DAY THREE. Thursday

8

Is this country the pits, or what?” Bobby Hogan asked. Rebus felt it was an unfair question. They were on the M74, one of the most lethal roads in Scotland. Tractor-trailers were lashing Hogan’s Passat with a spray that was nine parts grit to one of water. The wipers were on at high speed and still not coping, despite which Hogan was trying to do seventy. But doing seventy meant getting past the trucks, and the truck drivers were enjoying an extended game of leapfrog, leading to a queue of cars waiting to pass.

Dawn had brought milky sunshine to the capital, but Rebus had known it wouldn’t last. The sky had been too hazy, blurred like a drunk’s good intentions. Hogan had decided they should rendezvous at St. Leonard’s, by which time fully half of Arthur’s Seat’s great stone outcrop had vanished into the cloud. Rebus doubted David Copperfield could have pulled the trick off with any more brio. When Arthur’s Seat started disappearing, rain was sure to follow. It had started before they reached the city limits, Hogan flipping the wipers to intermittent, then to constant. Now, on the M74 south of Glasgow, they were flying to and fro like the Roadrunner’s legs in the cartoon.

“I mean, the weather… the traffic… why do we put up with it?”

“Penitence?” Rebus offered.

“Suggesting we’ve done something to deserve it.”

“Like you say, Bobby, there must be a reason we stay put.”

“Maybe we’re just lazy.”

“We can’t change the weather. I suppose it’s in our power to tweak the amount of traffic, but that never seems to work, so why bother?”

Hogan raised a finger. “Exactly. We simply can’t be arsed.”

“You think that’s a fault?”

Hogan shrugged. “It’s hardly a strength, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Whole country’s gone to cack. Jobs up the khyber, politicians with their snouts in the trough, kids with no… I don’t know.” He exhaled noisily.

“Touch of the Victor Meldrews this morning, Bobby?”

Hogan shook his head. “I’ve been thinking this for ages.”

“And I thank you for inviting me into the confessional.”

“Know something, John? You’re more cynical than I am.”

“That’s not true.”

“Give me a for instance.”

“For instance, I believe in an afterlife. What’s more, I think the pair of us are going to be entering it sooner than expected if you don’t ease your foot off…”

Hogan smiled for the first time that morning, signaled to pull into the middle lane. “Better?” he asked.

“Better,” Rebus agreed.

Then, a few moments later: “You really believe there’s something there after we die?”

Rebus considered his answer. “I believe it was a way of getting you to slow down.” He pushed in the button for the car’s cigarette lighter, then wished he hadn’t. Hogan noticed him flinch.

“Still hurting like hell?”

“It’s getting better.”

“Tell me again how it happened.”

Rebus shook his head slowly. “Let’s talk about Carbrae instead. How much are we really going to get from Robert Niles?”

“With a bit of luck, more than his name, rank and serial number,” Hogan said, pulling out again to pass.

Carbrae Special Hospital was sited, as Hogan himself described it, in “the sweaty armpit of who knows where.” Neither man had been there before. Hogan’s directions were to take the A711 west of Dumfries and head towards Dalbeattie. They seemed to miss a turnoff, Hogan cursing the solid wall of lorries in the inside lane, reckoning they’d hidden a signpost or access road from view. As a result, they didn’t come off the M74 till Lockerbie, heading west into Dumfries.

“Were you at Lockerbie, John?” Hogan asked.

“Just for a couple of days.”

“Remember that fuckup with the bodies? Laying them out on the ice rink?” Hogan shook his head slowly. Rebus remembered: the bodies had stuck to the ice, meaning the whole rink had to be defrosted. “That’s what I mean about Scotland, John. That just about sums us up.”

Rebus disagreed. He thought the quiet dignity of the townspeople in the aftermath of Pan Am 103 said a hell of a lot more about the country. He couldn’t help wondering how the people of South Queensferry would cope, once the three-ring circus of police, media and mouthy politicians had moved on. He’d watched fifteen minutes of morning news while slurping down a coffee but had to turn the sound off when Jack Bell appeared, snaking one arm around Kate, whose face shone a ghostly white.

Hogan had picked up a bundle of newspapers between his home and Rebus’s. Some had managed to get photos from the vigil into their later editions: the minister leading the singing, the MSP holding up his petition.

“I can’t sleep at all,” one resident was quoted as saying, “for fear of who else might be out there.”

Fear: the crucial word. Most people would live their whole lives untouched by crime, yet they still feared it, and that fear was real and smothering. The police force existed to allay such fears, yet too often was shown to be fallible, powerless, on hand only after the event, clearing up the mess rather than preventing it. Meanwhile, someone like Jack Bell began to look as if he was at least trying to do something… Rebus knew the terms they trotted out at seminars: proactive rather than reactive. One of the tabloids had latched on to this. They were backing Bell’s campaign, whatever it might be: If our forces of law and order can’t deal with this very real and growing problem, then it’s up to us as individuals or organized groups to take a stand against the tide of violence that is engulfing our culture…

An easy enough editorial to write, Rebus surmised, the author merely parroting the MSP’s words. Hogan glanced at the newspaper.

“Bell’s on a roll, isn’t he?”

“It won’t last.”

“I hope not. Sanctimonious bastard gives me the boak.”

“Can I quote you on that, Detective Inspector Hogan?”

“Journalists: now there’s another reason this country’s the pits…”


They stopped for coffee in Dumfries. The café was a dreary combination of Formica and bad lighting, but neither man cared once he’d taken a bite from the thick bacon sandwiches. Hogan looked at his watch and calculated that they’d been on the road the best part of two hours.

“Least the rain’s stopping,” Rebus said.

“Put out the flags,” Hogan responded.

Rebus decided to try a change of subject. “Ever been this way before?”

“I’m sure I must’ve driven through Dumfries; doesn’t ring a bell, though.”

“I came on holiday once. Caravan on the Solway Firth.”

“When was this?” Hogan was licking melted butter from between his fingers.

“Years back… Sammy was still in nappies.” Sammy: Rebus’s daughter.

“You ever hear from her?”

“A phone call now and then.”

“She still down in England?” Hogan watched Rebus nod. “Good luck to her.” He opened his roll and peeled some of the fat from the bacon. “Scottish diet: that’s another thing we’re cursed with.”

“Christ, Bobby, shall I just drop you off at Carbrae? You could sign yourself in, play Mr. Grumpy to a captive audience.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Saying what? We get shit weather and eat shit food? Maybe you should have Grant Hood stage a press conference, seeing how it’s going to come as news to every bugger who lives here.”

Hogan concentrated on his snack, chewing without seeming to swallow. “Too long cooped up in that car, maybe?” he finally offered.

“Too long on the Port Edgar case,” Rebus countered.

“It’s only been -”

“I don’t care how long it’s been. Don’t tell me you’re getting enough sleep? Putting it all behind you when you go home at night? Switching off? Delegating? Letting others share the -”

“I get the point.” Hogan paused. “I brought you in, didn’t I?”

“Just as well, or I suspect you’d have been driving down here on your lonesome.”

“And?”

“And there wouldn’t have been anybody to moan at.” Rebus looked at him. “Feel better for letting it all out?”

Hogan smiled. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be a first for the books?”

Both men ended up laughing, Hogan insisting on picking up the tab, Rebus leaving a tip. Back in the car, they found the road to Dalbeattie. Ten miles out of Dumfries, a single signpost pointed right, taking them up a narrow, winding track with grass growing in the middle.

“Not much traffic, then,” Rebus commented.

“Bit out of the way for visitors,” Hogan agreed.

Carbrae had been purpose-built in the forward-looking 1960s, a long box-shaped structure with annexes. None of which could be seen until they had parked the car, identified themselves at the gate and been met and escorted within the thick, gray concrete walls. There was an outer perimeter, too, a wire fence twenty feet high, topped here and there with security cameras. At the gatehouse they’d been given laminated passes, hung by a red ribbon from the neck. Signs warned visitors of forbidden items within the complex. No food or drink, newspapers or magazines. No sharp objects. Nothing was to be passed to a patient without prior consultation with a member of the staff. Mobile phones were not permitted: “Our patients can be upset by the slightest thing, no matter how harmless it may seem to you. If in doubt, please ASK!”

“Any chance we might upset Robert Niles?” Hogan asked, his eyes meeting Rebus’s.

“Not in our nature, Bobby,” Rebus said, switching off his phone.

And then an orderly appeared, and they were in.

They walked down a garden path, neat flower beds to either side. There were faces at some of the windows. No bars on the windows themselves. Rebus had expected the orderlies to be thinly disguised bouncers, huge and silent, dressed in hospital whites or some other form of uniform. But their guide, Billy, was small and cheery-looking, casually clothed in T-shirt, jeans and soft-soled shoes. Rebus had a horrible thought: the lunatics had taken over the asylum, the real staff locked away. It would explain Billy’s beaming, rosy-cheeked countenance. Or maybe he’d just been dipping into the medicine locker.

“Dr. Lesser is waiting in her room,” Billy was saying.

“What about Niles?”

“You’ll talk to Robert there. He doesn’t like strangers going into his own room.”

“Oh?”

“He’s funny that way.” Billy shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: don’t we all have our little foibles? He punched numbers into a keypad by the front door, smiling up at the camera trained on him. The door clicked open, and they entered the hospital.

The place smelled of… not exactly medicine. What was it? Then Rebus realized: it was the aroma of new carpets-specifically, the blue carpet that stretched before them down the corridor. Fresh paint, too, by the look of it. Apple green, Rebus guessed it had said on the industrial-sized cans. Pictures on the walls, stuck there with tape. Nothing framed, and no thumbtacks. The place was quiet. Their shoes made no noise on the carpet. No piped music, no screams. Billy led them down the hall, stopping before an open door.

“Dr. Lesser?”

The woman inside was seated at a modern desk. She smiled and peered over her half-moon glasses.

“You got here, then,” she stated.

“Sorry we’re a few minutes late,” Hogan began to apologize.

“It’s not that,” she reassured him. “It’s just that people miss the turnoff and then phone to say they’re lost.”

“We didn’t get lost.”

“So I see.” She had come forward to greet them with handshakes. Hogan and Rebus introduced themselves.

“Thanks, Billy,” she said. Billy gave a little bow and backed away. “Won’t you come in? I won’t bite.” She offered her smile again. Rebus wondered if it was part of the job description for working at Carbrae.

The room was small, comfortable. A yellow two-seat sofa, bookshelf, hi-fi. No filing cabinets. Rebus guessed the patient files would be kept well away from prying eyes. Dr. Lesser said they could call her Irene. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, with chestnut-brown hair falling to just below her shoulders. Her eyes were the same color as the clouds that had obscured Arthur’s Seat earlier that morning.

“Please, sit yourselves down.” Her accent was English. Rebus thought Liverpudlian.

“Dr. Lesser…” Hogan began.

“Irene, please.”

“Of course.” Hogan paused, as if weighing whether to use her first name. If he did, she might start using his first name, and that would be way too cozy. “You understand why we’re here?”

Lesser nodded. She had pulled over a chair so she could sit in front of the detectives. Rebus was aware that the sofa was a tight fit: Bobby and him, probably over four hundred pounds between them…

“And you understand,” Lesser was saying, “that Robert has the right to say nothing. If he starts to get upset, the interview is over and that’s final.”

Hogan nodded. “You’ll be sitting in, of course.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

It was the answer they’d expected, but disappointing all the same.

“Doctor,” Rebus began, “maybe you could help prepare us. What can we expect from Mr. Niles?”

“I don’t like to pre-empt -”

“For example, is there anything we should avoid saying? Maybe trip words?”

She looked appraisingly at Rebus. “He won’t talk about what he did to his wife.”

“That’s not why we’re here.”

She thought for a moment. “He doesn’t know his friend is dead.”

“He doesn’t know Herdman’s dead?” Hogan repeated.

“News doesn’t interest the patients, on the whole.”

“You’d prefer it if we kept it that way?” Rebus guessed.

“I’m assuming you don’t need to tell him why you’re so interested in Mr. Herdman…”

“You’re right, we don’t.” Rebus looked to Hogan. “Just have to watch we don’t slip up, eh, Bobby?”

As Hogan nodded, there was a knock on the still-open door. All three of them stood up. A tall, muscular man was waiting there. Bull neck, tattooed arms. For a moment, Rebus thought: now that’s what orderlies are supposed to look like. Then he saw Lesser’s face, and realized that this giant was Robert Niles.

“Robert…” The doctor’s smile was back in place, but Rebus knew she was wondering how long Niles had been there, and how much he’d taken in.

“Billy said…” The voice was like a rumble of thunder.

“That’s right. Come in, come in.”

As Niles entered the room, Hogan made to close the door after him.

“Not in here,” Lesser commanded. “The door is always open.”

Two ways of taking that: openness, nothing to hide; or meaning an attack was more likely to be spotted.

Lesser was gesturing for Niles to take her chair, while she retreated behind her desk. As Niles sat down, so did the two detectives, wedging themselves back into the sofa.

Niles stared at them, face angled downwards, eyes hooded.

“These men have a few questions they’d like to ask you, Robert.”

“What sort of questions?” Niles was wearing a dazzling white T-shirt and gray jogging bottoms. Rebus was trying not to stare at the tattoos. They were old, probably dated back to his army days. When Rebus had been a soldier, he’d been the only recruit not to celebrate joining up by getting a few tattoos on his first home leave. Niles’s specimens included a thistle, a couple of writhing snakes, and a dagger with a banner wrapped around it. Rebus suspected the dagger had something to do with his time in the SAS, even though the regiment frowned upon ornamentation: tattoos were like scars-means of identification. Which meant they could be used against you if you were ever captured…

Hogan decided to take the initiative. “We want to ask you about your friend Lee.”

