Denise. Figures she could play the mental cruelty card.” She paused. “When was it exactly that you spoke to him?”
Rebus deflected the question by pointing to the board. “See what I’ve done here, Shiv? Taken a leaf out of your book, so to speak.” He tapped the middle of the board with his knuckles. “And it all boils down to Trevor Guest.”
“Theoretically?” she added.
“Evidence comes later.” He started to trace the time line of the killings with a finger. “Say Trevor Guest did kill Ben Webster’s mother. In fact, we don’t need to say that at all. It’s enough that Guest’s killer believed he did. The killer sticks Guest’s name into a search engine and comes up with BeastWatch. That’s what gives the killer the idea. Make it look like there’s a serial killer at large. The police are fooled as a result, looking in all the wrong places for the motive. Killer knows about the G8, so decides to leave a few clues right there under our noses, knowing they’ll be found. Killer was never a BeastWatch subscriber, so knows they’ve got nothing to fear. We’ll be run ragged tracking down all the people who were, and warning all the other sex attackers…and with the G8 and everything, chances are the investigation will end up tying itself in knots too tight ever to be unraveled. Remember what Gilreagh said-the ‘display’ was slightly wrong. She was right, because it was only ever Guest the killer wanted…only ever Guest.” He prodded the name again. “The man who’d torn the Webster family apart. Rurality and anomalies, Siobhan…and being led up the garden path…”
“But how could the killer have known that?” Siobhan felt obliged to ask.
“By having access to the original inquiry, maybe going through it all with a fine-tooth comb. Going to the Borders and asking around, listening in on the local gossip.”
She was standing next to him, staring at the board. “You’re saying Cyril Colliar and Eddie Isley died as a diversion?”
“Worked, too. If we’d been running a full-scale inquiry, we might have missed the Kelso connection.” Rebus gave a short, harsh laugh. “I seem to remember I gave a snort when Gilreagh started talking about the countryside and deep woods near human dwellings.” Is this the sort of terrain the victims inhabited? “Dead on, Doc,” he said in an undertone.
Siobhan ran her finger along Ben Webster’s name. “So why did he kill himself?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, do you think it was the guilt finally catching up with him? He’s killed three men when only one was necessary. He’s under a lot of pressure because of the G8. We’ve just identified the patch from Cyril Colliar’s jacket. He starts to panic that we will catch him-is that how you see it?”
“I’m not even sure he knew about the patch,” Rebus said quietly. “And how would he have gone about procuring some heroin for those lethal injections?”
“Why are you asking me?” Siobhan gave a short laugh.
“Because you’re the one who’s accusing an innocent man. No access to hard drugs…no easy access to police files…” Rebus traced the line from Ben Webster to his sister. “Stacey, on the other hand-”
“Stacey?”
“Is an undercover cop. Probably means she knows a few dealers. She’s spent the past few months infiltrating anarchist groups-told me herself, they tend to base themselves outside London these days-Leeds and Manchester and Bradford. Guest died in Newcastle, Isley in Carlisle-both a manageable drive from the Midlands. As a cop, she’d be able to access any information she liked.”
“Stacey’s the killer?”
“Using your wonderful system”-Rebus slapped his hand against the board again-“it’s the obvious conclusion.”
Siobhan was shaking her head slowly. “But she was…I mean, we talked to her.”
“She’s good,” Rebus conceded. “She’s very good. And now she’s back in London.”
“We’ve no proof…not a shred of evidence.”
“True, up to a point. But when you listen to Duncan Barclay’s tape, you’ll hear him say she was in Kelso last year, asking around. She even spoke to him. He mentioned Trevor Guest to her. Trevor, with his housebreaker’s credentials. Trevor who was in the area, same time Mrs. Webster was killed.” Rebus gave a shrug, to let her know he had no trouble accepting any of this. “All three were attacked from behind, Siobhan, whacked hard so they couldn’t retaliate-just the way a woman would do it.” He paused. there’s her name. Gilreagh said there could be something significant about trees.”
“Stacey’s not the name of a tree…”
He shook his head. “But Santal is. It means ‘sandalwood.’ I always thought sandalwood was just a perfume. Turns out it’s a tree.” He shook his head in wonder at Stacey Webster’s intricate construction. “And she left Guest’s cash card,” he concluded, “because she wanted to be sure we’d have his name…leading us by the nose. A bloody smoke screen, just like Gilreagh said.”
