Set in Darkness

16

Jerry had this morning routine, soon as Jayne had gone off to work. Tea, toast and the paper, and then into the living room to play a few records. Old stuff, punk 45s from his teens. Really set him up for the day. There might be thumps from upstairs, but he’d flick the Vs at the ceiling and dance on regardless. He had a few favourites — Generation X, ‘Your Generation’; Klark Kent, ‘Don’t Care’; Spizzenergi, ‘Where’s Captain Kirk?’ Their picture sleeves were dog-eared, and the vinyl was scratched to hell — too many lendings and parties. He still remembered gate-crashing a Ramones gig at the uni: October ’78. The Spizz single was May ’79: date of purchase scrawled on the back of the sleeve. He was like that back then. He’d time all his singles, make notes. A top five every week — best things he’d heard, not necessarily bought. The Virgin on Frederick Street had been shoplifting heaven for a while. Hadn’t been so easy at Bruce’s. The guy who ran Bruce’s had gone on to manage Simple Minds. Jerry’d seen them when they’d been called Johnny and the Self Abusers.

It all used to matter, to mean something. Weekends, the adrenaline could make you dizzy.

These days, dancing did that for him. He fell on to the sofa. Three records and he was knackered. Rolled himself a joint and switched on the TV, knowing there’d be nothing worth watching. Jayne was working a double shift, wouldn’t be home till nine, maybe ten. That gave him twelve hours to wash the dishes. Some days he itched to be working again, sitting in an office maybe with suit and tie on, making decisions and fielding phone calls. Nic said he had a secretary. A secretary. Who’d have thought it? He remembered the pair of them at school, kicking a football across the cul-de-sac, pogoing to punk in their bedrooms. Well, Jerry’s bedroom mostly. Nic’s mum had been funny about visitors; always a frown on her face when she opened her door and saw Jerry standing there. Dead now though, the old cow. Her living room had smelt of the Hamlet cigars Nic’s dad smoked. He was the only person Jerry knew who didn’t smoke cigarettes, had to be a cigar. Jerry, TV remote busy in his hand, chuckled now at the thought. Cigars! Who did the old sod think he was? Nic’s dad had worn ties and cardigans... Jerry’s dad had worn a vest most of the time, and a trouser-belt that came off whenever there was justice to dispense. But Jerry’s mum, she’d been a treasure: no way he’d have swapped his parents for Nic’s.

‘No bloody way,’ he said out loud.

He switched off the TV. The joint was down to the hot bit near the roach. He took a last draw and went to flush it down the bog. Not that he was worried about the pigs; it was Jayne didn’t like him doing the wacky bac. Way Jerry looked at it, the wacko kept him sane. Government should put the stuff on the National Health, way it kept the likes of him from going off the rails.

He went to the bathroom to have a shave: little treat for Jayne when she came home. Still humming ‘Captain Kirk’. Brilliant record, one of the best. He was thinking about Nic, how the two of them had become pals. You could never tell, could you, people you’d end up liking. They’d been in the same class since age five, but it was only when they went up to secondary that they started hanging around together, listening to Alex Harvey and Status Quo, trying to work out which lyrics were about sex. Nic had written a poem, hundreds of lines long, all about an orgy. Jerry had reminded him about it recently, and they’d had a good laugh. That was what it was about, at the end of the day: having a laugh.

He realised he was staring into the bathroom mirror; foam on his face and the razor in his hand. He had bags and lines under his eyes. It was catching up with him. Jayne kept talking about kids and ticking clocks; he kept telling her he’d think about it. Fact was, he didn’t fancy himself as a dad, and Nic kept talking about how it ruined a relationship. Guys in the office who hadn’t had sex since their nipper was born — months, sometimes years. And the mothers letting themselves go, gravity working against them. Nic would wrinkle his nose in disgust.

‘Not a pretty outlook, is it?’ Nic would say.

And Jerry would be bound to agree.

After school, Jerry had assumed they’d get jobs in the same place, maybe a factory or something. But Nic had dropped a bombshell: he was staying on an extra year, doing his Highers. It hadn’t stopped them seeing one another, but there were all these books in Nic’s room now — stuff Jerry couldn’t make head or tail of. And after that there was Napier for three years, and more books, essays to hand in. They saw one another some weekends, but almost never through the week — maybe Friday night for a disco or a gig. Iggy Pop... Gang of Four... the Stones at the Playhouse. Nic hardly ever introduced Jerry to his student pals, unless they met them at a gig. Once or twice they ended up in the pub. Jerry had chatted up one of the girls, then Nic had grabbed him.

‘What would Jayne say?’

Because he was seeing Jayne by then. They worked in the same factory: semiconductors. Jerry drove the fork-lift, got really good with it. He’d show off, do circuits around the women. They’d laugh, say he was daft, he’d get someone killed. Then Jayne came along and that was that.

Fifteen years they’d been married. Fifteen years and no kids. How could she expect them to have kids now, with him on the dole? His only letter this morning: dole people wanted him in for an interview. He knew what that meant. They wanted to know what he was doing to find himself a job. Answer: sweet FA. And now Jayne was at him again, ‘The clock’s ticking, Jerry.’ A double meaning there: her body clock, plus the threat that she might walk out if she didn’t get what she wanted. She’d done it before, packed her bags and off to her mum’s three streets away. Be as well bloody living there anyway...

He’d go mad if he stayed in the flat. He wiped the foam from his face and put his shirt back on, grabbed his jacket and was out. Walked the streets, looking for people to talk to, then into the bookies for half an hour, warming himself by the heater, pretending to study form. They knew him in there: highly unlikely he’d place a bet, but he sometimes did, always losing. When the lunchtime paper came in, he took a look. Page three, there was a story about a sexual assault. He read it closely. Nineteen-year-old student, grabbed in the Commonwealth Pool car park. Jerry flung the paper down and headed out to find a phone box.

He had Nic’s office number in his pocket, called him there sometimes when he was bored, holding the receiver to the stereo so Nic could hear some song they used to dance to. He got the receptionist and asked for Mr Hughes.

‘Nic, man, it’s Jerry.’

‘Hiya, pal. What can I do you for?’

‘Just saw the paper. There was a student attacked last night.’

‘The world’s a terrible place.’

‘Tell me it wasn’t you.’

A nervous laugh. ‘That’s a sick kind of joke, Jerry.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Where are you? Got any mates listening in?’

The way he said it made Jerry stop. Nic was telling him something, telling him someone could be listening in — maybe the receptionist.

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Nic said.

‘Listen, man, I’m sorry—’ But the phone was dead.

Jerry was shaking when he left the phone box. Jogged all the way home, fixed another joint. Put the TV on and sat there, trying to get his heartbeat down. Safer here; wasn’t anything could touch him here. This was the only place to be.

Until Jayne got home.

Siobhan Clarke had asked Register House to run a search for Chris Mackie’s birth certificate. She’d also begun asking around about Mackie, concentrating on Grassmarket and the Cowgate, but spreading out to take in the Meadows, Princes Street and Hunter Square.

But this Thursday morning she sat in a doctor’s waiting room, surrounded by pale and sickly sufferers, until her name was called and she could put aside the women’s magazine with its alien articles on cookery, clothes and kids.

Where, she wondered, was the magazine for her, one that concentrated on Hibs FC, hashed relationships and homicide?

Dr Talbot was in his mid-fifties and wore a weary smile below his half-moon glasses. He already had Chris Mackie’s medical records laid out on his desk, but checked that Clarke’s own paperwork — death certificate; authorisation — was in order before beckoning for her to move her chair in towards the desk.

It took her a couple of minutes to substantiate that the records only went back as far as 1980. When Mackie had registered with the surgery, he’d given a previous address in London and had stated that his records were held by a Dr Mason in Crouch End. But a letter from Dr Talbot to Dr Mason’s address had been returned ‘No Such Street’.

‘You didn’t pursue this?’ Clarke asked.

‘I’m a doctor, not a detective.’

Mackie’s Edinburgh address was the hostel. Date of birth was different from that on Drew’s filing-card. Clarke had the uneasy feeling that Mackie had laid a false trail all the way along. She went back to the records. Once or twice a year he’d attended the surgery, usually with some minor complaint: a facial cut turned septic; influenza; a boil requiring to be lanced.

‘He was in pretty good health, considering his circumstances,’ Dr Talbot said. ‘I don’t think he drank or smoked, which helped.’

‘Drugs?’

The doctor shook his head.

‘Is that unusual in someone who’s homeless?’

‘I’ve known people with stronger constitutions than Mr Mackie.’

‘Yes, but someone homeless, not doing drink or drugs...?’

‘I’m no expert.’

‘But in your opinion...?’

‘In my opinion, Mr Mackie gave me very little trouble.’

‘Thank you, Dr Talbot.’

She left the surgery and headed for the Department of Social Security office, where a Miss Stanley sat her down in a lifeless cubicle usually reserved for claimant interviews.

‘Looks like he didn’t have a National Insurance number,’ she said, going through the file. ‘We had to issue an emergency one at the start.’

‘When was this?’

It was 1980, of course: the year of Christopher Mackie’s invention.

‘I wasn’t here at the time, but there are some notes from whoever it was interviewed him initially.’ Miss Stanley read from these. ‘“Filthy, not sure of where he is, no NI number or tax reference.” Previous address is given as London.’

Clarke dutifully jotted it all down.

‘Does it answer your questions?’

‘Pretty much,’ she admitted. The night he’d died, that was as close to ‘Chris Mackie’ as she was going to get. Since then she’d been moving away from him, because he didn’t exist. He was a figment, imagined by someone with something to hide.

The who and what she might never discover.

Because Mackie had been clever. Everyone else had said he kept himself clean, but for the DSS he’d camouflaged himself with filth. Why? Because it made his act the more believable: bumbling, forgetful, unhelpful. The sort of person a hard-pressed official would want rid of pronto. No NI number? Never mind, issue an emergency one. Vague address in London? Fine, leave it be. Just sign your name to his claim and get him out of the cubicle.

A call on her mobile to Register House confirmed that there was no birth record of a Christopher Mackie on the date she’d given. She could try the other date she had, or spread the net wider, ask Register House in London... But she knew she was chasing shadows. She sat in a cramped café, drinking her drink, staring into space, and wondered if it was time to write up her report and call an end to the hunt.

She could think of half a dozen reasons for doing so.

And just four hundred thousand for not.

Back at her desk, she found over a dozen messages waiting for her. A couple of the names she recognised: local journalists. They’d tried calling three times apiece. She screwed shut her eyes and mouthed a word her grandmother would have clapped her ear for using. Then she headed downstairs to the Coms Room, knowing someone there would have the latest edition of the News. Front page: TRAGIC MYSTERY OF MILLIONAIRE TRAMP. As they didn’t have a photograph of Mackie, they’d opted for one of the spot where he’d jumped. There wasn’t much to the piece: well-known face around city centre... bank account well into six figures... police trying to establish who might have ‘a claim on the cash’.

Siobhan Clarke’s worst nightmare.

When she got upstairs, her phone was ringing again. Hi-Ho Silvers came across the floor on his knees, hands held in mock prayer.

‘I’m his love child,’ he said. ‘Give me a DNA test, but for God’s sake give me the dosh!’

Laughter in the CID suite. ‘It’s for yoo-ou,’ someone else said, pointing to her phone. Every nutter and chancer in the kingdom would be getting ready. They’d call 999 or Fettes, and to get them off the line, someone would eventually admit that it was a St Leonard’s matter.

They all belonged to Siobhan now. They were her children.

So she turned on her heels and left, ignoring the pleas from behind her.

And headed back on to the streets, finding new people to ask about Mackie. She knew she had to be quick: news travelled. Soon they’d all claim to have known him, to have been his best pal, his nephew, his executor. The street people knew her now, called her ‘doll’ and ‘hen’. One old man had even christened her ‘Diana, the Huntress’. She was wise to some of the younger beggars, too; not the ones who sold the Big Issue, but the ones who sat in doorways, blankets around them. She’d been sheltering from a downpour when one had come into Thin’s Bookshop, blanket discarded and a mobile phone to his ear, complaining because his taxi hadn’t turned up. He’d seen her, recognised her, but kept the diatribe going.

The foot of the Mound was quiet. Two young guys with ponytails and cross-breeds; the dogs licking themselves while their owners shared a can of headnip.

‘Don’t know the guy, sorry. Got a fag on you?’

She had learned to carry a packet with her, offered them each a cigarette, smiling when they took two. Then it was back up the Mound. John Rebus had told her something: the steep hill had been constructed from New Town rubble. The man whose idea it had been had owned a business at the top. Construction had meant the demolition of his shop. John Rebus hadn’t found the story amusing; he’d told her it was a lesson.

‘In what?’ she’d asked.

‘Scots history,’ he’d replied, failing to explain.

She wondered now if it had been a reference to independence, to self-made, self-destructing schemes. It did seem to amuse him that, when pushed, she would defend independence. He wound her up, telling her it was a trick and she was an English spy, sent to undermine the process. Then he’d call her a ‘New Scot’, a ‘settler’. She never knew when he was being serious. People in Edinburgh were like that: obtuse, thrawn. Sometimes she thought he was flirting, that the jibes and jokes were part of some mating ritual made all the more complex because it consisted of baiting the subject rather than wooing them.

She’d known John Rebus for several years now, and still they weren’t close friends. Rebus, so far as she could tell, saw none of his colleagues outside work hours, apart from when she invited him to Hibs matches. His only hobby was drinking, and he tended to indulge where few women did, his chosen pubs museum pieces in a gallery marked prehistoric.

He’d been living on and off for years with Dr Patience Aitken, but that seemed to be over, not that he was saying anything about it. At first she’d thought him shy, awkward, but now she wasn’t so sure. It seemed more like a strategy, a wilfulness. She couldn’t imagine him joining a singles club the way Derek Linford had done. Linford... another of her little mistakes. She hadn’t spoken to him since The Dome. He’d left precisely one message on her answerphone: ‘Hope you’ve got over whatever it was.’ As if it was her fault! She’d almost called him back, forced an apology, but maybe that was his game: get her to make the move; contact of any kind the prelude to a rematch.

Maybe there was method in John Rebus’s madness. Certainly there was a lot to be said for quiet nights in, a video rental, the gin, and a box of Pringle’s. Not trying to impress anyone; putting on some music and dancing by yourself. At parties and in clubs there was always that self-consciousness, that sense of being watched and graded by anonymous eyes.

But next morning at the office it would be: ‘What did you get up to last night then?’ Asked innocently enough, but she never felt comfortable saying more than, ‘Not much, how about you?’ Because to utter the word alone implied that you were lonely.

Or available. Or had something to hide.

Hunter Square was empty save for a tourist couple poring over a map. The coffee she’d drunk was asking permission to leave, so she headed for the public toilet. When she came out of her cubicle, a woman was standing by the sinks, hunting through a series of carrier bags. Bag lady was an American term, but it suddenly seemed right. The woman’s padded jacket was grubby, the stitching loose at the neck and shoulders. Her hair was short and greasy, cheeks red from exposure. She was talking to herself as she found what she’d been looking for: a half-eaten burger, still in its greaseproof wrapper. The woman held the comestible under the hand-dryer and let hot air play on it, turning it in her fingers. Clarke watched in fascination, unsure whether to be appalled or impressed. The woman knew she was being watched, but stuck to her task. When the dryer had finished its cycle, she pushed it on again with her finger. Then she spoke.

‘Nosy little beggar, aren’t you?’ She glanced towards Clarke. ‘You laughing at me?’

‘“Beggar”,’ Clarke quoted.

The woman snorted. ‘Easy amused then. And I’m no beggar, by the way.’

Clarke took a step forward. ‘Wouldn’t it heat up quicker if you opened it?’

‘Eh?’

‘Heat the inside rather than the outside.’

‘You saying I’m cack-handed?’

‘No, I just...’

‘I mean, you’re the world expert, are you? Lucky for me you just happened to be passing. Got fifty pence on you?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

The woman snorted again. ‘I make the jokes around here.’ She took an exploratory bite of the burger, spoke with her mouth full.

‘I didn’t catch that,’ Clarke said.

The woman swallowed. ‘I was asking if you were a lesbian. Men who hang around toilets are poofs, aren’t they?’

‘You’re hanging around a toilet.’

‘I’m no lesbian, by the way.’ She took another bite.

‘Ever come across a guy called Mackie? Chris Mackie?’

‘Who’s asking?’

Clarke produced her warrant card. ‘You know Chris is dead?’

The woman stopped chewing. Tried swallowing but couldn’t, ended up coughing the mouthful out on to the floor. She went to one of the sinks, cupped water to her mouth. Clarke followed her.

‘He jumped from North Bridge. I’m assuming you knew him?’

The woman was staring into the soap-flecked mirror. The eyes, though dark and knowing, were so much younger and less worn than the face. Clarke placed the woman in her mid-thirties, but knew that on a bad day she could pass for fifty.

‘Everybody knew Mackie.’

‘Not everybody’s reacted the way you just did.’

The woman was still holding her burger. She stared at it, seemed about to ditch it, but finally wrapped it up again and placed it at the top of one of her bags.

‘I shouldn’t be so surprised,’ she said. ‘People die all the time.’

‘But he was your friend?’

The woman looked at her. ‘Gonny buy me a cup of tea?’

Clarke nodded.

The nearest café wouldn’t take them. When pressed, the manager pointed to the woman and said she’d caused trouble, trying to beg at the tables. There was another café further along.

‘I’m barred there as well,’ the woman admitted. So Clarke went in, fetched two beakers of tea and a couple of sticky buns. They sat in Hunter Square, stared at by passengers on the top decks of the passing buses. The woman flicked the Vs from time to time, dissuading the spectators.

‘I’m a bad bugger, me,’ she confided.

Clarke had her name now: Dezzi. Short for Desiderata. Not her real name: ‘Left that behind when I left home.’

‘And when was that, Dezzi?’

‘I don’t remember. A lot of years now, I suppose.’

‘You always been in Edinburgh?’

A shake of the head. ‘All over. Last summer I ended up on a bus to some commune in Wales. Christ knows how that happened. Got a fag?’

Clarke handed one over. ‘Why did you leave home?’

‘Like I said, nosy little beggar.’

‘All right, what about Chris?’

‘I always called him Mackie.’

‘What did he call you?’

‘Dezzi.’ She stared at Clarke. ‘Is that you trying to find out my last name?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Cross my heart.’

‘Oh aye, a cop’s as honest as the day is long.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Only, this time of year the days are awfy short.’

Clarke laughed. ‘I walked into that one.’ She’d been trying to work out if Dezzi knew about Mackie, knew about the detective who was asking about him. Knew about the story in the News. ‘So what can you tell me about Mackie?’

‘He was my boyfriend, just for a few weeks.’ The sudden, unexpected smile lit up her face. ‘Wild weeks they were, mind.’

‘How wild?’

An arch look. ‘Enough to get us arrested. I’m saying no more than that.’ She bit into her bun. She was alternating: mouthful of bun, puff on the cigarette.

‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’

‘He’s dead now, what does it matter?’

‘It matters to me. Why would he kill himself?’

‘Why does anyone?’

‘You tell me.’

A slurp of tea. ‘Because you give in.’

‘Is that what he did, give in?’

‘All the shite out here...’ Dezzi shook her head. ‘I tried it once, cut my wrists with a bit of glass. Eight stitches.’ She turned one wrist as if to show it, but Clarke couldn’t see any scars. ‘Couldn’t have been serious, could I?’

Clarke was well aware that a great many homeless people were ill; not physically, but mentally. She had a sudden thought: could she trust any stories Dezzi told her?

‘When did you last see Mackie?’

‘Maybe a couple of weeks back.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Fine.’ She pushed the last morsel of bun into her mouth. Washed it down with tea, before concentrating on the cigarette.

‘Dezzi, did you really know him?’

‘What?’

‘You haven’t told me one thing about him.’

Dezzi prickled. Clarke feared she would walk off. ‘If he meant something to you,’ Clarke went on, ‘help me get to know him.’

‘Nobody knew Mackie, not really. Too many defences.’

‘But you got past them?’

‘I don’t think so. He told me a few stories... but I think that’s all they were.’

‘What sort of stories?’

‘Oh, all about places he’d been — America, Singapore, Australia. I thought maybe he’d been in the navy or something, but he said he hadn’t.’

‘Was he well educated?’

‘He knew things. I’m positive he’d been to America, not sure about the others. He knew London, though, all the tourist places and the underground stations. When I first met him...’

‘Yes?’ Clarke was shivering; couldn’t feel her toes.

‘I don’t know, I got the feeling he was just passing through. Like, there was somewhere else he could go.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Are you saying he was homeless by choice rather than necessity?’

‘Maybe.’ Dezzi’s eyes widened a little.

‘What is it?’

‘I can prove I knew him.’

‘How’s that?’

‘The present he gave me.’

‘What present?’

‘Only, I didn’t have much use for it, so I... I gave it to someone.’

‘Gave it to someone?’

‘Well, sold it. A second-hand shop on Nicolson Street.’

‘What was it?’

‘A briefcase sort of thing. Didn’t hold enough stuff, but it was made of leather.’

Mackie had carried his cash to the building society in a briefcase. ‘So now it’ll have been sold on to someone else?’ Clarke guessed.

But Dezzi was shaking her head. ‘The shopkeeper’s still got it. I’ve seen him walking about with it. Leather it was, and the bastard only gave me five quid.’

It wasn’t far from Hunter Square to Nicolson Street. The shop was an Aladdin’s cave of tat, narrow aisles leading them past teetering pillars of used goods: books, cassettes, music centres, crockery. Vacuum cleaners had been draped with feather boas; picture cards and old comics lay underfoot. Electrical goods and board games and jigsaw puzzles; pots and pans, guitars, music-stands. The shopkeeper, an Asian, didn’t seem to recognise Dezzi. Clarke showed her warrant card and asked to see the briefcase.

‘Five measly quid he gave me,’ Dezzi grumbled. ‘Genuine leather.’

The man was reluctant, until Clarke mentioned that St Leonard’s was just around the corner. He reached down and placed a scuffed black briefcase on the counter. Clarke asked him to open it. Inside: a newspaper, packed lunch and a thick roll of banknotes. Dezzi seemed to want a closer look, but he snapped shut the case.

‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

Clarke pointed to a corner of the case where the scuffing was worst.

‘What happened?’

‘The initials were not my initials. I attempted to erase them.’

Clarke looked more closely. She was wondering if Valerie Briggs could identify the case. ‘Do you remember the initials?’ she asked Dezzi.

Dezzi shook her head; she was looking, too.

The shop was badly lit. The faintest indents remained.

‘ADC?’ she guessed.

‘I believe so,’ the shopkeeper said. Then he wagged a finger at Dezzi. ‘And I paid you a fair price.’

‘You as good as robbed me, you sod.’ She nudged Clarke. ‘Stick the handcuffs on him, girl.’

ADC, Clarke was thinking, was Mackie really ADC?

Or would it prove another dead end?

Back at St Leonard’s, she kicked herself for not checking Mackie’s criminal record sooner. August 1997, Christopher Mackie and ‘a Ms Desiderata’ (she refused to give the police her full name) were apprehended while involved in a ‘lewd exhibition’ on the steps of a parish church in Bruntsfield.

August: Festival time. Clarke was surprised they hadn’t been mistaken for an experimental theatre group.

The arresting officer was a uniform called Rod Harken, and he remembered the incident well.

‘She got a fine,’ he told Clarke by telephone from Torphichen police station. ‘And a few days in clink for refusing to tell us her name.’

‘What about her partner?’

‘I think he got off with a caution.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the poor sod was nearly comatose.’

‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Then I’ll spell it out. She was straddling him, knickers off and skirt up, trying to haul his pants down. We had to wake him up to take him to the station.’ Harken chuckled.

‘Were they photographed?’

‘You mean on the steps?’ Harken was still chuckling.

Clarke heaped more ice into her voice. ‘No, I do not mean on the steps. I mean at Torphichen.’

‘Oh aye, we took some snaps.’

‘Would you still have them?’

‘Depends.’

‘Well, could you take a look.’ Clarke paused. ‘Please.’

‘Suppose so,’ the uniform said grudgingly.

‘Thank you.’

She put the phone down. An hour later, the photos arrived by patrol car. The ones of Mackie were better than the hostel pictures. She stared into his unfocused eyes. His hair was thick and dark, brushed back from the forehead. His face was either tanned or weather-beaten. He hadn’t shaved for a day or two, but looked no worse than many a summertime backpacker. His eyes looked heavy, as though no amount of sleep could compensate for what they’d seen. Clarke had to smile at the photos of Dezzi: she was grinning like a Cheshire cat, not a care in her world.

Harken had put a note in the envelope: One other thing. We asked Mackie about the incident and he told us he wasn’t a ‘sexual beast’ any more. Something got lost in the translation and we kept him locked up while we checked if he’d had previous as a sex offender. Turned out he hadn’t.

Her phone rang again. It was the front desk. There was someone downstairs for her.

Her visitor was short and round with a red face. He wore a Prince of Wales check three-piece suit and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but hair grew copiously to either side, combed back over his ears. He introduced himself as Gerald Sithing.

‘I read about Chris Mackie in the newspaper this morning, gave me quite a turn.’ His beady eyes were on her, voice high and quavering.

Clarke folded her arms. ‘You knew him, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. Known him for years.’

‘Could you describe him for me?’

Sithing studied her, then clapped his hands. ‘Oh, of course. You think I’m a crank.’ His laughter was sibilant. ‘Come here to claim his fortune.’

‘Aren’t you?’

He drew himself up, recited a good description of Mackie. Clarke unfolded her arms, scratched her nose. ‘In here, please, Mr Sithing.’

There was an interview room just to the side of the front desk. She unlocked it and looked in. Sometimes it was used for storage, but today it was empty. Desk and two chairs. Nothing on the walls. No ashtray or waste bin.

Sithing sat down, looked around as though intrigued by his surroundings. Clarke had gone from scratching her nose to pinching it. She had a headache coming on, felt dead beat.

‘How did you come to know Mr Mackie?’

‘Complete accident really. Daily constitutional, back then I took it in the Meadows.’

‘Back when?’

‘Oh, seven, eight years ago. Bright summer’s day, so I sat myself down on one of the benches. There was a man already seated there, scruffy... you know, gentleman of the road. We got talking. I think I broke the ice, said something about how lovely the day was.’

‘And this was Mr Mackie?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where was he living at the time?’

Sithing laughed again. ‘You’re still testing me, aren’t you?’ He wagged a finger like a fat sausage. ‘He was in a hostel sort of place, Grassmarket. I met him the very next day, and the day after that. It got to be a routine with us, and one I enjoyed very much.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘The world, the mess we’ve made of it. He was interested in Edinburgh, in all the architectural changes. He was very anti.’

‘Anti?’

‘You know, against all the new buildings. Maybe in the end it got too much for him.’

‘He killed himself in protest at ugly architecture?’

‘Despair can come from many quarters.’ His tone was admonishing.

‘I’m sorry if I sounded...’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not your fault. You’re just tired.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘And maybe Chris was tired, too. That’s the point I was making.’

‘Did he ever talk about himself?’

‘A little. He told me about the hostel, about people he’d met...’

‘I meant his past. Did he talk about his life before he went on the street?’

Sithing was shaking his head. ‘He was more of a good listener, fascinated by Rosslyn.’

Clarke thought she’d misheard. ‘Rosalind?’

‘Rosslyn. The chapel.’

‘What about it?’

Sithing leaned forward. ‘My whole life’s devoted to the place. You may have heard of the Knights of Rosslyn?’

Clarke was getting a bad feeling. She shook her head. The stems of her eyes ached.

‘But you know that in the year 2000, the secret of Rosslyn will reveal itself?’

‘Is this some New Age thing?’

Sithing snorted. ‘It’s very much an ancient thing.’

‘You believe Rosslyn’s some sort of... special place?’

‘It’s the reason Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland. Hitler was obsessed with the Ark of the Covenant.’

‘I know. I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark three times. You’re saying Harrison Ford was looking in the wrong place?’

‘Laugh all you like,’ Sithing sneered.

‘And that’s what you talked about with Chris Mackie?’

‘He was an acolyte!’ Sithing slapped the desk. ‘He was a believer.’

Clarke was getting to her feet. ‘Did you know he had money?’

‘He’d have wanted it to go to the Knights!’

‘Did you know anything about him?’

‘He gave us a hundred pounds to carry on our researches. Beneath the floor of the chapel, that’s where it’s buried.’

‘What?’

‘The portal! The gateway!’

Clarke had the door open. She grabbed Sithing’s arm. It felt soft, as if there were no bones beneath the flesh.

‘Out,’ she commanded.

‘The money belongs to the Knights! We were his family!’

‘Out.’

He wasn’t resisting, not really. She swung him into the revolving door and gave it a push, propelling him out on to St Leonard’s Street, where he turned to glare at her. His face was redder than ever. Strands of hair had fallen forwards over his eyes. He began talking again, but she turned away. The desk sergeant was grinning.

‘Don’t,’ she warned.

‘I hear my Uncle Chris passed away,’ he said, ignoring her raised finger. As she made for the stairs, she could hear his voice. ‘He said he’d leave me a little something when he went. Any chance, Siobhan? Come on, just a few quid from my old Uncle Chris!’

Her phone was ringing when she reached it. She picked up the receiver, rubbing at her temples with her free hand.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

‘You’ll be the mystery tramp’s sister then?’ Clarke slipped into her chair.

‘It’s Sandra here. Sandra Carnegie.’

The name meant nothing to her for a moment.

‘We went to the Marina that night,’ the voice explained.

Clarke screwed her eyes shut. ‘Oh, hell, yes. Sorry, Sandra.’

‘I was just phoning to see if...’

‘It’s been a hellish day, that’s all,’ Clarke was saying. ‘. . there’d been any progress. Only no one’s telling me anything.’

Clarke sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Sandra. It’s not my case any more. Who’s your contact at Sex Crimes?’