“Lee?”

“Lee Herdman. He visits you sometimes?”

“Sometimes, yes.” The words came slowly. Rebus wondered how much medication Niles was on.

“Have you seen him lately?”

“Few weeks back… I think.” Niles swung his head towards Dr. Lesser. Time probably didn’t mean much in Carbrae. She nodded encouragingly.

“What do you talk about when he comes to see you?”

“The old days.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Just… the old days. Life was good back then.”

“Was that Lee’s opinion, too?” Hogan ended the question and sucked in air, realizing he’d just used the past tense about Herdman.

“What’s all this about?” Another look towards Lesser, reminding Rebus of a trained animal seeking some instruction from its owner. “Do I have to be here?”

“Door’s open, Robert.” Lesser waved a hand in its direction. “You know that.”

“Lee seems to have gone, Mr. Niles,” Rebus said, leaning forwards a little. “We just want to know what happened to him.”

“Gone?”

Rebus shrugged. “It’s a long drive down here from Queensferry. The pair of you must be pretty close.”

“We were soldiers together.”

Rebus nodded. “SAS Regiment. You were the same unit?”

“C Squadron.”

“That was nearly me once.” Rebus tried a smile. “I was a Para… tried for the regiment.”

“What happened?”

Rebus was trying not to think back. There were horrors lurking there. “Flunked the training.”

“How soon did you drop?”

Easier to tell the truth than to lie. “I passed everything up until the psychological stuff.”

A smile broke Niles’s face wide open. “They cracked you.”

Rebus nodded. “I cracked like a fucking egg, mate.” Mate: a soldier’s word.

“When was this?”

“Early seventies.”

“Bit before me, then.” Niles was thinking. “They had to change the interrogations,” he remembered. “Used to be a lot harder.”

“I was part of that.”

“You cracked under interrogation? What did they do to you?” Niles’s eyes narrowed. He was more alert now, having a conversation, someone else answering his questions.

“Kept me in a cell… constant noise and light… screams from the other cells…”

Rebus knew he had everyone’s attention now. Niles clapped his hands together. “The chopper?” he asked. When Rebus nodded, he clapped again, turned to Dr. Lesser. “They put a sack over your head and take you up in a chopper, then say they’ll drop you if you don’t give them what they want. When they dump you out, you’re only eight feet above the ground, only you don’t know that!” He turned back to Rebus. “It really fucks you up.” Then he thrust forwards a hand for Rebus to shake.

“It really does,” Rebus agreed, trying to ignore the searing pain of the handshake.

“Sounds barbaric to me,” Dr. Lesser commented, her face paler than before.

“It breaks you, or it makes you,” Niles corrected her.

“It broke me,” Rebus agreed. “But you, Robert… did it make you?”

“For a while it did.” Niles grew a little less agitated. “It’s when you get out… that’s when it hits you.”

“What?”

“The fact that all the things you…” He fell silent, as still as a statue. Some new set of chemicals kicking in? But behind Niles’s back, Lesser was shaking her head, meaning there was nothing to worry about. The giant was just lost in thought. “I knew some Paras,” he said at last. “Right hard bastards, they were.”

“I was Rifle Company, Second Para.”

“Saw time in Ulster, then?”

Rebus nodded. “And elsewhere.”

Niles tapped the side of his nose. Rebus imagined those fingers gripping a knife, drawing the blade across a smooth white throat… “Mum’s the word,” Niles said.

But the word Rebus had been thinking of was wife. “Last time you saw Lee,” he asked quietly, “did he seem okay? Maybe he was worried about something?”

Niles shook his head. “Lee always puts on a brave face. I never get to see him when he’s down.”

“But you know there are times when he is down?”

“We’re trained not to show it. We’re men!

“Yes, we are,” Rebus confirmed.

“Army doesn’t have any place for crybabies. Crybabies can’t shoot a stranger dead, or lob a grenade at him. You’ve got to be able to… what you’re trained for is…” But the words wouldn’t come. Niles twisted his hands together, as though trying to choke them into existence. He looked from Rebus to Hogan and back again.

“Sometimes… sometimes they don’t know how to switch us off…”

Hogan sat forwards. “Does that apply to Lee, do you think?”

Niles stared at him. “He’s done something, hasn’t he?”

Hogan swallowed back a response, looked to Dr. Lesser for guidance. But it was too late. Niles was rising slowly from his chair.

“I’m going to go now,” he said, moving towards the door. Hogan opened his mouth to say something, but Rebus touched his arm, stilling him, knowing he was probably about to toss a grenade into the room: Your pal’s dead, and he took some schoolkids with him… Dr. Lesser got up and walked to the doorway, reassuring herself that Niles wasn’t hiding just out of sight. Satisfied, she took the chair he’d just vacated.

“He seems pretty bright,” Rebus commented.

“Bright?”

“In control. Is that the medication?”

“Medication plays its part.” She crossed one trousered leg over the other. Rebus noticed that she wore no jewelry at all, nothing on her wrists or around her neck, and no earrings that he could see.

“When he’s… ‘cured’… does he go back to jail?”

“People think coming to a place like this is a soft option. I can assure you it isn’t.”

“That’s not what I was getting at. I just wondered -”

“From what I remember,” Hogan interrupted, “Niles never explained why he slit his wife’s throat. Has he been any more forthcoming with you, Doctor?”

She looked at him, unblinking. “That has no relevance to your visit.”

Hogan shrugged. “You’re right, I’m just curious.”

Lesser turned her attention to Rebus. “Maybe it’s a kind of brainwashing.”

“How so?” Hogan asked.

Rebus answered him. “Dr. Lesser agrees with Niles. She thinks the army trains men to kill, then does nothing to switch them off before they’re returned to civvy street.”

“Plenty of anecdotal evidence to suggest just that,” Lesser said. She leaned her hands on her thighs, the gesture telling them the session was over. Rebus got up, same time as she did, Hogan more reluctant to follow her lead.

“We came a long way, Doctor,” he said.

“I don’t think you’ll get any more from Robert, not today.”

“I doubt we can afford the time to come back.”

“That’s your decision, of course.”

Finally, Hogan rose from the sofa. “How often do you see Niles?”

“I see him every day.”

“I mean, one-on-one.”

“What is it you’re asking?”

“Maybe next time, you could ask him about his friend Lee.”

“Maybe,” she conceded.

“And if he says anything…”

“Then that would be between him and me.”

Hogan nodded. “Patient confidentiality,” he agreed. “But there are families out there who’ve just lost their sons. Maybe you could try thinking of the victims for a change.” Hogan’s tone had hardened. Rebus started steering him towards the door.

“I apologize for my colleague,” he told Lesser. “A case like this, it takes its toll.”

Her face softened slightly. “Yes, of course… If you’ll wait a second, I’ll call Billy.”

“I think we can find our own way out,” Rebus said. But as they entered the corridor, he saw Billy approaching. “Thanks for your help, Doctor.” Then, to Hogan: “Bobby, say thank you to the nice doctor.”

“Cheers, Doc,” Hogan grudgingly managed. Freeing himself from Rebus’s grip, he started down the corridor, Rebus making to follow.

“DI Rebus?” Lesser called. Rebus turned to her. “You might want to talk to someone yourself. Counseling, I mean.”

“It’s thirty years since I left the army, Dr. Lesser.”

She nodded. “A long time to be carrying any baggage.” She folded her arms. “Think about it, will you?”

Rebus nodded, backing away. He offered her a parting wave, then turned and started walking, feeling her eyes still on him. Hogan was ahead of Billy, and seemed in no need of company. Rebus fell into step with the orderly.

“That was helpful,” he commented, speaking to Billy but knowing Hogan could hear.

“I’m glad.”

“Well worth the trip.”

Billy just nodded, satisfied that someone else’s day was turning out as bright as his own.

“Billy,” Rebus said, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “do we look at the visitors’ book here, or over at the gatehouse?” Billy looked baffled. “Didn’t you hear Dr. Lesser say?” Rebus plowed on. “We just need the dates for Lee Herdman’s visits.”

“The book’s kept at the gatehouse.”

“Then that’s where we’ll give it the once-over.” Rebus fixed the orderly with a winning smile. “Any chance of a coffee while we’re at it?”

There was a kettle in the gatehouse, and the guard made two mugs of instant. Billy headed back into the hospital.

“Think he’ll go straight to Lesser?” Hogan said in an undertone.

“Let’s be as quick as we can.”

Not easy when the guard was so interested in them, asking about life in CID. Probably stir-crazy, cooped up in his box all day, a bank of CCTV monitors, a few cars to process every hour… Hogan offered him tidbits, most of which Rebus suspected he was making up. The visitors’ book was an old-fashioned ledger, broken up into columns for date, time, visitor’s name and address, and person visited. This last was subdivided, so that both patient’s and doctor’s name could be recorded. Rebus started with visitors’ names and ran his finger quickly down three pages until he found Lee Herdman. Almost exactly a month back, so Niles’s estimate hadn’t been far off. A month further back, another visit. Rebus jotted the details into his notebook, holding the pen lightly. At least they’d be taking something back to Edinburgh.

He paused to take a sip from the chipped, flower-patterned mug. It tasted like one of those cheap supermarket mixtures, more chicory than coffee. His father used to buy the same stuff, saving a few pence. One time, the teenage Rebus had brought home a more expensive substitute, which his father had shunned.

“Good coffee,” he said now to the guard, who looked pleased with the compliment.

“We about done here?” Hogan asked, tiring of telling stories.

Rebus nodded but then let his eyes glance down the columns one final time. Not visitors this time, but patients visited…

“Company’s on its way,” Hogan warned. Rebus looked up. Hogan was pointing at one of the TV screens. Dr. Lesser, accompanied by Billy, striding out of the hospital building and down the path.

Rebus went back to the ledger, and saw R. Niles again. R. Niles/ Dr. Lesser. Another visitor, not Lee Herdman.

We didn’t ask her! Rebus could have kicked himself.

“We’re out of here, John,” Bobby Hogan was saying, putting down his mug. But Rebus wasn’t moving. Hogan stared at him, and Rebus just winked. Then the door flew open and Lesser was standing there.

“Who gave you permission,” she spat, “to go trawling through a confidential record?”

“We forgot to ask about other visitors,” Rebus told her calmly. Then his finger tapped the ledger. “Who’s Douglas Brimson?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“How do you know?” Rebus was jotting the name into his notebook as he spoke.

“What are you doing?”

Rebus closed the notebook, slipping it into his pocket. Then he nodded to Hogan.

“Thanks again, Doc,” Hogan said, preparing to leave. She ignored him, glaring at Rebus.

“I’ll be reporting this,” she warned him.

He shrugged. “I’ll be suspended by the end of the day anyway. Thanks again for all your help.” He squeezed past her, following Hogan to the car park.

“I feel better,” Hogan said. “It might have been cheap, but we ended up scoring a point.”

“A cheap point is always worth scoring,” Rebus agreed.

Hogan stopped at the Passat, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. “Douglas Brimson?” he asked.

“Another of Niles’s visitors,” Rebus explained. “With an address at Turnhouse.”

“Turnhouse?” Hogan frowned. “You mean the airport?”

Rebus nodded.

“Is there anything else out there?”

“Apart from the airport, you mean?” Rebus shrugged. “Might be worth finding out,” he said as the car’s central lock clunked open.

“What’s this about you waiting to be suspended?”

“I had to say something.”

“But why pick that?”

“Jesus, Bobby, I thought the analyst had left the building.”

“If there’s anything I should know, John…”

“There isn’t.”

“I brought you in on this, I can dump you just as quickly. Remember that.”

“You’re a real motivator, Bobby.” Rebus pulled the passenger-side door closed. It was going to be a long drive…

9

MAKE MY DAY (C.O.D.Y.).

Siobhan stared at the note again. Same handwriting as yesterday, she was sure of that. Second-class mail, but it had taken only a day to reach her. The address was perfect, down to the St. Leonard’s postcode. No name this time, but she didn’t need a name, did she? That was the point the writer was making.

Make my day: a reference to Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry? Who did she know called Harry? Nobody. She wasn’t sure whether she was meant to get the C.O.D.Y. reference, but straight off she knew what it meant: Come On Die Young. She knew it because it was the title of a Mogwai album, one she’d bought a while back. A piece of American gang graffiti, something like that. Who did she know, apart from her, who liked Mogwai? She’d loaned Rebus a couple of CDs, months ago. Nobody in the station really knew her taste in music. Grant Hood had been to her flat a few times… so had Eric Bain… Maybe she hadn’t been meant to get the meaning, not without working at it. She guessed most fans of the band were younger than her, teens and early twenties. Probably mostly male, too. Mogwai played instrumentals, mixing ambient guitar with ear-wrenching noise. She couldn’t remember if Rebus had ever given her back the CDs… Had one of them been Come On Die Young?

Without realizing it, she’d walked from her desk to the window, peering out on to St. Leonard’s Lane. The CID room was dead, all the Port Edgar interviews concluded. Transcripts would be typed up, collated. It would be someone’s job to feed it all into the computer system, see if technology could find connections missed by the merely mortal…

The letter writer wanted her to make his day. His day? She studied the writing again. Maybe an expert could tell if it was a masculine or feminine hand. She suspected the writer had disguised his or her real handwriting. Hence the scrawl. She went back to her desk and called Ray Duff.

“Ray, it’s Siobhan-got anything for me?”

“Morning to you, too, DS Clarke. Didn’t I say I’d get back to you when-if-I found something?”

“Meaning you haven’t?”

“Meaning I’m up to my neck. Meaning I haven’t yet got round to doing very much about your letter, for which I can only offer an apology and the excuse that I’m flesh and blood.”