Siobhan was studying the board again, probing the schematic for flaws. “So what happened to Ben?” she asked at last.
“I can tell you what I think…”
“Go on then.” She folded her arms.
“Guards at the castle thought there was an intruder. My guess is, it was Stacey. She knew her brother was there and was bursting to tell him. We’d found the patch-she’d probably heard about that from Steelforth. Thought it was time to share news of her exploits with her brother. As far as she was concerned, Guest’s death meant closure. And, by Christ, she’d made sure he paid for his crimes-mutilating his body. She relishes the challenge of sneaking past the guards. Maybe she’s sent him a message, so he comes out to meet her. She tells him everything-”
“And he offs himself?”
Rebus scratched the back of his head. “I think she’s the only one who can tell us. In fact, if we play it right, Ben’s going to be crucial in getting a confession. Think how hellish she must be feeling-that’s her whole family gone now, and the one thing she thought would bring her and Ben closer together has actually destroyed him. And it’s all her fault.”
“She did a pretty good job of hiding it.”
“Behind all those masks she wears,” Rebus agreed. “All these warring sides to her personality…”
“Steady,” Siobhan warned. “You’re starting to sound like Gilreagh.”
He burst out laughing, but stopped just as abruptly and scratched at his head again, eventually running the hand through his hair. “Do you think it holds up?”
Siobhan puffed out her cheeks and exhaled loudly. “I need to give it a bit more thought,” she conceded. “I mean…scrawled on a board like this, I can see it makes a kind of sense. I just don’t see how we’ll prove any of it.”
“We start with what happened to Ben…”
“Fine, but if she denies it, we’re left with nothing. You’ve just said so yourself, John, she wears all these masks. Nothing to stop her slipping one on when we start asking about her brother.”
“One way to find out,” Rebus said. He was holding Stacey Webster’s business card, the one with her cell number.
“Think for a minute,” Siobhan counseled. “Soon as you call her, you’re giving her advance warning.”
“Then we go to London.”
“And hope Steelforth lets us talk to her?”
Rebus considered for a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly, “Steelforth…Funny how quickly he knocked her back to London, isn’t it? Almost as if he knew we were getting close.”
“You think he knew?”
“There was surveillance video at the castle. He told me there was nothing to see, but now I’m wondering.”
“There’s no way he’s going to let us go public,” Siobhan argued. “One of his officers turns out to be a killer and might even have done away with her own brother. Not exactly the PR he’s looking for.”
“Which is why he might be willing to do a deal.”
“And what exactly have we got to offer?”
“Control,” Rebus stated. “We step back and let him do it his way. If he turns us down, we go to Mairie Henderson.”
Siobhan spent the best part of a minute considering the options. Then she saw Rebus’s eyes widen.
“And we don’t even have to go to London,” he told her.
“Why not?”
“Because Steelforth’s not in London.”
“Then where is he?”
“Under our bloody noses,” Rebus explained, starting to wipe the board clean.
By which he meant: an hour’s rapid drive to the west.
They spent the whole trip going through Rebus’s theory. Trevor Guest hightailing it out of Newcastle-maybe owing money on some deal. Quick route to the handily anonymous border country. Scratches around, but can’t find a fix and hasn’t any money. His one area of expertise: burglary. But Mrs. Webster is home, and he ends up killing her. Panics and flees to Edinburgh, where he assuages his guilt by working with the elderly, with people like the woman he murdered. Not sexually assaulted-he liked them a lot younger.
Meanwhile-Stacey Webster is destroyed by her mother’s murder, heartbroken when the death destroys her father too. Using her detective’s skills to track down the likely culprit, only he’s already behind bars. But due out soon. Giving her time to plan her revenge. She’s found Guest on BeastWatch, alongside others like him. She picks her targets geographically-easy reach of her Midlands base. Her counter culture existence gives her access to heroin. Does she get Guest to confess before she murders him? It doesn’t really matter: by then she’s already killed Eddie Isley. Adds one more, to reinforce the notion that a serial killer is at large, then stops. Sated and at peace. Far as she’s concerned, she’s been cleaning scum off the streets. SO12’s G8 planning has led her to the Clootie Well, and she knows it’s the perfect spot. Someone will happen upon it. And they’ll spot the clues. To be certain, she ensures they have one name straightaway…the only name that matters.