Sandra Carnegie mumbled something inaudible.

‘I didn’t catch that.’

A burst of fury: ‘I said you’re all the same! You look like you’re concerned, but you’re not doing anything to catch him! I can’t go out now without wondering, is he watching me? Is that him on the bus, or crossing the road?’ The anger melting to tears. ‘And I thought you... that night we...’

‘I’m sorry, Sandra.’

‘Stop saying that! Jesus, just stop, will you?’

‘Maybe if I talked to the officers at Sex Crimes...’ But the phone had gone dead. Siobhan put down the receiver, then lifted it off the hook, sat it on the desktop. She had Sandra’s number somewhere, but looking at the chaos of papers on her desk, she knew it might take hours to find.

And her headache was getting worse.

And the frauds and lunatics would keep hammering at her.

And what kind of job was it that could make you feel so bad about yourself...?

17

The kind of morning just made for a long drive: sky a pale wash of blue, thin strings of clouds, almost no traffic and Page/Plant on the radio-cassette. A long drive might help clear his head. The bonus ball: he was missing the morning briefing. Linford could have the stage all to himself.

Rebus headed out of town against the tide of the rush hour. Crawling queues on Queensferry Road, the usual tailback at the Barnton roundabout. Snow on the roofs of some cars: the gritting lorries had been out at dawn. He stopped for petrol and downed two more paracetamol with a can of Irn-Bru. Crossing the Forth Bridge, he saw that they’d put up the Millennium Clock on the Rail Bridge, providing a reminder he didn’t need. He remembered a trip to Paris with his ex-wife... was it twenty years ago? A similar clock was set up outside the Beaubourg, only it had stopped.

And here he was time travelling, back to the haunt of childhood holidays. When he came off the M90, he was surprised to see he still had over twenty miles to go. Was St Andrews really so isolated? A neighbour had usually given the family a lift: Mum and Dad, and Rebus and his brother. Three of them crushed against each other on the back seat, bags squashed by their knees and legs, beach balls and towels resting on their laps. The trip would take all morning. Neighbours would have waved them off, as though an expedition were being undertaken. Into the dark continent of north-east Fife, final destination a caravan site, where their four-berth rental awaited, smelling of mothballs and gas mantles. At night there’d be the toilet block with its skittering insect life, moths and jenny-long-legs casting huge shadows on the whitewashed walls. Then back to the caravan for games of cards and dominoes, their father usually winning except when their mother persuaded him not to cheat.

Two weeks of summer. It was called the Glasgow Fair Fortnight. He was never sure if ‘fair’ was as in festival or not raining. He never saw a festival in St Andrews and it seemed to rain often, sometimes for a whole week. Plastic macs and long bleak walks. When the sun broke through, it could still be cold; the brothers turning blue as they splashed in the North Sea, waving at ships on the horizon, the ships their father told them were Russian spies. There was an RAF base near by; the Russians were after their secrets.

As he approached the town, the first thing he saw was the golf course, and heading into the centre he noticed that St Andrews seemed not to have changed. Had time really stood still here? Where were the High Street shoe shops and bargain outlets, the fast-food chains? St Andrews could afford to be without them. He recognised the spot where a toy shop had once stood. It now sold ice cream. A tearoom, an antique emporium... and students. Students everywhere, looking bright and cheerful in keeping with the day. He checked his directions. It was a small town, six or seven main streets. Even so, he made a couple of mistakes before driving through an ancient stone archway. He stopped by the side of a cemetery. Across the road were gates which led to a Gothic-style building, looking more like a church than a school. But the sign on the wall was clear enough: Haugh Academy.

He wondered if he needed to lock the car, but did so anyway: too old to change his ways.

Teenage girls were heading into the building. They all wore grey blazers and skirts, crisp white blouses with school ties knotted tight at the throat. A woman was standing in the doorway, donning a long black woollen coat.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ she asked as he approached. He nodded. ‘Billie Collins,’ she said, a hand shooting out towards him. Her grip was brisk and firm. As a girl, head bowed, made to pass them, she tutted and gripped her by the shoulder.

‘Millie Jenkins, have you finished that homework yet?’

‘Yes, Miss Collins.’

‘And has Miss McCallister seen it?’

‘Yes, Miss Collins.’

‘Then along you go.’

The shoulder was released, the girl fairly flew through the door.

‘Walk, Millie! No running!’ She kept her head turned, checking the girl’s progress, then brought her attention back to Rebus.

‘The day being a fine one, I thought we might walk.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. He wondered, the day apart, whether there might be some other reason she didn’t want him in the school...

‘I remember this place,’ he said.

They’d descended the hill and were crossing a bridge over a burn, harbour and pier to the left of them, sea views ahead. Rebus pointed far to the right, then brought his arm down, lest the teacher scold him: John Rebus, no pointing!

‘We came here on holiday... that caravan site up there.’

‘Kinkell Braes,’ Billie Collins said.

‘That’s right. There used to be a putting green just there.’ Nodding with his head, a safer option. ‘You can still see the outline.’

And the beach falling away just yards below them. The promenade was empty, save for a Labrador being walked by its owner. As the man passed them, he smiled, bowed his head. A typically Scots greeting: more evasion than anything else. The dog’s hair hung wetly from its belly, where it had enjoyed a trip into the water. A wind was whipping off the sea, icy-smelling and abrasive. He got the feeling his companion would call it bracing.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think you’re only the second policeman I’ve had dealings with since I came here.’

‘Not much crime, eh?’

‘The usual student boisterousness.’

‘What was the other time?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The other policeman.’

‘Oh, it was last month. The severed hand.’

Rebus nodded, remembered reading about it. Some student joke, bits going missing from the medical lab, turning up around the town.

‘Raisin Day, it’s called,’ Billie Collins informed him. She was tall, bony. Prominent cheekbones and black brittle-looking hair. Seona Grieve was a teacher, too. Roddy Grieve had married two teachers. Her profile showed a jutting forehead, hooded eyes. Her nose fell to a point. Masculine features married to a strong, deep voice. Low-heeled black shoes, the navy-blue skirt falling way past her knees. Blue woollen jumper with decoration provided by a large Celtic brooch.

‘Some sort of initiation?’ Rebus asked.

‘The third-year students throw out challenges to the first years. There’s a lot of dressing up, and far too much drinking.’

‘Plus body parts.’

She glanced at him. ‘That was a first, so far as I’m aware. An anatomy prank. The hand was found on the school wall. Several of my girls had to be treated for shock.’

‘Dear me.’

Their walk had slowed. Rebus gestured towards a bench and they sat a decent distance apart. Billie Collins tugged at the hem of her skirt.

‘You came here on holidays, did you say?’

‘Most years. Played on the beach down there, went to the castle... There was a kind of dungeon there.’

‘The bottle dungeon.’

‘That’s it. And a haunted tower...’

‘St Rule’s. It’s just over the cathedral wall.’

‘Where my car’s parked?’ She nodded and he laughed. ‘Everything seemed a lot further apart when I was a boy.’

‘You’d have sworn St Rule’s was a distance from your putting green?’ She seemed to consider this. ‘Who’s to say it wasn’t?’

He nodded slowly, almost understanding her. She was saying that the past was a different place, that it could not be revisited. The town had tricked him by seeming unchanged. But he had changed: that was what mattered.

She took a deep breath, spread her hands out across her lap. ‘You want to talk to me about my past, Inspector, and that’s a painful subject. Given the choice, it’s something I’d avoid. Few happy memories, and those aren’t what interest you anyway.’

‘I can appreciate—’

‘I wonder if you can, I really do. Roddy and I met when we were too young. Second-year undergraduates, right here. We were happy here, maybe that’s why I’ve been able to stay. But when Roddy got his job in the Scottish Office...’ She reached into a sleeve for her handkerchief. Not that she was about to cry, but it helped her to work at the cotton with her fingers, her eyes fixed on the embroidered edges. Rebus looked out to sea, imagining spy ships — probably fishing boats, transformed by imagination.

‘When Peter was born,’ she went on, ‘it was at the worst time. Roddy was snowed under at work. We were living at his parents’ place. It didn’t help that his father was ailing. With my post-natal depression... well, it was a kind of living hell.’ Now she looked up. In front of her lay the beach, and the Labrador bounding across it to fetch a stick. But she was seeing a different picture altogether. ‘Roddy seemed to immerse himself in his work; his way of escaping it all, I suppose.’

And now Rebus had his own pictures: working ever longer hours, keeping clear of the flat. No arguments about politics; no cushion fights. Nothing any more but the knowledge of failure. Sammy had to be protected: the unspoken agreement; the last pact of husband and wife. Until Rhona told him he was a stranger to her, and walked away, taking their daughter...

He couldn’t recall his own parents ever arguing. Money had always been an issue: every week they put a little aside, saving for the boys’ holiday. They scrimped, but Johnny and Mike never went without: patched clothes and hand-me-downs, but hot meals, Christmas treats and the annual holiday. Ice cream and deckchairs, bags of chips on the walk back to the caravan. Games of putting, trips to Craigtoun Park. There was a miniature train there, you sat on it and ended up in some woods with little elfin houses.

It had all seemed so easy, so innocent.

‘And the drinking got worse,’ she was saying, ‘so I ran back here, bringing Peter with me.’

‘How bad did the drinking get?’

‘He did it in secret. Bottles hidden in his study.’

‘Seona says he wasn’t much of a drinker.’

‘She would, wouldn’t she?’

‘Protecting his good name?’

Billie Collins sighed. ‘I’m not sure I really blame Roddy. It was his family, the way they can suffocate you.’ She looked at him. ‘All his life, I think he dreamed of parliament. And just when it was within his reach...’

Rebus shifted on the bench. ‘I’ve heard he worshipped Cammo.’

‘Not quite the right word, but I suppose he did want at least some of what Cammo appeared to have.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Cammo can be charming and ruthless. Sometimes never more ruthless than when he’s being charming to your face. Roddy was attracted to that side of his brother: the ability to scheme.’

‘He had more than one brother, though.’

‘Oh, you mean Alasdair?’

‘Did you know him?’

‘I liked Alasdair, but I can’t say I blame him for leaving.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘Late seventies. Seventy-nine, I think.’

‘Do you know why he left?’

‘Not really. He had a business partner, Frankie or Freddy... a name like that. Story was, they went off together.’

‘Lovers?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t believe it; nor did Alicia, though I don’t think she’d have been against a homosexual in the family.’

‘What did Alasdair do?’

‘All sorts. He owned a restaurant at one time: Mercurio’s on Dundas Street. I should think it’s changed names a dozen times since. He was hopeless with the staff. He dabbled in property — I think that was Frankie or Freddy’s line of work also — and put money into a couple of bars. As I say, Inspector, all sorts.’

‘No arts or politics then?’

She snorted. ‘Lord, no. Alasdair was far too down-to-earth.’ She paused. ‘What has Alasdair got to do with Roddy?’

Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m trying to get to know Roddy. Alasdair’s just another piece of the puzzle.’

‘Bit late to get to know him, isn’t it?’

‘By getting to know him, it’s possible I may see who his enemies were.’

‘But we don’t always know who our enemies are, do we? The wolf in sheep’s clothing, et cetera.’

He nodded agreement, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. But Billie Collins was getting to her feet. ‘We can be at Kinkell Braes in five minutes. Might be interesting for you.’

He doubted it, but as they began to climb the steep path to the caravan site, he remembered something else from his childhood: a hole, deep and manmade, sided with concrete. It had sat to one side of the path, and he’d had to shuffle past it, fearful of falling in. Some sort of sluice? He recalled water trickling through it.

‘Christ, it’s still here!’ He stood looking down. The hole had been fenced off from the path; didn’t seem half as deep. But this was definitely the same hole. He looked to Billie Collins. ‘This thing scared me half to death when I was a kid. Cliffs to one side and this on the other, I could hardly bring myself to come down this path. I had nightmares about this hole.’

‘Hard to believe.’ She was thoughtful. ‘Or maybe not so hard.’ She walked on.

He caught her up. ‘How did Peter get on with his father?’

‘How do fathers and sons usually get on?’

‘Did they see much of one another?’

‘I didn’t dissuade Peter from visiting Roddy.’

‘That doesn’t exactly answer my question.’

‘It’s the only answer I can give.’

‘How did Peter react when he heard his father was dead?’

She stopped, swung towards him. ‘What is it you’re trying to say?’

‘Funny, I’m wondering what it is you’re trying not to say.’

She folded her arms. ‘Well, that puts us at somewhat of an impasse, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’m just asking if they got on, that’s all. Because Peter’s last song about his father is called “The Final Reproof”, and that doesn’t exactly conjure up harmony and good humour.’

They were at the top of the path. Ahead of them stood the rows of caravans, vacant windows awaiting warmer weather, the arrival of bottled gas and released spirits.

‘You spent your holidays here?’ Billie Collins asked, looking around. ‘Poor you.’ She was seeing uniformity and the brutal North Sea, cold facts separated from anecdote.

‘“The Final Reproof”,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s a powerful line, isn’t it?’ She looked at him. ‘I spent years trying to understand the clan, Inspector. Don’t vex yourself. Try something feasible.’

‘Such as?’

‘Conjure up the past and make it work this time.’

‘I might have a round table in my living room,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m Merlin.’

He took the coastal road south to Kirkcaldy. Stopped for lunch in Lundin Links. One of the regulars at the Oxford Bar, his father owned the Old Manor Hotel. Rebus had been promising a visit for a while. He ate East Neuk fish soup followed by the catch of the day: local fish, simply cooked, washed down with mineral water, and tried not to dwell on the past — anyone’s past. Afterwards, George gave him the tour. From the main bar, the scenery was stunning: a golf links with the sea and horizon beyond. In a sudden shaft of sunlight, Bass Rock looked like a nugget of white gold.

‘Do you play?’ George asked.

‘What?’ Rebus still gazing out of the window.

‘Golf.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Tried it when I was a kid. Hopeless.’ He managed to turn his head away from the view. ‘How can you drink in the Ox with this as the alternative?’

‘I only drink at night, John. And after dark, you can’t see any of this.’

It was a fair point. Darkness could make you forget what was in front of your face. Darkness would swallow the caravan site, the old putting green, and St Rule’s Tower. It would swallow crimes and grieving and remorse. If you gave yourself to the darkness, you might start to make out shapes invisible to others, but without being able to define them: the movement behind a curtain, the shadows in an alleyway.

‘See how Bass Rock is shining?’ George said.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the sun reflecting off all the bird shit.’ He got up. ‘Sit there and I’ll fetch us some coffee.’

So Rebus sat by the window, the glorious winter’s day set out before him — bird shit and all — while his thoughts churned and churned in the dark. What was waiting for him in Edinburgh? Would Lorna want to see him? When George came back with the coffee, he told Rebus there was a bedroom vacant upstairs.

‘Only you look like you could use a few hours off.’

‘Christ, man, don’t tempt me,’ Rebus said. He took his coffee black.

18

The hospital corridors were all rubber-soled efficiency. Nurses darted in and out of doorways. Doctors consulted clipboards as they made their rounds. No beds here, just waiting rooms, examination rooms, offices. Derek Linford disliked hospitals. He’d watched his mother die in one. His father was still alive, but they didn’t talk much; the occasional phone call. The first time Derek had owned up to voting Tory, his father had disowned him. That was the kind of man he was: headstrong, full of erroneous grievances. His son had sneered at him: ‘How can you be working class? You haven’t worked in twenty years.’ It was true: disability benefit for a mining accident. A limp that would appear at convenient times, but never when he was on his way to meet old pals at the pub. And Derek’s mother, slogging her guts out in a factory until the final illness took her.

Derek Linford had succeeded not in spite of his background but because of it, each rung he climbed another jibe at his father, another way of letting his mother know he was all right. The old man — not so old really; fifty-eight — still lived in the council semi. Linford would drive past it occasionally, slowing to a crawl, not really caring if he was seen. A neighbour might wave, half-recognising the face. Would they pass the news on to his father? I see young Derek was round the other day. He still keeps in touch then...? He wondered how his father would react: with a grunt most likely, turning back to his sports pages, his quick crossword. When Derek was a teenager, doing well in all his subjects, his father would make show of asking him for the answers to crossword clues. He’d rack his brains, get them wrong... It took Derek a while to realise the old man was making them up. Seven letters, umbrella, c something p. Derek would have a go, then his father would sigh and say something like, ‘No, you looper, it’s capulet.’

No such word in the dictionary.

Derek’s mother hadn’t died in this hospital. She’d held his hand, her breathing ragged. She couldn’t speak, but her eyes told him she wasn’t sorry to go. Worn out, like some machine run to death. And like a machine she’d lacked care, lacked maintenance. The old man standing at the foot of the bed, flowers in his arms: carnations picked from a neighbour’s garden. And books he’d brought from the library, books she could no longer read.

Was it any wonder he hated hospitals? Yet in his early days on the force he’d been made to spend long hours in them, waiting for victims and aggressors to be treated, waiting to take statements from patients and staff. Blood and dressings, swollen faces, twisted limbs. He’d watched an ear being stitched, had witnessed grey-white bone protruding from a shattered leg. Crash victims; muggings; rapes.

Was it any wonder?

Finally, he found the family room. It was supposed to be a quiet space for families who were ‘awaiting news of a loved one’, as the receptionist had put it. But as he pushed open the door, he was assailed by the death rattle of vending machines, a cloud of cigarette smoke, and the glare of daytime TV. Two middle-aged women were puffing away. Their eyes fixed on him for a moment, then returned to the chat show.

‘Mrs Ure?’

The women looked up again. ‘You don’t look like a doctor.’

‘I’m not,’ he told the speaker. ‘Are you Mrs Ure?’

‘We’re both Mrs Ure. Sisters-in-law.’

‘Mrs Archie Ure?’

The other woman, who hadn’t spoken yet, stood up. ‘That’s me.’ She saw she was holding a cigarette, stubbed it out.

‘My name’s Detective Inspector Derek Linford. I’d been hoping to have a word with your husband.’

‘Get in the queue,’ the sister-in-law said.

‘I was sorry to hear... Is it serious?’

‘He’s had trouble with his heart before,’ Archie Ure’s wife said. ‘Never stopped him working for what he believed in.’

Linford nodded. He’d done his reading, knew all about Archie Ure. Head of the council’s planning executive, a councillor for more than two decades. He was Old Labour, popular with those who knew him, a thorn in the side of some ‘reformers’. A year or so back he’d written several bitter articles for the Scotsman, had got into trouble with the party as a result. Chastened, he’d applied for an MSP post, the first to do so. He probably hadn’t allowed for the possibility of an upstart like Roddy Grieve beating him for the nomination. He’d worked ceaselessly during the ’79 campaign. Twenty years later, his reward was a runner-up spot for a constituency, and the promise of a place near the top of Labour’s top-up list.

‘Are they operating?’ Linford asked.

‘Christ, listen to him,’ the sister-in-law said, glowering at him. ‘How the hell would we know if they’re operating? We’re only the family, last to be told.’ She stood up, too. Linford felt himself shrink back. Big women they were, addicted to Scotland’s pantry: cigarettes and lard. Training shoes, elasticated waistbands. Matching YSL tops, probably knock-off if not fake.

‘I just wanted to know—’

‘What did you want to know?’ This from the wife, rising to her friend’s ire. She folded her arms. ‘What d’you want Archie for?’

To ask questions... because he’s a possible suspect in a murder. No, he couldn’t tell her that. So he shook his head instead. ‘It can wait.’

‘Is it to do with Roddy Grieve?’ she asked. He couldn’t answer. ‘Bloody thought it might be. He’s the reason Archie’s in here. Tell that slut of a widow of his to remember that. And if my Archie... if he...’ She bowed her head, words choking. An arm went around her shoulder.

‘Come on now, Isla. It’ll be fine.’ The sister-in-law looked at Linford. ‘Got what you came for?’

He turned away, but then stopped. ‘What did she mean? About Roddy Grieve being to blame?’

‘With Grieve dead, it should have been Archie standing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Only now the widow’s put her name forward, and knowing those bastards on the selection committee, she’ll be the one. Oh aye, shafted again, Isla. As it was, so shall it be. Shafted all the way to the grave.’

‘Frankly, they’d be lunatics not to.’

After the hospital, the wine bar on the High Street came as some relief. Linford sipped his chilled Chardonnay and asked Gwen Mollison why that should be. Mollison was tall with long fair hair, probably mid-thirties. She wore steel-rimmed glasses which magnified her long-lashed eyes, and toyed with her mobile phone as it sat on the table between them, just next to a bulging Filofax. She kept looking around, as though expecting to be able to greet a friend or acquaintance. Here, Linford had done his reading, too. Mollison was number three in the council’s housing department. She didn’t quite have Roddy Grieve’s pedigree, or Archie Ure’s longevity, which was why she’d lost to them, but great things were expected of her. Good working-class roots; New Labour to her core. She spoke well in public, presented well. Today she was wearing a cream linen trouser suit, maybe Armani. Linford recognised a kindred spirit and had laid his own mobile a foot and a half from hers.

‘It’s a PR coup,’ Mollison explained. She had a glass of Zinfandel in front of her, but had asked for mineral water as an accompaniment, and had concentrated on that so far. Linford appreciated the tactic: you were a drinker, not an abstainer, but somehow you contrived to drink only water.

‘I mean,’ Mollison went on, ‘the sympathy vote’s out there. And Seona has friends in the party: she’s been every bit as active as Roddy ever was.’

‘Do you know her?’

Mollison shook her head — not in answer to the question but to dismiss it as irrelevant. ‘I don’t think the party would have gone to her; might’ve looked like bad taste. But when she phoned them, they weren’t slow to see the possibilities.’ She angled her phone, testing the signal strength. There was jazz music in the background. Only half a dozen other people in the place: mid-afternoon hiatus. Linford had skipped lunch. He’d finished one bowl of rice crackers; they weren’t about to bring another.

‘Are you disappointed?’ he asked.

Mollison shrugged. ‘There’ll be other chances.’ So confident; so controlled. No telling where she’d be in a few years. Linford had already handed over one of his business cards, the good ones, embossed. He’d added his home phone number on the back, smiled at her: ‘Just in case.’ A little later, she’d caught him stifling a yawn, had asked if she was boring him.

‘Just a late night,’ he’d explained.

‘It’s Archie I feel sorry for,’ she went on now. ‘This might’ve been his last chance.’

‘But he’s going on the regional list, isn’t he?’

‘Well, they have to, or else it looks like they’re snubbing him. But you don’t understand, that list is weighted against whichever party gets most first-past-the-post seats.’

‘I think you’ve lost me.’

‘Even if Archie was top of the list, he probably wouldn’t get in.’

Linford mulled that over; decided he still didn’t get it. ‘You’re being very magnanimous,’ he said instead.

‘Am I?’ She smiled at him. ‘You don’t understand politics. If I’m graceful in defeat, that counts for me next time. You have to learn to lose.’ She shrugged again. Padded shoulders, giving some bulk to her thin frame. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t we be talking about Roddy Grieve?’

Linford smiled. ‘You’re not a suspect, Ms Mollison.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Not unless Mrs Grieve meets with some accident.’

Mollison laughed, a sudden trill which had the other drinkers looking at them. She clamped a hand over her mouth, took it away. ‘God, I shouldn’t laugh, should I? What if something did happen to her?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know... Say she gets hit by a car.’

‘Then I’ll want to talk to you again.’ He opened his notebook, reached for his pen. It was a Mont Blanc; she’d commented on it earlier, looking impressed. ‘Maybe I should take down your number,’ he said with a smile.

The final candidate on the shortlist, Sara Bone, was a social worker in south Edinburgh. He caught up with her at a daycare centre for the elderly. They sat in the conservatory, surrounded by potted plants wilting from neglect. Linford said as much.

‘Quite the opposite,’ she informed him. ‘They’re suffering from over-attention. Everybody thinks they need a drop of water. Too much is as bad as not enough.’

She was a small woman — a shade over five feet — with a mother’s face framed by a youthful haircut, short and feathered.

‘Horrible,’ was what she said when he asked her about Roddy Grieve’s death. ‘The world just seems to get worse and worse.’

‘Could an MSP do anything to help?’

‘I’d hope so,’ she said.

‘But now you’re not going to get the chance?’

‘Much to the relief of my clients.’ She nodded towards the building’s interior. ‘They were all saying how much they would miss me.’

‘It’s nice to be wanted,’ Linford said, feeling that he was wasting his time with this woman...

He called Rebus. The two met at Cramond. The normally leafy suburb had a grey, pinched look to it: winter wasn’t welcome here. They stood on the pavement by Linford’s BMW. Rebus, having listened to Linford’s report, was thoughtful.

‘How about you?’ Linford asked. ‘How was St Andrews?’

‘Fine. I took a walk down by the seashore.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And did you talk to Billie Collins?’

‘That’s why I was there.’

‘And?’

‘And she shed about as much light as an asbestos candle.’

Linford stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you? She could confess, and I’d be the last to know.’

‘It’s how I work.’

‘Keeping things to yourself?’ Linford’s voice was rising. ‘You’re awfully tense, Derek. Not been getting any lately?’

Linford’s face flushed. ‘Sod you.’

‘Come on, you can do better than that.’

‘I don’t need to. You’re not worth it.’

‘Now that’s a comeback.’

Rebus lit a cigarette, smoked in the uncompanionable silence. He could still see St Andrews as it had been to him nearly half a century before. He knew it represented something extraordinary, but couldn’t have said what. The words didn’t quite exist. It was as though loss and permanence had mingled and become some new entity, the one tasting of the other.

‘Should we talk to her?’

Rebus sighed, sucked again on the cigarette. The smoke was blowing back into Linford’s face. The wind, Rebus thought, is on my side. ‘I suppose so,’ he said at last. ‘Now we’re here.’

‘It’s good to hear such enthusiasm. I’m sure our respective bosses would be thrilled.’

‘Oh, I’ve always cared what the brass think.’ He looked at Linford. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.’ Linford hooted. ‘Think about it,’ Rebus went on. ‘Case solved, you take the credit. Case unsolved, you lay the blame on me. Either way, your boss and mine will go for it. You’re their blue-eyed boy.’ He flicked the cigarette on to the road. ‘Every time I refuse to share information with you, you should make a note. Gives you ammo for later. Every time I piss you off or head off on my own tangent, same thing.’

‘Why are you telling me this? Does pariah status give you some kind of thrill?’

‘I’m not the pariah here, son. Think about it.’ Rebus unbuttoned his jacket, affected a Wild West drawl. ‘Now let’s go visit the widow lady.’

Left Linford lurching in his wake.

The door was opened by Hamish Hall, Roddy Grieve’s press officer.

‘Oh, hello again,’ he said, ushering them inside. It was a neat semi-detached, brick-built and of 1930s vintage. Lots of doors seemed to lead off the entrance hall. Hamish squeezed past them and they followed, through the dining room and into a recent addition, a conservatory, much smarter, Linford noted, than the one out at the daycare centre. An electric fan-heater was humming briskly in one corner. Cane furniture, including a glass-topped table, and seated at the table Seona Grieve and Jo Banks, a mound of paperwork before them. The few pot plants looked expertly tended.

‘Oh, hello,’ Seona Grieve said.

‘Coffee?’ Hamish asked. Both detectives nodded, and he headed into the kitchen.

‘Sit down if you can find a space,’ Seona Grieve said. Jo Banks got up and scooped newspapers and folders from a couple of the chairs. Rebus picked up one folder, examined it: In Prospect — A Briefing Pack on the Scottish Parliament for Prospective Candidates. Notes had been scribbled in most of the margins; Roddy Grieve’s writing, most probably.

‘And to what do we owe this pleasure?’ Seona Grieve asked.

‘Just a few follow-up questions,’ Linford told her, easing his notebook out of his pocket.

‘We heard you were stepping into your husband’s shoes,’ Rebus added.

‘My feet are much smaller than Roddy’s,’ the widow said.

‘Maybe so,’ Rebus went on, ‘but we’ve not got a motive yet for his death. DI Linford here thinks maybe you’ve just supplied us with one.’

Linford looked ready to remonstrate, but Jo Banks beat him to it. ‘You think Seona would kill Roddy, just to become an MSP? That’s ludicrous!’

‘Is it?’ Rebus scratched his nose. ‘I don’t know, I tend to agree with DI Linford. It is a motive. Had you thought of running before?’

Seona Grieve straightened her back. ‘You mean before Roddy was killed?’

‘Yes.’

She thought about it, then nodded. ‘I suppose I had, yes.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘This is totally out of order,’ Jo Banks said. Seona Grieve touched her arm.

‘It’s all right, Jo. Best just put their minds at rest.’ She glared at Rebus. ‘It was when I realised that one of them, Ure, Mollison or Bone, would take Roddy’s place... I thought: I could do it, maybe better than any of them, so why not ask?’

‘Good for you,’ Jo Banks said. ‘It’s in memory of Roddy. It’s what he would have wanted.’

They had the sound of words used previously. Rebus wondered: maybe Jo Banks had come to the widow with the idea. Just maybe...

‘I can see your point, Inspector,’ Seona Grieve informed Rebus. ‘But if I’d wanted to, I could have stood. Roddy wouldn’t have minded. I didn’t need him dead for me to stand.’

‘And yet he’s dead, and here you are.’

‘Here I am,’ she agreed.

‘With the whole of the party behind her,’ Jo Banks cautioned. ‘So if you’re thinking of making any accusations...’

‘They just want to find Roddy’s killer,’ Seona Grieve told her. ‘Isn’t that right, Inspector?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Then we’re still on the same side, aren’t we?’

Rebus nodded again, but judging from the look on Jo Banks’ face, he wasn’t so sure she’d agree.

By the time Hamish arrived with a tray bearing coffee pot and cups, Seona Grieve was asking for a progress report and Linford was hauling out the usual flannel about ‘pursuing leads’ and ‘inquiries still to make’. None of which looked to be convincing the two women, despite the effort he was putting in. Seona Grieve met Rebus’s eyes and inclined her head a little, telling him she knew what he was thinking. Then she turned to Linford, interrupting him.