“Sorry, Ray.” She gave a sigh, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You’ve had another one?” he guessed.

“Yes.”

“One yesterday, one today?”

“That’s right.”

“Want to send me it?”

“I think I’ll hang on to this one, Ray.”

“As soon as I’ve got news, I’ll call you.”

“I know you will. Sorry I’ve bothered you.”

“Speak to someone, Siobhan.”

“I already have. Bye, Ray.”

She cut the call, tried Rebus’s mobile, but he wasn’t answering. She didn’t bother with a message. Folded the note, put it back in its envelope, slipped the envelope into her pocket. On her desk sat a dead teenager’s laptop, her task for the day. There were over a hundred files in there. Some would be computer applications, but most were documents created by Derek Renshaw. She’d already looked at a few: correspondence, school essays. Nothing about the car crash in which his friend had died. Looked like he’d been trying to set up some sort of jazz fanzine. There were pages of layout, photos scanned in, some of them lifted from the ’Net. Plenty of enthusiasm, but no real talent for writing. Miles was an innovator, no question, but later on he acted more as a scout, finding the best new talent around and embracing it, hoping something would rub off on himself… Siobhan just hoped Miles had wiped himself clean afterwards. She sat in front of the laptop and stared at it, trying to concentrate. The word CODY was bouncing around her head. Maybe it was a clue… leading to someone with that surname. She didn’t think she knew anyone named Cody. For a moment she had a jarring thought: Fairstone was still alive, and the charred corpse belonged to someone called Cody. She shook the notion aside, took a deep breath, got back to work.

And hit an immediate brick wall. She couldn’t log on to Derek Renshaw’s e-mail account without his password. She picked up the phone and called South Queensferry, thankful that Kate answered rather than her father.

“Kate, it’s Siobhan Clarke.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got Derek’s computer here.”

“Dad told me.”

“But I forgot to ask for his password.”

“What do you need that for?”

“To look at any new e-mails.”

“Why?” Sounding exasperated, wanting it all to be finished.

“Because that’s what we do, Kate.” Silence on the line. “Kate?”

“What?”

“Just checking you hadn’t hung up on me.”

“Oh… right.” And then the line went dead. Kate Renshaw had hung up on her. Siobhan gave a silent curse, decided she’d try again later or get Rebus to do it. He was family after all. Besides, she had the folder with all Derek’s old e-mails-no code needed to access that. She scrolled back, found that there were four years’ worth of e-mails in the folder. She hoped Derek had been neat and tidy, hoped he’d erased all the junk. She was five minutes into the task and bored of rugby scores and match reports when her phone rang. It was Kate.

“I’m really sorry,” the voice said.

“Don’t be. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. You’re just trying to do your job.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to like it. If I’m being honest, I don’t always like it either.”

“His password was Miles.”

Of course. It would have taken Siobhan only a few minutes of lateral thinking.

“Thanks, Kate.”

“He liked to go online. Dad complained for a while about the phone bills.”

“You were close, weren’t you, you and Derek?”

“I suppose so.”

“Not every brother would share his password.”

A snort, something almost like a laugh. “I guessed it. Only took me three goes. He was trying to guess mine, and I was trying to guess his.”

“Did he get yours?”

“Bugged me for days about it, kept coming up with new ideas.”

Siobhan’s left elbow rested on the desktop. She bunched her fist and rested her head against it. Maybe this was going to turn into a long call, a conversation Kate needed to have.

Memories of Derek.

“Did you share his taste in music?”

“God, no. His stuff was all shoe-gazing. Sat in his room for hours, and if you went in, he was cross-legged on the bed, head in the clouds. I tried dragging him to a few clubs in town, but he said they just depressed him.” Another snort. “Different strokes, I suppose. He got beaten up once, you know.”

“Where?”

“In town. I think that’s when he started sticking close to home. Some kids he bumped into didn’t like his ‘posh’ accent. There’s a lot of that, you know. We’re all snobs, because our parents are rich shits who pay for our education; they’re all schemies who’ll end up on the dole… that’s where it starts.”

“Where what starts?”

“The aggression. I remember my last year at Port Edgar, we got a letter ‘advising’ us not to wear our uniform in town, unless we were on a supervised trip.” She gave a long sigh. “My parents pinched and scraped so we could go private. It might even be what broke them up.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“A lot of their fights had to do with money.”

“Even so…”

There was silence on the line for a moment. “I’ve been going on the ’Net, looking up stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“All sorts… trying to work out what made him do it.”

“Lee Herdman, you mean?”

“There’s this book, it’s by an American. He’s a psychiatrist, or something. Know what it’s called?”

“What?”

Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream. Do you think there’s any truth in that?”

“Maybe I’d have to read the book.”

“I think he’s saying we’ve all got it in us, the potential to… well, you know…”

“I don’t know about that.” Siobhan was still thinking of Derek Renshaw. The beating was another thing he hadn’t mentioned so far in his computer files. So many secrets…

“Kate, is it all right if I ask…?”

“What?”

“Derek wasn’t depressed, or anything, was he? I mean, he liked sports and stuff.”

“Yes, but when he came home…”

“He’d rather sit in his room?” Siobhan guessed.

“With his jazz and his surfing.”

“Any sites in particular? Any favorites?”

“He used a couple of chat rooms, bulletin boards.”

“Let me guess: sports and jazz?”

“Bull’s-eye.” There was a pause. “You know what I said about Stuart Cotter’s family?”

Stuart Cotter: the crash victim. “I remember,” Siobhan said.

“Did you think I was crazy?” Kate trying for a lightness of tone.

“It’ll be looked into, don’t worry.”

“I didn’t really mean it, you know. I don’t really think Stuart’s family would… would do something like that.”

“Fair enough, Kate.” Another silence on the line, longer this time. “Have you hung up on me again?”

“No.”

“Anything else you want to talk about?”

“I should let you get back to work.”

“You can always call again, Kate. Anytime you want to chat.”

“Thanks, Siobhan. You’re a pal.”

“Bye, Kate.” Siobhan ended the call, stared at the screen again. She pressed a palm to her jacket pocket, felt the shape of the envelope.

C.O.D.Y.

Suddenly it didn’t seem so important.

She got back to work, plugged the laptop into a phone jack and used Derek’s password to access a slew of new e-mails, most of which turned out to be junk or regular sports updates. There were a few from names she recognized from the folder. Friends Derek had probably never met, except when online, friends around the globe who shared his passions. Friends who didn’t know he was dead.

She straightened her back, feeling vertebrae crackle. Her neck was stiff, and her watch told her it was going to be a late lunch. She didn’t feel hungry but knew she should eat. What she really felt like was a double espresso, maybe with a side order of chocolate. That double combo sugar-caffeine rush that made the world go round.

“I won’t give in,” she said to herself. Instead, she’d go to the Engine Shed, where they served organic meals and fruit teas. She fished a paperback and her mobile phone out of her shoulder bag, then locked the bag in the bottom drawer of her desk-you could never be too careful in a police station. The paperback was a critique of rock music by a female poet. She’d been trying to finish it for ages. George “Hi-Ho” Silvers came into the office as she was leaving.

“Just off to lunch, George,” Siobhan told him.

He looked around the empty office. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sorry, George, I’m meeting someone,” she lied blithely. “Besides, one of us has to hold down the fort.”

She walked downstairs and out of the station’s main entrance, turning left onto St. Leonard’s Lane. Her eyes were on the tiny screen of her phone, checking for messages. A hand landed heavily on her shoulder. A deep voice growled: “Hey.” Siobhan spun around, dropping both phone and paperback. She grabbed at a wrist, twisted it hard, pulling down so that her attacker dropped to his knees.

“Jesus fuck!” the man gasped. She couldn’t see much more than the top of his head. Short dark hair, gelled to stand up in little spikes. Charcoal suit. He was heavily built, not tall…

Not Martin Fairstone.

“Who are you?” Siobhan hissed. She was holding his wrist high up his back, pressing forwards on it. She heard car doors open and close, glanced up, saw a man and woman hurrying towards her.

“I just wanted a word,” her assailant gasped. “I’m a reporter. Holly… Steve Holly.”

Siobhan let go of his wrist. Holly cradled his hurt arm as he got to his feet.

“What’s going on here?” the woman asked. Siobhan recognized her: Whiteread, the army investigator. Simms was with her, a thin smile on his face, nodding approval of Siobhan’s reflexes.

“Nothing,” Siobhan told them.

“Didn’t look like nothing.” Whiteread was staring at Steve Holly.

“He’s a reporter,” Siobhan explained.

“If we’d known that,” Simms said, “we’d’ve waited a bit longer before stepping in.”

“Cheers,” Holly muttered, rubbing his elbow. He looked from Simms to Whiteread. “I’ve seen you before… outside Lee Herdman’s flat, if I’m not mistaken. I thought I knew all the CID faces.” He straightened up, held out a hand to Simms, mistaking him for the superior. “Steve Holly.”

Simms glanced at Whiteread, alerting Holly immediately to his error. He swiveled slightly so the hand was facing the woman, and repeated his name. Whiteread ignored him.

“Do you always treat the fourth estate this way, DS Clarke?”

“Sometimes I go for a headlock instead.”

“That’s a good idea, changing your attack,” Whiteread agreed.

“Means the enemy can’t predict your move,” Simms added.

“Why do I get the feeling you three are taking the piss?” Holly asked.

Siobhan had bent down to retrieve her phone and book. She checked the phone for damage. “What is it you want?”

“A quick couple of questions.”

“Concerning what exactly?”

Holly was staring at the army pair. “Sure you want an audience, DS Clarke?”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you anyway,” Siobhan told him.

“How do you know until you’ve heard me out?”

“Because you’re going to ask me about Martin Fairstone.”

“Am I?” Holly raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe that was the plan… but I’m also wondering why you’re so jumpy, and why you don’t want to talk about Fairstone.”

I’m jumpy because of Fairstone, Siobhan felt like shouting. But she sniffed dismissively instead. The Engine Shed was no longer an option; nothing to stop Holly following her there, taking the chair next to her… “I’m going back in,” she said.

“Watch out nobody in there taps your shoulder,” Holly said. “And tell DI Rebus I’m sorry…”

Siobhan wasn’t going to fall for it. She turned towards the door, only to find Whiteread blocking her way.

“Mind if we have a word?” she asked.

“I’m on my lunch break.”

“I could do with something myself,” Whiteread said, glancing at her colleague, who nodded agreement. Siobhan sighed.

“You better come in, then.” She pushed the revolving door, Whiteread right behind her. Simms made to follow but paused for a moment, turning his attention to the reporter.

“You work for a newspaper?” he asked. Holly nodded. Simms smiled at him. “I killed a man once with one of those.” Then he turned and followed the women inside.


The cafeteria didn’t have much left. Whiteread and Siobhan opted for sandwiches, Simms a heaping plate of chips and beans.

“What did he mean about Rebus?” Whiteread asked, stirring sugar into her tea.

“Doesn’t matter,” Siobhan said.

“Sure about that?”

“Look…”

“We’re not the enemy here, Siobhan. I know what it’s like: you probably don’t trust officers at the next station, never mind outsiders like us. But we’re on the same side.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, but what just happened hasn’t got anything to do with Port Edgar, Lee Herdman, or the SAS.”

Whiteread stared at her, then gave a shrug of acceptance.

“So what was it you wanted?” Siobhan asked.

“Actually, we were hoping to talk to DI Rebus.”

“He’s not here.”

“So they told us at South Queensferry.”

“But you still came?”

Whiteread made a show of studying her sandwich filling. “Obviously, yes.”

“He wasn’t here… but you knew I was?”

Whiteread smiled. “Rebus trained for the SAS but didn’t make the grade.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Has he ever told you what happened?”

Siobhan decided not to answer, unwilling to admit that he’d never let her into that part of his history. Whiteread took her silence as answer enough.

“He cracked up. Left the army altogether, had a nervous breakdown. Lived beside a beach for a while, somewhere north of here.”

“Fife,” Simms added, mouth stuffed with chips.

“How come you know all this? It’s supposed to be Herdman you’re looking at.”

Whiteread nodded. “Thing is, we didn’t have Lee Herdman flagged.”

“Flagged?”

“As a potential psycho,” Simms said. Whiteread’s eyes flared, and he swallowed hard, went back to his eating.

Psycho’s not the right word,” Whiteread corrected him for Siobhan’s benefit.

“But you had John flagged?” Siobhan guessed.

“Yes,” Whiteread admitted. “The breakdown, you see… And then he became a policeman, his name appearing quite regularly in the media…”

And about to appear again, Siobhan was thinking. “I still don’t see what this has to do with the inquiry,” she said, hoping she sounded calm.

“It’s just that DI Rebus may have insights that could prove useful,” Whiteread explained. “DI Hogan certainly seems to think so. He’s taken Rebus with him to Carbrae, hasn’t he? To see Robert Niles?”

“Another of your spectacular failures,” Siobhan felt compelled to say.

Whiteread seemed content to accept the comment, putting most of the sandwich back down on her plate, lifting her cup instead. Siobhan’s mobile rang. She checked its screen: Rebus.

“Sorry,” she said, getting up from the table, walking towards the drink machine. “How did it go?” she asked into the mouthpiece.

“We got a name: can you start running a check?”

“What’s the name?”

“Brimson.” Rebus spelled it for her. “First name Douglas. Address at Turnhouse.”

“As in the airport?”

“So far as we know. He was another of Niles’s visitors…”

“And doesn’t live far from South Queensferry, so chances are he might have known Lee Herdman.” Siobhan looked back to where Whiteread and Simms sat, talking to each other. “I’ve got your army pals here. Want me to run this Brimson character past them, just in case he’s ex-forces?”