No way she’s going to be found.
The perfect crime.
Nearly…
“I have to admit,” Siobhan said, “it sounds plausible.”
“That’s because it’s what happened. Thing about the truth, Siobhan: it almost always makes sense.”
They made good time along the M8, and got onto the A82. The village of Luss was just off the main road on the western shore of Loch Lomond.
“They used to film Take the High Road here,” Rebus informed his passenger.
“One of the few soaps I’ve never watched.”
Cars were crawling past them on the other side of the road.
“Looks like play’s finished for today,” Siobhan commented. “Might have to come back tomorrow.”
But Rebus wasn’t about to concede defeat. Loch Lomond Golf Club was a members-only facility, and the arrival of the Open had brought with it extra security. There were guards on the main gate, and they checked both Rebus’s and Siobhan’s ID carefully before phoning on ahead, during which time a mirror on a long stick was played along the length of the car’s undercarriage.
“After Thursday, we’re taking no chances,” the guard explained, handing back their badges. “Ask at the clubhouse for Commander Steelforth.”
“Thanks,” Rebus said. “By the way…who’s winning?”
“It’s a tie-Tim Clark and Maarten Lafeber, fifteen under. Tim shot six under today. Monty’s nicely placed though-ten under. Be a great game tomorrow.”
Rebus thanked the guard again and put the Saab into gear. “Did you catch any of that?” he asked Siobhan.
“I know Monty means Colin Montgomerie.”
“Then you’re every bit as well informed about the royal and ancient game as I am.”
“You’ve never tried?”
He shook his head. “It’s those pastel sweaters…I could never see myself wearing one.”
As they parked and climbed out, half a dozen spectators walked past, discussing the day’s events. One wore a pink V-neck, the others yellow or pale orange or sky blue.
“See what I mean?” Rebus said. Siobhan nodded her agreement. The clubhouse was Scots baronial and called Rossdhu. There was a silver Mercedes parked up alongside, the chauffeur snoozing in the front seat. Rebus remembered him from Gleneagles-Steelforth’s designated driver.
“Cheers, Big Man,” he said, raising his eyes to the heavens.
A short, bespectacled gent with a highly developed mustache and sense of his own importance was striding out of the building toward them. All manner of laminated passes and ID cards were strung around his neck, clacking together as he moved. He barked out a word that sounded like Sekty but Rebus chose to translate as Secretary. The bony hand that shook Rebus’s was trying too hard. But at least he got a handshake; Siobhan might as well have been a shrub.
“We need to speak to Commander David Steelforth,” Rebus explained. “I doubt he’s the type to rub shoulders with the unwashed masses.”
“Steelforth?” The secretary took off his glasses and rubbed them against the sleeve of his crimson sweater. “Could he be corporate?”
“That’s his driver,” Rebus said, nodding toward the Merc.
Siobhan chipped in: “Pennen Industries?”
The secretary slipped his glasses back on, and directed his reply at Rebus. “Oh, yes, Mr. Pennen has a hospitality tent.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Probably winding down by now.”
“Mind if we check?”
The secretary’s face twitched and he told them to wait, before disappearing back into the building. Rebus looked at Siobhan, awaiting some comment.
“Officious twerp,” she obliged.
“You won’t be wanting an application form?”
“Have you seen any women since we got here?”
Rebus looked around before admitting she had a point. He turned at the sound of an electric motor. It was a golf cart, emerging from behind Rossdhu House and driven by the secretary.
“Hop on,” he told them.
“Can’t we walk?” Rebus asked.
The secretary shook his head and repeated the instruction. There were two rear-facing cushioned seats at the back of the cart.
“Lucky you’re small-boned,” Rebus told Siobhan. The secretary was ordering them to hold on tight. The machine clunked into action at a rate just above walking speed.
“Whee,” Siobhan said, managing to look underwhelmed.
“Reckon the chief constable’s a golf fan?” Rebus asked.
“Probably.”
“The luck we’ve had this week, we’ll be passing him any moment…”
But they didn’t. The course itself was home to only a few last stragglers. The stands were vacant, and the sun was setting.
“Amazing,” Siobhan was forced to admit as she stared across Loch Lomond to the mountains beyond.
“Takes me back to my youth,” Rebus told her.
“Did you come here on vacation?”