‘It’s an American phrase, I think. Never kid a kidder... Or is it never shit a shitter?’ She looked to Hamish as if for help, but he merely shrugged and went on handing out the coffees. ‘Sounds to me, DI Linford, as though you’ve made precious little progress.’

‘Clutching at straws, more like,’ Jo Banks muttered.

‘We still have every confidence...’ Linford began.

‘Oh, I can see that. I can see you’re positively brimming with the stuff. Because that’s what’s got you where you are today. I’m a teacher, DI Linford. I’ve seen plenty of boys like you. They leave school and feel it in their bones that they can do anything they set their minds to. With most of them, it doesn’t last long. But you...’ She wagged a finger, then turned towards Rebus, who was blowing on the scalding coffee. ‘DI Rebus, on the other hand...’

‘What?’ The question coming from Linford.

‘DI Rebus has no confidence in anything very much any more. An accurate assessment?’ Rebus blew on the coffee, said nothing. ‘DI Rebus is jaded and cynical about most things. Weltschmerz, do you know that word, Inspector?’

‘I think I ate some last time I was abroad,’ Rebus said.

She smiled at him; a smile without happiness. ‘World-weariness.’

‘Pessimism,’ Hamish agreed.

‘You won’t be voting, will you, Inspector?’ Seona Grieve asked. ‘Because you don’t see the point.’

‘I’m all for job creation schemes,’ Rebus said. Jo Banks let out a hiss of air; Hamish snorted good-naturedly. ‘But there’s something I can’t figure out. If I’ve got a problem, who do I go to — my MSP, my list MSP, or my MP? Maybe my MEP or councillor? That’s what I mean about job creation.’

‘Then why am I doing this?’ Seona Grieve said quietly, her hands in her lap. Jo Banks reached out and touched her hand.

‘Because it makes sense,’ she said.

When Seona Grieve looked up at Rebus, there were tears in her eyes. Rebus looked away.

‘This may not seem like the time,’ he said, ‘but you told us your husband didn’t drink. I believe at one time his drinking may have been a problem.’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ Jo Banks hissed.

Seona Grieve blew her nose, sniffed. ‘You’ve been talking to Billie.’

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged.

‘Trying to blacken a dead man’s name,’ Jo Banks muttered.

Rebus looked at her. ‘See, there’s a problem, Ms Banks. We don’t know what Roddy Grieve was doing in the hours prior to his death. So far we’ve a sighting of him in one pub, just the one, drinking on his own. We need to know if that’s the kind of man he was: a solitary drinker. Then maybe we can stop wasting our time trying to locate the friends we’ve been told he would be out drinking with.’

‘It’s all right, Jo,’ Seona Grieve said quietly. Then, to Rebus: ‘He said he felt he sometimes had to get out of himself.’

‘Where would he have gone?’

She shook her head. ‘He never said.’

‘The times he stayed out all night...?’

‘I think maybe he went to hotels, or slept in the car.’

Rebus nodded, and she seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Maybe he wasn’t alone in doing that, Inspector?’

‘Maybe,’ he conceded. Some mornings, he’d woken in his car and didn’t even know where he was... country roads, the middle of nowhere... ‘Is there anything else we should know?’

She shook her head slowly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am. I’m sorry.’

Rebus laid his coffee cup on the table, got up, and left the room.

By the time Linford caught up with him, Rebus was seated in his Saab, window down, smoking. Linford leaned down so their faces were almost touching. Rebus blew some smoke past his ear.

‘So what do you think?’ Linford asked.

Rebus considered his answer. Late afternoon; light had died from the sky. ‘I think we’re in the dark,’ he said, ‘swiping at things we think might be bats.’

‘What does that mean?’ The young man sounding genuinely annoyed.

‘It means we’ll never understand one another,’ Rebus answered, starting his engine.

Linford stood at the kerbside, watching the Saab move off. He reached into his pocket for his mobile, put in a call to ACC Carswell at Fettes. He had the words formed and waiting in his head: I think maybe Rebus is going to be a problem after all. But as he waited to be put through, he had another thought: in saying as much to Carswell, he’d be admitting defeat, showing weakness. Carswell might understand, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t see it as such: defeat; weakness. Linford cut the call, switched the phone off. This was his problem. It was up to him to think of a way round it.

19

Dean Coghill was dead. His building firm had been wound up, the company office now a design consultancy, the builders’ yard turned into a three-storey block of flats. Hood and Wylie eventually tracked down an address for Coghill’s widow.

‘All these dead guys...’ Grant Hood had commented.

Ellen Wylie’s reply: ‘The male of the species doesn’t live as long as the female.’

They couldn’t get a phone number for the widow, so went to the last known address.

‘Probably died or retired to Benidorm,’ Wylie said.

‘Is there a difference then?’

Wylie smiled, brought the car in to the kerbside and pulled on the handbrake. Hood opened his door a fraction and peered down.

‘No,’ he said, ‘this is fine. I can walk to the kerb from here.’

Wylie gave his arm a thump. He suspected it would bruise.

Meg Coghill was a short, spry woman in her early seventies. Though it didn’t look like she was going out or ready for visitors, she was dressed immaculately and had made up her face. As she led them into the sitting room, there were noises from the kitchen.

‘My cleaner,’ Mrs Coghill explained. Hood felt like asking if she always dressed up for the cleaner, but thought he probably knew the answer already.

‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Coghill.’ Ellen Wylie sat on the sofa. Hood remained standing, while Mrs Coghill sank into an armchair big enough to accommodate someone three times her size. Hood was looking at some framed photographs on a wall unit.

‘Is this Mr Coghill?’

‘That’s Dean. I still miss him, you know.’

Hood guessed that the chair the widow now sat in had been her husband’s. The photos showed a bear of a man, thick arms and neck, back held straight, the chest prominent and gut sucked in. His face told you he’d be fair as long as you didn’t muck him around. Cropped silver hair. Jewellery around his neck and on his left wrist, a fat Rolex on the right.

‘When did he pass away?’ Wylie was asking, her voice trained in dealing with the bereaved.

‘Best part of a decade ago.’

‘Was it a medical condition?’

‘He’d had problems with his heart before. Hospitals, specialists. He couldn’t slow down, you see. Had to keep working.’

Wylie nodded slowly. ‘It’s hard for some people.’

‘Were there any partners in the business, Mrs Coghill?’

Hood had rested his backside on the arm of the sofa.

‘No.’ Mrs Coghill paused. ‘Dean had hopes for Alexander.’

Hood turned to look again at the photos: family groups, a boy and girl from their pre-teens through to their twenties. ‘Your son?’ he asked.

‘But Alex had other ideas. He’s in America, married. He works in a car showroom, only over there they call them automobiles.’

‘Mrs Coghill,’ Wylie said, ‘did your husband know a man called Bryce Callan?’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘You know the name then?’

‘He was some kind of gangster, wasn’t he?’

‘He had that reputation, certainly.’

Meg Coghill got up, fussed with some ornaments on the mantelpiece. Little china animals: cats playing with balls of wool; spaniels with floppy ears.

‘Is there something you want to tell us, Mrs Coghill?’ Hood spoke quietly, his eyes meeting Wylie’s.

‘It’s too late now, isn’t it?’ There was a tremor in Meg Coghill’s voice. She kept her back to her visitors. Wylie wondered if she took any tablets for nerves.

‘You tell us, Mrs Coghill,’ she suggested.

The widow’s hands kept busy with the ornaments as she spoke.

‘Bryce Callan was a thug, wasn’t he? You paid up, or you got in trouble. Tools would disappear, or the tyres on the van would be slashed. The job you were working on might end up vandalised, only they weren’t just vandals, they were Bryce Callan’s men.’

‘Your husband paid protection to Bryce Callan?’

She turned towards them. ‘You didn’t know my Dean. He was the only one who stood up to Callan. And I think it killed him. All the extra work and worry... Bryce Callan as good as stuck his hand into Dean’s chest and squeezed his heart dry.’

‘Your husband told you this?’

‘Lord, no. He never said a word, liked to keep me separate from anything to do with the business. Family on one hand, work on the other, he’d say. That’s why he needed an office, didn’t want work coming home with him.’

‘He wanted his family kept separate,’ Wylie said, ‘yet he thought maybe Alex would help in the business?’

‘That was in the early days, before Callan.’

‘Mrs Coghill, you heard about the body in the fireplace at Queensberry House?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your husband’s firm worked there twenty years ago. Would there be any records, or anyone who worked for your husband that we could talk to?’

‘You think it has something to do with Callan?’

‘The first thing we need’, Hood said, ‘is to identify the body.’

‘Do you remember your husband working there, Mrs Coghill?’ Wylie asked. ‘Maybe he mentioned someone disappearing from the job. .?’

When Mrs Coghill started shaking her head, Wylie looked to Hood, who smiled. Yes, that would have been too easy. She got the feeling this would be one of those cases where you never got a lucky break.

‘His business came here in the end,’ Mrs Coghill said. ‘Maybe that will help you.’

And when Ellen Wylie asked what she meant, Meg Coghill said it might be easier if she showed them.

‘I can’t drive,’ the widow explained. ‘I sold Dean’s cars. He had two of them, one for work and one for pleasure.’ She smiled at some private memory. They were walking across the mono-blocked drive in front of the house. It was an elongated bungalow on Frogston Road, with views to the snowcapped Pentland Hills to the south.

‘He had his men build this double garage,’ Mrs Coghill went on. ‘They extended the house, too, added a couple of rooms to either side of the original.’

The two CID officers nodded, still unsure why they were headed for the twin garage. There was a door to the side. Mrs Coghill unlocked it and reached in to turn on a light. The large space had been almost completely filled with tea chests, office furniture and tools. There were pickaxes and crowbars, hammers and boxes filled with screws and nails. Industrial drills, a couple of pneumatics, even steel pails splashed with mortar. Mrs Coghill rested her hand on one of the tea chests.

‘All the paperwork. There’s a filing-cabinet somewhere, too...’

‘Under that blanket maybe?’ Wylie suggested, pointing towards the far corner.

‘If you want to know anything about Queensberry House, it’ll be here somewhere.’

Wylie and Hood shared a look. Hood puffed out his cheeks.

‘Another job for the Time Team,’ Ellen Wylie said.

Hood nodded, looked around. ‘Any heating in here, Mrs Coghill?’

‘I could bring you out an electric fire.’

‘Show me where it is,’ Hood said, ‘I’ll fetch it.’

‘And something tells me you wouldn’t say no to that cup of tea now,’ said Mrs Coghill, seeming delighted by the thought of their company.

Siobhan Clarke sat at her desk with ‘Supertramp’s effects spread before her. To wit: the contents of his carrier bag, his building society passbook, the briefcase (which its most recent owner hadn’t given up without a fight) and the photographs. She also had a pile of crank letters and telephone messages, including three from Gerald Sithing.

It was one of the tabloids who had coined the name Supertramp. They’d also dragged up the sex-on-church-steps story, with an archive photo of Dezzi. Siobhan knew the vultures would be out there, trying to track Dezzi down for an interview, for some juicy morsel. Maybe Dezzi would tell them about the briefcase. It wouldn’t be chequebook journalism — she doubted Dezzi had a bank account. Call it cashpoint journalism then. Maybe they’d talk to Rachel Drew, too. She wouldn’t say no to a cheque. A few more titbits for the readers and gold-diggers.

And as long as the story ran, the letters and calls would keep coming.

She rose from the desk, pushed at her spine until the vertebrae clicked. It was gone six, and the office was empty. She’d had to move desks — the Grieve murder had taken priority — and was squeezed into a corner of the long, narrow room. No window near by. Mind you, Hood and Wylie had it even worse: no natural light at all in the shoebox they’d been given. The Chief Super had been blunt with her this afternoon: take a few more days, but if there was no ID on Supertramp by then, that was an end of it. The cash went to the Treasury; the suicide, Mackie’s whole prehistory, would remain unexplained.

‘We’ve got real work to be getting on with,’ her boss had said. He looked like a candidate for a stroke. ‘Dossers kill themselves every day.’

‘No suspicious circumstances, sir?’ she’d dared to ask.

‘The money doesn’t make for suspicious circumstances, Siobhan. It’s a mystery, that’s all. Life’s full of them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ve been too close to John Rebus for too long.’

She’d looked up, frowning. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you’re looking for something here that probably doesn’t exist.’

‘The money exists. He walked into a building society, all of it in cash. Next thing he’s living as a down and out.’

‘A rich eccentric; money does strange things to some people.’

‘He erased his past. It’s like he was in hiding.’

‘You think the money was stolen? Then why didn’t he spend it?’

‘That’s just one other question, sir.’

A sigh; a scratch of the nose. ‘A few more days, Siobhan. All right?’

She’d nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ she’d said...

‘Evening all.’

John Rebus was standing in the doorway.

She glanced at her watch. ‘How long have you been there?’

‘How long have you been staring at that wall?’

She realised she was halfway down the office, and had been gazing at photos of the Grieve locus. ‘I was dreaming. What are you doing here?’

‘Working, same as you.’ He came into the office, leaned against one of the desks with his arms folded.

You’ve been too close to John Rebus for too long.

‘How’s the Grieve case?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t your first question be “How’s Derek?”’

She half-turned from him, cheeks reddening slightly.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was bad taste, even for me.’

‘We just didn’t hit it off,’ she told him. ‘I’m having the selfsame problem.’

She turned to him. ‘Is Derek the problem though, or is it you?’

He feigned a pained look, then winked and walked up the central aisle between the rows of desks. ‘Is this your man’s stuff?’ he asked. She followed him back to her desk. She could smell whisky.

‘They’re calling him Supertramp.’

‘Who are?’

‘The media.’

He was smiling. She asked him why.

‘Supertramp: I saw them in concert once. Usher Hall, I think it was.’

‘Before my time.’

‘So what’s the story with Mr Supertramp anyway?’

‘He had all this money he either couldn’t spend or didn’t want to. He took on a new identity. My theory is that he was hiding.’

‘Maybe.’ He was rifling through the scraps on the desk. She folded her arms, gave him a hard look which he failed to notice. He opened the bread bag and shook out the contents: disposable razor, a sliver of soap, toothbrush. ‘An organised mind,’ he said. ‘Makes himself a washbag. Doesn’t like being dirty.’

‘It’s like he was acting the part,’ she said.

He caught her tone, looked up. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’ She couldn’t say the words: my case, my pitch.

Rebus lifted the arrest photograph. ‘What did he do?’ She told him and he laughed.

‘I’ve tracked him back as far as 1980. That was when “Chris Mackie” was born.’

‘You should talk to Hood and Wylie. They’re checking MisPers from ’78 and ’79.’

‘Maybe I’ll do that.’

‘You sound tired. What if I offered to buy you dinner?’

‘And we talk shop all through the meal? Yes, that would be a real break from routine.’

‘I happen to have a wide range of conversational topics.’

‘Name three.’

‘Pubs, progressive rock, and...’

‘And you’re struggling.’

‘Scottish history: I’ve been reading up on it lately.’

‘How thrilling. Besides, pubs are where you have conversations; they’re not what you talk about.’

‘I talk about them.’

‘That’s because you’re obsessed.’

He was sorting through her messages. ‘Who’s G. Sithing?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘His first name’s Gerald. He came to see me this morning: the first of many, no doubt.’

‘He’s keen to talk to you.’

‘Once was enough.’

‘Woodwork creaks and out come the freaks, eh?’

‘I’ve a feeling that’s a line from a song.’

‘Not a song, a classic. So who is he?’

‘He runs some bunch of nutters called the Knights of Rosslyn.’

‘As in Rosslyn Chapel?’

‘The same. He says Supertramp was a member.’

‘Sounds unlikely.’

‘Oh, I think they knew one another. I just can’t see Mackie leaving all that money to Mr Sithing.’

‘So who are these Knights of Rosslyn?’

‘They think there’s something beneath the chapel floor. Come the millennium, up it pops and they’re in the vanguard.’

‘I was out there the other day.’

‘I didn’t know you were interested.’

‘I’m not. But Lorna Grieve lives out that way.’ Rebus had turned his attention to the newspaper which had been in Mackie’s carrier. ‘Was this folded like this?’

The newspaper looked filthy, as though it had been fished out of a bin. It had been opened to an inside page, and folded into quarters.

‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Yes, it was crumpled like that.’

‘Not crumpled, Siobhan. Look what story it’s open at.’

She looked: a follow-up article on the ‘body in the fireplace’. She took the paper from Rebus and unfolded it. ‘Could be one of these other stories.’

‘Which one: traffic congestion or the doctor who’s prescribing Viagra?’

‘Don’t forget the advert for New Year in County Kerry.’ She gnawed her bottom lip, turned to the paper’s front page: the lead was Roddy Grieve’s murder. ‘Are you seeing something I’m not?’ Thinking of the Chief Super’s words: you’re looking for something here that probably doesn’t exist.

‘Seems to me maybe Supertramp had some interest in Skelly. You should ask the people who knew him.’

Rachel Drew at the hostel; Dezzi, heating burgers by hand-dryer; Gerald Sithing. Siobhan managed not to look thrilled by Rebus’s suggestion.

‘We’ve a body in Queensberry House,’ Rebus said, ‘dates back to late ’78 or early ’79. A year later, Supertramp is born.’ He held up a finger on his right hand. ‘Supertramp suddenly decides to top himself, having read in the paper about the find in the fireplace.’ He held up a finger on his left hand, touched the two together.

‘Careful,’ Siobhan said, ‘that means something rude in several countries.’

‘You don’t see a connection?’ He sounded disappointed.

‘Sorry to play Scully to your Mulder, but couldn’t it be that you’re seeing connections here because nothing’s happening in your own case?’

‘Which translated means: get your nose out of my business, Rebus?’

‘No, it’s just that I...’ She rubbed at her forehead. ‘I only know one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’ She looked at him. ‘The dinner offer still stand?’

20

They ate at Pataka’s on Causewayside. She asked how his daughter was doing. Sammy was down south, some specialist physiotherapy place. Rebus told her there wasn’t much news.

‘She’ll get over it though?’

Meaning the hit and run which had left Sammy in a wheelchair. Rebus nodded; didn’t say anything for fear of tempting fate.

‘And how’s Patience?’

Rebus helped himself to more tarka dal, though he’d eaten way too much as it was. Siobhan repeated the question.

‘Nosy little beggar, aren’t you?’

She smiled: Dezzi had said the selfsame thing. ‘Sorry, I thought maybe at your age it was just that your hearing was going.’

‘Oh, I heard you all right.’ He lifted a forkful of ginger murgh, but put it down again untouched.

‘Me, too,’ Siobhan said. ‘I always eat too much in Indian restaurants.’

‘I always eat too much all the time.’

‘So the pair of you have split up then?’ Siobhan hid behind her glass of wine.

‘We parted amicably.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘How did you want us to part?’

‘No, I just... the two of you seemed...’ She looked down at her plate. ‘Sorry, I’m talking rubbish here. I only met her four or five times, and here I am pontificating.’

‘You don’t look much like a pontiff.’

‘Bless you for that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Not bad: eighteen minutes without shop talk.’

‘Is that a new record?’ He finished his beer. ‘I notice we haven’t been talking much about your private life. Seen anything of Brian Holmes?’

She shook her head, made show of looking around the restaurant. Three other couples in the place, and one family of four. Ethnic music kept low enough that it didn’t intrude but ensured a conversation stayed private.

‘I saw him a couple of times after he left the force. Then we lost touch.’ She shrugged.

‘Last I heard,’ Rebus said, ‘he was in Australia; thinking of staying there.’ He pushed some of the food around his plate. ‘You don’t think it’s worth asking around about Supertramp and Queensberry House?’

Siobhan mimicked the noise of a buzzer as she checked her watch again. ‘Twenty minutes dead. You’ve let the side down, John.’

‘Come on.’

She sat back. ‘You’re probably right. Thing is, the boss has only given me a couple more days.’

‘Well, what other leads have you got?’

‘None,’ she admitted. ‘Just a slew of cranks and gold-diggers to put out of the frame.’

Their waiter materialised and asked if they wanted any more drinks. Rebus looked at Siobhan. ‘I’m driving,’ he told her. ‘You go ahead.’

‘In that case I’ll have another glass of white.’

‘And another pint for me,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. Then, to Siobhan: ‘It’s only my second. My vision doesn’t start blurring till four or five.’

‘But you were drinking earlier; I could smell it.’

‘So much for the extra-strong mints,’ Rebus muttered.

‘How long till it starts affecting your job.’

His eyes smouldered. ‘Et tu, Siobhan?’

‘Just wondering,’ she said, not about to apologise for the question.

He shrugged. ‘I could stop drinking tomorrow.’

‘But you won’t.’

‘No, I won’t. And I won’t stop smoking either, or swearing, or cheating at crosswords.’

‘You cheat at crosswords?’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’ He watched as one of the couples got up to leave. They left the restaurant hand in hand. ‘Funny,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Lorna Grieve’s husband, he has an interest in Rosslyn, too.’

Siobhan snorted. ‘Speaking of changing the subject...’

‘They bought a house in the village,’ Rebus went on, ‘that’s how serious he is.’

‘So?’

‘He might know your Mr Sithing. He could even be a member of the Knights.’

‘So?’

‘So you’re beginning to sound like a record with the needle stuck.’ He stared at her until, suitably chastened, she mouthed the word ‘sorry’ before taking another glug of wine. ‘An interest in Rosslyn connects your Supertramp to my murder case. And Mr Supertramp also might have had an interest in Queensberry House.’

‘You’re turning three cases into one?’

‘I’m just saying there are—’

‘Connections, I know. The old six degrees of separation.’

‘The old what?’

She looked at him. ‘Okay, maybe it was after your time. It’s to do with how anyone on the planet is connected to anyone else by only six links.’ She paused. ‘I think that’s right anyway.’

As her second glass of wine arrived, she drained the first.

‘It’s at least got to be worth talking to Sithing.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I didn’t like him.’

‘I’ll sit in with you, if you like.’

‘You are trying to hijack my case.’ She smiled to let him know she was joking. But inside, she wasn’t so sure.

After their meal, Rebus asked if she fancied a nightcap in Swany’s, but she shook her head.

‘I wouldn’t want to lead you into temptation,’ she said.

‘I’ll give you a lift home then.’ Rebus, heading for the Saab, gave a valedictory wave towards the pub’s bright lights. Sleet was blowing horizontally down Causewayside. They got into the car and he started the engine, making sure the heating was on full.

‘Did you notice the weather today?’ Siobhan asked.

‘What about it?’

‘Well, it was cold, raining, windy and sunny — all at the same time. It was like four seasons in one.’

‘You can’t say you don’t get your money’s worth in Edinburgh. Here, hang on a sec.’ He reached over to open the glove compartment, saw Siobhan stiffen her body, thinking he was going to touch her. He smiled, found the tape he was looking for.

‘Little treat for you,’ he said, pushing the tape home. She’d flinched; she’d thought he was making a move on her. Jesus. She wasn’t much older than Sammy.

‘What is it?’ she asked. He had the idea she was blushing; hard to tell in the semi-dark interior. He handed her the case. ‘Crime of the Century,’ she recited.

‘Supertramp’s finest moment,’ he explained.

‘You like all this old music, don’t you?’

‘And that Blue Nile tape you made for me. I might be a dinosaur in many respects, but I’m open-minded about rock.’

They headed for the New Town. Divided city, Rebus was thinking. Divided between the Old Town to the south and the New Town to the north. And divided again between the east end (Hibs FC) and west (Hearts). A city which seemed defined by its past as much as by its present, and only now, with the parliament coming, looking towards the future.

‘Crime of the Century,’ Siobhan repeated. ‘Which one, do you think — your dead MSP or my mystery suicide?’

‘Don’t forget the body in the fireplace. Where’s your flat again?’

‘Just off Broughton Street.’

As they drove, they watched the buildings and the pedestrians, were aware of other cars drawing level with them at traffic lights. Cop instinct: always on the lookout. Most people just got on with their lives, but a detective’s life was made up of other people’s lives. The city seemed quiet enough. Not yet late enough for drunks, and the weather was keeping people off the streets.

‘You have to worry about the homeless, this time of year,’ Siobhan said.

‘You should take a look at the cells on the run-up to Christmas. The woolly suits take in as many as they can.’

She looked at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You’ve never worked Christmas.’

‘They arrest them?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Ask to be locked up. That way there’s a hot meal for them right through to New Year. Then we let them out again.’

She leaned back against the headrest. ‘God, Christmas.’

‘Do I detect a hint of humbug?’

‘My parents always want me to go back home.’

‘Tell them you’re working.’

‘That would be dishonest. What are you doing anyway?’

‘For Christmas?’ He thought about it. ‘If they want me for a shift at St Leonard’s, I’ll probably clock in. It’s a good laugh at the station, Christmas Day.’

She looked at him but didn’t say anything, until she told him her street was next left. There were no parking spaces outside her building. Rebus drew up alongside a gleaming black 4×4.

‘That’s not yours, is it?’

‘Hardly.’

He peered up at the flats. ‘Nice street though.’

‘Do you want some coffee?’

He thought it over, remembering the way she’d flinched: did it say something about what she thought of him, or about Siobhan herself? ‘Why not?’ he said at last.

‘There’s a parking space further back.’

So Rebus reversed fifty yards and parked kerbside. Her flat was two floors up. No clutter; everything in its place. It was what he’d have expected, and he was pleased he’d been right. Framed prints on the walls, adverts for art exhibitions. A rack of CDs and a decent hi-fi system. Several shelves of videos: comedies mostly, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal. Books: Kerouac, Kesey, Camus. Lots of law texts. There was a functional-looking green two-seat sofa, plus a couple of unmatching chairs. From the window, he looked on to an identical tenement, curtains closed, windows darkened. He wondered if Siobhan wanted her curtains left open.

She’d gone straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. His tour of the living room complete, he went to find her. Past two bedrooms, doors open. Clatter of mugs and teaspoons. She was opening the fridge as he came in.

‘We should talk about Sithing,’ Rebus said. ‘How best to tackle him.’ Siobhan swore. ‘What is it?’

‘Out of milk,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d one of those UHT packets in the cupboard.’

‘I’ll take it black.’

She turned to the worktop. ‘Fine.’ Opened a storage jar, peered in. ‘Except I’m out of coffee, too.’

Rebus laughed. ‘Do much entertaining, do you?’

‘Just haven’t managed a supermarket run this week.’

‘No problem. There’s a chippie on Broughton Street. Coffee and milk both, if we’re lucky.’

‘Let me give you some money.’ She was looking for her bag.

‘My treat,’ he said, heading for the door.

When he was gone, Siobhan rested her head against the cupboard door. She’d hidden the coffee right at the back. She just needed a minute or two. It was so seldom she brought people back here, and John Rebus’s first visit. A minute or two to herself, that was all she wanted. In the car, when he’d reached towards her... what was he going to think about that? She’d thought he was making a move; not that he ever had before, so why had she flinched? Most of the men she worked with, there was innuendo, the occasional blue joke — looking for her to react. But never John Rebus. She knew he was flawed, had problems, but still he’d brought a certain solidity to her life. He was someone she felt she could trust, come hell or high water.

Something she didn’t want to lose.

She turned the kitchen light off, walked into the living room, stood at her window and stared out at the night. Then turned and started doing some tidying.

Rebus buttoned up his jacket, glad to be outdoors. Siobhan hadn’t been happy about him being there, that was obvious. He’d felt the same way: uncomfortable. Try to keep your work and social life separate. It was hard in the force: you drank together, telling stories outsiders wouldn’t understand. The bond went deeper than desk and office, patrol car and local beat.

But tonight, he felt, was different. And after all, he didn’t like visitors either; had never encouraged Siobhan or anyone else to visit his home. Maybe she was more like him than he realised. Maybe that was what made her nervous.

He didn’t think he was going to go back. Head home, phone and apologise. He unlocked the car, but didn’t start the engine straight away: left the keys hanging from the ignition. Lit a cigarette instead. Maybe he’d fetch the milk and coffee, leave them at her door before heading off. That would be the decent thing. But the main door to the building was locked. He’d have to buzz her to be let in. Leave the stuff on the pavement...?

Just go home.

He heard a sudden noise, watched as someone left the tenement opposite Siobhan’s. Sort of jogging their way along the pavement, but then taking the first left into an alley, where they stopped. A jet of urine hitting the wall, steam rising into the frosted air. Rebus sitting in darkness, watching. Someone on their way out, caught short? Maybe a blocked toilet at home...? The man was zipping himself up, jogging back the way he’d come. Rebus caught a glimpse of the face as the man passed beneath a street lamp. Back to the tenement, door opening and closing.

Rebus kept smoking his cigarette, a vertical frown-line appearing in the centre of his brow.

He stubbed the cigarette into his ashtray, removed his keys from the ignition. Opened and closed his door quietly, leaving it unlocked. Crossed the street practically on tiptoe, keeping out of the light. A taxi passed by at speed, Rebus hugging the rails in front of the tenement. Reached the main door. This one, unlike Siobhan’s, was unlocked. The block looked less cared-for, the stairwell needing a coat of paint. Faint smell of cat piss. Rebus closed the door slowly, another taxi masking any noise. Made his way to the foot of the stairs and listened. He could hear a television playing somewhere, or maybe it was a radio. He looked at the stone steps, knew he couldn’t walk up them without making a noise. His shoes would sound like sandpaper on wood, echoing up four storeys. Shoes off? Not a chance. Besides, he wasn’t sure an element of surprise was strictly necessary.

He began to climb.

Reached the first-floor landing. Started up to the second.

Now footsteps could be heard coming down. A man with the collar of his raincoat turned up, face all but obscured. Hands deep in pockets. A grunt, but no eye contact as he made to pass Rebus.

‘Hello there, Derek.’