“Christ, no. Are they listening in?”

“I was having lunch with them in the cafeteria. Don’t worry, they’re out of earshot.”

“What are they doing there?”

“Whiteread’s got a sandwich, Simms is wolfing down a plate of chips.” She paused. “But it’s me they’ve been trying to grill.”

“Am I expected to laugh at that?”

“Sorry. Feeble effort. Has Templer spoken with you yet?”

“No. What sort of mood’s she in?”

“I’ve managed to steer clear of her all morning.”

“She’s probably been meeting the pathologists, prior to giving me a roasting.”

“Now who’s the one making jokes?”

“I wish it was a joke, Siobhan.”

“How soon will you be back?”

“Not today, if I can help it. Bobby wants to talk to the judge.”

“Why?”

“To clear up a couple of points.”

“And that’ll take you the rest of the day?”

“You’ve plenty to keep you busy without me there. Meantime, tell the Gruesome Twosome nothing.”

The Gruesome Twosome: Siobhan glanced over in their direction. They’d stopped talking, finished eating. Both were staring at her.

“Steve Holly’s been sniffing around, too,” Siobhan told Rebus.

“I assume you kicked him in the balls and sent him on his way?”

“Not far off it, actually…”

“Let’s talk again before the end of play.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Nothing from the laptop?”

“Not so far.”

“Keep trying.”

The phone went dead, a merry-sounding series of bleeps telling Siobhan that Rebus had cut the connection. She walked back to the table, fixing a smile on her face.

“I’ve got to get back,” she said.

“We could give you a lift,” Simms suggested.

“I mean back upstairs.”

“You’re finished at South Queensferry?” Whiteread asked.

“I just have some stuff here to be getting on with.”

“Stuff?”

“Odds and ends from before this all started.”

“Paperwork, eh?” Simms sympathized. But the look on Whiteread’s face said she wasn’t falling for it.

“I’d better see you out,” Siobhan added.

“What does a CID office look like?” Whiteread asked. “I’ve often wondered…”

“I’ll give you the tour sometime,” Siobhan answered. “When we’re not up to our eyes.”

It was an answer Whiteread was forced to accept, but Siobhan could see she liked it about as much as she would a Mogwai concert.

10

Lord Jarvies was in his late fifties. Bobby Hogan had filled Rebus in on family history during the drive back to Edinburgh. Divorced from his first wife, remarried, Anthony the only child from this second relationship. The family lived in Murrayfield.

“Plenty of good schools around there,” Rebus had commented, wondering at the distance between Murrayfield and South Queensferry. But Roland Jarvies was a former pupil of Port Edgar. In his twenties, he’d even played for the Port Edgar FP rugby team.

“What position?” Rebus had asked.

“John,” Hogan had replied, “what I know about rugby could be written on the leftovers of one of your cigarettes.”

Hogan had expected that they would find the judge at home, in shock and in mourning. But a couple of calls revealed that Jarvies was back at work, and therefore to be found in the Sheriff Court on Chambers Street, opposite the museum where Jean Burchill worked. Rebus considered calling her-there might be time for a quick coffee-but decided against it. She was bound to notice his hands, wasn’t she? Best to hang fire till they’d mended. He could still feel the handshake Robert Niles had pressed on him.

“You ever come up against Jarvies?” Hogan asked as he parked on a single yellow line, outside what had been the city’s dental hospital, now transformed into a nightclub and bar.

“A few times. You?”

“Once or twice.”

“Give him any cause to remember you?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Hogan said, placing a notice on the inside of the windshield identifying the car as being “on police business.”

“Might be cheaper to risk a ticket,” Rebus advised.

“How so?”

“Think about it.”

Hogan frowned in thought, then nodded. Not everyone who walked out of the courthouse would have reason to be enamored of the police. A ticket might cost thirty quid (and could always be canceled after a quiet word); scratched bodywork came in a little more expensive. Hogan removed the notice.

The Sheriff Court was a modern building, but its visitors were taking their toll. Dried spittle on the windows, graffiti on the walls. The judge was in the robing room, and that was where Rebus and Hogan were taken to meet with him. The attendant bowed slightly before he left.

Jarvies had just about finished changing out of his robes of office and back into a pinstripe suit, complete with watch chain. His burgundy tie sported a perfect knot, and his shoes were highly polished black brogues. His face looked polished, too, highlighting a network of tiny red veins in either cheek. On a long table sat other judges’ workday clothes: black gowns, white collars, gray wigs. Each set bore its owner’s name.

“Take a seat, if you can find one,” Jarvies said. “I won’t be long.” He looked up, mouth hanging slightly open, as it often did when he was in the courtroom. The first time Rebus had given evidence in front of Jarvies, the mannerism had disconcerted him, making him think the judge had been about to interrupt. “I do have another appointment, which is why I had to see you here or not at all.”

“Quite all right, sir,” Hogan said.

“To be honest,” Rebus added, “with everything you’ve been through, we’re surprised to see you here at all.”

“Can’t let the bastards beat us, can we?” the judge replied. It didn’t sound like the first time he’d had to offer the explanation. “So, what is it I can do for you?”

Rebus and Hogan shared a look, both finding it hard to believe the man in front of them had just lost a son.

“It’s about Lee Herdman,” Hogan stated. “Seems he was friends with Robert Niles.”

“Niles?” The judge looked up. “I remember him… stabbed his wife, didn’t he?”

“Slit her throat,” Rebus corrected. “He went to jail, but right now he’s in Carbrae.”

“What we’re wondering,” Hogan added, “is whether you’ve ever had cause to fear a reprisal.”

Jarvies stood up slowly, took out his watch and flipped it open, checking the time. “I think I see,” he said. “You’re seeking a motive. Isn’t it enough to say that Herdman merely lost the balance of his mind?”

“That may end up as our conclusion,” Hogan conceded.

The judge was examining himself in the room’s full-length mirror. There was a faint aroma in Rebus’s nostrils, and at last he was able to place it. It was the smell of gentlemen’s outfitters, shops he’d been taken to as a child on those occasions when his father was being measured for a suit. Jarvies patted down a single stray hair. There were touches of gray at the temples, but otherwise his hair was chestnut-brown. Almost too brown, Rebus thought, wondering if some coloring had gone into it. The judge’s haircut with its precise left part gave the impression that no other style had been attempted since his schooldays.

“Sir?” Hogan prompted. “Robert Niles…?”

“I’ve never received any kind of threat from that direction, Detective Inspector Hogan. Nor had I heard the name Herdman until after the shootings.” He turned his head from the mirror. “Does that answer your questions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If Herdman had set out to target Anthony, why turn the gun on the other boys? Why wait so long after sentencing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Motive isn’t always the issue…”

Rebus’s phone trilled suddenly, sounding out of place, a modern distraction. He smiled an apology and stepped into the red-carpeted hallway.

“Rebus,” he said.

“I’ve just had a couple of interesting meetings,” Gill Templer said, straining to keep her temper in check.

“Oh, aye?”

“The forensics from Fairstone’s kitchen show that he was probably bound and gagged. That makes it murder.”

“Or someone trying to give him a bloody good scare.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Nothing much surprises me these days.”

“You already know, don’t you?” Rebus stayed silent; no point getting Dr. Curt into trouble. “Well, you can probably guess who the second meeting was with.”

“Carswell,” Rebus said. Colin Carswell: assistant chief constable.

“That’s right.”

“And I’m now to consider myself under suspension, pending investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“You’ll be required to attend an initial interview at HQ.”

“With the Complaints?”

“Something like this, it could even be the PSU.” Meaning the Professional Standards Unit.

“Ah, the Complaints’ paramilitary wing.”

“John…” Her tone was a mixture of warning and exasperation.

“I’ll look forward to talking to them,” Rebus said, ending the call. Hogan was stepping out of the robing room, thanking the judge for his time. He closed the door after him, spoke in an undertone.

“He’s taking it well.”

“Bottling it up, more like,” Rebus said, falling into step. “I’ve got a bit of news, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been suspended from duty. I daresay Carswell’s trying to find you right now to let you know.”

Hogan stopped walking, turned to face Rebus. “As predicted by you at Carbrae.”

“I went back to a guy’s house. Same night he died in a fire.” Hogan’s gaze dropped to Rebus’s gloves. “Nothing to do with it, Bobby. Just a coincidence.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“This guy had been hassling Siobhan.”

“And?”

“And it looks like he was tied to a chair when the fire started.”

Hogan puffed out his cheeks. “Witnesses?”

“I was seen going into the house with him, apparently.”

Hogan’s phone went off, different tone from Rebus’s. Caller ID brought a twitch to Hogan’s mouth.

“Carswell?” Rebus guessed.

“HQ.”

“Then that’s who it is.”

Hogan nodded, dropped the phone back into his pocket.

“No point putting it off,” Rebus told him.

But Bobby Hogan shook his head. “There’s every point putting it off, John. Besides, they may be pulling you off casework, but Port Edgar isn’t really a case, is it? Nobody’s going to go to court. It’s just housekeeping.”

“I suppose so.” Rebus gave a wry smile. Hogan patted his arm.

“Don’t you worry, John. Uncle Bobby will look after you…”

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” Rebus said.

“… right up until the moment when the shit really does hit the fan.”


By the time Gill Templer got back to St. Leonard’s, Siobhan had already tracked down Douglas Brimson. It hadn’t been exactly onerous, due to the fact that Brimson was in the phone book. Two addresses and phone numbers: one home, the other business. Templer had disappeared into her office across the corridor, slamming the door after her. George Silvers had looked up from his desk.

“Sounds like she’s on the warpath,” he’d said, pocketing his pen and preparing to beat a retreat. Siobhan had tried phoning Rebus, but he was busy. Busy warding off blows from the chief super’s tomahawk, most probably.

With Silvers gone, Siobhan again found herself alone in the CID room. DCI Pryde was around somewhere; so was DC Davie Hynds. But both were managing to make themselves invisible. Siobhan stared at the screen of Derek Renshaw’s laptop, bored to death of sifting its inoffensive contents. Derek, she was sure, had been a good kid, but dull with it. He’d already known the path his life would take: three or four years at uni, business studies with computing, and then an office job, maybe in accountancy. Money to buy a waterfront penthouse, fast car and the best hi-fi system around…

But that future remained frozen, realized only in words on a screen, bytes of memory. The thought made her shiver. Everything changing in an instant… She held her face in her hands, rubbing her fingers over her eyes, knowing only one thing: she didn’t want to be here when Gill Templer emerged from behind that door. Because for once, Siobhan suspected she would give her boss as good as she got, and maybe even a bit more besides. She wasn’t in the mood to be anybody’s victim. She looked at her phone, then at the notebook containing Brimson’s details. Decided, she shut down the laptop, placing it in her shoulder bag. Picked up her mobile and the notebook.

Walked.

Her one detour: a quick stop home, where she found her CD of Come On Die Young. She played the album as she drove, listening for clues. Not easy when so much of it was instrumental…

Brimson’s home address turned out to be a modern bungalow on a narrow road between the airport and what had been Gogarburn Hospital. As Siobhan got out of her car, she could hear demolition work in the distance: Gogarburn was being dismantled. She thought the site had been sold to one of the major banks, to be transformed into their new headquarters. The house in front of her sat behind a tall hedge and green wrought-iron gates. She pushed open the gates and crunched across pink gravel. Tried the doorbell, then peered in through the windows on either side. One belonged to a living room, the other a bedroom. The bed had been made, and the living room looked little used. A couple of magazines sat on the blue leather sofa, pictures of airplanes on their covers. The garden to the front was mostly paved, with just a couple of beds where roses waited to grow. A narrow path separated the bungalow from its garage, with another gate that opened when she turned the handle, allowing entry to the rear garden. It comprised a huge expanse of sloping lawn, at the bottom of which stretched what looked like acres of farmland. The timber-framed conservatory seemed a recent addition to the house. Its door was locked. Windows showed her a large, very white kitchen and another bedroom. She got no sense of family life: no garden toys, nothing to suggest a woman’s touch. All the same, the place was kept in immaculate condition. Walking back down the path, she noticed a glass pane in the garage’s side door. There was a car inside, one of the sportier Jaguars, but its owner definitely wasn’t home.

She got back into her own car and headed for the airport, stopping in front of the terminal building. A security man warned her that parking wasn’t allowed but waved her on when she showed her ID. The terminal was busy: long queues for what looked like a charter flight to the sun, business suits wheeling their cases briskly towards the escalator. Siobhan studied the signs, saw one for Information and headed that way, asking at the desk to speak to Mr. Brimson. A quick clatter of a keyboard, then a shake of the head.

“I’m not getting that name.”

Siobhan spelled it for the woman, who nodded that she’d entered it correctly. She picked up her phone, spoke to someone. Her turn now to spell out the letters: B-r-i-m-s-o-n. She pulled her mouth down, again shaking her head.

“Sure he works here?” she asked.

Siobhan showed her the address, copied from the phone book. The woman smiled.

“That says ‘airfield,’ love,” she explained. “That’s what you want, not the airport.” She then gave directions, and Siobhan thanked her and left, face flushed from having made the mistake in the first place. The airfield was just that. It adjoined the airport and could be reached by driving halfway around the perimeter. Light aircraft were hangared here, and according to the sign on the gate, it was also home to a flying school. There was a phone number below: the number Siobhan had copied from the phone book. The high metal gate was padlocked, but there was an old-fashioned telephone receiver in a wooden box attached to a post. Siobhan picked it up and heard the ringing tone.

“Hello?” A man’s voice.

“I’m looking for Mr. Brimson.”