He shook his head. “But the neighbors did, and they always sent a postcard.” Swiveling round as best he could, he saw they were approaching a village of tents with its own cordon and security. White tents, piped music, and the sounds of loud conversation. The secretary slowed the cart to a stop and nodded toward one of the larger tents. It had clear plastic windows and liveried serving staff. Cham-pagne was being poured, oysters offered from silver salvers.
“Thanks for the lift,” Rebus said.
“Shall I wait…?”
Rebus shook his head. “We’ll find our own way, sir. Thanks again.”
“Lothian and Borders,” Rebus stated to the guards, opening his ID.
“Your chief constable’s in the champagne tent,” one of the guards replied helpfully. Rebus gave Siobhan a look. That kind of week…He picked up a glass of fizz and worked his way through the throng. Thought he recognized some of the faces from Prestonfield-G8 delegates; people Richard Pennen wanted to do business with. The Kenyan diplomat, Joseph Kamweze, met Rebus’s gaze but turned away quickly, pushing deeper into the crowd.
“Quite the United Nations,” Siobhan commented. Eyes were appraising her: not too many women on display. But the ones who were-well, on display summed it up: cascading hair, short, tight dresses, and fixed smiles. They would describe themselves as models rather than escorts, hired by the day to add glamour and sun-bed tan to proceedings.
“Should have smartened yourself up,” Rebus scolded Siobhan. “Bit of makeup never goes amiss.”
“Listen to Karl Lagerfeld,” she retorted. Rebus tapped her shoulder. “Our host.” He gave a nod in the direction of Richard Pennen. Same immaculate hair, glinting cuff links, heavy gold wristwatch. But something had changed. The face seemed less bronzed, the posture less confident. When Pennen laughed at something his companion was saying, he threw his head back a little too far, mouth open too wide. Faking it, obviously. His companion seemed to think so, too, and studied Pennen, wondering what to make of him. Pennen’s flunkies-one per shoulder as at Prestonfield-also looked nervous at their boss’s inability to play the game as before. Rebus thought for a moment of walking right up to Pennen and asking how things were, just for the pleasure of getting a reaction. But Siobhan had placed a hand on his arm, directing his attention elsewhere:
David Steelforth, emerging from the champagne tent, deep in conversation with Chief Constable James Corbyn.
“Bugger,” Rebus said. Then, after a deep breath: “In for a pound…”
He could feel Siobhan hesitate, and turned toward her. “Maybe you should go walk around for a few minutes.”
But she’d come to her decision, and actually led the way toward the two men.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she was saying as Rebus caught up.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” Corbyn spluttered.
“Never one to miss free bubbly,” Rebus explained, raising his glass. “Expect that’s your reasoning, too, sir.”
Corbyn’s face had reddened mightily. “I was invited.”
“Us, too, sir,” Siobhan said, “in a manner of speaking.”
“How’s that?” Steelforth asked, looking amused.
“Murder inquiry, sir,” Rebus said. “Tends to act as a VIP pass.”
“VVIP,” Siobhan corrected him.
“You’re saying Ben Webster was murdered?” Steelforth asked, eyes on Rebus.
“Not quite,” Rebus answered. “But we’ve an inkling why he died. And it seems to connect to the Clootie Well.” He shifted his gaze to Corbyn. “We can fill you in later, sir, but right now it’s Commander Steelforth we need to talk to.”
“I’m sure it can wait,” Corbyn snapped.
Rebus turned back to Steelforth, who offered another smile, this time for Corbyn’s benefit.
“I think I’d better listen to what the inspector and his colleague have to say.”
“Very well,” the chief constable relented. “Fire away.”
Rebus paused, exchanging a glance with Siobhan. Steelforth was quick to catch on. He made a show of handing his untouched glass to Corbyn.
“I’ll be right back, Chief Constable. I’m sure your officers will explain everything to you in due course…”
“They’d better,” Corbyn stressed, eyes boring into Siobhan. Steelforth patted his arm reassuringly and walked away, Rebus and Siobhan close behind. When all three reached the low white picket fence, they stopped. Steelforth faced away from the crowd, toward the course, where groundsmen were hard at work replacing divots and raking sand traps. He slid his hands into his pockets.
“What is it you think you know?” he asked nonchalantly.