Derek Linford was two steps further on before he seemed to realise. He stopped, turned.

‘Thought you lived in Dean Village,’ Rebus said.

‘I was just visiting a friend.’

‘Oh aye? Who’s that then?’

‘Christie, next floor up.’ Said too quickly.

‘First name?’ Rebus asked, smiling a humourless smile.

‘What do you want?’ Climbing back up one step, not liking the fact that Rebus was standing so far above him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘This Christie, got a blocked toilet or what?’

Now Linford realised. He tried to think of something to say.

‘Save it,’ Rebus advised him. ‘We both know what’s going on here. You’re a peeping Tom.’

‘That’s a lie.’

Rebus tutted. ‘Try a bit more conviction next time.’ He paused. ‘Otherwise a conviction’s just what you’re going to get.’

‘And what about you, eh?’ Sneering. ‘A quickie, was it? I notice it didn’t take you long.’

‘If you’d been noticing anything, you’d have seen me get into my car.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘How long’s this been going on? Don’t you think the neighbours will suss eventually? Strange man shuffing up and down the stairs at all hours...?’

Rebus went down a step to meet Linford at eye level.

‘Go away now,’ he said quietly. ‘And don’t come back. If you do, first thing I do is tell Siobhan. And after her, your boss at Fettes. They might like pretty boys there, but they don’t go big on perverts.’

‘It would be your word against mine.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘What have I got to lose? You, on the other hand...’ He let the sentence drift away. ‘One more thing: it’s my case now. I want you to stay out of the way; do you understand?’

‘The brass won’t go for it,’ Linford scoffed. ‘Without me, they’ll take it away from you.’

‘Will they?’

‘Bet on it.’ Derek Linford turned and started down the stairs. Rebus watched him leave, then climbed to the next landing. From the window, he could see Siobhan’s living room and one of her bedrooms. Her curtains still weren’t closed. She was seated on her sofa, chin resting on one hand, staring into space. She looked utterly miserable, and somehow he didn’t think coffee was the answer.

He called her from his mobile as he headed home. She didn’t sound too upset. Back at his own flat, he collapsed into the chair with a single measure of Bunnahabhain. ‘Westering home’, it said on the bottle, and they’d quoted from the ballad: Light in the eye, and it’s goodbye to care. Yes, he’d known malts that could do that. But it was a sham relief. He got up, added a dribble of water to the drink and put some music on the hi-fi: Siobhan’s tape of the Blue Nile. There were messages on his anserphone.

Ellen Wylie: progress report, and reminding him he’d said he’d find out about Bryce Callan.

Cammo Grieve: wanting a meeting; suggesting time and place. ‘If it’s at all convenient, don’t bother getting back to me. I’ll see you there.’

Bryce Callan was long gone. Rebus checked his watch. He knew someone he could talk to. Wasn’t sure it would help, but he’d made the offer to Wylie and Hood. It didn’t do to go crapping on the junior officers.

Remembering how he’d just dumped a bucketload on Derek Linford, Rebus grew thoughtful.

Another ten minutes of the Blue Nile — ‘Walk Across the Roofops’, ‘Tinseltown in the Rain’ — and he decided it was time to take his own walk. Not across the rooftops, but down to his car. He was heading for the badlands of Gorgie.

Gorgie was the centre of Big Ger Cafferty’s operations. Cafferty had been Edinburgh’s biggest player until Rebus had put him in Barlinnie Prison. But Cafferty’s empire still existed, maybe even flourished, under the control of a man called the Weasel. Rebus knew that the Weasel operated out of a private cab company in Gorgie. The place had been torched a while back, but had risen from the ashes. There was a small front office, with a compound behind. But the Weasel did his business upstairs, in a room few people knew about. It was nearly ten by the time Rebus got there. He parked the car and left it unlocked: this was probably the safest place in the city.

The front office comprised a counter, with chair and telephone behind, and a bench-seat in front. The bench-seat was where you sat if you were waiting for your cab. The man seated behind the counter eyed Rebus as he walked in. He was on the phone, taking details of a morning booking: Tollcross to the airport. Rebus sat on the bench and picked up a copy of the evening paper from the day before. Fake wood panelling surrounded him. The floor was linoleum. The man finished his call.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

He had black hair so badly cut it looked like an ill-fitting wig, and a nose which hadn’t so much been broken in the past as thoroughly dismantled. His eyes were narrow, almond-shaped, and his teeth were crooked where they existed at all.

Rebus took a look around. ‘Thought the insurance money might have bought better than this.’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean it’s no better than what was here before Tommy Telford torched the place.’

The eyes became little more than slits. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want to see the Weasel.’

‘Who?’

‘Look, if he’s not upstairs, just say so. But make sure you’re not lying, because I get the feeling I’ll be able to tell, and I won’t be very happy.’ He flipped open his warrant card, then stood up and held it towards the security camera in the far corner. A wall-mounted speaker crackled into life.

‘Henry, send Mr Rebus up.’

There were two doors at the top of the stairs, but only one was open. It led to a small, neat office. Fax machine and photocopier, one desk with a laptop and surveillance screen on it, and at the second desk the Weasel. He still looked insignificant, but he was the power in this part of Edinburgh until Big Ger came home. Thinning hair greased back from a protruding forehead; a jawline that was all bones; narrow mouth, so that his face seemed to come to a point.

‘Take a seat,’ the Weasel said.

‘I’ll stand,’ Rebus answered. He made to close the door.

‘Leave it open.’

Rebus took his hand off the door handle, thought for a moment — the room was stuffy, mixed body odours — then crossed the narrow landing to the other door. He knocked three times. ‘All right in there, lads?’ Pushed the door open. Three of the Weasel’s men were standing just inside. ‘This won’t take long,’ he told them, closing the door again. Then he closed the Weasel’s door, too, so that it was just the two of them.

Now he sat down. Spotted the carrier bags by one wall, whisky bottles peeping out.

‘Sorry to spoil the party,’ he said.

‘What can I do for you, Rebus?’ The Weasel’s hands were resting on the arms of his chair, as though he might be about to spring to his feet.

‘Were you here in the late seventies? I know your boss was. But he was small beer then: playing a few little games, bedding himself in. Were you with him that far back?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I thought I’d just told you. Bryce Callan was running things then. Don’t tell me you didn’t know Bryce?’

‘I know the name.’

‘Cafferty was his muscle for a while.’ Rebus cocked his head. ‘Any of this jarring your memory? See, I thought I could ask you, save a trip to the Bar-L and me wasting your boss’s time.’

‘Ask me what?’ The hands came off the chair arms. He was relaxing, now that he knew Rebus’s subject was ancient history rather than current affairs. But Rebus knew that one false move on his part and the Weasel would squeal, bringing his minders charging in and ensuring Rebus a visit to A&E at the very least.

‘I want to know about Bryce Callan. Did he have a spot of bother with a builder called Dean Coghill?’

‘Dean Coghill?’ The Weasel frowned. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Sure?’

The Weasel nodded.

‘I heard Callan had been giving him grief.’

‘This was twenty years ago?’ The Weasel waited till Rebus nodded. ‘Then what the hell’s it got to do with me? Why should I tell you anything?’

‘Because you like me?’

The Weasel snorted. But now his face changed. Rebus turned to look at the monitor, but too late; he’d missed whatever the Weasel had seen. Heavy footsteps, taking the stairs with effort. The door swung open. The Weasel was on his feet, moving from behind the desk. And Rebus was on his feet, too.

‘Strawman!’ The voice booming. Big Ger Cafferty filled the doorway. He was wearing a blue silk suit, crisp white shirt open a couple of buttons at the neck. ‘Just to make my day complete.’

Rebus just stood there, speechless for maybe the second or third time in his life. Cafferty entered the room, so that it suddenly became crowded. He brushed past Rebus, moving with the slow agility of a predator. His skin was as pale and creased as a white rhino’s, his hair silver. His bullet-shaped head seemed to disappear into the neck of his shirt as he leaned down, his back to Rebus. When he straightened, he was holding one of the whisky bottles.

‘Come on,’ he told Rebus, ‘you and me are going for a wee ride.’ Then he gripped Rebus’s arm and steered him to the door.

And Rebus, still numb, did what he was told.

Strawman: Cafferty’s nickname for Rebus.

The car was a black 7-Series BMW. Driver in the front, and someone equally large in the passenger seat, which left Rebus and Cafferty in the back.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Don’t panic, Strawman.’ Cafferty took a slug of whisky, passed the bottle over, and exhaled noisily. The windows were down a fraction, and cold air slapped at Rebus’s ears. ‘Bit of a mystery tour, that’s all.’ Cafferty gazed from his window. ‘I’ve been away a while. I hear the place has changed. Morrison Street and the Western Approach Road,’ he told the driver, ‘then maybe Holyrood and down to Leith.’ He turned to his passenger. ‘Regeneration: music to my ears.’

‘Don’t forget the new museum.’

Cafferty stared at him. ‘Why would I be interested in that?’ He held out his hand for the bottle. Rebus took a swig and passed it across.

‘I get the horrible feeling your being here is legit,’ Rebus said at last.

Cafferty just winked.

‘How did you swing it?’

‘To be honest with you, Strawman, I think the governor didn’t like it that I was running the show. I mean, that’s what he’s paid to do, and his own officers were giving Big Ger more respect than they gave him.’ He laughed. ‘The governor decided I’d be less of a grievance out here.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Well, maybe you’re right. I dare say good behaviour and the inoperable cancer swung it for me.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘You still don’t believe me?’

‘I want to.’

Cafferty laughed again. ‘Knew I could depend on you for sympathy.’ He tapped the magazine pouch in front of him. ‘The big brown envelope,’ he said. ‘My X-rays from the hospital.’

Rebus reached across, pulled them out, held them up one at a time to his window.

‘The darkish area’s the one you’re looking for.’

But what he was looking for was Cafferty’s name. He found it at the bottom corner of each of the X-rays. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus slid the sheets back into the envelope. It all looked official enough: hospital in Glasgow; radiology department. He handed the envelope to Cafferty.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Cafferty chuckled quietly, then slapped the front-seat passenger on the shoulder. ‘It’s not often you’ll hear that, Rab: an apology from the Strawman!’

Rab half-turned. Curly black hair with long sideburns.

‘Rab got out the week before me,’ Cafferty said. ‘Best pals inside, we were.’ He grabbed Rab’s shoulder again. ‘One minute you’re in the Bar-L, the next you’re in a Beamer. Said I’d look after you, didn’t I?’ Cafferty winked at Rebus. ‘Saw me through a few scrapes did Rab.’ He rested against the back of his seat, took another gulp of whisky. ‘City’s certainly changed, Strawman.’ His eyes fixed on the passing scene. ‘Lots of things have changed.’

‘But not you?’

‘Prison changes a man, surely you’ve heard that? In my case, it brought on the big C.’ He snorted.

‘How long do they say...?’

‘Now don’t you go getting all maudlin on me. Here.’ He passed over the bottle, then pushed the X-rays back into the seat pocket. ‘We’re going to forget all about these. It’s good to be out, and I don’t care what got me here. I’m here, and that’s that.’ He went back to his window-gazing. ‘I hear tell there’s building work going on all over.’

‘See for yourself.’

‘I intend to.’ He paused. ‘You know, it’s very nice, just the two of us here, sharing a drink and catching up on old times... but what the hell were you doing in my office in the first place?’

‘I was asking the Weasel about Bryce Callan.’

‘Now there’s a name from the crypt.’

‘Not quite: he’s out in Spain, isn’t he?’

‘Is he?’

‘I must have misheard. I thought you still passed a little percentage on to him.’

‘And why would I do that? He’s got family, hasn’t he? Let them look after him.’ Cafferty shifted in his seat, as though made physically uncomfortable by the mere mention of Bryce Callan.

‘I don’t want to spoil the party,’ Rebus said.

‘Good.’

‘So if you’ll tell me what I want to know, we can drop the subject.’

‘Christ, man, were you always this irritating?’

‘I’ve been taking lessons while you were away.’

‘Your teacher deserves a fucking bonus. Well, if you’ve a bone stuck in your craw, spit it out.’

‘A builder called Dean Coghill.’

Cafferty nodded. ‘I knew the man.’

‘A body turned up in a fireplace at Queensberry House.’

‘The old hospital?’

‘They’re turning it into part of the parliament.’ Rebus was watching Cafferty carefully. His body felt tired, but his mind was fizzing, still getting over the shock. ‘This body had been there twenty-odd years. Turns out there was building work going on in ’78 and ’79.’

‘And Coghill’s firm was involved?’ Cafferty was nodding. ‘Fair play, I can see what you’re on about. But what’s it got to do with Bryce Callan?’

‘It’s just that I hear Callan and Coghill might have crossed swords.’

‘If they had, Coghill would have gone home minus a couple of hands. Why don’t you ask Coghill himself?’

‘He’s dead.’ Cafferty looked round. ‘Natural causes,’ Rebus assured him.

‘People come and go, Strawman. But you’re always trying to dig up the corpses. One foot in the past and one in the grave.’

‘I can promise you one thing, Cafferty.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘When they bury you, I won’t come round after with a shovel. Yours is one corpse I’ll be happy to leave rotting.’

Rab turned his head slowly, fixing soulless eyes on Rebus.

‘Now you’ve upset him, Strawman.’ Cafferty patted his henchman’s shoulder. ‘And I know I should take offence myself.’ His eyes bored into Rebus’s. ‘Maybe another time, eh?’ He leaned forward. ‘Pull over!’ he barked. The driver brought them to an immediate skidding halt.

Rebus didn’t need to be told. He opened his door, found himself on West Port. The car sped off again, acceleration pulling the door shut. Headed for the Grassmarket... and Holyrood after that. Cafferty had said he wanted to see Holyrood, centre of the changing city. Rebus rubbed at his eyes. Cafferty, re-entering his life now of all times. He reminded himself that he didn’t believe in coincidence. He lit a cigarette and started in the direction of Lauriston Place. He could cut through the Meadows and be home in fifteen minutes.

But his car was back in Gorgie. Hell, it could stay there till tomorrow; best of British to whoever wanted to steal it.

When he reached Arden Street, however, there it was, waiting for him, double parked and with a note asking him to shift it so the note’s author could move his own blocked car. Rebus tried the driver’s door. It wasn’t locked. No keys: they were in his coat pocket.

Cafferty’s men had done it.

They’d done it simply to show that they could.

He headed upstairs, poured himself a malt and sat on the edge of his bed. He’d checked his phone: no messages. Lorna hadn’t tried to get in touch. He felt relief, tinged with disappointment. He stared at the bedclothes. Bits and pieces kept coming back to him, making no particular order. And now his nemesis was back in town, ready to reclaim its streets as his own. Rebus went back to his door and put the chain on. He was halfway down the hall when he stopped.

‘What are you doing, man?’

He walked back, slid the chain off again. Cafferty would have no intention of going quietly. Doubtless there were scores to be settled. Rebus didn’t doubt that he was one of them, which was fine by him.

When Cafferty came, Rebus would be waiting...

21

‘It’d be easier with the door open,’ Ellen Wylie said. She meant that they’d have more room to move, and more light to work by.

‘We’d freeze,’ Grant Hood reminded her. ‘I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers as it is.’

They were inside the garage at the Coghill house. Another grey winter’s morning, bringing chill gusts which shook the metal up-and-over door. The ceiling light was dusty and dim, and only one small frosted window gave any natural light. Wylie held a pocket torch between her teeth as she searched. Hood had brought a plug-in lamp with him, the kind mechanics used in their work bays. But its light was too piercing, and it was awkward to manoeuvre. It sat clipped to a shelf, doing its best to throw shadows over most of the interior.

Wylie thought she’d come prepared: not just the torch, but flasks of hot soup and tea. She was wearing two pairs of wool socks under a pair of walking boots. Her chin was tucked into a scarf. The hood of her olive-green duffel coat was covering her head. Her ears were cold. Her knees were cold. The one-bar electric heater worked to a radius of about six inches.

‘We’d get done a lot quicker with the door open,’ she argued.

‘Can’t you hear the wind? Everything would be blown halfway to the Pentlands.’

Mrs Coghill had brought them out a pot of coffee and some biscuits. She seemed worried about them. Loo-breaks came as their only relief. Stepping into the centrally heated house, there was a strong temptation to stay put. Grant had commented on the length of Ellen’s last trip to the house. She’d snapped back that she didn’t know she was being timed.

Then they’d drifted into this argument about the garage door.

‘Anything?’ he said now, for about the twentieth time.

‘You’ll be the first to know,’ she replied through gritted teeth. It was no good just ignoring his question: he’d go on asking, same as last time.

‘This stuff’s all way too recent,’ he complained, slapping a pile of paperwork down on to one of the tea chests. Unbalanced, the papers cascaded to the floor.

‘Well, that’s one way to organise a search,’ Wylie muttered. If they put the stuff outside when they’d finished with it, they’d have room to work in, and they’d know which files had been checked... And it would all blow away.

‘I’m no expert,’ Wylie said at last, stopping to pour out some tea from the flask, ‘but Coghill’s business affairs look pretty disorganised, if this lot’s anything to go by.’

‘He got in trouble over his VAT returns,’ Hood commented.

‘And all the casual labour he employed.’

‘Doesn’t make our job any easier.’ Hood came over, accepted a cup from her with a nod of thanks. There was a knock, and someone came in.

‘Any left in that?’ Rebus asked, nodding towards the flask.

‘Half a cup,’ Wylie said. Rebus looked at the coffee cups, lifted the cleanest one and held it out while she poured.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

Hood made a point of closing the door. ‘You mean apart from the wind-chill factor?’

‘Cold’s healthy,’ Rebus said. ‘Good for you.’ He’d moved to within six inches of the heater.

‘It’s slow going,’ Wylie said. ‘Coghill’s biggest problem was he was a one-man band. Tried to run the whole business himself.’

‘Now if only he’d employed a nice personnel manager...’

Wylie finished the thought: ‘We might have what we’re looking for by now.’

‘Maybe he chucked stuff out,’ Rebus said. ‘How far back have you found records for?’

‘He didn’t throw anything out, sir: that’s the real problem here. He kept every scrap of paper.’ She waved a letter at him. It was on paper headed Coghill Builders. He took it from her. The estimate for construction of a one-car garage at an address in Joppa. The estimate was in pounds, shillings and pence. The date was July 1969.

‘We’re looking for one year out of thirty,’ Wylie said. She drained the tea, screwed the cup back on to the Thermos. ‘A needle in a bloody haystack.’

Rebus drained his cup. ‘Well, sooner I let you get back to it...’ He checked his watch.

‘If you’re at a loose end, sir, we can always use another pair of hands.’

Rebus looked at Wylie. She wasn’t smiling. ‘Another appointment,’ he told her. ‘Just thought I’d drop by.’

‘Much appreciated, sir,’ Hood said, catching something of his partner’s tone. They went back to work, watched Rebus leave.

Wylie heard an engine start, and flung down her sheaf of papers. ‘Do you believe that? Swans in, finishes off the tea, and swans out again. And if we’d found anything, he’d have been off back to the station with it to bag the glory.’

Hood was staring at the door. ‘Think so?’

She looked at him. ‘Don’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘Not his style,’ he said.

‘Then why did he come?’

Hood was still looking at the door. ‘Because he can’t let go.’

‘Another way of saying he doesn’t trust us.’

Hood was shaking his head. He picked up another boxfile. ‘Seventy-one,’ he said, looking at it. ‘Year I was born.’

‘I hope you don’t mind the choice of meeting place,’ Cammo Grieve said, picking his way over lengths of scaffolding which had either just come down or were just going up.

‘No problem,’ Rebus said.

‘Only I wanted the excuse for a poke around here.’

Here being the temporary home of the Scottish Parliament in the General Assembly building at the top of The Mound. The builders were hard at work. Black metal lighting gantreys had already appeared amidst the wooden ceiling beams. Gyproc walls were being cut to shape, their skeletal wooden frames standing ready to receive them. A new floor was being laid on top of the existing one. It rose amphitheatre-style in a graduated semicircle. The desks and chairs hadn’t arrived yet. In the courtyard outside, the statue of John Knox had been boxed in — some said for safekeeping, some so that he could not show his disgust at the renovations to the Church of Scotland’s supreme court.

‘I hear Glasgow had a building ready and waiting to accommodate the parliament,’ Grieve said. He tutted, smiling. ‘As if Edinburgh would let them get away with that. All the same...’ He looked around. ‘Shame they couldn’t just wait for the permanent site to be ready.’

‘We can’t wait that long, apparently,’ Rebus said.

‘Only because Dewar has a bee in his bonnet. Look at the way he banjaxed Calton Hill as a site, all because he worried it was a “Nationalist symbol”. Bloody man’s an eejit.’

‘I’d have preferred Leith myself,’ Rebus said.

Grieve looked interested. ‘Why’s that then?’

‘Traffic’s bad enough in the city as it is. Besides,’ Rebus went on, ‘it would have saved the working girls having to tramp all the way to Holyrood to ply their trade.’

Cammo Grieve’s laughter seemed to fill the hall. Around them, carpenters were sawing and hammering. Someone had plugged a radio in. Tinny pop tunes, a couple of the workmen whistling along. Someone hit his thumb with a hammer. His blasphemies echoed off the walls.

Cammo Grieve glanced towards Rebus. ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of my calling, do you, Inspector?’

‘Oh, I think politicians have their uses.’

Grieve laughed again. ‘Something tells me I better not ask what those uses might be.’

‘You’re learning, Mr Grieve.’

They walked on. Rebus, remembering snippets of information from his PPLC tours of the site, kept up a commentary for the English-based MP.

‘So this will just be the debating hall?’ Grieve said.

‘That’s right. There are six other buildings, most of them council-owned. Corporate services in one, MSPs and their staff in another. I forget the rest.’

‘Committee rooms?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Other side of George IV Bridge from the MSP offices. There’s a tunnel connecting the two.’

‘A tunnel?’

‘Saves them crossing the road. We wouldn’t want accidents.’

Grieve smiled. Rebus, despite himself, was warming to the man.

‘There’ll be a media centre, too,’ Grieve suggested. Rebus nodded. ‘On the Lawnmarket.’

‘Bloody media.’

‘Are they still camping outside your mother’s house?’

‘Yes. Every time I visit, I have to field the same questions.’ He looked at Rebus; all the humour had leaked from his features, leaving them pale and tired.

‘Have you still no idea who killed Roddy?’

‘You know what I’ll say, sir.’

‘Oh yes: inquiries are proceeding... all that guff.’

‘It might be guff, but it’s also true.’

Cammo Grieve plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his black Crombie-style coat. He looked old and somehow unfulfilled; shared something of Hugh Cordover’s solemn disenchantment with life. As crisply dressed as he was, his skin and shoulders were slack. The mandatory white hard hat bothered him; he kept trying to make it fit properly. Rebus had the impression of an ill-fitting life.

They had climbed the stairs to the gallery. Grieve dusted off one of the benches and sat down, arranging his coat around him. Below, in the middle of the amphitheatre, two men were studying plans and pointing in different directions with their fingers.

‘A portent?’ Grieve asked.

The plan was spread out on a workbench, weighted each end with coffee mugs.

‘What can you smell?’ Rebus asked, settling himself next to the MP.

Grieve sniffed the air. ‘Sawdust.’

‘One man’s sawdust is another’s new wood. That’s what I smell.’

‘Where I see portents, you see a fresh start?’ Grieve looked appraisingly at Rebus, who just shrugged. ‘Point taken. Sometimes it’s too easy to read meanings into things.’ Coils of electric cable sat near them. Grieve rested his feet on one, as though on a footstool. He took off the hard hat and laid it beside him, smoothing his hair back into place.

‘We can start any time you’re ready,’ Rebus said.

‘Start what?’

‘There’s something you want to tell me.’

‘Is there? What makes you so sure?’

‘If you brought me here as a tour guide, I’ll be less than chuffed.’

‘Well, yes, there was something, only now I’m not so sure it’s relevant.’ Grieve stared up at the glass windows in the roof. ‘I was getting these letters. I mean, MPs get all sorts of cranks writing to them, so I wasn’t too bothered. But I did mention them to Roddy. I suppose I was warning him what he was getting into. As an MSP, he’d probably have to put up with the selfsame thing.’

‘He hadn’t been getting any then?’

‘Well, he didn’t say he had. But there was something... When I told him, I got the feeling he already knew about them.’

‘What did these letters say?’

‘The ones to me? Just that I’d die for being a Tory bastard. There’d be razor blades enclosed, presumably in case I ever felt suicidal.’

‘Anonymous, of course?’

‘Of course. Various postmarks. Whoever he is, he travels.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘I didn’t tell them.’

‘So who knows about them, apart from your brother?’

‘My secretary. She opens all my mail.’

‘You still have them?’

‘No, they were binned the same day. Thing is, I contacted my office, and none have been received since Roddy’s death.’

‘Respect for the bereaved?’

Cammo Grieve looked sceptical. ‘I’d’ve thought the bastard would want to gloat.’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Rebus said. ‘You’re wondering if the letter writer has something against the whole family, maybe got at Roddy because he or she couldn’t get at you.’

‘It has to be he surely?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Rebus was thoughtful. ‘If any more letters arrive, let me know. And hang on to them this time.’

‘Understood.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m off down to London again this afternoon. If you need me, you have the office number.’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Rebus showed no sign of moving.

‘Well, goodbye then, Inspector. And good luck.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Grieve. Mind how you go.’

Cammo Grieve stopped for a moment, but then carried on down the stairs. Rebus sat, staring into space, letting the sounds of hammer and saw wash over him.

Back at St Leonard’s, he made a couple of phone calls. As he sat at his desk with the receiver at his ear, he sorted through the various messages left for him. Linford communicated only by notes now, and the latest said he was out interviewing people who’d been walking along Holyrood Road on the night of the murder. Hi-Ho Silvers, in his dogged way, had now identified four pubs where Roddy Grieve had been drinking — all alone — on the night he was killed. Two were in the West End, one was in Lawnmarket, and the last was the Holyrood Tavern. There was now a list of Tavern regulars, and these were the men and women Linford was canvassing. Almost certainly a waste of time, but then what was Rebus doing that was so crucial, so wonderful? Following-up hunches.

‘Is that Mr Grieve’s secretary?’ he asked into the mouthpiece. He went on to ask her about the hate mail. From her voice, he had an impression of youth — mid-twenties to early thirties. From what she said, he pictured her as faithful to her boss. But her story didn’t sound rehearsed; no reason to think that it was.

Just a hunch.

Next, he spoke to Seona Grieve. He caught her on her mobile. She sounded flustered, and he said as much.

‘Not much time to put a campaign together,’ she said. ‘And my school’s not too happy about it. They thought I was taking a bit of time off for bereavement, and now I’m telling them I might not be back ever.’

‘If you get elected.’

‘Well, yes, there is just that one tiny hurdle.’

She’d mentioned the word bereavement, but she didn’t sound recently bereaved. No time to mourn. Maybe it was a good thing, take her mind off the murder. Linford had wondered if Seona Grieve had a motive: kill her husband, step into his shoes, fast-track to parliament. Rebus couldn’t see it.

But then right now he couldn’t see very much.

‘So if this isn’t just a social call, Inspector...?’

‘Sorry, yes. I was just wondering if your husband ever received any crank letters.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

‘Did he tell you that his brother had been receiving them?’

‘Really? No, Roddy never mentioned it. Did Cammo tell him?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Well, it’s news to me. Don’t you think I might have mentioned it to you before now?’

‘You might.’

She was irritated now, sensing that something was being insinuated, but not sure what. ‘If there’s nothing else, Inspector...?’

‘No, just you carry on, Mrs Grieve. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He wasn’t, of course, and didn’t sound it.

She caught the hint. ‘Look, I do appreciate what you’re doing, all the trouble you’re taking.’ Suddenly it was a politician’s voice, high on effects and low on sincerity. ‘And of course you should phone me whenever there’s something — anything — that you think I can help with.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Grieve.’

She made an effort to ignore the irony in his voice. ‘Now, if you’ve no more questions at this point...?’

Rebus didn’t say anything; just put the phone down.

In the office next door, he found Siobhan. She had her receiver tucked between chin and shoulder while she wrote something down.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I really do appreciate it. I’ll see you then.’ She glanced up at Rebus. ‘And I’ll have a colleague with me, if that’s all right.’ She listened. ‘All right, Mr Sithing. Goodbye.’

The receiver fell from her shoulder, clattered home. Rebus looked at the apparatus.

‘That’s a good trick,’ he said.

‘It’s taken a while to perfect. Tell me it’s lunchtime.’

‘And I’m buying.’ She got her jacket from the back of the chair and slid her arms into it. ‘Sithing?’ he asked.

‘Later this afternoon, if that suits you.’ He nodded. ‘He’s out at the chapel. I said we’d meet him there.’

‘How much grovelling did he make you do?’

She smiled, remembering how she’d practically dragged Sithing out of St Leonard’s. ‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got one hell of a carrot.’

‘The four hundred thou?’

She nodded. ‘So where are you taking me?’

‘Well, there’s this delightful little place up in Fife...’

She smiled. ‘Or the canteen does filled rolls.’

‘It’s a tough choice, but then life’s full of them.’

‘Fife’s too far a drive anyway. Maybe next time.’

‘Next time it is,’ Rebus said.

They sat at the table in Mrs Coghill’s kitchen. Starter was the flask of soup, but for the main course Mrs Coghill had prepared macaroni cheese. They’d been about to demur politely until she’d lifted it from the oven, bubbling and with a crisp golden crust of breadcrumbs.

‘Well, maybe just a smidge.’

Having served them, she left them to it, saying she’d already eaten. ‘I don’t have much of an appetite these days, but a young pair like you...’ She’d nodded towards the dish. ‘I’ll expect that to be empty next time I see it.’

Grant Hood leaned his chair back on two legs and stretched his arms. He’d managed two helpings. There was plenty still left.

Ellen Wylie lifted the serving spoon, gesturing with it towards him.