“You’ve found him, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Brimson, my name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke. I’m with Lothian and Borders Police. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then: “Just wait a tick. I’ll have to unlock the gate.”

Siobhan started to say another thank-you, but the phone was dead. She could see a few hangars, a couple of airplanes. One had a single propeller on its nose, the other boasted two, one on either wing. They looked like two-seaters. There were also a couple of squat prefabricated buildings, and it was from one of these that the figure emerged, hoisting itself into an open-topped, venerable-looking Land Rover. A plane coming in to land at the airport drowned out any sound of the engine starting. The Land Rover jolted forwards, speeding the hundred or so yards to the gate. The man leapt out again. He was tall, tanned, and muscular-looking. Probably just into his fifties, with a lined face that had cracked into a brief smile of introduction. A short-sleeved shirt, the same green-olive color as the Land Rover, showed off silver-haired arms. Brimson’s thick head of hair was the same silver color, and had probably been ash-blond in his youth. The shirt was tucked into gray canvas trousers, showing the beginnings of a gut.

“Have to keep the place locked,” he started to explain, jangling a vast set of keys taken from the Land Rover’s ignition. “Security.”

She nodded her understanding. There was something immediately likable about this man. Maybe it was his sense of energy and self-confidence, the way he rolled his shoulders as he walked up to the gate. That brief, winning smile.

But as he pulled open the gate for her, she noted that his face had become more serious. “I suppose it’s about Lee,” he said solemnly. “Bound to happen sooner or later.” Then he motioned for her to drive in. “Park by the office,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

As she drove past him, she couldn’t help wondering about his choice of words.

Bound to happen sooner or later…

Seated opposite him in the office, she got the chance to ask.

“All I meant was,” he replied, “you were bound to want to talk to me.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m guessing you want to know why he did it.”

“And?”

“And you’ll be asking his friends if they can help.”

“You were a friend of Lee Herdman’s?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“In a roundabout way, yes. We found out that both yourself and Mr. Herdman paid visits to Carbrae.”

Brimson nodded slowly. “That’s clever,” he said. The kettle, having come to a boil, clicked off, and he leapt from his chair to pour water into two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Siobhan. The office was tiny, just enough room for the desk and two chairs. The door led back to an anteroom with a few more chairs and a couple of filing cabinets. There were posters on the walls-various forms of aircraft.

“You’re a flying instructor, Mr. Brimson?” Siobhan said, accepting the mug.

“Call me Doug, please.” Brimson sat back down. A figure appeared, framed by the window behind him. A rap of knuckles on the pane. Brimson turned his head, gave a wave, which the other man returned.

“That’s Charlie,” he explained. “Going for a spin. Works as a banker, says he’d swap jobs with me tomorrow if it meant he could spend more time in the sky.”

“You rent out your planes, then?”

It took Brimson a moment to follow her question. “No, no,” he said at last. “Charlie has his own plane; he just keeps it here.”

“The airfield’s yours, though?”

Brimson nodded. “Inasmuch as I rent the actual ground from the airport. But, yes, all this is mine.” He opened his arms wide, offering another smile.

“And how long have you known Lee Herdman?”

The arms dropped, and the smile with them. “A good few years.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Pretty much since he moved here.”

“That would be six years, then?”

“If you say so.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…”

“Detective Sergeant Clarke. Were the two of you close?”

“Close?” Brimson shrugged. “Lee didn’t really let people get ‘close.’ I mean, he was friendly, liked meeting up, all that sort of thing…”

“But?”

Brimson frowned in concentration. “I was never really sure what was going on in here.” He tapped his head.

“What did you think when you heard about the shooting?”

He shrugged. “It was impossible to believe.”

“Did you know Herdman had a gun?”

“No.”

“He was interested in them, though.”

“That’s true… but he never showed me one.”

“Never talked about it?”

“Never.”

“So what did the two of you talk about?”

“Planes, boats, the service… I served seven years in the RAF.”

“As a pilot?”

Brimson shook his head. “Didn’t do much piloting back then. I was the electrics wizard, keeping the crates up in the air.” He leaned across the desk. “Have you ever flown?”

“Just holiday trips.”

He wrinkled his face. “I mean like Charlie there.” He hooked his thumb towards where a small plane was taxiing past the window, engines droning.

“I have enough trouble driving a car.”

“A plane’s easier, believe me.”

“So all those dials and switches are just for show?”

He laughed. “We could go right now, what do you say?”

“Mr. Brimson…”

“Doug.”

“Mr. Brimson, I don’t really have time for a flying lesson right now.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll think about it.” She couldn’t help smiling, thinking that a thousand feet above Edinburgh might be safe from Gill Templer.

“You’ll love it, that’s a promise.”

“We’ll see.”

“But you’ll be off duty, right? Which means you’ll be allowed to call me Doug?” He waited till she’d nodded. “And what will I be allowed to call you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”

“Siobhan.”

“An Irish name?”

“Gaelic.”

“Your accent’s not…”

“My accent’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Why didn’t you come forward?” she asked. He seemed not to understand. “After the shooting, some of Mr. Herdman’s friends called to talk to us.”

“Did they? What for?”

“All kinds of reasons.”

He considered his answer. “I didn’t see the point, Siobhan.”

“Let’s save first names for later, eh?” Brimson tilted his head in apology. There was a sudden burst of static, then transistorized voices.

“The tower,” he explained, reaching down behind his desk to tweak the volume on the radio set. “That’s Charlie requesting a slot.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be okay this time of day.”

Siobhan listened to a voice warning the pilot to watch out for a helicopter over the city center.

“Roger, control.”

Brimson turned the volume lower still.

“I’d like to bring a colleague out here to talk to you,” Siobhan said. “Would that be all right?”

Brimson shrugged. “You can see how hectic life is around here. Only really busy on weekends.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not busy on weekends? Good-looking young woman like you?”

“I meant…”

He laughed again. “I’m only teasing. No wedding ring, though.” He nodded towards her left hand. “Do you think I’d make the grade in CID?”

“I notice you don’t wear a ring either.”

“Eligible bachelor, that’s me. Friends say it’s because I’ve got my head in the clouds.” He pointed upwards. “Not too many singles bars up there.”

Siobhan smiled, then realized that she was enjoying the conversation-always a bad sign. There were questions she knew she should be asking, but they weren’t coming into focus.

“Maybe tomorrow, then,” she said, getting up from the chair.

“Your first flying lesson?”

She shook her head. “Talking to my colleague.”

“But you’ll come, too?”

“If I can.”

He seemed satisfied, came around the desk, hand outstretched. “Good to meet you, Siobhan.”

“Good to meet you, Mr…” She faltered as he raised a warning finger. “Doug,” she relented.

“I’ll see you out.”

“I can manage.” Opening the door, wanting a little more space between them than he was allowing.

“Really? You’re good at picking locks, then, are you?”

She remembered the padlocked gate. “Right enough,” she said, following Doug Brimson outside just as Charlie’s machine came to the end of its run-up and lifted its wheels clear of the ground.


“Has Gill tracked you down yet?” Siobhan asked, speaking into her phone as she drove back into the city.

“Affirmative,” Rebus replied. “Not that I was hiding or anything.”

“So what’s the outcome?”

“Suspended from duty. Except that Bobby doesn’t see it that way. He still wants me helping out.”

“Which means you still need me, right?”

“I think I could just about drive myself if I had to.”

“But you don’t have to…”

He laughed. “I’m just teasing, Siobhan. The gig’s yours if you want it.”

“Good, because I’ve tracked down Brimson.”

“I’m impressed. Who is he?”

“Runs a flying school out at Turnhouse.” She paused. “I went to see him. I know I should have checked first, but your phone was engaged.”

“She’s been out to see Brimson,” she heard Rebus tell Hogan. Hogan muttered something back. “Bobby’s of the opinion,” Rebus told her, “that you should have sought permission before doing that.”

“Are those his exact words?”

“Actually, he rolled his eyes and uttered a few oaths. I’m choosing to extrapolate.”

“Thanks for saving my maidenly blushes.”

“So what did you get out of him?”

“He was friends with Herdman. They share similar backgrounds: army and RAF.”

“And how does he know Robert Niles?”

Siobhan’s mouth twitched. “I forgot to ask him that. I did say we’d go back.”

“Sounds like we’ll have to. Did he offer anything at all?”

“Says he didn’t know Herdman kept guns and doesn’t know why he went to the school. What about Niles?”

“Sod all use to us.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Let’s rendezvous at Port Edgar. We need to have a proper talk with Miss Teri.” There was silence on the line, and Siobhan thought she’d lost him, but then he asked: “Any more messages from our friend?”

Meaning the notes, keeping it vague in front of Hogan.

“There was another one waiting for me this morning.”

“Yes?”

“Much the same as the first.”

“Sent it to Howdenhall?”

“Didn’t see the point.”

“Good. I’ll want a look at it when we meet up. How long will you be?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

“A fiver says we beat you.”

“You’re on,” Siobhan said, pressing her foot a little harder to the accelerator. It was a few moments before she realized she didn’t know where Rebus had been calling from…

True to form, he was waiting for her in the car park of Port Edgar Academy, leaning against Hogan’s Passat, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded.

“You cheated,” she said, getting out of her car.

“Caveat emptor. That’s five quid you owe me.”

“No way.”

“You took the bet, Siobhan. A lady always pays up.”

She shook her head, reached into her pocket. “Here’s that letter, by the way,” she said, producing the envelope. Rebus held out his hand. “Cost you a fiver to read it.”

Rebus looked at her. “For the privilege of giving you my expert opinion?” His hand stayed outstretched, the envelope just out of reach. “All right, it’s a deal,” he said, curiosity winning in the end.

In the car, he read it through several times while Siobhan drove.

“A fiver wasted,” he finally offered. “Who’s Cody?”

“I think it means ‘Come On Die Young.’ It’s a gang thing, from America.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s a Mogwai album. I loaned you their stuff.”

“Might be a name. Buffalo Bill, for example.”

“The connection being…?”

“I don’t know.” Rebus refolded the note, examining its creases, peering inside the envelope.

“Good Sherlock Holmes impression,” Siobhan said.

“What else do you want me to do?”

“You could admit defeat.” She held out her hand. Rebus returned the note to her, tucked back in its envelope.

“Make my day… Dirty Harry?”

“That’s my guess,” Siobhan agreed.

“Dirty Harry was a cop…”

She stared at him. “You think someone I work with did this?”

“Don’t say it hasn’t crossed your mind…”

“It has,” she finally admitted.

“But it would have to be someone who knows you connect to Fairstone.”

“Yes.”

“And that brings it down to me and Gill Templer.” He paused. “And I’m guessing you’ve not loaned her any albums of late.”

Siobhan shrugged, eyes back on the road ahead. She didn’t say anything for a while, and neither did Rebus, until he checked an address in his notebook, leaned forwards in his seat, and told her: “We’re here.”

Long Rib House was a narrow whitewashed structure that looked as though it might have been a barn sometime in the past. It consisted of a single story, but with an attic conversion indicated by a row of windows built out from the sloping red-tiled roof. A wooden gate barred the entrance, but it wasn’t locked. Siobhan pushed it open, got back into the car, and drove up the few yards of gravel driveway. By the time she’d closed the gate again, the front door was open, a man standing there. Rebus was out of the car, introducing himself.

“And you must be Mr. Cotter?” he guessed.

“William Cotter,” Miss Teri’s father said. He was in his early forties, short and stocky with a fashionably shaven head. He shook Siobhan’s hand when she offered it but didn’t seem put out that Rebus was keeping his own gloved hands firmly by his sides. “You better come in,” he said.

There was a long carpeted hallway, decorated with framed paintings and a grandfather clock. Rooms off to right and left, the doors firmly closed. Cotter led them to the end of the corridor and into an open-plan living area with a kitchen off it. This had the look of a recent extension, French doors leading out to a patio and offering a view across the expanse of rear garden towards another recent addition, wood-framed but with plenty of windows to show off its contents.

“Indoor pool,” Rebus mused. “That must be handy.”

“Gets more use than an outdoor one,” Cotter joked. “So what can I do for you?”

Rebus looked to Siobhan, who was casting an eye over the room, taking in the L-shaped cream leather sofa, the B amp;O hi-fi, and flat-screen TV. The TV was switched on, sound muted. It was tuned to Ceefax, showing a screen of stock market fluctuations. “It was Teri we wanted a word with,” Rebus said.

“Not in any trouble, is she?”

“Nothing like that, Mr. Cotter. It’s to do with Port Edgar. Just a few follow-up questions.”

Cotter narrowed his eyes. “Maybe it’s something I can help with…?” Angling for more information.

Rebus had decided to sit down on the sofa. There was a coffee table in front of him, newspapers spread out on it, open to the business pages. Cordless phone, and a pair of half-moon reading glasses, empty mug, pen, and legal pad. “You’re in business, Mr. Cotter?”

“That’s right.”

“Mind if I ask what sort?”

“Venture capital.” Cotter paused. “You know what that is?”

“Investing in start-ups?” Siobhan offered, staring out at the garden.

“More or less. I dabble in property, people with ideas…”

Rebus made a show of taking in his surroundings. “You’re obviously good at it.” He waited for the flattery to sink in. “Is Teri here?”

“Not sure,” Cotter said. He saw Rebus’s look and gave an apologetic smile. “You’re never sure with Teri. Sometimes she’s quiet as the grave. Knock on her door, she doesn’t answer.” He shrugged.

“Not like most teenagers, then.”

Cotter shook his head.

“But then I got that impression when I met her,” Rebus added.

“You’ve spoken to her before?” Cotter asked. Rebus nodded. “In full regalia?”

“I’m guessing she doesn’t go to school like that.”