“I think you know,” Rebus answered. “When I mentioned the link between Webster and the Clootie Well, you didn’t blink. Makes me think you already suspected something. Stacey Webster’s your officer, after all. You probably like to keep tabs on her…maybe started wondering why she was making sorties north to places like Newcastle and Carlisle. Also makes me wonder what you saw on the security film that night at the castle.”
“Spit it out,” Steelforth hissed.
Siobhan took over. “We think Stacey Webster is our serial killer. She wanted Trevor Guest, but was prepared to kill two more men to hide the fact.”
“And when she went to tell her brother the news,” Rebus continued, “well, he didn’t take it well. Maybe he jumped; maybe he was appalled and threatened to go public…she decided he had to be silenced.” He gave a shrug.
“Fanciful stuff,” Steelforth commented, still not looking at either of them. “Being good detectives, you’ll have put together a watertight case?”
“Should be easy enough, now we know what we’re looking for,” Rebus told him. “Of course, it’ll be damaging for SO12…”
Steelforth gave a twitch of the mouth, turned 180 degrees to watch the feasting. “Until about an hour ago,” he drawled, “I’d have told the pair of you to go fuck yourselves. Know why?”
“Pennen offered you a job,” Rebus said. Steelforth raised an eyebrow. “Educated guess,” Rebus explained. “It’s him you’ve been protecting throughout. Must’ve been a reason for it.”
Steelforth nodded slowly. “It so happens, you’re right.”
“But you’ve changed your mind?” Siobhan added.
“You just need to look at him. It’s all crumbling to dust, isn’t it?”
“Like a statue in the desert,” Siobhan commented, eyes on Rebus.
“Monday, I was tendering my resignation,” Steelforth said ruefully. “Special Branch could have gone to hell.”
“Some might say it already has,” Rebus stated, “when one of its operatives is allowed to slaughter left and right…”
Steelforth was still staring at Richard Pennen. “Funny the way it sometimes works-it’s the tiniest flaws that bring a structure down.”
“Like Al Capone,” Siobhan added helpfully. “They only got him for tax evasion, didn’t they?”
Steelforth ignored her, and turned his attention to Rebus instead. “The security video wasn’t conclusive,” he admitted.
“It showed Ben Webster meeting someone?”
“Ten minutes after he took a call on his cell.”
“Do we need to check the phone company records, or shall we assume it was Stacey?”
“As I say, the video wasn’t conclusive.”
“So what did it show?”
Steelforth gave a shrug. “Two people talking…Webster seeming to remonstrate…grabbing the other person by the shoulders as if to shake some sense into them…”
“And?”
“A push in the chest, enough to make him lose his balance. If you ask me, it was hardly enough to send him over the parapet.” Steelforth locked eyes with Rebus. “In that instant, he wanted it to happen.”
There was silence for a moment, broken by Siobhan. “And you’d have swept it all under the carpet, so as not to make a fuss. Just like you’ve dispatched Stacey Webster to London.”
“Yes, well…good luck discussing that with DS Webster.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned toward her. “She’s not been heard of since Wednesday. Seems she boarded the night train to Euston.”
Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. “The London bombings?”
“Be a miracle if we ID’d every victim.”
“Screw that,” Rebus said, pressing his face close to Steelforth’s. “You’re hiding her!”
Steelforth gave a laugh. “You do see conspiracies everywhere, don’t you, Rebus?”
“You knew what she’d done. Bombs were the perfect cover for her to vanish!”
Steelforth’s face hardened. “She’s gone,” he said. “So go ahead and compile any evidence you can find-somehow I doubt it’ll get you anywhere.”
“It’ll dump a trailerload of dung on your head,” Rebus warned.
“Will it?” Steelforth’s jaw jutted out, barely an inch from Rebus’s face. “Good for the land though, isn’t it, the occasional bit of manure? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get absolutely smashed at Richard Pennen’s expense.” He strode away from them, removing his hands from his pockets so he could take his glass back from Corbyn. The chief constable said something, and gestured toward the two Lothian and Borders detectives. Steelforth just shook his head, then leaned a little toward Corbyn and said something that caused the chief constable to arch his neck, presaging a loud-and entirely genuine-guffaw.
What kind of result is that?” Siobhan asked, not for the first time. They were back in Edinburgh, seated in a bar on Broughton Street, just around the corner from her place.
“Hand those photos from the gardens over,” Rebus told her, “and your little skinhead friend might get the custodial sentence he deserves.”