‘God, no,’ he said. ‘It’s all yours.’

‘I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m not sure I can stand up, so it better be you that makes the coffee.’

‘Hint taken.’ He poured water into the kettle. Outside the window, the sky had darkened. The kitchen lights were on. Leaves and crisp packets were flying past. ‘Hellish day,’ he commented.

Wylie wasn’t listening. She’d opened the black box-file, the one she’d found just before lunch. Business transactions from 6 April 1978 to 5 April 1979. Dean Coghill’s tax year. She took out half the documents, slid them across the table. The rest she kept for herself. Hood cleared the plates into the sink, placing the casserole back in the oven. Then he sat down and, waiting for the kettle to boil, picked up the first sheet of paper.

Half an hour later, they got their break. A list of personnel signed up to work at Queensberry House. Eight names. Wylie jotted them into her notebook.

‘All we need to do now is track them down and talk to each of them.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’

Wylie slid the list towards him. ‘Some of them are bound to be still in the building trade.’

Hood read the names. The first seven were typed, the eighth added in pencil. ‘Does that say Hutton?’ he asked.

‘The last one?’ Wylie checked her notebook. ‘Hutton or Hatton, first name’s either Benny or Barry.’

‘So we talk to every building firm in Edinburgh? Try out these names on them?’

‘It’s either that or the phone book.’

The kettle clicked off. Hood went to see if Mrs Coghill wanted a cup. He came back with a copy of Yellow Pages, opened it at the section headed ‘Builders’.

‘Read the names off to me,’ he said. ‘We might strike lucky.’

The third name they tried, Hood said, ‘Bingo,’ his finger stabbing at a display ad. The name on the sheet was John Hicks, and he’d just found J. Hicks. ‘“Extensions, Renovations, Conversions”,’ he recited. ‘Got to be worth a call.’

So Wylie got on her mobile, and they celebrated with coffee.

John Hicks’ business premises were in Bruntsfield, and the man himself was working on a job in Glengyle Terrace, just off The Links. It was a garden flat, and he was busy converting the large back bedroom into two smaller units.

‘Ups the rental income,’ he explained. ‘Some people don’t seem to mind living in a rabbit hutch.’

‘Or haven’t got the money for anything else.’

‘True enough, love.’ Hicks was in his late fifties, small and wiry with a tanned dome of a head and thick black eyebrows. His eyes twinkled with humour. ‘Way things are in Edinburgh,’ he said, ‘there won’t be a decent building left that hasn’t been subdivided.’

‘Good for business,’ Hood said.

‘Oh, I’m not complaining.’ He winked at them. ‘You said on the phone it was to do with Dean Coghill?’

Somewhere in the flat, a door banged.

‘Students,’ Hicks explained. ‘It pisses them off I’m here at eight, and hammering till four or five.’ He picked up his hammer and thumped it a couple of times against a length of two-by-four. Wylie held out the list towards him. He peered at it, took it from her and whistled.

‘Now this takes me back,’ he said.

‘We need to know about the others.’

He looked up. ‘Why?’

‘Did you read about the body found in Queensberry House?’ Hicks nodded. ‘It was put there late ’78, early ’79.’

Hicks nodded again. ‘While we were working there. You think one of us...?’

‘We’re just following a line of inquiry, sir. Do you remember the fireplace being open?’

‘Oh, yes. We were supposed to be putting in a damp-proof course. Pulled the wall open and there it was.’

‘When was it closed up again?’

Hicks shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. Before we finished the job, but I don’t actually recall it happening.’

‘Who closed it up?’

‘No idea.’

‘Can you tell us anything about the other men on this list?’

He looked at it again. ‘Well, Bert and Terry, the three of us worked together on a lot of jobs. Eddie and Tam were part-timers, cash in hand. Let’s see... Harry Connors, he was a bit older, worked with Dean for donkey’s. Died a couple of years later. Dod McCarthy moved to Australia.’

‘Nobody walked off the job?’ Wylie asked.

He shook his head. ‘No, we were all present and accounted for at job’s end, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ Wylie and Hood shared a look: another theory blown out the water.

Hicks was still studying the list.

‘There’s one name you haven’t mentioned yet,’ Hood reminded him.

‘Benny Hatton,’ Wylie added.

‘Barry Hutton,’ Hicks corrected her. ‘Well, Barry was just with us for a couple of jobs. Bit of a favour to his uncle, or something.’

‘But there’s something about him?’

‘No, not really. It’s just, you know...’

‘What, sir?’

‘Well, Barry’s made it big, hasn’t he? Out of all of us, he’s the one who’s got to the top.’

Wylie and Hood looked blank.

‘You don’t know him?’ Hicks seemed surprised. ‘Hutton Developments.’

Wylie’s eyes widened. ‘That’s this Barry Hutton?’ She looked to Hood. ‘He’s a land developer,’ she explained.

‘One of the biggest,’ Hicks added. ‘You can never tell with people, eh? When I knew Barry, well, he was nothing really.’

‘Mr Hicks,’ Hood said, ‘you were saying something about his uncle?’

‘Well, Barry didn’t have much experience in the building game. Seemed to me his uncle must have put a word in with Dean, give the boy a bit of a start.’

‘His uncle being...?’

Hicks looked at them again; he couldn’t believe they didn’t know this either.

‘Bryce Callan,’ he explained, whacking his hammer against the two-by-four again. ‘Barry belongs to Bryce’s sister. Friends in high places, eh? No wonder the kid’s got where he has.’

22

Rebus took the call on his mobile as Siobhan drove them out to Roslin. When he’d finished, he half-turned in his seat.

‘That was Grant Hood. The body in the fireplace; one of the labourers working there at the time was Bryce Callan’s nephew. His name’s—’

‘Barry Hutton,’ she interrupted.

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘He’s in his thirties, single and a millionaire; of course I’ve heard of him. I was out with a singles group one night.’ She glanced at him. ‘Working, I might add. But a couple of the women were talking about eligible bachelors. There was some magazine piece on him. Good-looking, by all accounts.’ She looked at Rebus again. ‘But he’s legit, isn’t he? I mean, he runs his own business, nothing to do with his uncle.’

‘No.’ But Rebus was thoughtful all the same. What was it Cafferty had said about Bryce Callan? Let his family look after him, something like that.

As they drove into Roslin and approached Rosslyn Chapel, Siobhan asked why they had different spellings.

‘Just another of the chapel’s unfathomable mysteries,’ Rebus told her. ‘Probably with some conspiracy at the bottom of it all.’

‘I wanted you to see it,’ Gerald Sithing said as he met them in the car park. He was wearing a knee-length blue plastic mac over a tweed jacket and baggy brown cords. The mac made swishing sounds as he moved. He shook Rebus’s hand, but kept his distance from Siobhan.

The chapel’s exterior didn’t look promising, covered as it was by a corrugated structure.

‘That’s only until the walls dry out,’ Sithing explained. ‘Then the repairs can be done.’

He led them inside. Prepared as she was, Siobhan Clarke still gave an audible gasp. The interior was as ornate as any cathedral’s, its scale serving to heighten the effect of the stonework. The vaulted ceiling boasted carvings of different kinds of flowers. There were intricate pillars and stained-glass windows. The place was chilled, its doors standing open. Green discoloration on the ceiling showed there was a problem with damp.

Rebus stood in the centre aisle and tapped his foot on the stone floor. ‘This is where the spaceship is, eh? Under here.’

Sithing wagged a finger, too excited by his surroundings to be annoyed. ‘The Ark of the Covenant, the body of Christ... yes, I know all the stories. But there are Templar artefacts everywhere you look. Shields and inscriptions... some of the carvings. The tomb of William St Clair; he died in Spain in the fourteenth century. He was transporting Robert the Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier posting it? Might have got there by now.’

‘The Templars’, Sithing said patiently, ‘were the military wing of the Prieuré de Sion, whose purpose was to find the treasure from the Temple of Solomon.’

‘Hence the name?’ Siobhan guessed. ‘There’s a village called Temple near here, isn’t there?’

‘With a ruined Templar church,’ Sithing added quickly. ‘Some say that Rosslyn Chapel is a replica of the Temple of Solomon. The Templars came to Scotland to escape persecution in the fourteenth century.’

‘When was it built?’ Siobhan couldn’t take her eyes off the treasures around her.

‘Fourteen forty-six, that’s when the foundations were laid. It took forty years to complete.’

‘Sounds like some builders I know,’ Rebus said.

‘Can’t you feel it?’ Sithing was staring at Rebus. ‘Right at the core of your cynical heart, can’t you feel something?’

‘It’s just indigestion, thanks for asking.’ Rebus rubbed his chest. Sithing turned to Siobhan. ‘But you can feel it, I know you can.’

‘It’s an amazing place, I’ll grant you that.’

‘You could spend a lifetime studying it, and still you wouldn’t have learned half its secrets.’

‘Who’s this ugly mug?’ Siobhan pointed to a gargoyle’s head.

‘That’s the Green Man.’

She turned to him. ‘Isn’t he a pagan symbol?’

‘That’s the whole point!’ Sithing yelped excitedly. He bounded over to her. ‘The chapel is almost pantheistic. Not just Christianity, but all belief systems.’

Siobhan nodded.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Earth to DC Clarke. Earth to DC Clarke.’

She made a face at him.

‘And those carvings on the roof,’ Sithing was saying, ‘plants from the New World.’ He paused for effect. ‘Carved a century before Columbus landed in America!’

‘Fascinating as this all is, sir,’ Rebus said tiredly, ‘it isn’t why we’re here.’

Siobhan pulled her gaze away from the Green Man. ‘That’s right, Mr Sithing. I told your story to Inspector Rebus, and he felt we should talk.’

‘About Chris Mackie?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you accept I knew him?’ He waited till Siobhan nodded. ‘And you accept he’d have wanted the Knights to have some sort of financial consideration from his estate?’

‘That’s not really for us to decide, Mr Sithing,’ Rebus said. ‘It’ll be a case for the lawyers.’ He paused. ‘But we can always put in a friendly word.’ He ignored Siobhan’s look, nodded slowly so that Gerald Sithing wouldn’t mistake the implication.

‘I see,’ Sithing said. He sat down on one of the chairs laid out for the congregation. ‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked quietly. Rebus sat on a chair across the aisle.

‘Did Mr Mackie seem at all interested in the Grieve family?’

For a moment, Sithing didn’t seem to have understood the question, then he asked, ‘How did you know?’ And Rebus knew they’d struck gold.

‘Is Hugh Cordover a member of your group?’

‘Yes,’ Sithing said, his eyes widening, as though in the presence of a magus.

‘Did Chris Mackie ever come here?’

Sithing shook his head. ‘I asked him many times, but he always said no.’

‘Didn’t that seem strange? I mean, you say he was interested in Rosslyn.’

‘I assumed he disliked travelling.’

‘So you met him in The Meadows, and talked about...?’

‘Lots of things.’

‘Among them, the Grieve family?’

Siobhan, aware that she was being excluded, sat herself in the row in front of Sithing, half-facing him.

‘Who brought up the Grieves first?’ she asked.

Sithing said he wasn’t sure.

‘My guess is’, Rebus said, ‘you were telling him about the Knights, and you mentioned Hugh Cordover.’

‘Maybe,’ Sithing admitted. Then he looked up. ‘Actually, that’s just how it happened!’ His gaze went to Rebus again: magus status confirmed.

Siobhan, even though it was her case, decided to keep quiet. Rebus quite clearly had Gerald Sithing in a kind of trance.

‘You mentioned Cordover,’ Rebus stated, ‘and Mackie wanted to know more?’

‘He’d been a fan of the band, said he knew their music. I think he even hummed me one of their songs, not that I was familiar with it. He asked a few questions, I answered where I could.’

‘And thereafter, when you met...?’

‘He would ask how Hugh and Lorna were.’

‘Did he ask about anyone else?’

‘They’re never out of the news, are they? I told him what stories I had.’

‘Ever wonder why he was so interested in the Grieves, Mr Sithing?’

‘Please, call me Gerald. Did you know, there’s an aura around you, Inspector? I’m sure of it.’

‘Probably just my aftershave.’ Siobhan snorted, but he ignored her. ‘Didn’t it seem to you that he was more interested in Hugh Cordover and his family than he was in the Knights of Rosslyn?’

‘Oh no, I’m sure that wasn’t the case.’

Rebus leaned forward. ‘Look into your heart, Gerald,’ he intoned.

Sithing did so, swallowed noisily. ‘Maybe you’re right. Yes, maybe you are. But tell me, why was he so interested in the Grieves?’

Rebus stood up, leaned down over Sithing. ‘Now how the hell would I know that?’ he said.

Back in the car, Siobhan smiled as she mimicked him. ‘“Look into your heart, Gerald.”’

‘Rum old bugger, wasn’t he?’ Rebus had the window down, so Siobhan would let him smoke.

‘So what have we got?’

‘We’ve got Supertramp feigning an interest in the Knights of Rosslyn while pumping information about the clan. We’ve got him interested in Hugh Cordover, but unwilling to come down to the chapel. Why? Because he didn’t want to meet Cordover.’

‘Because Cordover knew him?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘So are we any nearer finding out who he was?’

‘Maybe. Supertramp’s interested in the Grieves and in Skelly. Roddy Grieve dies in the grounds of Queensberry House, shortly after Skelly’s been uncovered. Around the same time, Supertramp takes the high dive.’

‘You want to roll three cases into one?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘We don’t have enough; the Farmer would never go for it. He’d certainly never let me run it the way it needs to be run.’

‘Speaking of which...’ Siobhan changed up through the gears as she left the village behind. ‘Where’s your sidekick?’

‘You mean Linford?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Doing interviews.’

Siobhan looked sceptical. ‘Leaving you to your own devices?’

‘Derek Linford knows what’s good for him,’ Rebus said, flicking his cigarette out across the blood-bruised sky.

They had a war meeting: Rebus and Siobhan, Wylie and Hood. The back room at the Oxford Bar. They took the table at the far end, so there’d be no one near enough to overhear the conversation.

‘I’m seeing links between the three cases,’ Rebus said, having gone through his reasons. ‘Tell me now if you think I’m wrong.’

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, sir,’ Wylie piped up, ‘but where’s the evidence?’

Rebus nodded. The beer in front of him was almost untouched. In deference to the non-smokers, his cigarette packet was still in its Cellophane. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want us to ca’canny. At this stage, we need to be aware of each other. That way, when the connections come, we’ll see them straight off.’

‘What do I tell CI Templer?’ Siobhan asked. Gill Templer, Siobhan’s boss, the name resonant now.

‘You keep her up to snuff. The Chief Super, too, if it comes to that.’

‘He’s going to close the case on me,’ she complained.

‘We’ll persuade him otherwise,’ Rebus promised. ‘Now drink up, the next round’s on me.’

While Rebus went to the bar, Siobhan stepped outside to call home and check her answering machine messages. There were two of them, both from Derek Linford, making apologies and asking to see her.

‘Took you long enough,’ she muttered to herself. He’d left his home phone number, but she was only half listening.

Left alone at the table, Wylie and Hood drank in silence for a few moments. Wylie spoke first.

‘What do you reckon?’

Hood shook his head. ‘The DI has a rep for going out on a limb. Do we want to be out there with him?’

‘I don’t see it, to be honest with you. What’s our case — or Siobhan’s, come to that — got to do with this dead MSP?’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I think he might be trying to hijack our cases because his own one’s hit a wall.’

Hood shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, he’s not like that.’

Wylie was thoughtful. ‘Mind you, if he’s right then we’ve got a bigger case than we thought.’ Her mouth twisted into a smile. ‘And if he’s wrong, it’s not us who’ll get carpeted, is it?’

Rebus was coming back with the drinks. Gin, lime and soda for Wylie, half of lager for Hood. He went back to the bar and returned with a whisky for himself, Coke for Siobhan.

‘Slainte,’ he said, as Siobhan settled next to him on the narrow banquette.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Wylie asked.

‘You don’t need me to tell you,’ Rebus said. ‘You follow procedure.’

‘Talk to Barry Hutton?’ Hood guessed.

Rebus nodded. ‘You might want to do a little digging, too, just in case there’s something about him we should know.’

‘And Supertramp?’ Siobhan asked.

Rebus turned to her. ‘Well, as it happens, I’ve an idea...’

Someone put their head round the corner, as if checking who was in the bar. Rebus recognised the face: Gordon, one of the regulars. He was still in his work suit; probably been out with the office. He saw Rebus, seemed about to retreat but then decided on another course of action. Approached the table, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Rebus could tell immediately that he’d been celebrating.

‘You jammy bastard,’ Gordon said. ‘You got off with Lorna that night, didn’t you?’ He was getting ready to make a joke of it: something to embarrass Rebus in front of his friends. ‘Sixties supermodel, and you’re the best she can do.’ He shook his head, missing the look on Rebus’s face.

‘Thanks, Gordon,’ Rebus said. The tone alerted the younger man, who looked at his fellow drinker and slapped his hand to his mouth.

‘Sorry I spoke,’ he mumbled, heading back towards the bar. Rebus looked at the faces around the table. They all suddenly seemed very interested in their drinks.

‘You’ll have to excuse Gordon,’ he told them. ‘Sometimes he gets the wrong end of the stick.’

‘I take it he meant Lorna Grieve?’ Siobhan said. ‘Does she drink in here often?’

Rebus gave her a look; refused to answer.

‘She’s the sister of the murder victim,’ Siobhan went on, her voice low.

‘She came in here one night, that’s all.’ But Rebus knew he was fidgeting too much. He glanced towards Wylie and Hood, remembered that they’d seen her in the Ox that night. He picked up his whisky, found he’d already finished it. ‘Gordon doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ he muttered. Even to his ears, it sounded limp.

23

There were those who said that Edinburgh was an invisible city, hiding its true feelings and intentions, its citizens outwardly respectable, its streets appearing frozen in time. You could visit the place and come away with little sense of having understood what drove it. This was the city of Deacon Brodie, where bridled passions were given free play only at night. The city of John Knox, his rectitude stern and indomitable. You might need half a million pounds to buy one of the better houses, yet outward show was frowned upon; a city of Saabs and Volvos rather than Bentleys and Ferraris. Glaswegians — who considered themselves more passionate, more Celtic — thought Edinburgh staid and conventional to the point of prissiness.

Hidden city. The historical proof: when invading armies advanced, the populace made themselves scarce in the caves and tunnels below the Old Town. Their homes might be ransacked, but the soldiers would leave eventually — it was hard to enjoy victory without the evidence of the vanquished — and the locals would come back into the light to begin the work of rebuilding.

Out of the darkness and into the light.

The Presbyterian ethos swept idolatry from the churches, but left them strangely empty and echoing, filling them with congregations who’d been told that from birth they were doomed. All of this filtering down through the consciousness of the years. The citizens of Edinburgh made good bankers and lawyers perhaps precisely because they held their emotions in check, and were good at keeping secrets. Slowly, the city gained a reputation as a financial centre. At one time, Charlotte Square, where many of the banking and insurance institutions had made their headquarters, was reckoned to be the richest such street in Europe. But now, with the need for purpose-built offices and car-parking facilities, the banks and insurance companies were regrouping in the area around Morrison Street and the Western Approach Road. This was Edinburgh’s new financial district, a maze of concrete and glass with the arena-like International Convention Centre at its hub.

Everyone seemed to agree that until the arrival of these new buildings, the area had been a waste ground, an eyesore. But opinion was divided over just how user-unfriendly the maze now was. It was as if humans had been dropped from the planning equation, the buildings existing only to serve themselves. Nobody walked around the financial district for the pleasure of the architecture.

Nobody walked around the financial district at all.

Except, this Monday morning, for Ellen Wylie and Grant Hood. They’d made the mistake of parking too early, in a convenient car park on Morrison Street. Hood’s reasoning: the place had to be near by. But the anonymity of the buildings and the fact that walkways were closed due to ongoing construction work meant that they ended up lost somewhere behind the Sheraton on Lothian Road. In the end, Wylie got on her mobile and had a receptionist direct them, until they found themselves entering a twelve-storey building of grey smoked glass and pink facing-stone. The receptionist was smiling as they marched across the floor towards her.

‘And here you are,’ she said, putting down the phone.

‘And here we are,’ Wylie agreed, bristling.

Workmen were still busy in Hutton Tower. Electricians in blue overalls fringed with tool belts; painters in white overalls spotted with greys and yellows, whistling as they rested their tins on the floor, awaiting the lift.

‘It’ll be fine when it’s finished,’ Hood told the receptionist.

‘Top floor,’ she said. ‘Mr Graham’s expecting you.’

They shared their lift with a grey-suited executive, his arms wrestling squid-like with paperwork. He got out three floors below them, almost colliding with a sparky positioning a ladder under some ceiling cables. But when the lift doors opened on the twelfth floor, they entered a calm reception area, with an elegant woman rising from behind her desk to greet them and direct them the eight feet to where two chairs awaited in front of a polished coffee table, arranged with the morning papers.

‘Mr Graham will be with you in a moment. Can I get you anything: tea, coffee?’

‘It was actually Mr Hutton we were wanting to see,’ Wylie said. The woman just kept smiling.

‘Mr Graham won’t keep you,’ she said, turning back to her desk.

‘Oh, good,’ Hood said, lifting one of the papers. ‘My Financial Times didn’t turn up this morning.’

Wylie looked both ways along the narrow corridor, which disappeared round corners at either end. She got the feeling the corridor made a circuit of this floor of the building, and that the floors below would be identical. There were doors either side, leading either to a window view or to interior space. The windowed offices would be coveted. Working as she presently did from a windowless box in St Leonard’s, she herself coveted anything big enough to swing a cat in, even if the cat suffered minor concussion.

A man had rounded the far corner. He was tall, well built, young. His short black hair was professionally styled and gelled, his suit dark grey, immaculately tailored. He wore oval glasses and a gold Rolex. When he introduced himself as John Graham, and put his hand out to shake, Wylie saw a gold cuff link at the end of his pale lemon shirt. It was one of those collarless affairs that wouldn’t support a tie. She’d met men before who’d had about them the sheen of success, but for this one she almost needed Ray-Bans.

‘We were hoping to speak to Mr Hutton,’ Grant Hood said.

‘Yes, of course. But you’ll appreciate that Barry’s an incredibly busy man.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘He’s in a meeting as I speak, and we wondered if perhaps I could be of assistance. Perhaps if we go through what it is you need, I can transmit that to Barry.’

Wylie was about to say that it sounded like a long-winded way of ‘assisting’, but Graham was already leading them down the corridor, calling back to the receptionist that his calls were to be held for the next fifteen minutes. Wylie shared a look with Hood: big of him. Hood’s mouth twitched, telling her there was nothing to be gained by riling the emissary — not just yet, at any rate.

‘This is the boardroom,’ Graham said, leading them into an L-shaped room at one corner of the building. A large rectangular desk filled most of the space. Water glasses, pencils and notepads were laid out, ready for the next meeting. A large marker-board stood unsullied at the head of the table. At the far end, a sofa faced a widescreen TV and video. But what impressed most was the view — east towards the castle, and north towards Princes Street and the New Town, with the Fife coastline just visible beyond.

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Graham told them. ‘There’s a plan to build an even taller tower right next door.’

‘A Hutton development?’ Wylie guessed.

‘Of course,’ Graham said. He’d motioned for them to sit, having taken the chair at the top of the table. He brushed non-existent specks from one trouser leg. ‘So, if you’d care to give me the background?’

‘It’s simple enough, sir,’ Grant Hood said, pulling his chair in. ‘DS Wylie and myself are carrying out a murder inquiry.’ Graham raised an eyebrow, and pressed his hands together. ‘As part of that inquiry, we need to talk to your boss.’

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

Wylie took over. ‘Not really, sir. You see, in a case like this, we don’t really have the time. We came here out of common courtesy. If Mr Hutton won’t see us, then we’ll just have to take him down to the station.’ She shrugged, her piece said.

Hood glanced at her, then back to Graham. ‘What DS Wylie says is correct, sir. We have the powers to question Mr Hutton whether he likes it or not.’

‘I can assure you, it’s nothing like that.’ Graham held both hands up in a pacifying gesture. ‘But he does happen to be in a meeting, and these things can take time.’

‘We did phone ahead to warn we were coming.’

‘And we do appreciate that, DS Wylie. But something came up. This is a multimillion-pound business, and the unexpected does arise from time to time. Decisions sometimes have to made immediately; millions can depend on it. You do see that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, but as you can see, there’s nothing you can help us with,’ Wylie said. ‘You weren’t working for a man called Dean Coghill in 1978, were you? I’d guess that twenty years ago, you were still busy in the school playground, trying to look up girls’ skirts and comparing plook collections with your pals. So if Mr Hutton would deign to join us...’ She nodded towards a camera in the corner of the ceiling. ‘We’d be very grateful.’

Hood began to apologise for his partner’s behaviour. Graham’s cheeks had coloured, and he didn’t seem to have an answer. Then a voice broke in, coming from a loudspeaker somewhere.

‘Show the officers the way.’

Graham rose to his feet, avoiding their eyes. ‘If you’ll follow me,’ he said.

He took them into the corridor, pointed along it. ‘Second door on the left.’ Then he turned and walked away; his small victory over them.

‘Think this corridor’s bugged, too?’ Wylie asked in an undertone.

‘Who knows?’

‘He got a fright, didn’t he? Wasn’t expecting the one in the skirt to play tough.’ Hood watched a grin spread across her face. ‘And as for you...’

‘What about me?’

She looked at him. ‘Apologising on my behalf.’

‘That’s what the “good” cop does.’

They knocked at the door, then opened it unasked. An anteroom, with a secretary already rising from her desk. She opened the inner door, and they entered Barry Hutton’s office.

The man himself was standing just inside, legs slightly apart and hands behind his back.

‘I thought you were a bit rough on John.’ He shook Wylie’s hand. ‘All the same, I admire your style. If you want something, don’t let anyone stand in your way.’

It wasn’t that big an office, but the walls dripped modern art, and there was a bar in one corner, which is where Hutton was headed.

‘Can I get you something?’ He pulled a bottle of Lucozade out of the fridge. They shook their heads. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swallow. ‘I’m addicted,’ he said. ‘Used to be, when I was a kid you only ever got the stuff when you were ill. Do you remember that? Come on, let’s sit here.’

He led them to a cream leather sofa, and took the matching chair opposite. The portable TV in front of them was actually a monitor. It was still showing a view of the boardroom table.

‘Cute, isn’t it?’ Hutton said. He picked up a remote. ‘Look, I can move it around, zoom in on faces...’

‘And it has sound, too?’ Wylie guessed. ‘So you know what we want to talk to you about.’

‘Something about a murder?’ Hutton took another swig of his addiction. ‘I heard Dean Coghill was dead, but that was natural causes, wasn’t it?’

‘Queensberry House,’ Grant Hood stated.

‘Oh, right: the body behind the wall?’

‘In a room renovated by Dean Coghill’s team between 1978 and ’79.’

‘And?’

‘And that’s when the body got walled up.’

Hutton looked from one officer to the other. ‘You’re kidding?’

Wylie unfolded the list of people who’d worked in the building. ‘Recognise these names, sir?’

Hutton ended up smiling. ‘Brings back memories.’

‘None of them went missing?’

The smile vanished. ‘No.’

‘Was anyone else working there, casual labour maybe?’

‘Not that I remember. Not unless you’re counting me.’

‘We did notice your name was a late addition.’

Hutton nodded. He was short, maybe five-eight, skinny but with a developing paunch and jowls. His black suit was shiny new, and all three buttons were done up. His black brogues gleamed, the leather not yet broken in. He had small, dark, deep-set eyes, his brown hair cut above the ears but with prominent sideburns. Wylie knew she wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd as being especially rich or influential.

‘Work experience. I fancied the building trade. Looks like I made the right decision.’ His smile invited them to join in his good fortune. Neither detective did so.

‘Do you ever have any dealings with Peter Kirkwall?’ Wylie asked.

‘He’s a builder, I’m a developer. Different game.’

‘That doesn’t quite answer the question.’

Hutton smiled again. ‘I’m wondering why you asked it.’

‘Just that we talked to him, too. His office was full of plans, photos of his projects...’

‘And mine isn’t? Maybe Peter’s got an ego, and I haven’t.’

‘You do know him then?’

Hutton acknowledged as much with a shrug. ‘I’ve used his firm occasionally. What’s that got to do with your body?’

‘Nothing,’ Wylie conceded. ‘Just curious.’ All the same, she sensed she’d touched a nerve.

‘So,’ Grant Hood said, ‘getting back to Queensberry House...’

‘What can I tell you? I was eighteen, nineteen. They had me mixing concrete, all the unskilled jobs. It’s called learning from the floor up.’

‘You remember that room, though? The fireplaces?’

Hutton nodded. ‘Putting in a DPC, yes. I was there when we opened the wall.’

‘Was anyone told about the fireplaces?’

‘To be honest, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, Dean had the feeling they’d want to send in the historians, which would knock our schedule on the head. Something about not getting paid till the work was complete. If we were hanging around waiting for them to do their stuff, it’d be time lost.’

‘So you just covered it up again?’

‘Must’ve done. I came to work one morning, and the wall was back up.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Dean himself maybe, or Harry Connors. Harry was pretty close to Dean, like a right-hand man.’ He nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at, though: whoever covered that fireplace over had to know there was a body inside.’

‘Any theories?’ Wylie asked. Hutton shook his head. ‘You must have read about the case in the papers, Mr Hutton. Any reason you didn’t come forward?’

‘I didn’t know the body dated from back then. That fireplace could have been opened and closed again a dozen times since we worked there.’

‘Any other reason?’

Hutton looked at her. ‘I’m a businessman. Any stories about me get into the press, it can affect how I’m seen in the business community.’

‘In other words, not all publicity is good publicity?’ Hood asked.

Hutton smiled at him. ‘Got it in one.’