Cotter shook his head again. “They’re not even allowed nose studs. Dr. Fogg’s strict about that sort of thing.”

“Could we maybe try her door?” Siobhan asked, turning to face Cotter.

“Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” Cotter said. They followed him back down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Again they were confronted with a long, narrow corridor, doors along both sides. Again, all the doors were closed.

“Teri?” Cotter called as they reached the top of the stairs. “You still here, love?” He bit this final word off, and Rebus guessed he’d been warned off using it by his daughter. They reached the final door, and Cotter put his ear to it, knocking softly.

“Could be dozing, I suppose,” he said in an undertone.

“Mind if I…?” Without waiting for an answer, Rebus turned the handle. The door opened inwards. The room was dark, gauzy black curtains drawn shut. Cotter flicked the light switch. There were candles on every available surface. Black candles, many of them melted down to almost nothing. Prints and posters on the walls. Rebus recognized some by H. R. Giger, knew him because he’d designed an album for ELP. They were set in a kind of stainless-steel hell. The other pictures showed equally dark imaginings.

“Teenagers, eh?” was the father’s only comment. Books by Poppy Z. Brite and Anne Rice. Another called The Gates of Janus, apparently written by “Moors Murderer” Ian Brady. Plenty of CDs, all by noise merchants. The sheets on the single bed were black. So was the shiny duvet cover. The walls of the room were the color of meat, the ceiling split into four squares, two black, two red. Siobhan was standing by a computer desk. The setup on top of it looked high-quality: flat-screen monitor, DVD hard disk, scanner and webcam.

“I don’t suppose these come in black,” she mused.

“Otherwise, Teri would have them,” Cotter agreed.

“When I was her age,” Rebus said, “only Goths I knew of were pubs.”

Cotter laughed. “Yes, Gothenburgs. They were community pubs, weren’t they?”

Rebus nodded. “Unless she’s under the bed, I’m guessing she’s not here. Any idea where we might find her?”

“I could try her mobile…”

“Would that be this one?” Siobhan said, holding up a small glossy black phone.

“That’s it,” Cotter agreed.

“Not like a teenager to leave her phone at home,” Siobhan mused.

“No, well… Teri’s mum can be…” He twitched his shoulders, as if feeling a sudden discomfort.

“Can be what, sir?” Rebus prodded.

“She likes to keep tabs on Teri, is that it?” Siobhan guessed. Cotter nodded, relieved that she’d saved him the trouble of spelling it out.

“Teri should be home later,” he said, “if it can wait.”

“We’d rather get it over and done with, Mr. Cotter,” Rebus explained.

“Well…”

“Time being money and all that, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

Cotter nodded. “You could try Cockburn Street. A few of her friends sometimes congregate there.”

Rebus looked at Siobhan. “We should have thought of that,” he said. Siobhan’s mouth gave a twitch of agreement. Cockburn Street, a winding conduit between the Royal Mile and Waverley Station, had always enjoyed a louche reputation. Decades back, it had been the haunt of hippies and dropouts, selling cheesecloth shirts, tie-dye and cigarette papers. Rebus had frequented a good secondhand record stall, without ever bothering with the clothes. These days, the new alternative cultures lionized the place. A good street for browsing, if your tastes inclined towards the macabre or the stoned.

As they walked back along the hallway, Rebus noticed that one door had a small porcelain plaque stating that this was “Stuart’s Room.” Rebus paused in front of it.

“Your son?”

Cotter nodded slowly. “Charlotte… my wife… she wants it kept the way it was before the accident.”

“No shame in that, sir,” Siobhan offered, sensing Cotter’s embarrassment.

“I suppose not.”

“Tell me,” Rebus said, “did Teri’s Goth phase start before or after her brother’s death?”

Cotter looked at him. “Soon after.”

“The pair of them were close?” Rebus guessed.

“I suppose so… But I don’t see what any of this has to do with…”

Rebus shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all. Sorry: it’s one of the pitfalls of the job.”

Cotter seemed to accept this, and led them back down the staircase.


“I buy CDs there,” Siobhan said. They were back in the car, heading for Cockburn Street.

“Ditto,” Rebus told her. And he’d often seen the Goths, taking up more than their fair share of sidewalk, spilling down the flight of steps to the side of the old Scotsman building, sharing cigarettes and trading tips on the latest bands. They started to appear as soon as school had finished for the day, maybe changing out of their uniforms and into the regulation black. Makeup and baubles, hoping to fit in and stand out at the same time. Thing was, people were harder to shock these days. Once upon a time, collar-length hair would have done it. Then glam came along, followed by its bastard offspring, punk. Rebus still remembered one Saturday when he’d been out buying records. Starting the long climb up Cockburn Street and passing his first punks: all slouches and spiky hair, chains and sneers. It had been too much for the middle-aged woman behind him, who’d spluttered out the words “Can’t you walk like human beings?” probably making the punks’ day in the process.

“We could park at the bottom of the road and walk up,” Siobhan suggested as they neared Cockburn Street.

“I’d rather park at the top and walk down,” Rebus countered.

They were in luck: a space opened up just as they approached, and they were able to park on Cockburn Street itself, only a few yards from where a bunch of Goths were milling around.

“Bingo,” Rebus said, spotting Miss Teri in animated conversation with two friends.

“You’ll need to get out first,” Siobhan told him. Rebus saw the problem: there were bags of rubbish sitting curbside, awaiting collection and blocking the driver’s-side door. He got out, holding the door open so Siobhan could slide across and make her exit. Feet were running down the sidewalk, and then Rebus saw one of the rubbish bags disappear. He looked up and saw five youths hurtling past the car, dressed in hooded tops and baseball caps. One of them was swinging the rubbish bag into the group of Goths. The bag burst, spraying its contents everywhere. There were shouts, screams. Feet were swinging, as were fists. One Goth was sent flying headfirst down the stone steps. Another dodged into the roadway and was winged by a passing taxi. Bystanders were yelling warnings, shopkeepers coming to their doors. Someone called out to phone the police.

The fighting was spilling across the street, bodies pushed against windows, hands clawing at necks. Only five attackers to a dozen Goths, but the five were strong and vicious. Siobhan had run forward to tackle one of them. Rebus saw Miss Teri diving through a shop doorway, slamming the door after her. The door was glass, and her pursuer was looking around for something to throw through it. Rebus took a deep breath and hollered.

“Rab Fisher! Hey, Rab! Over here!” The pursuer stopped, looked in Rebus’s direction. Rebus was waving a gloved hand. “Remember me, Rab?”

Fisher’s mouth twisted in a sneer. Another of his gang had recognized Rebus. “Polis!” he yelled, the other Lost Boys heeding his call. They gathered in the middle of the road, chests pumping, breathing hard.

“Ready for that trip to Saughton, lads?” Rebus asked loudly, taking a step forwards. Four of them turned and ran, jogging downhill. Rab Fisher lingered, then gave the glass door a final stubborn kick before sauntering off to join his friends. Siobhan was helping a couple of the Goths to their feet, checking for injuries. There had been no knives or missiles; mostly it was only pride that had taken a beating. Rebus walked over to the glass door. Behind it, Miss Teri had been joined by a woman in a white coat, the kind worn by doctors and pharmacists. Rebus saw a row of gleaming cubicles; it was a tanning salon, brand-new by the look of it. The woman was running a hand down Teri’s hair while Teri tried to wriggle free. Rebus pushed open the door.

“Remember me, Teri?” he said.

She studied him, then nodded. “You’re the policeman I met.” Rebus held out a hand towards the woman.

“You must be Teri’s mother. I’m DI Rebus.”

“Charlotte Cotter,” the woman said, taking his hand. She was in her late thirties, with lots of wavy ash-blond hair. Her face was lightly tanned, almost glowing. Looking at the two women, it was hard to see any similarity. If told they were related, Rebus might have guessed they were contemporaries: not sisters, but maybe cousins. The mother was an inch or two shorter than her daughter, slimmer and toned-looking. Rebus thought he knew now which member of the Cotter family made use of the indoor pool.

“What was all that about?” he asked Teri.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You get a lot of hassle?”

“They’re always getting hassle,” her mother answered for her, receiving a glare for her trouble. “Verbal abuse, sometimes more.”

“Like you’d know,” her daughter argued.

“I see things.”

“Is that why you opened this place? To keep an eye on me?” Teri had started playing with the gold chain around her neck. Rebus could see a diamond hanging from it.

“Teri,” Charlotte Cotter said with a sigh, “all I’m saying is -”

“I’m going outside,” Teri muttered.

“Before you do,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance I could have a word?”

“I’m not going to press charges, or anything!”

“You see how stubborn she is?” Charlotte Cotter said, sounding exasperated. “I heard you shout out a name, Inspector. Does that mean you know these thugs? You can arrest them…?”

“I’m not sure it would do any good, Mrs. Cotter.”

“But you saw them!”

Rebus nodded. “And now they’ve been warned. Could be enough to do the trick. Thing is, it’s not just chance that I was here. I wanted a word with Teri.”

“Oh?”

“Come on, then,” Teri said, grabbing him by the arm. “Sorry, Mum, got to go help the police with their inquiries.”

“Hang on, Teri…”

But it was too late. Charlotte Cotter could only watch as her daughter dragged the detective back outside and across the road to where the mood was lightening. Battle scars were being compared. One boy in a black trench coat was sniffing his lapels, wrinkling his nose to acknowledge that the coat would need a good wash. The rubbish from the torn bag had been gathered together-mostly by Siobhan, Rebus guessed. She was trying to elicit help in filling an intact bag, the gift of a neighboring shop.

“Everybody okay?” Teri asked. There were smiles and nods. It looked to Rebus like they were enjoying the moment. Victims again, and happy with their lot. Like the punks and the woman, they had got their reaction. Still a group, but strengthened now: war stories they could share. Other kids-on their slow route home from school, still dressed in uniform-had stopped to listen. Rebus led Miss Teri back up the street and into the nearest watering hole.

“We don’t serve her kind!” the woman behind the bar snapped.

“You do when I’m here,” Rebus snapped back.

“She’s underage,” the woman pressed.

“Then she’ll take a soft drink.” He turned to Teri. “What’ll it be?”

“Vodka tonic.”

Rebus smiled. “Give her a Coke. I’ll have a Laphroaig with a splash of water.” He paid for the drinks, confident enough now to try bringing coins from his pocket as well as notes.

“How are the hands?” Teri Cotter asked.

“Fine,” he said. “You can carry the drinks, though.” They received a few stares as they made their way to a table. Teri seemed pleased with the reception, blowing a kiss at one man, who just sneered and looked away.

“You pick a fight in here,” Rebus warned her, “you’re on your own.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I saw that, the way you ran to your mum’s as soon as the Lost Boys arrived.”

She glowered at him.

“Good plan, by the way,” he added. “Defense the better part of valor and all that. Is it true what your mum says, this sort of thing happens a lot?”

“Not as much as she seems to think.”

“And yet you keep coming to Cockburn Street?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

He shrugged. “No reason. Bit of masochism never hurt anyone.”

She stared at him, then smiled, gazing down into her glass.

“Cheers,” he said, lifting his own.

“You got the quote wrong,” she said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’” Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part One.

“Not that you and your pals could be described as discreet.”

“I try not to be.”

“You do a good job. When I mentioned the Lost Boys, you didn’t seem surprised. Meaning you know them?”

She looked down again, the hair falling over her pale face. Her fingers stroked the glass, nails glossy black. Slender hands and wrists. “Got a cigarette?” she asked.

“Light us a couple,” Rebus said, digging the pack out of his jacket pocket. She placed the lit cigarette between his lips.

“People will start to talk,” she said, exhaling smoke.

“I doubt it, Miss Teri.” He watched the door swing open, Siobhan walk in. She saw him, and nodded towards the toilets, holding up her hands to let him know she was going to wash them.

“You like being an outsider, don’t you?” Rebus asked.

Teri Cotter nodded.

“And that’s why you liked Lee Herdman: he was an outsider, too.” She looked at him. “We found your photo in his flat. From which I assume you knew him.”

“I knew him. Can I see the photo?”

Rebus took it from his pocket. It was held inside a clear polyethylene envelope. “Where was it taken?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said, gesturing towards the street.

“You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?”

“He liked us. Goths, I mean. Never really understood why.”

“He had a few parties, didn’t he?” Rebus was remembering the albums in Herdman’s flat: music for Goths to dance to.

Teri was nodding, blinking back tears. “Some of us used to go to his place.” She held up the photo. “Where did you find this?”

“Inside a book he was reading.”

“Which book?”

“Why do you want to know?”

She shrugged. “Just wondered.”

“It was a biography, I think. Some soldier who ended up doing himself in.”

“You think that’s a clue?”

“A clue?”

She nodded. “To why Lee killed himself.”

“Might be, I suppose. Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“I don’t think he had many friends.”

“What about Doug Brimson?” The question came from Siobhan. She was sliding onto the banquette.

Teri’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know him.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Rebus commented.

“You could say that.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Siobhan wanted to know. Rebus could see her prickling.

Teri just shrugged.

“The two lads who died,” Rebus said, “ever see them at the parties?”

“As if.”

“Meaning what?”

She looked at him. “They weren’t the type. Rugby and jazz music and the Cadets.” As if this explained everything.

“Did Lee ever talk about his time in the army?”

“Not much.”

“But you asked him?” She nodded slowly. “And you knew he had a thing about guns?”

“I knew he kept pictures…” She bit her lip, but too late.

“On the inside of his wardrobe door,” Siobhan added. “It’s not everyone who’d know that, Teri.”

“Doesn’t mean anything!” Teri’s voice had risen. She was playing with her neck chain again.