She stared at him and gave a wild, humorless laugh. “Is that it? Four men, dead because of Stacey Webster, and we’ve got that?”
“We’ve got our health,” Rebus reminded her. “And the whole bar listening in on us.”
Eyes turned away as she strafed the clientele. Four vodka tonics she’d had so far, to Rebus’s pint and three Laphroaigs. They were seated in a booth. The bar was busy and had been relatively noisy until she’d started mentioning multiple murders, a suspicious death, a stabbing, sex offenders, George Bush, Special Branch, the Princes Street riots, and Bianca Jagger.
“We’ve still got to put the case together,” Rebus reminded her. She responded by blowing a raspberry.
“What good will that do?” she queried. “Can’t prove anything.”
“Plenty of circumstantial.”
This time she merely snorted and started counting on her fingers. “Richard Pennen, SO12, the government, Cafferty, Gareth Tench, a serial killer, the G8…looked for a little while like they all connected. They do all connect when you start to think of it!” She was holding up seven fingers in front of his face. When he didn’t respond, she lowered them and seemed to be studying him. “How can you be so calm about it?”
“Who said I’m calm?”
“You’re bottling it up then.”
“I’ve had a bit of practice.”
“Not me.” She shook her head extravagantly. “Something like this happens, I want to shout it from the rooftops.”
“I’d say the first steps have already been taken.”
She was staring at her half-full glass. “And Ben Webster’s death had nothing to do with Richard Pennen?”
“Nothing,” Rebus conceded.
“But it’s destroyed him, too, hasn’t it?”
He just nodded. She muttered something he didn’t catch. He asked her to repeat it, so she did.
“No gods, no masters. I’ve been mulling it over since Monday. I mean, supposing it’s true…who do we look up to? Who’s running the show?”
“I’m not sure I can answer that, Siobhan.”
She gave a twitch of the mouth, as though he had confirmed some sort of suspicion. Her phone sounded, alerting her to a message. She glanced at the screen but did nothing about it.
“You’re popular tonight,” Rebus pointed out. She gave a shake of the head in reply. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s Cafferty.”
She glowered at him. “So what if it is?”
“You might want to change your number.”
She nodded agreement. “But only after I’ve sent him a nice long text telling him exactly what I think of him.” She looked around the table. “Is it my turn to buy?” she asked.
“I thought maybe some food…”
“Didn’t you have enough of Pennen’s oysters?”
“Hardly a meal of substance.”
“There’s a curry house up the street.”
“I know.”
“Course you do, you’ve been here all your life.”
“Most of it,” he conceded.
“Never known a week like this one though,” she challenged him.
“Never,” he conceded. “Now drink up and we’ll go get that curry.”
She nodded, her hands gripping her glass, vise-like. “My mum and dad were in that Indian on Wednesday night. I got there in time for coffee…”
“You can always go see them in London.”
“Just wondering how much longer they’ll be around.” Her eyes were glistening. “Is this what it’s like to be Scottish, John? A few drinks to make you maudlin?”
“We do seem cursed,” he admitted, “to be always looking back.”
“And then you go and join CID, which only makes it worse. People die, and we look back into their lives…and we can’t change anything.” She tried lifting her glass, but its mass defeated her.
“We could go give Keith Carberry a kicking,” Rebus suggested.
She nodded slowly.
“Or Big Ger Cafferty, come to that…or anyone else we felt like. There’s two of us.” He leaned forward a little, trying for eye contact. “Two against nature.”
She gave him a sly look. “Song lyric?” she guessed.
“Album title: Steely Dan.”
“Tell you what I’ve always wondered.” She slouched against the back of the booth. “How did they get their name?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re sober,” Rebus offered, draining his glass.
He could feel eyes following them as he helped her to her feet and out of the bar. There was a sharp breeze and a smattering of rain. “Maybe we should go back to yours,” he suggested. “We can phone out for food.”
“I’m not that drunk!”
“Fair enough then.” They started the steep uphill climb, side by side, not saying anything. Saturday night, the town back to normal: souped-up teenagers in their souped-up cars; money looking for a place to spend itself; the diesel chug of cruising taxicabs. At some point, Siobhan snaked her arm through his, said something he didn’t catch.
“It’s not enough, is it?” she repeated. “Just…symbolic…because there’s nothing else you can do.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked with a smile.
“The naming of the dead,” she told him, resting her head against his shoulder.