‘Before we get too cosy,’ Wylie interrupted, ‘can I just ask how you got your job with Mr Coghill’s firm.’

‘I applied, same as everyone else.’

‘Really?’

Hutton frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I was just wondering if maybe your uncle put in a word, or maybe more than a word.’

Hutton rolled his eyes. ‘I wondered when this would come up. Look, my mum happens to be Bryce Callan’s sister, okay? It doesn’t make me a criminal.’

‘Are you saying your uncle’s a criminal?’ Wylie asked.

Hutton looked disappointed in her. ‘Don’t get glib. We all know what the police think of my uncle. All the rumours and insinuations. But nothing’s ever been proved, has it? Never even been to a court of law. What does that say, eh? To me, it says you’re wrong. It says I’ve worked to get where I am. Taxes, VAT and the rest: I’m cleaner than anybody. And the idea that you can walk in here and start—’

‘I think we get the picture, Mr Hutton,’ Hood interrupted. ‘Sorry if you thought we were suggesting anything. This is a murder inquiry, which means every angle ends up being considered, no matter how insignificant.’

Hutton stared at Hood, trying to read something into that last word.

‘When did you leave Mr Coghill’s firm?’ Wylie asked.

Hutton had to think about it. ‘April, May, something like that.’

‘Of ’79?’ Hutton nodded. ‘And you joined...?’

‘October, ’78.’

‘Just the six months then? Not very long.’

‘I had a better offer.’

‘And what was that, sir?’ Hood asked.

‘I’ve got nothing to hide!’ Hutton spat.

‘We appreciate that, sir,’ Wylie said, her voice soothing.

Hutton calmed quickly. ‘I went to work for my uncle.’

‘For Bryce Callan?’ Hutton nodded.

‘Doing what?’ Hood asked.

Hutton took his time finishing the bottle. ‘Some land development thing of his.’

‘That was your big break then?’ Wylie asked.

‘It’s how I got started, yes. But as soon as I could, I branched off on my own.’

‘Yes, sir, of course.’ Hood’s tone said: I’ve worked to get where I am; but with a helping hand the size of a football field.

As they were leaving, Wylie asked one more question. ‘This must be an exciting time for you?’

‘We’ve got plenty of ideas.’

‘Sites around Holyrood?’

‘The parliament’s just the beginning. Out-of-town shopping, marina developments. It’s astonishing how much of Edinburgh is still under-developed. And not just Edinburgh. I’ve got projects in Glasgow, Aberdeen, Dundee...’

‘And there are enough clients?’ Hood asked.

Hutton laughed. ‘They’re queuing up, pal. All we need is less red tape.’

Wylie nodded. ‘Planning permission?’

At mention of the words, Hutton made the sign of the cross with the index fingers of both hands. ‘The curse of the developer.’

But he could afford a final laugh as he closed his office door on them.

24

‘Fair warning,’ Rebus said as they walked up the drive, ‘the mother’s a bit fragile.’

‘Understood,’ Siobhan Clarke replied. ‘So you’ll be your usual charming self?’

‘It’s Lorna Grieve we want to talk to,’ he reminded her. Then he nodded towards the Fiat Punto parked to the right of the front door. ‘That’s her car.’ He’d called High Manor, spoken with Hugh Cordover, listening intently for any new or accusing tone, but all Cordover had done was tell him Lorna was in Edinburgh.

‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea,’ Siobhan was saying.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve told you—’

‘John, you can’t go getting involved with—’

He grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her so she was facing him. ‘I’m not involved!’

‘You didn’t sleep with her?’ Siobhan was trying to keep her voice down.

‘What does it matter if I did?’

‘We’re working a murder case. We’re about to question her.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re hurting my shoulder.’

He released his grip, mumbled an apology.

They rang the doorbell and waited. ‘How was your weekend?’ Rebus asked. She just glared at him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if we go in there spitting at one another, we’re not going to get very far.’

She seemed to consider this. ‘Hibs won again,’ she said at last. ‘What did you get up to?’

‘I went into the office, can’t say I achieved much.’

Alicia Grieve answered the door. She looked older than when Rebus had last seen her, as if she’d lived too long already and was realising the fact. Age could dupe you like that, almost its cruellest trick. You lost a loved one, and time seemed to go into fast forward, so that you withered, sometimes even died. Rebus had seen it before: fit spouses dying in their sleep only days or weeks after burying their partner. It was as if a switch had been flicked, voluntary or involuntary, you could never tell.

‘Mrs Grieve,’ he said. ‘Remember me? DI Rebus?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice was reedy, parched. ‘And who is this?’

‘DC Clarke,’ Siobhan said by way of introduction. She was smiling the smile of youth when faced with the aged: sympathetic yet not quite understanding. Rebus realised that he was closer to Alicia Grieve’s age than Siobhan’s. He had to push that thought away.

‘Can we bury Roddy? Is that why you’ve come?’ She didn’t sound hopeful; she would accept whatever they had to tell her. That was her role now in what was left of the world.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grieve,’ Rebus said. ‘Just a little longer.’

She mimicked the final phrase, and added: ‘Time is elastic, don’t you find?’

‘We’re actually here to see Mrs Cordover,’ Siobhan stressed, trying to draw the woman back from wherever she was headed.

‘Lorna,’ Rebus added.

‘Is she here?’ Alicia Grieve asked.

A voice from the interior: ‘Of course I’m here, Mother. We were talking not two minutes ago.’

Mrs Grieve stood aside, letting them in. Lorna Grieve stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, a cardboard box in her arms.

‘Hello again,’ she said to Rebus, ignoring Siobhan.

‘Could we have a word, do you think?’ Rebus asked. He wasn’t quite looking at her. She became amused, nodded towards the room she’d just left.

‘I’m trying to tidy some of this crap away.’

Mrs Grieve’s fingers touched the back of Rebus’s hand. They were as cold as a slab. ‘She wants to sell my paintings. She needs the money.’

Rebus looked to Lorna, who was shaking her head.

‘I want them cleaned and reframed, that’s all.’

‘She’ll sell them,’ Mrs Grieve warned. ‘I know that’s what she’s up to.’

‘Mother, for Christ’s sake. I don’t need money.’

‘Your husband needs it. He has debts and only the last vestige of anything resembling a career.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Lorna muttered.

‘Don’t you get cheeky with me, my girl!’ Mrs Grieve’s voice was trembling. Her fingers still held Rebus’s hand. They were talons; fleshless claws.

Lorna sighed. ‘What do you two want anyway? I hope you’re here to arrest me; anything would be better than this.’

‘You can always go home!’ her mother shrieked.

‘And leave you here to wallow in self-pity? Oh no, Mummy dearest, we can’t have that.’

‘Seona looks after me.’

‘Seona’s too busy with her political career,’ Lorna spat. ‘She doesn’t need you now. She’s found a more useful cause.’

‘You’re a monster.’

‘Which must make you Dr Frankenstein, I presume?’

‘Vile body.’

‘Yes, on you go. You’ll be telling us you knew him next.’ She turned to Rebus and Siobhan. ‘Evelyn Waugh,’ she explained. ‘Vile Bodies.’

‘Putrid. You threw yourself at every man you ever met.’

‘I still do,’ Lorna snarled. She didn’t so much as glance at Rebus. ‘While you only ever threw yourself at Father, because you knew he’d be useful to you. And once your reputation was established, that was, in a phrase, the end of the affair.’

‘How dare you.’ Cold rage, the rage of a much younger woman.

Siobhan was touching Rebus’s sleeve, edging back towards the door. Lorna saw what she was doing. ‘Oh look, we’re frightening off the filth! Isn’t that precious, Mother? Did you realise we possessed such power?’ She started to laugh. A few moments later, Alicia Grieve joined her.

Rebus’s thought: it’s a fucking mad house. Then he realised that this was normal behaviour for mother and daughter: fighting and spitting the prelude to catharsis. They’d been in the public’s eye so long, they’d become actors in their own melodrama; played out their quarrels as though each one had measure and meaning.

Scenes from family life.

Bloody hell.

Lorna was wiping an imaginary tear from her eye, still cradling the paintings. ‘I’ll put these back,’ she said.

‘No,’ said her mother, ‘leave them in the hall with the others.’ She pointed to where a dozen or so framed paintings sat against the wall. ‘You’re right, we’ll have them looked at: cleaned up, maybe a few new frames.’

‘We should get an insurance quote while we’re at it.’ Her mother was about to interrupt, so Lorna went on quickly. ‘That’s not so I can sell them. But if they were stolen...’

Alicia seemed about to argue, but sucked in a deep breath and just nodded. The paintings were laid with the others. Lorna stood up again, brushing her hands free of dust.

‘Must be forty years since you painted some of these.’

‘You’re probably right. Maybe even longer.’ Alicia nodded. ‘But they’ll survive long after I’m gone. It’s just that they won’t mean the same.’

‘How’s that?’ Siobhan felt compelled to ask.

Alicia looked at her. ‘They mean things to me which they never can to anyone else.’

‘That’s why they’re here,’ Lorna explained, ‘rather than on some collector’s walls.’

Alicia Grieve nodded. ‘Meaning is precious. The personal is all we have; without it, we’re animals, pure and simple.’ She suddenly perked up, her hand dropping from Rebus’s. ‘Tea,’ she barked, clapping her hands together. ‘We must all have some tea.’

Rebus was wondering if there was any chance of a tot of whisky on the side.

They sat in the sitting room, making small talk while Lorna coped in the kitchen. She brought in a tray, started pouring.

‘I’m bound to have forgotten something,’ she said. ‘Tea’s not my strong point.’ She looked at Rebus as she spoke, but he was focused on the fireplace. ‘Something stronger, Inspector? I seem to remember you enjoy a malt.’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ he felt compelled to say.

‘Sugar,’ Lorna said, studying the tray. ‘Told you.’ She made for the door, but Rebus and Siobhan announced that neither of them took it, so she returned to her seat. There were crumbly digestives on a plate. They turned down the offer, but Alicia took one, dunking it into her tea, where it broke into pieces. They ignored her as she fished the morsels out, popping them into her mouth.

‘So,’ Lorna said at last, ‘what brings you to Happy Acres?’

‘It might be something or nothing,’ Rebus said. ‘DC Clarke has been investigating the suicide of a homeless person. It looks like he was very interested in your family.’

‘Oh?’

‘And the fact of his suicide, so soon after the murder...’

Lorna sat forward in her chair. She was looking at Siobhan. ‘This wouldn’t be the millionaire tramp by any chance?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Though he wasn’t quite a millionaire.’

Lorna turned to her mother. ‘You remember me telling you?’

Her mother nodded, but appeared not to have been listening. Lorna turned back to Siobhan. ‘But what’s it got to do with us?’

‘Maybe nothing,’ Siobhan conceded. ‘The deceased was calling himself Chris Mackie. Does that name mean anything?’

Lorna thought hard, then shook her head.

‘We have some photos,’ Siobhan said, handing them over. She glanced at Rebus.

Lorna studied the photos. ‘Grim-looking creature, isn’t he?’

Siobhan was still looking at Rebus, willing him to ask the question.

‘Mrs Cordover,’ he said, ‘there’s no easy way to ask this.’

She looked at him. ‘Ask what?’

Rebus took a deep breath. ‘He’s a lot older... been living rough.’ He dived in. ‘It couldn’t be Alasdair, could it?’

‘Alasdair?’ Lorna took another look at the top photo. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ She looked towards her mother, who seemed to have turned whiter than ever. ‘Alasdair’s got fair hair, nothing like this.’ Alicia’s hand was reaching out, but Lorna passed the photos back to Siobhan. ‘What are you trying to do? This man’s nothing like Alasdair, nothing like him at all.’

‘People can change in twenty years,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘People can change overnight,’ she retorted coldly, ‘but that’s not my brother. What made you think it was?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘A hunch.’

‘I’ll show you Alasdair,’ Alicia Grieve said, rising to her feet. She put her cup down on the table. ‘Come with me, and I’ll show you him.’

They followed her into the kitchen. The glass-fronted china cabinet was full, and piles of clean crockery covered the worktops, awaiting space that would never be there. The sink was full of dirty dishes. An ironing board was piled with clothes. A radio was playing softly: some classical station.

‘Bruckner,’ Alicia said, unlocking the back door. ‘They always seem to be playing Bruckner.’

‘Her studio,’ Lorna explained as they followed Alicia into the garden. It was overgrown now, untended, but the notion of the garden it had once been was still there. A free-standing swing, its pipework corroded. A stone urn, waiting to be put upright on its plinth. The leaves on the lawn had turned to mulch, making progress difficult. And at the far end of the garden, a stone outhouse.

‘The servants’ quarters?’ Rebus guessed.

‘I suppose so,’ Lorna said. ‘It was our secret place when we were kids. Then Mother turned it into a studio, and we were locked out.’ She was watching her mother lead the way, the old woman’s back stooped. ‘Time was, Father and she painted in the same room — his studio’s in the attic.’ She pointed back to two skylights in the roof. ‘Then Mother decided she needed her own space, her own light. She was locking him out of her life, too.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘It wasn’t easy, growing up a Grieve.’

He almost thought she’d said growing up aggrieved.

Alicia took a key from her cardigan pocket, unlocked the door to her studio. It was just one room inside, the stone walls whitewashed and spattered with paint. Paint on the floor, too. Three easels of different sizes. Threads of cobweb hanging from the ceiling. And against one wall, a series of portraits, head and neck only, the canvasses of varying size. The same man, caught at different stages of his life.

‘Good God,’ Lorna gasped, ‘it’s Alasdair.’ She started sorting through the portraits; there were over a dozen.

‘I imagine him growing, ageing,’ Alicia said quietly. ‘I see him in my mind and then I paint him.’

Fair-haired, sad-eyed. A troubled man, despite the smiles the artist had given him. And nothing at all like Chris Mackie.

‘You never said anything.’ Lorna had picked up one of the paintings to study it more closely. Her finger brushed the shadowing of cheekbones.

‘You’d have been jealous,’ her mother said. ‘No good denying it.’ She turned to Rebus. ‘Alasdair was my favourite, you see. And when he ran away...’ She looked at her own work. ‘Maybe this was my way of explaining it.’ When she turned back, she saw that Siobhan was still holding the photographs. ‘May I?’ She took them, held them up to her face.

Recognition lit up her eyes. ‘Where is he?’

‘You know him?’ Siobhan asked.

‘I need to know where he is.’

Lorna had put down the portrait. ‘He killed himself, Mother. The tramp who left all the money.’

‘Who is he, Mrs Grieve?’ Rebus asked.

Alicia’s hands were shaking as she went through the photos again. ‘I’ve been so wanting to talk to him.’ There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them with her wrist. Rebus had taken a step forward.

‘Who is it, Alicia? Who’s the man in the photographs?’

She looked at him. ‘His name’s Frederick Hastings.’

‘Freddy?’ Lorna came over to look. She pried the police photo from her mother’s fingers.

‘Well?’ Rebus asked.

‘I suppose it could be. It’s twenty years since I last laid eyes on him.’

‘But who was he?’ Siobhan asked.

Suddenly Rebus remembered. ‘Alasdair’s business partner?’

Lorna was nodding.

Rebus turned to Siobhan. She looked puzzled.

‘You say he’s dead?’ Alicia asked. Rebus nodded. ‘He’d have known where Alasdair is. Those two were inseparable. Maybe there’s an address amongst his belongings.’

Lorna was looking at the other photos, the ones of ‘Chris Mackie’ at the hostel. ‘Freddy Hastings a tramp.’ Her laughter was a sudden explosion in the room.

‘I don’t think there was any address,’ Siobhan was telling Alicia Grieve. ‘I’ve been through his effects several times.’

‘Maybe we’d best go back to the house,’ Rebus announced. Suddenly, he had a lot more questions to ask.

Lorna made another pot of tea, but this time fixed herself a drink, half-and-half whisky and spring water. She’d made the offer, but Rebus had turned it down. Her eyes were on him as she took the first sip.

Siobhan had her notebook out, pen ready.

Lorna exhaled; the fumes wafted all the way to where Rebus was sitting. ‘We thought they’d gone off together,’ she began.

‘Utter nonsense,’ her mother interrupted.

‘Okay, you didn’t think they were gay.’

‘They disappeared at the same time?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Looked like. After Alasdair had been gone a few days, we tried contacting Freddy. No sign of him.’

‘Was he reported as a missing person?’

Lorna shrugged. ‘Not by me.’

‘Family?’

‘I don’t think he had any.’ She looked to her mother for confirmation.

‘He was an only child,’ Alicia said. ‘Parents died within a year of one another.’

‘Left him some money, most of which I thought he’d lost.’

‘They both lost money,’ Alicia added. ‘That’s why Alasdair ran off, Inspector. Bad debts. He was too proud to ask for help.’

‘But not too proud to clear off,’ Lorna couldn’t help saying. Her mother fixed her with a glare.

‘When was this?’ Rebus asked.

‘Some time in ’79.’ Lorna looked to her mother for confirmation.

‘Halfway through March,’ the old woman said.

Rebus and Siobhan locked eyes. March ’79: Skelly.

‘What sort of business did they have?’ Siobhan asked, keeping her voice under control.

‘Their last foray was into property.’ Lorna shrugged again. ‘I don’t know much more than that. Probably bought places they couldn’t sell on.’

‘Land development?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Would that be it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Rebus turned to Alicia, who shook her head. ‘Alasdair was very private in some ways. He wanted us to think he was so capable... so self-sufficient.’

Lorna got up to refill her glass. ‘My mother’s way of saying he was hopeless at most things.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ Alicia snapped.

‘If they ran off because they were in debt,’ Siobhan said, ‘how come Mr Hastings had nearly half a million pounds in a briefcase a year or so on?’

‘You’re the detectives, you tell us.’ Lorna sat down again.

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘All this stuff about the two men’s business failings, is there anything to back it up, or is it another clan myth?’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘It’s just that we could do with a few solid facts in this case.’

‘What case?’ The alcohol was kicking in; Lorna’s voice had turned combative, her cheeks tinged with red. ‘You’re supposed to be investigating Roddy’s murder, not Freddy’s suicide.’

‘The Inspector thinks they may be linked,’ Alicia said, nodding at her own deduction.

‘What makes you say that, Mrs Grieve?’ Rebus asked.

‘Freddy was interested in us, you say. Do you think he could have killed Roddy?’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know. Something to do with the money, perhaps.’

‘Did Roddy and Freddy know one another?’

‘They met a few times, when Alasdair brought Freddy to the house. Maybe other times, too.’

‘So if Roddy met Freddy again after twenty years, you think he’d have recognised him?’

‘Probably.’

‘I didn’t,’ Lorna said, ‘when you showed me the photos.’

Rebus looked at her. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He was thinking: or did you? Why had she handed the photos back to Siobhan rather than passing them to her mother?

‘Did Mr Hastings have an office?’

Alicia nodded. ‘In Canongate, not far from Alasdair’s flat.’

‘Can you remember the address?’

She recited it, seeming pleased that she still had the ability.

‘And his home?’ Siobhan was writing in her notebook.

‘A flat in the New Town,’ Lorna said. But again it was her mother who gave the address.

The hotel’s downstairs dining room was quiet at lunchtime. Diners either preferred the bistro-style restaurant on the ground floor or else didn’t know of this second restaurant’s existence. The décor was minimalist, oriental, and the elegantly set tables had plenty of space between them. A discreet place for a conversation. Cafferty got to his feet, shook Barry Hutton’s hand.

‘Uncle Ger, sorry I’m late.’

Cafferty shrugged, while a flunky helped Hutton into his chair. ‘Long time since anyone called me that,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s not like it’s true.’

‘It’s what I always called you.’

Cafferty nodded, examining the well-dressed young man before him. ‘But look at you now, Barry. Doing so well for yourself.’

It was Hutton’s turn to shrug. Menus were being handed out.

‘Any drinks, gentlemen?’ the waiter asked.

‘Calls for champagne, I think,’ Cafferty said. He winked at Hutton. ‘And this is on me, so no arguing.’

‘I wasn’t about to. It’s just that I’ll stick to water, if that’s all right.’

The smile stuck to Cafferty’s face. ‘Whatever you want, Barry.’

Hutton turned to the waiter. ‘Vittel, if you have it. Evian otherwise.’

The waiter bowed his head, turned to Cafferty. ‘And will you still be requiring the champagne, sir?’

‘Didn’t hear me say otherwise, did you?’

The waiter made his little bow again and headed off.

‘Vittel, Evian...’ Cafferty chuckled and shook his head. ‘Christ, if Bryce could see you now.’ Hutton was busy adjusting his shirt cuffs. ‘Rough morning, was it?’

Hutton looked up, and Cafferty knew something had happened. But the younger man was shaking his head. ‘I don’t drink at lunchtime, that’s all.’

‘Then you’ll have to let me buy you dinner.’

Hutton looked around the restaurant. There were only two other diners in the place, seated at a far corner and deep in what looked like a business conversation. Hutton studied the faces, but didn’t recognise them. He turned back to his host.

‘You’re staying here?’

Cafferty nodded.

‘Did you sell the house?’

Cafferty nodded again.

‘And made a fair bit on it, I’d guess.’ Hutton looked at him.

‘Money’s not everything though, is it, Barry? That’s one thing I’ve learned.’

‘You mean good health? Happiness?’

Cafferty pressed his palms together. ‘You’re young still. Wait a few years and maybe you’ll see what I mean.’

Hutton nodded, not really sure what the older man was getting at. ‘You got out pretty early,’ he commented.

‘Time off for good behaviour.’ Cafferty sat back as one waiter produced a basket of bread rolls, and another asked if he wanted the champagne chilled or served slightly cool.

‘Chilled,’ Cafferty said, looking at his guest. ‘So, Barry, business is good, eh? That’s what I hear.’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘And how’s your uncle?’

‘Fine, as far as I know.’

‘You ever see him?’

‘He won’t set foot back here.’

‘I know that. I thought maybe you headed out there. Holidays and stuff.’

‘I can’t remember my last holiday.’

‘All work and no play, Barry,’ Cafferty counselled.

Hutton looked at him. ‘It’s not all work.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Their food order was taken, and the drinks arrived. They toasted one another, Hutton refusing the offer of ‘just one wee glass’. He took his water neat: no ice, no lemon.

‘What about you?’ he asked at last. ‘Not many people come straight from the Bar-L to a place like this.’

‘Let’s just say I’m comfortable,’ Cafferty said with a wink.

‘Of course, you kept a lot of your business interests going while you were away?’

Cafferty heard the quotation marks around business interests. He nodded slowly. ‘Lot of people would be disappointed if I hadn’t.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Hutton tore open one of the tiny, glazed rolls.

‘Which brings me to our little lunch here,’ Cafferty went on.

‘A business lunch then?’ Hutton asked. When Cafferty nodded, he felt a little more comfortable. It wasn’t just a meal any more; he wasn’t wasting his time.

25

Jerry’s face recoiled from the slap. He was getting used to slaps recently. But this wasn’t Jayne.

This was Nic.

He felt his cheek beginning to sting, knew the imprint of a hand would be forming there, pinkish red against his pale skin. Nic’s hand would be stinging, too: small consolation.

They were in Nic’s Cosworth. Jerry had just got in. It had been Nic who’d called — Monday night — and Jerry had jumped at the chance of escape. Jayne was in front of the telly, arms folded, eyes drooping. They’d eaten their tea watching the news: sausage, beans and egg. No chips: the freezer was bare, and neither of them felt like taking the trip to the chip shop. That was when the argument had started.

Ya useless lump of...

It’s you needs to get off your fat arse, no’ me...

Then the phone call. The phone was Jayne’s side of the couch, but she ignored it.

‘Two guesses who that’ll be,’ was all she said. He was hoping she’d be wrong, that it would be her mum. Then he could say, ‘That’s you quietened,’ as he handed over the receiver.

Because if it was Nic... Nic on a Monday night, he never usually went out Mondays... that could probably mean only one thing.

And now here they were together in the car, and Nic was having a go at him.

‘See that stunt you pulled, you ever do something as stupid as that again...’

‘What stunt?’

‘Phoning me at work, ya donkey!’

Jerry thought he was in for another slap, but Nic punched him in the side instead. Not too hard: he was calming down a bit.

‘I wasn’t thinking.’

Nic snorted. ‘When did you ever?’ The engine was already turning over. He slammed the car into gear and got a squeal from the tyres as they sped off. No indicator or mirror; a car behind tooted its horn three or four times. Nic checked the rearview, saw an old guy, all by himself. So he gave him the finger and a mouthful of abuse.

When did you ever?

Jerry’s mind was working back, forming answers. Hadn’t he been the one who’d done most of the shoplifting? And the one who bought them their booze when they were under age, because he was that bit taller and older-looking than Nic. Nic: smooth, shiny face, still like a kid’s even now; thick dark hair always cut and styled. Nic was the one the girls went for, Jerry hanging back to see if any of them would find him worth talking to.

Nic at college, telling Jerry stories of shagging marathons. Even then, even back then there’d been glimpses: she didn’t fancy that, so I slapped her till she did... had her wrists held in one hand and I was pumping away like.

It was as if the world deserved his violence, and would accept it because in every other way he was just fine, just perfect. The night Nic had met Catriona... he’d given Jerry a slap that night, too. They’d been to a couple of bars — Madogs, trendy but pricey, Princess Margaret was supposed to’ve drunk there, and the Shakespeare, next to the Usher Hall. That’s where they’d met Cat and her friends, who were off to see some play at the Lyceum, something to do with horses. Nic knew one of the girls, introduced himself to the group, Jerry mute but keen beside him. And Nic had got talking to this other girl, Cat, short for Catriona. Not a bad looker, but not the best of the bunch either.

‘Are you at Napier?’ someone asked Jerry.

‘Naw,’ he said, ‘I’m in the electronics business.’ That was his line. They were supposed to think he was a games designer, maybe ran his own software company. But it never seemed to work. They asked questions he couldn’t answer, until he laughed and admitted he drove a fork-lift. There were smiles at the news, but not much more in the way of conversation.

When the group headed off to their play, Nic nudged Jerry. ‘Solid gold, pal,’ he said. ‘Cat’s meeting me after for a drink.’

‘Like her then?’

‘She’s all right.’ A wary look. ‘She is, eh?’

‘Oh aye, she’s rare.’

Another nudge. ‘And she’s related to Bryce Callan. That’s her surname: Callan.’

‘So?’

Nic going wide-eyed. ‘Never heard of Bryce Callan? Fuck me, Jerry, he runs the place.’

Jerry looking around the pub. ‘This place?’

‘Ya tube, he runs Edinburgh.’

Jerry nodding, even though he still didn’t understand.

Later, a few more boozers down the road, he’d asked if he could go with Nic when he met Catriona.

‘Don’t be wet.’

‘What am I supposed to do then?’

They were walking along the pavement, and Nic had stopped suddenly, facing him, his eyes glowering.

‘I’ll tell you what would be a start — you growing up. Everything’s changed, we’re not kids now.’

‘I know that. I’m the one with the job, the one that’s getting married.’

And Nic had slapped him. Not hard, but the act itself shocking Jerry rigid.

‘Time to grow up, pal. You might have a job but everywhere I take you, you just stand there like a drink of fucking water.’ Grabbing Jerry’s face. ‘Study me, Jer, watch how I do things. You might start growing up.’

Growing up.

Jerry wondered if this was what growing up brought you to: the two of them, in the Cosworth, and, it being a Monday night, out on the hunt. There were Monday-night singles clubs, usually catering to a slightly older clientele. Not that Nic minded what age the women were. He just wanted one of them. Jerry risked a glance at his friend. So good-looking... why did he need to do it this way? What was his problem?

But Jerry knew the answer to that. Cat was the problem. The problem of Cat was there at every bloody turn.

‘Where we going then?’ he asked.

‘The van’s parked in Lochrin Place.’ Nic’s voice was cold. Jerry was feeling the boak again in his stomach, like he was breathing bile. But the thing was... once they got started, he knew it would be joined by a completely different feeling: he’d get excited, same as Nic. Hunters, the pair of them.

‘Treat it like a game,’ Nic had said the first time.

Treat it like a game.

And his heart would beat faster, groin tingling. With the gloves and the ski mask, and sitting in the Bedford van, he was a different person. Not Jerry Lister any more, but someone out of a comic book or a film, someone stronger and scarier. Someone you had to fear. It was almost enough to tamp down the dry boak. Almost.

The van belonged to a guy Nic knew. Nic told the bloke he needed it now and again for a bit of moonlighting, helping a friend shift second-hand stuff around. The bloke took two tenners from him and didn’t want any other details. Nic had these licence plates, got them from a scrapyard. He’d fix them on with wire, covering the real plates. The van was rusty, a dull white respray. It didn’t stand out at all, not when the streets were dark and cold and you were hurrying home, maybe a bit the worse for wear.

The worse for wear was what Nic wanted. They’d park near the nightclub, pay their money and go in. Plenty of guys turning up in pairs, nothing suspicious about them, nothing to mark them out from anyone else. Then Nic would pick out the tables with parties at them. He seemed to be able to tell which ones were singles clubs. One time, he’d even got one of the women up for a dance. Jerry had asked him afterwards, wasn’t that risky?

‘What’s life without a bit of risk?’

Tonight, they drove around a bit first. Nic knew the club would be at its best come ten o’clock. The post-pub drunks wouldn’t have arrived yet, but the singles clubs would be in full swing. Most of them had work in the morning, couldn’t make too late a night of it. They’d stay till eleven, maybe, then start heading home. And by then, Nic would have picked one or two. He always had a reserve, just in case. Some nights it didn’t work out; the women all headed off together or with partners, none of them branching off on her own.

Other nights, it worked to perfection.

Jerry stood at the edge of the dance floor, lager in hand. Already he could feel the surge in him, the dark excited tide. But he was twitchy, too, never knew when some friend of his or Jayne’s would come wandering up. Jayne know you’re here, does she? No, she didn’t. Didn’t even ask any more. He’d get home at one or two in the morning, and she’d be asleep. Even if he woke her up coming in, she wouldn’t say much.