“Nobody’s on trial here, Teri,” Rebus said. “We just want to know what made him do it.”

“How should I know?”

“Because you knew him, and it seems not many people did.”

Teri was shaking her head. “He never told me anything. That was the thing about him-like he had secrets. But I never thought he’d…”

“No?”

She fixed her eyes on Rebus’s but said nothing.

“He ever show you a gun, Teri?” Siobhan asked.

“No.”

“Ever hint that he had access to one?”

A shake of the head.

“You say he never really opened up to you… what about the other way round?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did he ask about you? Maybe you spoke to him about your family?”

“I might have.”

Rebus leaned forwards. “We were sorry to hear about your brother, Teri.”

Siobhan, too, leaned forwards. “You probably mentioned the crash to Lee Herdman.”

“Or maybe one of your pals did,” Rebus added.

Teri saw that they were hemming her in. No escape from their stares and questions. She had placed the photo on the table, concentrating her attention on it.

“Lee didn’t take this,” she said, as if trying to change the subject.

“Anyone else we should talk to, Teri?” Rebus was asking. “People who went to Lee’s little soirees?”

“I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

“Why not, Teri?” Siobhan asked, frowning as though genuinely puzzled.

“Because I don’t.”

“Other names we can talk to…” Rebus was saying. “Might get us off your back.”

Teri Cotter sat for a moment longer, then rose to her feet and climbed onto the banquette, stepped onto the table and jumped down to the floor at the other side, the gauzy black layers of her skirts billowing out around her. Without looking back, she made for the door, opened it and banged it shut behind her. Rebus looked at Siobhan and gave a grudging smile.

“The girl has a certain style,” he said.

“We panicked her,” Siobhan admitted. “Pretty much as soon as we mentioned her brother’s death.”

“Could be they were just close,” Rebus argued. “You’re not really going for the assassin theory?”

“All the same,” she said. “There’s something…” The door opened again, and Teri Cotter strode towards the table, leaning on it with both hands, her face close to her inquisitors.

“James Bell,” she hissed. “There’s a name for you, if you want one.”

“He went to Herdman’s parties?” Rebus asked.

Teri Cotter just nodded, then turned away again. The regulars, watching her make her exit, shook their heads and went back to their drinks.

“That interview we listened to,” Rebus said, “what was it James Bell said about Herdman?”

“Something about going water-skiing.”

“Yes, but the way he said it: ‘we’d met socially,’ something like that.”

Siobhan nodded. “Maybe we should have picked up on it.”

“We need to talk to him.”

Siobhan kept nodding, but she was looking at the table. She peered beneath it.

“Lost something?” Rebus asked.

“No, but you have.”

Rebus looked, too, and it dawned on him. Teri Cotter had taken her photograph with her.

“Think that was why she came back?” Siobhan guessed.

Rebus shrugged. “I suppose it counts as her property… a memento of the man she’s lost.”

“You think they were lovers?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“In which case…”

But Rebus shook his head. “Using her womanly wiles to persuade him to turn assassin? Do me a favor, Siobhan.”

“Stranger things have happened,” she echoed.

“Speaking of which, any chance of you buying me a drink?” He held up his empty glass.

“None whatsoever,” she said, getting up to leave. Glumly, he followed her out of the bar. She was standing by her car, seemingly transfixed by something. Rebus couldn’t see anything worthy of note. The Goths were milling around as before, minus Miss Teri. No sign of the Lost Boys either. A few tourists stopping for photographs.

“What is it?” he asked.

She nodded towards a car parked opposite. “Looks like Doug Brimson’s Land Rover.”

“You sure?”

“I saw it when I was out at Turnhouse.” She looked up and down Cockburn Street. Brimson wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“It’s in worse shape than my Saab,” Rebus commented.

“Yes, but you don’t have a Jag garaged at home.”

“A Jag and a clapped-out Land Rover?”

“I reckon it’s an image thing… boys and their toys.” She looked up and down the street again. “Wonder where he is.”

“Maybe he’s stalking you,” Rebus suggested. He saw the look on her face and shrugged an apology. She turned her attention to the car again, certain in her mind that it was his. Coincidence, she told herself, that’s all it is.

Coincidence.

But all the same, she jotted down the number.

11

That evening, she settled down on her sofa, trying to get interested in anything on TV. Two gaudily dressed hosts were telling their victim that her clothes were all wrong for her. On another channel, a house was being “decluttered.” Which left Siobhan the choice of a gray-looking film, a dreary comedy series, or a documentary about cane toads.

All of which served her right for not bothering to stop off at the video shop. Her own collection of films was small-“select,” as she preferred to call it. She’d watched each one half a dozen times at least, could recite dialogue, knew exactly what was coming in every scene. Maybe she would put some music on, turn the TV to mute and invent her own script for the boring-looking film. Or even for the cane toads. She’d already skimmed a magazine, picked up a book and put it down again, eaten the crisps and chocolate she’d bought at the garage when she’d stopped for petrol. There was a half-finished chow mein on the kitchen table, which she might get around to microwaving. Worst of all, she’d run out of wine, nothing in the flat but empty bottles awaiting the recycling run. She had gin in the cupboard, but nothing to mix it with except Diet Coke, and she wasn’t that desperate.

Not yet, anyway.

There were friends she could phone, but she knew she wouldn’t make great company. There was a message on her answering machine from her friend Caroline, asking if she fancied a drink. Blond and petite, Caroline always attracted attention when the two of them went out together. Siobhan had decided not to return the call just yet. She was too tired, with the case buzzing around her head, refusing to leave her alone. She’d made herself coffee, taking a mouthful before realizing she hadn’t boiled the kettle. Then she’d spent a couple of minutes searching the kitchen for sugar before remembering she didn’t take sugar. Hadn’t taken it in coffee since she’d been a teenager.

“Senile dementia,” she’d muttered aloud. “And talking to yourself: another symptom.”

Chocolate and crisps weren’t on her panic-free diet. Salt, fat and sugar. Her heart wasn’t exactly racing, but she knew she had to calm down somehow, had to relax and start winding down as bedtime approached. She’d stared out of her window for a while, checking on the neighbors across the street, pressing her nose to the glass as she looked down two stories to the passing traffic. It was quiet outside, quiet and dark, the pavement picked out by orange streetlamps. There were no bogeymen; nothing to be scared of.

She remembered that a long time ago, back in the days when she’d still taken sugar in her coffee, she’d been afraid of the dark for a while. About the age of thirteen or fourteen: too old to confide in her parents. She would spend her pocket money on batteries for the flashlight she kept on all night, keeping it beneath the covers with her, holding her breath in an attempt to pick out the breathing of anyone else in the room. The few times her parents caught her, they just thought she was staying up late to read. She could never be sure which was the right thing to do: leave the door open, so you could make a run for it, or close it to keep out intruders? She checked beneath her bed two or three times each day, though there was little enough room under there: it was where she stored her albums. The thing was, she never had nightmares. When she did eventually drop off to sleep, that sleep was deep and cleansing. She never suffered panic attacks. And eventually she forgot why she’d ever been afraid in the first place. The flashlight went back in its drawer. The money she’d been wasting on batteries she now started spending on makeup.

She could never be sure which came first: did she discover boys, or did they discover her?

“Ancient history, girl,” she told herself now. There were no bogeymen out there, but precious few knights either, tarnished or otherwise. She walked over to her dining table, looked at her notes on the case. They were laid out in no order whatsoever-everything she’d been given that first day. Reports, autopsy and forensics, photos of crime scene and victims. She studied the two faces, Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies. Both were handsome, in a bland sort of way. There was a haughty intelligence to Jarvies’s heavy-lidded stare. Renshaw looked a lot less sure of himself. Maybe it was a class thing, Jarvies’s breeding showing through. She reckoned Allan Renshaw would have been proud of the fact that his son boasted a judge’s son as a friend. It was why you sent your kids to private school, wasn’t it? You wanted them to meet the right sort of people, people who might prove useful in the future. She knew fellow officers, not all of them on CID salaries, who scrimped to send their offspring to the kind of schools they themselves had never been offered the chance of. The class thing again. She wondered about Lee Herdman. He’d been in the army, the SAS… ordered about by officers who’d been to the right schools, who spoke the right way. Could it be as simple as that? Could his attack have been motivated by nothing more than bitter envy of an elite?

There’s no mystery… Remembering her own words to Rebus, she laughed out loud. If there was no mystery, what was she worrying about? Why was she slogging her guts out? What was to stop her putting it all to one side and relaxing?

“Bugger it,” she said, sitting down at the table, pushing away the paperwork and pulling Derek Renshaw’s laptop towards her. She booted it up, plugging it in to her phone line. There were e-mails to be gone through, enough to keep her awake half the night if need be. Plenty of other files, too, that she hadn’t checked yet. She knew the work would calm her. It would calm her because it was work.

She decided on some decaf, this time remembering to turn the kettle on. Took the hot drink to the living room. The password “Miles” got her online, but the new e-mails were junk. People trying to sell insurance or Viagra to someone they couldn’t know was dead. There were a few messages from people who’d noted Derek’s absence from various bulletin boards and chat rooms. Siobhan thought of something and dragged the icon to the top of the screen, clicking on “Favorite Places.” Up came a list of sites, shortcuts to addresses Derek had used regularly. The chat rooms and bulletin boards were there, along with the usual suspects: Amazon, BBC, Ask Jeeves… But one address was unfamiliar. Siobhan clicked on it. Connection took only a few moments.

WELCOME TO MY DARKNESS!

The words were in dull red, the color pulsing with life. The rest of the screen was a blank background. Siobhan moved the cursor onto the letter W and double-clicked. Connection took a little longer this time, the screen changing to a picture of a room’s interior. The image was fairly indistinct. She tried altering the screen’s contrast and brightness, but the problem was with the image itself, there was little she could do to improve it. She could make out a bed and a curtained window behind it. She tried moving the cursor around the screen, but there was no hidden marker for her to click on. This was all there was. She was sitting back, arms folded, wondering what it might mean, wondering what interest the image could have had for Derek Renshaw. Maybe it was his room. Maybe the “darkness” was another side to his character. Then the screen changed, a strange yellow light passing across it. Interference of some kind? Siobhan sat forwards, grasping the edge of her table. She knew what it was now. It was a car’s headlights, brief illumination from behind the curtains. Not a picture then, not a captured still.

“Webcam,” she whispered. She was watching a real-time broadcast of somebody’s bedroom. Moreover, she knew now whose bedroom it was. Those headlights had done just enough. She got up, found her telephone and made the call.


Siobhan plugged everything in and rebooted the computer. The laptop was on a chair-not enough cable to stretch from Rebus’s telephone jack to his dining table.

“All very mysterious,” he said, bringing in a tray-mugs of coffee for the pair of them. She could smell vinegar: a fish supper probably. Thinking of the chow mein waiting for her at home, she realized how similar they were-takeaway food, no one to go home to… He’d been drinking beer, an empty bottle of Deuchars on the floor by his chair. And listening to music: the Hawkwind anthology she’d bought him last birthday. Maybe he’d put it on specially, to make her think he hadn’t forgotten.

“Almost there,” she said now. Rebus had turned off the CD and was rubbing his eyes with his ungloved, hot-looking hands. Nearly ten o’clock. He’d been asleep in his chair when she’d phoned, quite content to stay there till morning. Easier than getting undressed. Easier than untying shoelaces, fiddling with buttons. He hadn’t bothered tidying up. Siobhan knew him too well. But he’d closed the kitchen door so she wouldn’t see the dirty dishes. If she saw them, she’d offer to wash up for him, and he didn’t want that.

“Just need to connect…”

Rebus had brought one of the dining chairs over to sit on. Siobhan was kneeling on the floor in front of the laptop. She angled its screen a little, and he nodded to let her know he could see it.

WELCOME TO MY DARKNESS!

“Alice Cooper fan club?” he guessed.

“Just wait.”

“Royal Society for the Blind?”

“If I so much as smile, you have permission to hit me over the head with the tray.” She sat back a little. “There… now take a look.”

The room was no longer completely dark. Candles had been lit. Black candles.

“Teri Cotter’s bedroom,” Rebus stated. Siobhan nodded. Rebus watched the candles flicker.

“This is a film?”

“It’s a live feed, as far as I know.”

“Meaning?”

“There was a webcam attached to her computer. That’s where the picture’s coming from. When I first watched, the room was dark. She must be home now.”

“Is this supposed to be interesting?” Rebus asked.

“Some people like it. Some of them pay to watch stuff like this.”

“But we’re getting a show for free?”

“Seems like.”

“You reckon she switches it off when she comes in?”

“Where would the fun be in that?”

“She keeps it on all the time?”

Siobhan shrugged. “Maybe we’re going to find out.”

Teri Cotter had entered the frame, moving jerkily, the camera presenting a series of stills broken up by momentary delays.

“No sound?” Rebus inquired.

Siobhan didn’t think so, but she tried turning up the volume anyway. “No sound,” she acknowledged.

Teri had seated herself cross-legged on her bed. She was dressed in the same clothes as when they’d met. She seemed to be looking towards the camera. She leaned forwards and stretched out on her bed, supporting her chin on her cupped hands, face close to the camera now.

“Like one of those old silent films,” Rebus said. Siobhan didn’t know if he was referring to the picture quality or the lack of sound. “What exactly are we supposed to be doing?”

“We’re her audience.”

“She knows we’re here?”

Siobhan shook her head. “Probably no way of knowing who’s watching-if anyone.”

“But Derek Renshaw used to watch?”

“Yes.”

“You think she knows?”

Siobhan shrugged, sipped the bitter-tasting coffee. It wasn’t decaf, and she might suffer for it later, but she didn’t care.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“It’s not so unusual for young girls to be exhibitionists.” She paused. “Not that I’ve come across anything like this before.”