‘Hammered again?’ Something like that.

He’d go back through to the living room, sit there with the remote in his hand, staring at the TV without switching it on. Sitting in the dark, where nobody could see him, nobody point an accusing finger.

It was you, it was you, it was you.

Not true. It was Nic. It was always Nic.

He stood by the dance floor and held his drink in a hand just barely shaking. And inside he was praying: Don’t let us get lucky tonight!

But then Nic was coming towards him, a weird gleam in his eyes.

‘I don’t believe it, Jer. I do not believe it!’

‘Calm down, man. What’s up?’

Nic was running his hands through his hair. ‘She’s here!’

‘Who?’ Looking around, wondering if anyone was listening. No chance: the music was just this side of the pain barrier. Orbital, it sounded like. Jerry kept up with the latest bands.

Nic was shaking his head. ‘She didn’t see me.’ His mind was working now. ‘We could do this.’ Looking at Jerry. ‘We could do this.’

‘Aw, Jesus, it’s not Cat, is it?’

‘Don’t be dense. It’s that slut Yvonne!’

‘Yvonne?’

‘The one Cat was with that night. The one who took her along.’

Jerry was shaking his head. ‘No way. No way, man.’

‘But it’s perfect!’

‘Perfect’s just what it isn’t, Nic. It’s suicide.’

‘She could be the last one, Jerry. Think about it.’ Nic checked his watch. ‘We’ll stick around a while, see if she hooks up with anyone.’ He slapped Jerry’s shoulder. ‘I’m telling you, Jer, this’ll be wild.’

That’s what I’m afraid of, Jerry felt like saying.

Cat had this friend Yvonne who’d split up from her husband. Yvonne had joined a singles club. And one night she’d persuaded Cat to go with her. Jerry wasn’t too good on the background. He didn’t know why Cat had agreed. Had to mean her own marriage was rocky, but Nic had never said anything. Only things he ever said were along the lines of ‘She betrayed me, Jer,’ and ‘I never saw it coming.’ They’d gone to a nightclub — not this one, but a Thursday nighter, same sort of crowd — and one of the singles guys had taken Cat up for a dance, then another. And that was that. Basically, she’d gone off with him.

And now Nic saw his chance for revenge, not on Cat — no way he could touch her; Christ, her uncle was Bryce Callan, her cousin was Barry Hutton — but on her friend Yvonne.

When Nic came over again and nudged him, Jerry knew the singles group was preparing to leave. He finished his pint and followed Nic out of the club. The van was a hundred yards away. What happened was: Nic followed on foot, Jerry driving. Then Nic would find his spot, make a grab, and Jerry would pull up alongside, haul open the back doors. Then it was back on the road till they found a deserted spot, Nic in the back holding down the woman, Jerry taking care not to run any red lights or pull out in front of cop cars. The gloves and ski masks were in the glove box.

Nic unlocked the van, stared at Jerry.

‘It’s got to be you on foot tonight.’

‘What?’

‘Yvonne knows me. If she hears something, turns her head, she’d see it was me.’

‘Put the mask on then.’

‘You thick? Following a woman down the road with a ski mask on?’

‘I’m not doing it.’

Nic’s teeth were gritted in sudden anger. ‘Help me out here!’

‘No way, man.’ Shaking his head.

Nic made an effort to calm himself. ‘Look, maybe she won’t be on her own anyway. I’m just asking—’

‘And I’m saying no. Whole thing’s way too risky, I don’t care what you say.’ Jerry was moving backwards away from the van.

‘Where you going?’

‘I need some fresh air.’

‘Don’t be like that. Christ, Jer, when are you going to grow up?’

‘No way.’ It was all Jerry could think of to say. Then he turned and ran.

26

Rebus walked from room to room in his flat, waiting for the grill to heat up. Toasted cheese: that most solitary of meals. You never saw it on menus, never invited friends round to share a few slices. It was what you ate when you were alone. A trip to the cupboard revealing a few final slices of bread; marge and cheese in the fridge. You wanted a hot meal this winter evening.

Toasted cheese.

He went back into the kitchen, put the bread under the grill, started slicing the slick wedge of orange Cheddar. A refrain came into his head, something from an old Fringe revue show:

Back into the living room, early Bowie on the hi-fi. ‘The Man Who Sold the World.’ Life was all about commerce, no doubt about it, daily transactions with friends, enemies and strangers, each one providing a winner and a loser, a sense of something lost or gained. You might not be selling the world, but everyone was selling something, some idea of themselves. When Bowie sang of passing someone on the stairs, Rebus thought again of Derek Linford, caught on the tenement stairwell: voyeur, or just insecure? Rebus himself had done some crazy things in his younger days. One girl, when she’d chucked him he’d phoned her parents to say she was pregnant. Christ, they hadn’t even had sex together. He stood beside the window, gazing out at the flats across the way, some still with curtains or shutters open. All those other lives. Opposite him lived a family with two kids, boy and girl. He’d been watching them for so long that one Saturday morning, bumping into them outside the newsagent’s, he’d said hello. The kids, no parents to protect them, had edged past him, eyes wary, while he tried to explain that he was one of their neighbours.

Never talk to strangers: it was advice he’d have given them himself. He might be their neighbour, but he was also a stranger. People on the pavement had looked at him oddly, standing there with his bag of rolls, his newspaper and milk, while two kids walked backwards away from him, and him calling out: ‘I live across the road from you! You must have seen me!’

Of course, they hadn’t seen him. Their minds were elsewhere, fixed on a world entirely separate from his. And from then on, maybe they called him the ‘creepy neighbour’, the man who lived on his own.

Sell the world? He couldn’t even sell himself.

But that was Edinburgh for you. Reserved, self-contained, the kind of place where you might never talk to the person next door. Rebus’s stairwell of six flats boasted only three owner-occupiers; the other three were let to students. He couldn’t have said who owned them until the statutory notice had come round for roof repairs. Absentee landlords. One of them lived in Hong Kong or somewhere, and the lack of his signature had led the council to make their own estimate of repairs — ten times the original — and pass the work on to a favoured firm.

Not too long ago, one stairwell resident out Dalry way had had a contract taken out on him by someone else in the tenement because he wouldn’t sign his name to a repair estimate. That was Edinburgh for you: reserved, self-contained, and lethal when crossed.

Bowie was singing ‘Changes’ now. Black Sabbath had a song with the same title, a ballad of sorts. Ozzy Osbourne singing, ‘I’m going through changes’. Me too, pal, Rebus felt like telling him.

Back into the kitchen: turning the toast and arranging the cheese slices, then back under the grill. He put the kettle on.

Changes: like with his drinking. A hundred pubs he could name in Edinburgh, yet here he was at home, no beer in the cupboard, and just the one bottle of malt whisky on top of the fridge, half of it gone. He would allow himself a single glass before bed, maybe top it up with water. Then under the duvet with a book. He had all these Edinburgh histories to get through, though he’d already given up on Sir Walter Scott’s Journals. Plenty of pubs in the city named after Scott’s works; probably more than he realised, seeing as how he hadn’t read any of the novels.

Smoke from the grill told him the edges of the toast were burning. He tossed both slices on to a plate, took it back through to his chair. The TV was on with the sound muted. His chair was by the window, cordless phone and TV remote on the floor next to it. Some nights the ghosts came, settling themselves on the sofa or cross-legged on the floor. Not enough to fill the room, but more than he’d have liked. Villains, dead colleagues. And now Cafferty was back in his life, as if resurrected. Rebus, chewing, looked to the ceiling, asking God what he’d done to deserve it all. He liked a bit of a laugh, God, even if it was the laughter of cruelty.

Toasted cheese: sometimes at weekends, when Rebus’s father had been alive and the son had headed back to Fife to visit, the old boy would be sitting at the table, munching the selfsame meal, washing down each mouthful with swilled tea. When Rebus had been a kid, they’d eaten as a family in the kitchen, bringing out the fold-down table. But in later years, Rebus senior had hauled the table into the living room, so he could eat near the fire and the television. A two-bar electric heater warming his back. There was a Calor gas heater, too. It always steamed up the windows. And then overnight in winter the condensation would freeze, so you had to scrape it off in the morning, or mop it with the kitchen flannel once the heating got going.

A grunt from his father, Rebus settling into what had been his mother’s chair. He would say he’d eaten; no intention of joining his father at the table set for one. His mother had always laid a tablecloth, his father never did. Same plates and cutlery, but that one telling difference.

And now, Rebus thought, I don’t even use a table.

The ghosts of his parents never visited. Maybe they were at rest, unlike the others. No ghosts tonight, though, just shadows cast by the television screen, street light and the halogen glow of passing cars, the world presented not in terms of colour so much as of light and shade. And Cafferty’s shadow looming larger than any. What was he up to? When would he make his move, his real move, the last one of whatever game he was playing?

Christ, he wanted a drink. But he wouldn’t have one just yet — to prove it to himself. Siobhan was right about him; he’d made a big mistake with Lorna Grieve. He didn’t think it was just the drink to blame — he’d been under the spell of the past, a past of album covers and newspaper photos — but it had played its part. Siobhan had asked when the booze would start affecting his work. He could have told her: it already has.

He picked up his phone, thought about calling Sammy. Then he checked his watch, angling it towards the window. Gone ten. No, it was too late; it was always too late by the time he remembered. And then she’d end up calling him, and he’d apologise, and she’d say he should call anyway, no matter how late. Even so... he told himself it was too late. There’d be someone in the room next to hers, what if his call woke them up? And Sammy needed her sleep; it was rigorous, all the stuff she was doing: the tests, the exercises. She’d told him she was ‘getting there’, her way of saying that progress was slow.

Slow progress: he knew all about it. But things were moving now, definitely moving. He felt as if he was in the driving seat, but blindfolded, taking directions from anyone in the car. There were probably lots of Give Way and No Entry signs ahead on the route, but he was pretty good at ignoring those. Problem was, the car had no seat belts, and Rebus’s instinct was always to go faster.

He got up, swapped Bowie for Tom Waits. Blue Valentine, recorded just before he went ‘junkyard’. Bluesy and seamy and seamless. Waits knew the soul’s rotten marrow: the vocals might be an affectation, but the lyrics were from the heart. Rebus had seen him in concert, the actorliness all too apparent, the words still failing to ring false. Selling a version of himself, something packaged for public consumption. Pop stars and politicians did it all the time. These days the successful politicians lacked opinion and colour. They were ventriloquists’ dummies, their clothes chosen for them by others, colour-coordinated and ‘on message’. He wondered if Seona Grieve would be any different; somehow doubted it. The renegades never found progress easy, and he felt Seona Grieve was too ambitious to take that road. No blindfold for her, just careful hard work in between the mourning. He’d joked with Linford about the widow’s motives. Motive, means and opportunity: the Holy Trinity of murder. Rebus’s real problem was with the means: he didn’t see Seona Grieve as the clawhammer type. But then, if she was being clever, that’s exactly the weapon she’d have used: something people would find hard to associate with her.

While Linford had stuck to the main road, following the signposts marked Investigative Procedure, Rebus had managed to find himself on a rutted track. What if the suicide of Freddy Hastings was unconnected to Roddy Grieve? Maybe it was even unconnected to the find in Queensberry House. Was he really chasing shadows, every bit as worthwhile as following the trail of headlamp shadows across his ceiling? His phone rang just as a track ended, startling him.

‘It’s me,’ Siobhan Clarke said. ‘I think somebody’s spying on me.’

Rebus rang her buzzer. She checked it was him before letting him into the stairwell. Her door was open by the time he reached her floor.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked. She led him into the living room, looking a lot calmer than he felt. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table: a third of it gone, a little left in the single glass. She’d eaten Indian food: he could smell it. But there were no signs of dishes, everything tidied away.

‘I’ve been getting these calls.’

‘What sort of calls?’

‘Hang-ups. Two or three times a day. If I’m not in, the answering machine picks them up. Whoever’s calling, they wait till the thing’s recording before putting the phone down.’

‘And if you’re here?’

‘Same thing: the line goes dead. I tried 1471, but they always withhold their number. And then tonight...’

‘What?’

‘I just got this feeling I was being watched.’ She nodded towards her window. ‘From across there.’

He looked to where she’d closed her curtains. He walked over and opened them, stared out at the tenement opposite. ‘Wait here,’ he said.

‘I could have confronted them myself,’ she said, ‘but...’

‘I won’t be a tick.’

She stood by her window, arms folded. Heard the main door close, watched Rebus cross the road. He’d been out of breath. Was he just out of condition, or had he arrived in such a rush? Maybe afraid for her... She wondered now why she’d called him. Gayfield Square was five minutes away; any officer from there would have responded. Or she could have investigated for herself. It wasn’t that she was scared. But things like this... creeping feelings... once they were shared, they tended to evaporate. He’d pushed open the main door, gone straight in. She saw him pass the first-floor window, and now he was at the second. Standing there, then pressing himself to the glass and waving to let her know it was okay. Up a further flight, checking no one was hiding there, and straight back down again.

By the time he arrived back, he was breathing harder than ever.

‘I know,’ he said, falling on to her sofa, ‘I should join a gym.’ He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, then remembered that she wouldn’t let him smoke, not here. She’d fetched a tall-stemmed glass from the kitchen.

‘Least I can do,’ she said, pouring in some red.

‘Cheers.’ He took a long swallow, exhaled. ‘This your first bottle tonight?’ Trying to make a joke of it.

‘I’m not seeing things,’ she said. She was kneeling by the coffee table, turning the glass in her hand.

‘It’s just that when you’re on your own... I don’t mean you personally, it goes for me, too.’

‘What does? Imagining things?’ There was a hint of colour to either cheekbone. ‘How come you knew?’

He looked at her. ‘Knew what?’

‘Tell me you’ve not been watching me.’

His mouth opened, but he couldn’t find the words.

‘You pushed open the door,’ she explained. ‘Didn’t check to see if it was locked or anything. Because you already knew it wasn’t. Then you stopped two floors up. Just taking a breather?’ She widened her eyes. ‘That was where he was watching from. Not the tenement either side, and that landing.’

Rebus cast his eyes down into his drink. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said.

‘But you know who it is.’ She paused. ‘Is it Derek?’ His silence was answer enough. She bounded to her feet, began pacing. ‘When I get my hands on him...’

‘Look, Siobhan—’

She turned on him. ‘How did you know?’

So then he had to explain it, and as he finished she reached for her phone, punched in Linford’s number. When the call was answered, she cut the connection. She was the one breathing hard now.

‘Can I ask a question?’ Rebus asked.

‘What?’

‘Did you put 141 first?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘That’s the prefix if you don’t want the caller knowing your number.’

She was still wincing when the phone rang.

‘I’m not answering,’ she said.

‘It might not be Derek.’

‘Let the machine take it.’

Seven rings, and the machine clicked into life. Her message first, then the sound of a receiver being replaced.

‘Bastard!’ she hissed. She picked up her receiver again, hit 1471, listened and slammed the phone down.

‘Number withheld?’ Rebus guessed.

‘What’s he playing at, John?’

‘He’s been jilted, Siobhan. We can turn strange when that happens.’

‘You sound like you’re on his side.’

‘No way. I’m just trying to explain it.’

‘Someone jilts you, you start stalking them?’ She picked up her wineglass, took gulps from it as she paced. Then she noticed the curtains were still open, hurried over and closed them.

‘Come and sit down,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll talk to him in the morning.’

She ran out of floor eventually, dropped on to the sofa next to him. He tried pouring more wine into her glass, but she didn’t want any.

‘Shame to waste it,’ he said.

‘You have it.’

‘I don’t want it.’ She stared at him, and he offered a smile. ‘I’ve spent half of this evening avoiding going out for a drink,’ he explained.

‘Why?’

He just shrugged, and she took the bottle from him. ‘Then let’s put it out of harm’s way.’

When he caught up with her, she was pouring the contents down the kitchen sink.

‘Bit radical,’ he said. ‘The fridge would have done.’

‘You don’t chill red wine.’

‘You know what I mean, though.’ He saw the clean dishes on the draining board. Her supper things had already been washed up. The kitchen was white-tiled and spotless. ‘We’re chalk and cheese,’ he said.

‘How’s that?’

‘I only wash up when I run out of mugs.’

She smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a hygiene slut.’

‘But?’

She shrugged, surveying the room. ‘Must be my upbringing or something. I suppose some people would call me neurotically tidy.’

‘They just call me a slob,’ Rebus said.

He watched her rinse the bottle and place it beside a few others which, along with empty jars, sat in an orange-box beside the swingbin.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said: ‘recycling?’

She nodded, laughed. Then her face crumpled into seriousness. ‘Jesus, John, I only went out with him three times.’

‘Sometimes that’s all it takes.’

‘You know where I met him?’

‘You wouldn’t tell me, remember?’

‘I’ll tell you now: it was at a singles club.’

‘That night you were out with the rape victim?’

‘He goes to this singles club. They don’t know he’s a cop.’

‘Well, it shows he has trouble meeting women.’

‘He meets them every day, John.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know, maybe it shows something else.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not sure. A different side to him.’ She leaned back against the sink, folded her arms. ‘Remember what you said?’

‘I say so many memorable things.’

‘You said about jilted guys, what they do sometimes.’

‘You think Linford’s been jilted one time too many?’

‘Maybe.’ She was thoughtful. ‘But I was thinking more of the rapist, why he seems to focus on singles nights.’

Rebus was concentrating now. ‘He went along to one, got the cold shoulder?’

‘Or his wife or girlfriend went to one...’

Rebus was nodding. ‘And got a nice warm shoulder?’

Siobhan was nodding, too. ‘It’s not my case, of course...’

‘But whoever’s running it, Siobhan, they’ll have been asking around all the singles clubs.’

‘Yes, but they won’t have been asking the female members about jealous partners.’

‘Good point. Another job for the morning.’

‘Yes,’ she said, turning to fill the kettle, ‘just as soon as I’ve had a word with dear old Derek.’

‘And if he denies it?’

‘I’ve got corroboration, John.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got you.’

‘No, you’ve got me and a few suspicions of your own. Not exactly the same thing.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘People know Linford and me haven’t been getting on like a house on fire. Now I come along and say I’ve seen him playing peeping Tom. You don’t know Fettes, Siobhan.’

‘They look after their own?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But they definitely would think more than twice about taking the word of John Rebus over that of a future chief constable.’

‘Is that why you wouldn’t tell me about Linford?’

‘Maybe.’

She turned away from him again. ‘How do you want your coffee?’

‘Black.’

Derek Linford’s flat looked down on to Dean Valley and the Water of Leith. He’d got a good deal on the mortgage — playing the Fettes card for all it was worth — but even so he was making hefty repayments. And with the BMW on top. He had so much to lose.

He’d stripped off his coat and his shirt, sweating after the drive home. She’d seen him at the window, then made a phone call. And he’d run for it, driving like a maniac, taking the stairs to his own flat two at a time... and his own phone was ringing. He’d snatched at it, thinking: it’s Siobhan! She’s seen someone and decided to call me, wanting my help! But the phone had gone dead, and when he’d checked, it had been her on the phone. He’d called straight back and she hadn’t answered.

Standing shaking by his window, ignoring the rooftop view... She knows it was me! It was all he could think of. She wouldn’t have been calling him for help; she’d have called Rebus. And of course Rebus had told her. Of course he had.

‘She knows,’ he said aloud. ‘She knows, she knows, she knows.’

He walked across the living room, turned and walked back. His right fist was slapping into his open left hand.

He had so much to lose.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, getting his breathing back under control. He wasn’t going to lose any of this. Not for anyone or anything. This was all he had to show for the years of work, the long nights, the weekends, the courses and the studying.

‘No,’ he said again. ‘Nobody’s taking this away.’

Not if he could help it.

Not without one hell of a fight.

They rang up to Cafferty’s room, told him there was a problem in the bar. He got dressed, went down there, and found Rab being pinned to the floor by two of the barmen and a couple of customers. Another man was seated on the floor near by, legs splayed, his nose bust open but holding his ear, blood seeping out between the fingers. He was yelling out for someone to call the police, while his girlfriend knelt beside him.

Cafferty looked at him. ‘What you need is an ambulance,’ he said.

‘Bastard bit my ear!’

Cafferty crouched in front of the man, held two fifties out, and then tucked them into the man’s breast pocket. ‘An ambulance,’ he repeated. The girlfriend took the hint, got up to find the phone. Then Cafferty walked over to Rab, squatted down and took hold of him by the hair.

‘Rab,’ he said, ‘what the fuck are you doing?’

‘I was just enjoying masel, Big Ger.’ There was a smear of blood on his lips; blood from the wounded man’s ear.

‘No fun for anyone else,’ Cafferty told him.

‘What’s life if ye can’t enjoy yirsel?’

Cafferty stared at him but didn’t answer. ‘See when you go getting like this,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’

‘Does it matter?’ Rab said.

Cafferty didn’t answer this either. He told the men they could let go, and they did, cautiously. Rab didn’t seem inclined to get up. ‘Maybe you could help him,’ Cafferty told the men. He had a bundle of notes out, peeled off several and handed them round.

‘For your help, and to keep this on the q.t.’ The bar hadn’t been damaged, but he insisted on paying up anyway. ‘Sometimes it takes a while for the damage to show,’ he told the barman. Then he bought a round of drinks and clapped a hand on Rab’s neck.

‘Time you were in bed, son.’ Rab’s room key was on the bar. The staff all knew he was with Big Ger. ‘Next time you want a rammy, try playing away from home, eh?’

‘Sorry, Big Ger.’

‘Got to look out for one another, eh, Rab? Sometimes that means using the brain as well as the brawn.’

‘I’ll be fine, Big Ger. Sorry again.’

‘Off you go now. There’s a mirror in the lift, so don’t you go swinging a punch at it.’

Rab tried to smile. He looked sleepy after all the excitement. Cafferty watched him slouch out of the bar. He felt like a drink, but not here, not with these people. Leave them be, let them get it out of their systems with gossip and retelling. There was a minibar in his room, and that would do him for tonight. He apologised with a wave of his arms, then followed Rab to the lift, stood with him in its close confines all the way to the third floor. It was like being back in a cell. Rab’s eyes were closed. He was leaning against the mirror. Cafferty kept his eyes on him and didn’t blink once.

Does it matter? That had been Rab’s question. Cafferty was beginning to wonder.

27

As Rebus walked into St Leonard’s next morning, two uniforms were discussing a film from the previous night’s TV.

‘When Harry Met Sally, you must’ve seen it, sir.’

‘Not last night. Some of us have got better things to do.’

‘We’re just talking about whether men can be friends with women without wanting to sleep with them. That’s the plot, you see.’

‘I reckon,’ the second uniform said, ‘as soon as a bloke claps eyes on a woman, first thing he wonders is what she’d be like in the scratcher.’

Rebus could hear raised voices in the CID suite. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gents, more urgent business...’

‘Lovers’ tiff,’ one of the uniforms said.

Rebus turned back towards him. ‘Pal, you couldn’t be further from the truth.’

Siobhan had Derek Linford backed into a corner of the room. She also had an audience: DI Bill Pryde, DS Roy Frazer and DS George Hi-Ho Silvers. They were seated at their desks, enjoying the spectacle. Rebus gave all three a withering glance as he waded in. Siobhan had Linford by the throat, her face close to his — by dint of standing on tiptoe. He had paperwork in one hand, turned into a crumpled wad by the involuntary tightening of his fist. He was holding his other hand up in a gesture of surrender.

‘And if you so much as think my telephone number, never mind calling it,’ Siobhan was yelling, ‘I’ll twist your balls so hard they’ll drop off!’

From behind, Rebus brought his hands down hard on hers, pulling them off Linford. Her head snapped round, face flushed with anger. Linford was coughing.

‘This what you call a word?’ Rebus asked her.

‘Knew you’d be involved somewhere,’ Linford spat.

Siobhan turned back to him. ‘This is you and me, arsehole, nobody else!’

‘Think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?’

Rebus: ‘Shut up, Linford. Don’t make it any worse than you have.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

Siobhan tried pulling away from Rebus. ‘You fucking snake!’

And then a voice behind them, booming with authority: ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ All three looked towards the open doorway. Chief Superintendent Watson was standing there. And he had a visitor: Colin Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable.

Rebus was the last to be ‘invited’ to give the Chief Super his side of the story. There were just the two of them in the office. The Farmer — nicknamed for his ruddy-coloured face and north-east agricultural background — sat with hands pressed together, a sharpened pencil resting between them.

‘Am I supposed to fall on that?’ Rebus asked, pointing to the pencil. ‘Ritual hara-kiri?’

‘You’re supposed to tell me what was happening back there. The one day the ACC comes calling...’

‘He’ll be taking Linford’s side, of course?’

The Farmer glared at him. ‘Don’t start. Just give me your version, for what it’s worth.’

‘What’s the point? I know what the other two will have told you.’

‘What exactly?’

‘Siobhan will have told the truth, and Linford will have come up with a pack of lies to save his arse.’ Rebus shrugged as the Farmer’s face grew darker.

‘Humour me,’ he said.

‘Siobhan went out a couple of times with Linford,’ Rebus recited. ‘Nothing serious. Then she sent him packing. I was round her place one evening discussing her case. Came out and was sitting in my car, saw someone from the opposite tenement come out, go for a pee round the corner, and head back again. I went to investigate, and it was Linford, spying on her from the tenement stairwell. Then last night, she phones me, says she thinks she’s being watched. So I told her about Linford.’

‘Why didn’t you tell her before?’

‘Didn’t want to upset her. Besides, I thought I’d scared him off.’ Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’m obviously not the hard case I think I am.’

The Farmer leaned back in his chair. ‘And what does Linford say?’

‘I’m betting he’s told you it’s a pile of shite concocted by DI John Rebus. Siobhan was mistaken, I made up this story, and she swallowed it.’

‘And why would you do that?’

‘So he’d push off and let me work the case the way I want to work it.’

The Farmer looked down at the pencil he was still holding. ‘Actually, that’s not the reason he gave.’

‘What then?’

‘He says you want Siobhan for yourself.’

Rebus screwed his face into a sneer. ‘Well, that’s his fantasy, not mine.’

‘No?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘I can’t let this go, you know. Not with Carswell as witness.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What do you think I should do?’

‘If it were me, sir, pack Linford off back to Fettes where he can continue to be their desk-bound blue-eyed boy, far from the hurly-burly of actual policing.’

‘Mr Linford doesn’t want that.’

Rebus couldn’t help reacting. ‘He wants to stay here?’ The Farmer nodded. ‘Why?’

‘He says he holds no grudge. Puts it down to the “hothouse conditions” on the case.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Frankly, neither do I.’ The Farmer rose, made for his coffee machine. Pointedly, he poured just the one mug. Rebus tried not to let his relief show. ‘If I was him, I’d want to be shot of the lot of you.’ The Farmer paused, sat down again. ‘But what DI Linford wants, DI Linford gets.’

‘It’s going to be ugly.’

‘Why?’

‘Seen the CID suite lately? We’re swamped. Hard enough to keep Siobhan and him apart under normal conditions, but the cases we’re working on could be connected.’

‘So DS Clarke tells me.’

‘She said you were thinking of pulling the Supertramp inquiry.’

‘There never really was an inquiry. But I was as curious as the next man about that four hundred thou. To be honest, I didn’t give her much chance.’

‘She’s a good detective, sir.’

Watson nodded. ‘Despite the role model,’ he said.

‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘I know the score here. You’re coasting to retirement, would rather this was someone else’s shit-pile.’

‘Rebus, don’t think you can—’

‘Linford belongs to Carswell, so you’re not about to rub his nose in it. That just leaves the rest of us.’

‘Careful what you’re saying.’

‘I’m not saying anything you don’t know yourself.’

The Farmer rose to his feet, rested his knuckles on the desk and leaned towards Rebus. ‘And what about you? Building your own private little police force — meetings in the Oxford Bar, running around like it’s you that runs this station.’

‘I’m trying to solve a case.’

‘And get into Clarke’s knickers at the same time?’

Rebus jumped to his feet. Their faces were inches apart. Neither man said anything, as if the next word could prove a hair-trigger. The Farmer’s phone started ringing. He moved a hand, picked it up and held it to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he said. Rebus was so close, he could hear Gill Templer in the earpiece:

‘Press briefing, sir. You want to see my notes?’

‘Bring them in, Gill.’

Rebus pushed away from the desk. He heard the Farmer calling behind him:

‘Had we finished, Inspector?’

‘I think so, sir.’ Managed to close the door without slamming it.

And went to find Linford. Not in the office. He was told that Siobhan was in the ladies’ loo, being calmed by a WPC. Canteen? No. The front desk said he’d left the station five minutes earlier. Rebus looked at his watch: it wasn’t opening time yet. Linford’s BMW wasn’t in the car park. He stood on the pavement, took out his mobile, and called Linford’s.

‘Yes?’

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Parked in the Engine Shed car park.’

Rebus turned and looked down St Leonard’s Lane: the Engine Shed was at the end. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘Some thinking.’

‘Don’t strain yourself.’ Rebus was walking along the lane.

‘Great. I really appreciate you calling my mobile to hurl insults at me.’

‘Always happy to oblige.’ He turned into the car park. And there was the Beamer, parked in a disabled spot beside the front door. Rebus switched off his phone and opened the passenger door, got in.

‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ Linford said, putting his own phone away and resting his hands on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the windshield.

‘I like surprises myself,’ Rebus said. ‘Like being told by my chief super that I’m chasing DC Clarke.’

‘Well, aren’t you?’

‘You know bloody fine I’m not.’

‘You seem to be round her flat often enough.’

‘Yeah, with you peeking in the windows.’

‘Look, okay, when she dumped me I got a bit... It doesn’t happen to me very often.’

‘Being chucked? I find that hard to believe.’

Linford gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Believe what you like.’

‘You lied to Watson.’