“I wonder who else knows about this.”

“I doubt her parents do. Is it something we need to ask her?”

Rebus was thoughtful. “How would people get here?” He pointed towards the screen.

“There are lists of home pages. She’d just have to provide a link, maybe a description.”

“Let’s take a look.”

So Siobhan quit the page and went hunting through cyberspace, typing in the words “Miss” and “Teri.” Page after page of links came up, mostly for porn sites and people called Terry, Terri, and Teri.

“This could take a while,” she said.

“So this is what I’ve been missing out on, not having a modem?”

“All human life is here, most of it ever so slightly depressing.”

“Just what’s needed after a day at the coal mines.”

Her face creased in what could almost have passed for a smile. Rebus made a show of reaching for the tea tray.

“Here we go, I think,” Siobhan said a couple of minutes later. Rebus looked at where she was underlining some words with her finger.

Myss Teri-visit my 100% non-pornographic (sorry, guys!) home page! “Why ‘Myss’?” Rebus asked.

“Could be all the other spellings were already taken. My e-mail’s ‘66Siobhan.’”

“Because sixty-five Siobhans got there ahead of you?”

She nodded. “And I thought I had an uncommon name.” Siobhan had clicked on the link. Teri Cotter’s home page started to load. There was a photo of her in full Goth mode, palms held to either side of her face.

“She’s drawn pentagrams on her hands,” Siobhan noted. Rebus was looking: five-pointed stars enclosed by circles. There were no other photos, just some text outlining Teri’s interests, which school she attended, and an invitation to “come worship me, Cockburn Street most Saturday afternoons…” There was an option of sending her an e-mail, adding comments to her guest book, or clicking on various links, most of which would send the visitor to other Goth sites, one of which was marked “Dark Entry.”

“That’ll be the webcam,” Siobhan said. She tried the link, just to be sure. The screen changed back to the same red words: WELCOME TO MY DARKNESS! Another click and they were in Teri Cotter’s bedroom again. She’d changed position so that she had her head against the headboard, knees tucked in front of her. She was writing something in a loose-leaf binder.

“Looks like homework,” Siobhan said.

“Could be her potions book,” Rebus suggested. “Anyone accessing her home page would know her age, which school she goes to, and what she looks like.”

Siobhan was nodding. “And where to find her on a Saturday afternoon.”

“A dangerous pastime,” Rebus muttered. He was thinking of her potential as prey to any of the hunters out there.

“Maybe that’s why she likes it.”

Rebus rubbed his eyes again. He was remembering his first meeting with her. The way she’d said she was jealous of Derek and Anthony… and her parting remark: You can see me whenever you like… He knew now what those words had been hinting at.

“Seen enough?” Siobhan asked, tapping the screen.

He nodded. “Initial thoughts, DS Clarke?”

“Well… if she and Herdman were lovers, and if he was the jealous type…”

“That only works if Anthony Jarvies knew about the site.”

“Jarvies and Derek were best friends: what are the chances Derek didn’t let him in on it?”

“Good point. We’ll need to check.”

“And talk to Teri again?”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Can we open the visitors’ book?”

They could, but it didn’t have much to say. No obvious notes from either Derek Renshaw or Anthony Jarvies, just twaddle from some of Miss Teri’s admirers, the majority of whom seemed to be based abroad, if their English was anything to go by. Rebus watched Siobhan as she shut the laptop down.

“Did you run that license plate?” he asked.

She nodded. “Last thing I did before clocking off. It was Brimson’s.”

“Curiouser and curiouser…”

Siobhan folded the screen shut. “How are you coping?” she asked. “I mean, dressing and undressing?”

“I’m all right.”

“Not sleeping in your clothes?”

“No.” He tried to sound indignant.

“So I can expect to see a clean shirt tomorrow?”

“Stop mothering me.”

She smiled. “I could run you another bath.”

“I can manage.” He waited till her eyes met his. “Cross my heart.”

“And hope to die?”

Which took him back to his first meeting with Teri Cotter… asking him about deaths he’d witnessed… wanting to know what it felt like to die. With a website that would be as good as an invitation to some sick minds.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Siobhan said, rummaging in her bag. She produced a book, showed him the cover: I’m a Man by Ruth Padel. “It’s about rock music,” she explained, opening it to a marked page. “Listen to this: ‘the heroism dream begins in the teenage bedroom.’”

“Meaning what?”

“She’s talking about how teenagers use music as a kind of rebellion. Maybe Teri’s using her actual bedroom.” She flicked to another page. “And there’s something else… ‘the gun is male sexuality in jeopardy.’” She looked at him. “Makes sense to me.”

“You’re saying Herdman was jealous after all?”

“You’ve never been jealous? Never flown into a rage?”

He thought for a moment. “Maybe once or twice.”

“Kate mentioned a book to me. It was called Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream. Maybe Herdman’s rage took him too far.” She held a hand to her mouth, stifling a yawn.

“Time you got to bed,” Rebus told her. “Plenty of time in the morning for amateur analysis.” She unplugged the laptop, gathered up the cables. He saw her out, then watched from his window as she made it to the safety of her car. Suddenly, a man’s figure appeared at her driver’s-side door. Rebus turned and ran for the stairs, took them two at a time. Hauled open the front door. The man was saying something, voice raised above the ticking engine. He was holding something to the windshield. A newspaper. Rebus grabbed his shoulder, feeling a jab of fire from his fingers. Turned him around… recognized the face.

It was the reporter, Steve Holly. Rebus realized that what he was holding was probably the next morning’s edition.

“Very man I wanted to see,” Holly said, shrugging himself free and offering a grin. “Nice to see CID making home visits to each other.” He turned to glance at Siobhan, who had cut her engine and was stepping from the car. “Some might think it a bit late in the evening for chitchat.”

“What do you want?” Rebus asked.

“Just after a comment.” He held up the paper’s front page so Rebus could make out the headline: HELL HOUSE COP MYSTERY. “We’re not printing any names as yet. Wondered if you wanted to put your side of the story. I understand you’re on suspension, subject to an internal inquiry?” Holly had folded the paper and produced a microrecorder from his pocket. “That looks nasty.” He was nodding towards Rebus’s ungloved hands. “Burns take a while to heal, don’t they?”

“John…” Siobhan warning him not to lose his head. Rebus pointed a blistered finger at the reporter.

“Stay away from the Renshaws. You hassle them, you’ll have me to deal with, understood?”

“Then give me an interview.”

“Not a chance.”

Holly looked down at the paper he was holding. “How about this for a headline: COP FLEES MURDER SCENE?”

“It’ll look good to my lawyers when I sue you.”

“My paper’s always open to a fair fight, DI Rebus.”

“Then that’s a problem,” Rebus said, smothering the tape recorder with his hand. “Because I never fight fair.” Spitting the words out, showing Holly two rows of bared teeth. The reporter pressed his finger to a button, stopping the tape.

“Nice to know where we stand.”

“Lay off the families, Holly. I mean it.”

“In your sad, misguided way, I’m sure you do. Sweet dreams, Detective Inspector.” He bowed slightly in Siobhan’s direction, then strode off.

“Bastard,” Rebus hissed.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Siobhan said soothingly. “Only a quarter of the population reads his paper anyway.” She climbed back into her car, turned the ignition and backed out of the parking space. Gave a little wave as she drove away. Holly had disappeared around a corner, heading for Marchmont Road. Rebus climbed his stairwell, went indoors and found his car keys. Put his gloves back on. Double-locked the door on the way out.

The streets were quiet, no sign of Steve Holly. Not that he was looking for him. He got into his Saab and tried gripping the steering wheel, turning it left and right. He thought he could manage. He drove down Marchmont Road and onto Melville Drive, heading towards Arthur’s Seat. He didn’t bother putting any music on, thought instead of everything that had happened, letting conversations and images swirl around.

Irene Lesser: You might want to talk to someone… a long time to be carrying any baggage…

Siobhan: quoting from that book.

Kate: Bad Men Do…

Boethius: Good men suffer…

He didn’t think of himself as a bad man but knew he probably wasn’t a good one either.

“I’m a Man”: title of an old blues song.

Robert Niles, leaving the SAS, but without having been switched off first. Lee Herdman, too, had carried “baggage” with him. Rebus felt that if he could understand Herdman, maybe he would understand himself better, too.

Easter Road was quiet, bars still serving, a queue beginning to form in the chip shop. Rebus was headed for Leith police station. The driving was okay, the pain in his hands bearable. The skin there seemed to have grown taut, as if from sunburn. He saw a space curbside, not fifty yards from the front door of the station, and decided to take it. Got out and locked the car. There was a camera crew across the street, probably wanting the station in the background as the reporter did his piece. Then Rebus saw who it was: Jack Bell. Bell, turning his head, recognized Rebus, pointed to him before turning back to the camera. Rebus caught his words:

“… while CID officers like the one behind me continue to mop up, without ever offering workable solutions…”

“Cut,” the director said. “Sorry, Jack.” He nodded towards Rebus, who had crossed the road and was standing directly behind Bell.

“What’s going on?” Rebus asked.

“We’re doing a piece on violence in society,” Bell snapped, annoyed at the interruption.

“I thought maybe it was a self-help video,” Rebus drawled.

“What?”

“A guide to curb crawling, something like that. Most of the girls work down that way now,” Rebus added, nodding in the direction of Salamander Street.

“How dare you!” the MSP spluttered. Then he turned to the director. “Symptomatic, you see, of the very problem we’re tackling. The police have ceased to be anything other than petty-minded and spiteful.”

“Unlike yourself, I’m sure,” Rebus said. He noticed for the first time that Bell was holding a photograph. Bell held it up in front of him.

“Thomas Hamilton,” he stated. “No one thought him exceptional. Turned out he was evil incarnate when he walked into that school in Dunblane.”

“And how could the police have prevented that?” Rebus asked, folding his arms.

Before Bell could answer, the director had a question for Rebus. “Were any videos or magazines found in Herdman’s home? Violent films, that sort of thing?”

“There’s no sign he was interested in anything like that. But so what if he was?”

The director just shrugged, deciding he wasn’t going to get what he wanted from Rebus. “Jack, maybe you could do a quick interview with… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He smiled at Rebus.

“My name’s Fuck You,” Rebus said, returning the smile. Then he crossed the road again and pushed open the door of the police station.

“You’re a disgrace!” Jack Bell was shouting at him. “An absolute disgrace! Don’t think I won’t take this any further…!”

“That you making friends again?” the desk sergeant asked.

“I seem to be blessed that way,” Rebus informed him, climbing the stairs to the CID office. Overtime was available on the Herdman case, which meant a few souls were still working, even at this hour. Tapping reports into computers or sharing gossip over hot drinks. Rebus recognized DC Mark Pettifer and walked over to him.

“Something I need, Mark,” he said.

“What’s that, then, John?”

“The loan of a laptop.”

Pettifer smiled. “Thought your generation preferred quill and parchment.”

“One other thing,” Rebus added, ignoring this. “It has to be Internet-ready.”

“I think I can sort you something out.”

“While you’re doing that…” Rebus leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “Remember when Jack Bell got pulled in for curb crawling? That was some of your lads, wasn’t it?”

Pettifer nodded slowly.

“I don’t suppose there’d be any paperwork…?”

“I wouldn’t think so. He was never charged, was he?”

Rebus was thoughtful. “What about the guys who stopped his car: any chance I could have a word?”

“What’s this all about?”

“Just say I’m an interested party,” Rebus said.

But as it turned out, the young DC who’d dealt with Bell had moved stations and was now based at Torphichen Street. Rebus eventually got a mobile number for him. His name was Harry Chambers.

“Sorry to bother you,” Rebus said, having introduced himself.

“No bother, I’m just walking home from the boozer.”

“Hope you had a good night.”

“Pool competition, I made the semis.”

“Good for you. The reason I’m calling is Jack Bell.”

“What’s the oily bastard gone and done now?”

“He keeps getting under our feet at Port Edgar.” It was the truth, if not the whole truth. Rebus didn’t think he needed to explain his desire to prize Kate away from the MSP.

“Then make sure to wipe your shoes on him,” Chambers was saying. “About all he’s good for.”

“I’m sensing a slight antagonism, Harry.”

“After the curb crawling thing, he tried to get me knocked back to uniform. And all that guff he came out with: first he was on his way home from somewhere… then, when he couldn’t back that up, he was ‘researching’ the need for a tolerance zone. Aye, that’ll be right. The hoor he was talking to, she told me they’d already agreed on a price.”

“Reckon it was his first trip down that way?”

“No idea. Only thing I do know-and I’m being as objective as possible here-is that he’s a sleazy, lying, vindictive bastard. Why couldn’t that guy Herdman have done us all a favor and popped him instead of those poor bloody kids…?”


Back home, Rebus tried to remember Pettifer’s instructions as he set up the computer. It wasn’t the newest model. Pettifer’s comment: “If it seems sluggish, just feed in another shovelful of coal.” Rebus had asked him how old the machine was. Answer: two years, and already damn near obsolete.

Rebus decided that something so venerable should be cherished. He gave the keyboard and screen a wipe with a damp cloth. Like him, it was a survivor.

“Okay, old-timer,” he told it, “let’s see what you can do.”

After a frustrating few minutes, he put in a call to Pettifer, eventually finding him on his mobile-in his car and on his way home to bed. More instructions… Rebus kept the line open until he was sure he’d succeeded.

“Cheers, Mark,” he said, cutting the connection. Then he dragged his armchair over so that he could sit in relative comfort.

Seated, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, head tilted slightly to one side.

Watching Teri Cotter as she slept.

Загрузка...