Linford turned to him. ‘You’d have done the same in my shoes. That was my career on the line, right there!’

‘Should have thought of that first.’

‘Easy to say now,’ Linford said quietly. He bit his bottom lip. ‘What if I apologise to Siobhan? Went off the rails a bit... won’t happen again... that sort of thing?’

‘Better put it in writing.’

‘In case I make a mess of it?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s hard to apologise when there’s one hand round your throat and another round your balls.’

‘Christ, man, I thought a blood vessel was going to burst.’

Rebus was stony faced. ‘You could always have fought back.’

‘That would have looked good, three other men in the room watching.’

Rebus studied him. ‘You’re bloody smooth, aren’t you? Every step calculated before you take it.’

‘Watching Siobhan wasn’t calculated.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it was.’ But, despite his words, Rebus wasn’t so sure.

Linford turned in his seat, reached for something in the back. Papers: the same crushed bundle he’d been holding in the CID suite.

‘Do you think we can talk shop for a minute?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I know you’ve been sidetracking me, running your own show and not letting me in. Fine, that’s your decision. But all the interviews I’ve done, there might just be a nugget...’ He handed the lot over to Rebus. Pages and pages of meticulous interview notes. The Holyrood Tavern, Jennie Ha’s... and not just pubs but flats and businesses in the vicinity of Queensberry House. Cheekily, he’d even gone asking at Holyrood Palace.

‘You’ve been busy,’ Rebus grudgingly admitted.

‘Shoe leather: it’s an old standby, but sometimes it works.’

‘So where’s the nugget? Or do I have to sift this lot and be impressed by the number of rocks and stones along the way?’

Linford smiled. ‘I saved the best for last.’

Meaning the last few pages, stapled together. Two interviews with the same man, conducted over a single day. One casual chat in the Holyrood Tavern itself, the other conducted at St Leonard’s, with Hi-Ho Silvers in tow.

The interviewee’s name was Bob Cowan and he gave his address as Royal Park Terrace. He was a university lecturer, Economic and Social History. Once a week, he met a friend for a drink at the Holyrood Tavern. The friend lived in the Grassmarket, and the Tavern made for a convenient halfway house. Cowan enjoyed his walk back through Holyrood Park, past St Margaret’s Loch with its colony of swans.

‘What do you think?’ Linford asked.

Rebus was sifting through the other interviews.

‘I know,’ Linford said, ‘it doesn’t look like much.’

‘Actually, it looks pretty good.’ Linford seemed surprised by the comment. ‘Problem is, there’s not enough of it. Big guy, broad-shouldered... could be a hundred people who fit.’

Linford nodded; he’d thought this through. ‘But if we can get a photofit... Cowan says he’s willing.’

‘And then what?’

‘Pubs in the area, maybe he’s local. Plus, a description like that, wouldn’t surprise me if he was a brickie.’

‘One of the construction workers?’

Linford shrugged. ‘Once we’ve got a photofit...’

Rebus made to hand the sheaf of interviews back. ‘Got to be worth a go. Congratulations.’

Linford preened visibly, reminding Rebus why he’d started hating him in the first place. The mildest praise and the man forgot everything else.

‘And meantime,’ Linford said, ‘you go your own way?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And I’m kept out of the picture?’

‘Right now, Linford, that’s the best place for you, believe me.’

Linford nodded his agreement. ‘So what do I do now?’ Rebus pushed open the passenger door.

‘Stay away from St Leonard’s till you’ve got that letter written. Make sure Siobhan gets it by the end of play today — but not before this afternoon; she needs time to cool off. Tomorrow, maybe it’ll be safe to show your face. With the stress on maybe.’

It was enough for Linford. He wanted to shake Rebus’s hand. But Rebus closed the door. No way he was shaking the bastard’s hand: he’d turned up a nugget, not transformed base metals into gold. And Rebus still didn’t trust him, got the feeling he’d turn in his grandmother for a sniff of promotion. The question was: what would he do if he thought his job was under threat?

A bleak occasion; a bleak spot.

Siobhan was there with Rebus. A woolly suit was in attendance, too: the WPC who’d been on the scene the night ‘Mackie’ had jumped, the one who’d said, You’re one of Rebus’s, aren’t you? A minister was present, and a couple of faces Siobhan recognised from the Grassmarket: they’d nodded a greeting towards her. She hoped they wouldn’t want cigarettes today; she’d none with her. Dezzi was there, too, sobbing into a wad of pink toilet paper. She’d found some scraps of black clothing: a gypsy-style skirt, long lace shawl torn almost to streamers. Black shoes, too, a different style on either foot.

No sign of Rachel Drew; maybe she hadn’t heard.

So you couldn’t have called the graveside busy. Crows were calling near by, threatening to drown out the minister’s few and hasty words. One of the Grassmarket pair had to keep nudging his pal, who looked like nodding off. Every time the minister said the name Freddy Hastings, Dezzi mouthed the word Chris. When it was finished, Siobhan turned on her heels and walked quickly away. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, had come only from a sense of duty, something no one would thank her for.

Back at the cars, she looked at Rebus for the first time.

‘What did the Farmer say to you?’ she asked. ‘He’s taking Linford’s word against ours, isn’t he?’ When Rebus didn’t answer, she got into her car, turned the ignition and was gone. Standing by his own car, yet to unlock it, Rebus thought he had seen the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

The yellow JCB digger was going in, clawing rubble from the base. With the tenement’s innards showing, the whole scene had a voyeuristic quality, yet at the same time Rebus noticed that some bystanders couldn’t look. It was as if a pathologist had gone to work, exposing the body’s secrets. These had been people’s homes: doors they’d painted and repainted; wallpaper carefully chosen. Perhaps some young couple — newly-weds — had done the skirting boards, getting gloss on their overalls but not really caring. Light fittings, electrical sockets, switches... tumbling into a heap or hanging by threads of cable. And even more furtive elements of the structure: roof beams, plumbing, gaping wounds which had once been chimneys. A roaring fire at Christmas time... tree decorated in the corner.

The vultures had been at work: few of the better doors remained. Fireplaces had been removed, as had cisterns, wash-hand basins, baths. Water tanks and radiators... the scavengers would turn a profit from them. But what fascinated Rebus were the layers. Paint hidden by paint, wallpaper by wallpaper. A striped confection could be peeled to reveal hints of pale pink peony roses, and beneath that layer yet another, red-coated horsemen. A kitchen had been added to one flat, and the original kitchenette papered over. When the paper was ripped away, the original black and white tiles were revealed. Skips were being filled and loaded on to lorries, taking them to landfills outside the city where the jigsaw pieces would be covered over, a final layer for future archaeologists to scrape away.

Rebus lit a cigarette, narrowing his eyes against gusts of powder and grit. ‘Looks like we’re a bit on the late side.’

He was standing with Siobhan outside what had been the building containing Freddy Hastings’ office. She was calm now, seemed to have put Linford out of her mind as she watched the demolition. Hastings’ office had been on the ground floor, with flats above. There was no sign of it now. Once levelled, contractors would commence putting up a new structure, an ‘apartment complex’ only a stone’s throw from the new parliament.

‘Someone on the council might know,’ Siobhan offered. Rebus nodded: she meant, might know what had happened to the contents of Hastings’ office. ‘You don’t look very hopeful,’ she added.

‘It’s not in my nature,’ Rebus said, inhaling the smoke, and with it a mixture of plaster dust and other people’s lives.

They drove to the City Chambers on the High Street, where an official was eventually able to provide the name of a solicitor. The solicitor was based in Stockbridge. On the way there, they stopped off at what had been Hastings’ home, but the present owners didn’t know anything about him. They’d bought from an antique dealer who, they thought, had bought from a football player. 1979 was ancient history; New Town flats could change hands every three or four years. Young professionals bought them, one eye on the investment potential. Then they had kids, and the stairs became a chore, or they bemoaned the lack of a garden. They sold up, moved on to something bigger.

The solicitor was young, too, and knew nothing of Frederick Hastings. But he got on the phone to one of the senior partners, who was in a meeting elsewhere. A time was arranged. Rebus and Siobhan debated over whether to return to the office. She suggested a walk along the Dean Valley, but Rebus, remembering that Linford lived in Dean Village, made the excuse that his heart wasn’t up to the exertion required.

Siobhan: ‘I suppose you want to find a pub.’

Rebus: ‘There’s a good one actually, just at the corner of St Stephen’s Street.’

In the end, they walked to a café on Raeburn Place. Siobhan ordered tea, Rebus decaf. A waitress apologised for the fact that they were seated in a no smoking establishment. With a sigh, Rebus put the packet away.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘life used to be so simple.’

She nodded agreement. ‘You lived in a cave, clubbed your food to death...’

‘And little girls went to charm schools. Now, you’ve all got degrees from the University of Sarcasm.’

‘Three words,’ she said: ‘pot, kettle and black.’

Their drinks came. Siobhan checked that she had no messages on her mobile.

‘Okay,’ Rebus said, ‘it’ll have to be me who asks it.’

‘Asks what?’

‘What are you going to do about Linford?’

‘Do I know anyone called that?’

‘Fair enough.’ Rebus went back to drinking his coffee.

Siobhan poured some tea into her cup and lifted it with both hands. ‘Did you talk to him?’ she asked. Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Thought so. You were spotted running out after him.’

‘He told the Farmer a lie about me.’

‘I know. The chief mentioned it.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘The truth,’ she said. They were silent, raising their cups and drinking, lowering them again as though synchronised. Rebus was nodding again, though he didn’t really know why. Siobhan cracked first. ‘So what did you say to Linford?’

‘He’s going to send you an apology.’

‘That’s big of him.’ She paused. ‘You think he means it?’

‘I think he regrets what he did.’

‘Only because it might have affected his glorious career.’

‘You could be right. All the same...’

‘You think I should let it drop?’

‘Not exactly. But Linford’s got his own leads to follow. With any luck, they’ll keep him out of your way.’ He looked at her. ‘I think he’s scared of you.’

She snorted. ‘He should be.’ She lifted her cup again. ‘But fair enough, if he keeps out of my way, I’ll keep out of his.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘You think the trail’s gone cold, don’t you?’

‘Hastings?’ She nodded. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing what you can turn up in Edinburgh.’

Blair Martine was waiting for them when they returned to the solicitors’ offices. He was rotund and elderly, with a chalk-stripe suit and silver watch-chain.

‘I always wondered’, he said, ‘whether Freddy Hastings would come back to haunt me.’ In front of him on the desk sat a ten-inch-thick bundle of manila folders and envelopes, tied together with parcel string. His fingers brushed the topmost folder, came away dusty.

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘Well, it was never a case for you lot, but it was a mystery all the same. He just upped and left.’

‘Creditors at his heels,’ Rebus added.

Martine looked sceptical. He’d obviously lunched very well, his cheeks suffused with contentment, waistcoat straining. When he leaned back in his chair, Rebus feared the buttons would pop slapstick-style.

‘Freddy was not without resources,’ Martine said. ‘That’s not to say he didn’t make some bad investments; he did. But all the same...’ He tapped the files again. Rebus was champing at the bit to be let loose on them, but knew Martine would plead client confidentiality.

‘And he did leave a number of creditors,’ Martine went on. ‘But none of them so very significant. We had to arrange for his flat to be sold. It fetched a fair price, not quite what it might have done.’

‘Enough to see off these creditors?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Yes, and my firm’s own fees. Costly business, when someone disappears.’ He paused. There was a trick hiding beneath his cuff-linked sleeve. Rebus and Siobhan stayed silent; they could see he was bursting to play it. Martine leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

‘I did keep a little aside,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘to defray the storage costs.’

‘Storage?’ Siobhan echoed.

The lawyer shrugged. ‘I did think Freddy might walk back into my life some day. I just never expected it to be posthumous.’ He sighed. ‘When is the funeral, incidentally?’

‘We’ve just been to it,’ Siobhan told him. She didn’t add: with half a dozen mourners. A speedy burial, no personal eulogy from the minister. It could have been called a pauper’s funeral, only Supertramp had been no pauper.

‘So what exactly is it that’s in storage?’ Rebus asked.

‘Effects from his flat: everything from pens and pencils to a rather fine Persian carpet.’

‘Had your eye on that, did you?’

The lawyer glared at Rebus. ‘Plus the contents of his office.’

Rebus’s back stiffened visibly. ‘And where’, he asked, ‘might we find this storage facility?’

The answer was: on a bleak stretch of road round the northern perimeter of the city. Edinburgh, being coastal, was bounded on its northern and eastern sides by the Firth of Forth. Developers and the council had big plans for Granton, at the city’s northernmost extreme.

‘Active imagination required,’ Rebus said as they drove.

Meaning: Granton at present was an unassuming, in places ugly and brutal, region of harsh sea-wall views, grey industrial buildings and redundancy. Broken factory windows, spray paint, sooty lorries. People like Sir Terence Conran had taken one look at the place and visualised a future of retail and leisure developments, Docklands-style warehouse apartments. They foresaw moneyed people moving in, jobs and homes, a whole new lifestyle.

‘Any redeeming features?’ Siobhan asked.

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘The Starbank’s not a bad boozer,’ he said. She looked at him. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘That’s more Newhaven than Granton.’

Seismic Storage, the premises were called. Three long rows of concrete bunkers, each one roughly three-quarters the size of a normal garage.

‘Seismic,’ the owner, Gerry Reagan explained, ‘in that they’ll survive an earthquake.’

‘A real worry around here, earthquakes,’ Rebus commented.

Reagan smiled. He was leading them down one of the rows. The weather was closing in, clouds gathering and a fierce wind blowing off the estuary. ‘The Castle’s built on a volcano,’ he said. ‘And do you remember those tremors a while back in Portobello?’

‘Wasn’t that mine workings?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Whatever,’ Reagan said. There was constant humour in his eyes, topped off with bushy grey eyebrows. He wore metal-rimmed glasses on a chain around his neck. ‘Thing is, my customers know their stuff’ll be safe till kingdom come.’

‘What sort of customers do you get?’ Siobhan asked.

‘All sorts: old folk who’ve moved into sheltered accommodation, no space for all their furniture. People flitting, either on their way here or heading south. Sometimes they sell up before their new place is ready. I’ve one or two collectors’ cars, too.’

‘Do they fit?’ Rebus asked.

‘It’s snug,’ Reagan conceded. ‘One of them, we had to remove the bumpers. This is it.’

They’d come armed with a letter of authorisation from Blair Martine, which Reagan now held in his hand, along with a key to unlock the up-and-over door.

‘Unit thirteen,’ he said, double-checking he was in the right place. Then he stooped to unlock the door, yanking it open.

As Martine had explained, Hastings’ effects had first been stored in a warehouse. But then the warehouse had undergone conversion, forcing the lawyer to make other arrangements: ‘I swear, him going off like that gave me more headaches than a dozen contested estates.’ The effects had ended up at Seismic Storage only three years before, and Martine couldn’t swear that everything was intact. He’d also told them that he hadn’t known Hastings well — a few social occasions: dinners, parties. And that he’d had no dealings with Alasdair Grieve.

Siobhan’s question afterwards: ‘So if money wasn’t why they left, what was?’

Rebus’s response: ‘Freddy didn’t leave.’

‘He left and came back,’ Siobhan corrected. ‘And Alasdair? Is it his body in the fireplace?’

Rebus had let that one go unanswered.

Now, as Reagan opened the door to its fullest extent, they saw that the place was a ready-made bric-a-brac shop, lacking only the cash register.

‘Nice, neat job we made of it,’ Reagan said, admiring his self-storage handiwork.

‘Oh, dear heavens,’ Siobhan gasped. Rebus was already punching numbers into his mobile phone.

‘Who are you calling?’ she asked.

He said nothing, straightening up when the call was answered. ‘Grant? Is Wylie with you?’ He grinned wickedly. ‘Get a pen in your mitt, I’ll give you directions. Little job here that’s just perfect for the Time Team.’

Linford was back at Fettes, seated in ACC Carswell’s office. He sipped his tea — china cup and saucer — while Carswell took a call. When the call was finished, Carswell lifted his own cup, held it to his lips and blew.

‘Bit of a mess at St Leonard’s, Derek.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I told Watson to his face, if he’s got no control over his officers...’

‘With respect, sir, a case like this one, tempers are bound to flare.’

Carswell nodded. ‘I admire you for that, Derek.’

‘Sir?’

‘You’re not the kind to drop fellow officers in the soup, even when they’re at fault.’

‘I’m sure I was partly to blame, sir. Nobody likes it when someone comes into an inquiry from outside.’

‘So you become the scapegoat?’

‘Not exactly, sir.’ Linford was looking at his cup. Small blobs of oil dotted the surface. He wasn’t sure if the tea, the water or the milk was to blame.

‘We could transfer the investigation here,’ Carswell was saying. ‘Lock, stock and barrel if need be. Use Crime Squad officers to—’

‘With respect, sir, it’s late on in the investigation to start over from scratch. We’d lose a lot of time.’ He paused. ‘And it would send the budget rocketing.’

Carswell was known to like a nice, tidy budget. He frowned, took a sip from his cup. ‘Don’t want that,’ he said. ‘Not if we can help it.’ He stared across the desk at Linford. ‘You want to stay put, that’s what you’re telling me?’

‘I think I can win them over, sir.’

‘Well, you’re braver than most, Derek.’

‘Most of the team are absolutely fine,’ Linford went on. ‘It’s just a couple...’ He broke off, lifted his cup again.

Carswell looked at the notes he’d made for himself back in St Leonard’s. ‘Would that be DI Rebus and DC Clarke, by any chance?’

Linford said nothing; made sure his eyes didn’t meet Carswell’s.

‘No one’s irreplaceable, Derek,’ the ACC said quietly. ‘Believe me, no one.’

28

‘It’s déjà vu all over again,’ Wylie said, as she and Hood inspected the contents. The concrete store was full almost to its roof. Desks, tables, chairs, rugs. Cardboard boxes, framed prints, a stereo system.

‘This’ll take days,’ Hood complained. And with no Mrs Coghill to make coffee, no inviting kitchen. Just this bleak wasteland, the wind forcing tears from his eyes, rain threatening.

‘Nonsense,’ Rebus said. ‘We’re looking for paperwork. All the big items, we just put to one side. The interesting-looking stuff goes into the back of the car. We’ll work shifts of two.’

Wylie looked at him. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning two clearing out the junk, and two sorting through all the papers. We’ll take the stuff back to St Leonard’s.’

‘Fettes is closer,’ Wylie reminded him.

He nodded. But Fettes was Linford’s home turf. It was as though Siobhan could read his mind.

‘That’s even closer,’ she said, nodding towards the glorified Portakabin which acted as Gerry Reagan’s office.

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll go square it with him.’

Grant Hood carried a portable TV out of the garage and placed it on the ground. ‘Ask him if he’s got a tarp, too.’ He looked up. ‘Rain’s not far off.’

Half an hour later, the first showers blew in off the Forth, jabbing their faces and hands with needles of cold, and bringing a thick haar which seemed to cut them off from the world. Reagan had provided a large sheet of thick translucent polythene, which was going to blow away given half a chance. They’d fixed down three of its corners with bricks, leaving one open, flapping entrance. Then Reagan had a better idea: the garage two along was currently out of use. So the three of them — Hood, Wylie and Siobhan Clarke — carried the goods along to this new site while Reagan attempted to fold up his polythene sheet.

‘What’s the boss up to?’ Hood asked Reagan.

Slitting his eyes against the rain, Reagan peered back towards his office, its lit windows like beacons of warmth and shelter against the darkening afternoon. ‘Setting up the command post, that’s what he told me.’

Hood and Wylie exchanged a look. ‘And did that involve a kettle and a seat by the heater?’ Wylie asked.

Reagan laughed.

‘He said shifts,’ Siobhan reminded them. ‘You’ll get your turn.’ All the same, she wished they’d find some files or something, so she, too, would have an excuse to visit the Portakabin.

‘I knock off at five,’ Reagan said. ‘No point staying here in the dark.’

‘Any lamps we could use?’ Siobhan asked. Wylie and Hood looked disappointed: a five o’clock homer sounded good to them. Reagan was looking doubtful, but for different reasons.

‘We’d lock up after us,’ Siobhan reassured him. ‘Set the alarms or whatever.’

‘I’m not sure my insurance company would be happy.’

‘When are they ever?’

He laughed again, rubbed his head. ‘I could stick around till six, I suppose.’

She nodded. ‘Six it is then.’

Soon afterwards, they started finding the box-files. Reagan had produced a wheelbarrow, with the folded-up sheet of polythene covering its base. They loaded the files into the barrow, and Siobhan wheeled it towards the office. She pushed open the door and saw that Rebus was just finishing clearing one of the room’s two desks. He’d piled all the stuff on the floor in a corner.

‘Reagan said we could use this one,’ he told her. He pointed to a door. ‘There’s a chemical toilet through there. Plus sink and kettle. Boil the water before you drink it.’ She noticed there was a mug of coffee on the chair by Rebus.

‘I think we could all do with a cup,’ she said. She found a socket and plugged in her mobile phone, letting it charge while she filled the kettle and switched it on. Rebus went outside and started bringing the box-files in.

‘It’s getting pretty dark,’ she said.

‘How are you coping?’

‘There’s a light inside the garage. That’s pretty much it. Mr Reagan says he can stay till six.’

Rebus checked his watch. ‘So be it.’

‘Just one thing,’ she reminded him, ‘this is the Grieve case we’re working on now, right?’

He looked at her. ‘We can probably swing overtime, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Might help pay for the Christmas shopping... if I ever get time to do any.’

‘Christmas?’

‘You know, festive time of year, coming up fast.’

He looked at her. ‘You can just switch off like that?’

‘I don’t think you have to be obsessed to make a good detective.’

He went back outside, gathered more files into his arms. In the distance, he could see the three figures working in the mist — Wylie, Hood, Reagan — while their shadows danced on the pitted surface of the compound. The scene seemed timeless to him. Humans had been working like this, moving things in sub-zero gloom, for thousands of years. And to what end? So much of the past simply disappeared. But it was their job to make sure past crimes did not go unpunished, whether they be committed the day before or two decades before. Not because justice or the lawmakers demanded it, but for all the silent victims, the haunted souls. And for their own satisfaction, too. Because in trapping the guilty, they atoned for their own sins of commission and omission. How in God’s name could you switch that all off for the sake of swapping some presents...?

Siobhan came out to help, broke the spell. She cupped hands to her mouth and called out that she was making coffee. Cheers and clapping. The scene no longer timeless but discrete, the figures turned into personalities. Reagan thumping his gloved hands together, bouncing on his toes, glad to be part of this adventure: something to stave off the daily loneliness of his job. Hood whooping, but not breaking stride as he moved chairs from one unit to the other: the work ethic strong in him. Wylie raising her hand, announcing that she took two sugars: making sure she got what she wanted.

‘Strange job, isn’t it?’ Siobhan commented.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. But she meant Reagan’s.

‘Every day stuck out here on your own, all these concrete boxes full of secrets and other people’s stuff. Aren’t you curious what else we’d find if we opened a few doors?’

Rebus smiled. ‘Why do you think he’s so keen to help out?’

‘Because he’s a generous soul?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Or he doesn’t want us snooping.’ She looked at him. ‘Reason I was indoors so long, I thought I’d take a look at his client list.’

‘And?’

‘Couple of names I recognised: fences who live in Pilton and Muirhouse.’

‘Just along the road.’ Rebus nodded. ‘No way we can search without a warrant.’

‘All the same, a useful piece of ammo should Mr Reagan start proving uncooperative.’ He glanced at her. ‘And something to bear in mind next time we pull either of them in on a charge: no point getting a search warrant for a flat in Muirhouse when the stuff’s sitting in self-storage.’

They took a break, huddling in the office. Four of them: Hood said he wanted to keep going; Wylie could take his coffee out to him when she’d finished hers.

‘Boy wouldn’t go down well with the unions,’ was Reagan’s comment.

The heater was Calor gas, all three elements lit. Not much insulation in the cabin. The long narrow window to the front wore a film of condensation, with occasional beads breaking free to trickle downwards, gathering on the sill. There was one overhead bulb, and a desk lamp. The room was fuggy and yellow-bathed. Reagan accepted a cigarette from Rebus, the two men forming a huddle while the non-smoking women edged away.

‘New Year resolution,’ Reagan said, examining the tip of the cigarette. ‘I’m giving them up.’

‘Reckon you’ll make it?’

The man shrugged. ‘Might do, all the practice I get — two or three times a year I try calling a halt.’

‘Practice makes perfect,’ Rebus admitted.

‘How long do you reckon this’ll all take?’ Reagan asked.

‘We appreciate your cooperation, sir.’ Said in the voice of someone who had suddenly become an official, all cigarette-sharing bonhomie erased. Reagan got the point: this policeman could make a nuisance of himself given the motivation. Then the door flew open and Grant Hood staggered in. He was carrying a computer screen and keyboard, pushed his way past them and dropped it on to the cleared desk.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, getting his breath.

‘Looks ancient,’ Siobhan commented.

‘Not much use without the hard drive,’ Ellen Wylie added.

Hood grinned. It was the answer he’d been waiting for. He reached beneath his coat, to where something was tucked into his waistband. ‘Hard disks like we have weren’t around back then. Slot on the side is for floppies.’ He pulled out half a dozen cardboard squares, circular holes in them like old novelty records. ‘Nine-inch floppies,’ he said, waving them in front of him. With his free hand, he patted the keyboard. ‘Probably a DOS-based WP package. Which, if that doesn’t say much to any of you, means I’m going to be stuck in here.’ He put down the floppies and rubbed his hands in front of the flames. ‘While you lot are out there seeing if you can find any more disks.’

By the end of play, they’d emptied half the garage, and a lot of what was left looked like furniture. Rebus took three box-files away with him, thinking he’d make an evening of it at St Leonard’s. The station was quiet. This time of year, pickpockets and shoplifting were the major concerns: crowds in the Princes Street stores, wallets and purses bulging. You got muggings at cash machines, too. And depression: some said it was the short bursts of daylight and longer stretches of dark. People drank themselves angry, drank until they unravelled. Bust-ups, windows smashed — bus shelters; phone boxes; shops and pubs. They took knives to their loved ones, slashed at their own wrists. SAD: Seasonal Affective Disorder.

More work for Rebus and his colleagues. More work for the A&E departments, the social workers, the courts and prisons. Paperwork mounting as the Christmas cards started to arrive. Rebus had long since given up writing cards, but people persisted in sending them to him: family, colleagues, a few of his drinking cronies.

Father Conor Leary always sent one. But Leary was still convalescing, and Rebus hadn’t been to see him for a while. Hospital beds reminded him of his daughter Sammy, unconscious after the hit-and-run which had put her in a wheelchair. In Rebus’s experience, Christmas was about sham get-togethers, about pretending that all was well with the world. A celebration of one man’s birth, carried out with tinsel and trappings, and conducted in a haze of white lies and alcohol.

Or maybe it was just him.

There was no sense of urgency as he studied each page from the box. He kept taking coffee and cigarette breaks, stepping outside, lighting up in the car park at the rear of the station. Business correspondence: deadly dull. Newspaper clippings: commercial properties for sale and rent, some of them circled, some with double question marks in the margin. Once Rebus had identified Freddy Hastings’ handwriting, he was able to tell that it was a one-man operation, no other hand at work. No secretary. And where did Alasdair Grieve fit in? Meetings: Alasdair was always mentioned at the meetings; business lunches. Maybe he was a meeter and greeter, his surname lending a certain something to the operation. Cammo’s brother, Lorna’s brother, Alicia’s son — someone prospective clients would want to dine with.

Back inside to warm his feet and dig into the box, retrieving another batch of documents. And then another cup of coffee, a wander downstairs to talk to the night shift in the Comms Room. Break-ins, fist fights, family quarrels. Cars stolen, vandalised. Burglar alarms tripped. A missing person reported. A patient who’d absconded from his hospital ward, dressed only in pyjamas. Car smashes: black ice on the roads. One alleged rape; one serious assault.

‘Quiet night,’ the duty officer said.

Camaraderie on the night shift. One officer shared his sandwich snack with Rebus. ‘I always seem to make one more than I need.’ Salami and lettuce on wholemeal bread. A carton of orange juice if Rebus wanted one, but he shook his head.

‘This is fine,’ he said.

Back at his desk, he jotted notes based on his findings, flagging some of the pages by dint of fixing Post-it notes to them. Looked at the office clock and saw it was almost midnight. Reached into his pocket and checked his cigarette packet: just the one left. That decided it. He locked the files in a drawer, put his coat on, and headed out. Cut through to Nicolson Street. There were all-night shops there, three or four of them. Cigarettes and a snack on his shopping list; maybe something for tomorrow’s breakfast. The street was noisy. A group of teenagers screaming for a non-existent taxi; people weaving home, cartons of carry-out food held close to them, faces bathing in steam. Underfoot: greasy wrappings, dropped gobbets of tomato and onion, squashed chips. An ambulance sped past, blue light flashing but sirenless, eerily silent amidst the street’s cacophony. Conversations turned high decibel by drink. And older groups, too, well dressed, heading home from a night at the Festival Theatre or Queen’s Hall.

Clusters of young people, standing in doorways and the corners of buildings. Voices low, eyes scanning. Rebus saw crime where none existed; or perhaps it was that he was attuned to the possibility of crime. Had the midnight revels always been this harsh and alarming? He didn’t think so. The city was changing for the worse, and no amount of imaginative construction in glass and concrete could hide the fact. The old city was dying, wounded by these roars, this new paradigm of... not lawlessness exactly, but certainly lack of respect: for surroundings, neighbours, self.

The fear was all too apparent in the tense faces of the elders, their theatre programmes tightly rolled. But there was something mixed in with the fear: sadness and impotence. They couldn’t hope to change this scene; they could only hope to survive it. And back home they would collapse on the sofa, door locked and bolted, curtains or shutters closed tight. Tea would be poured into the pot, biscuits nibbled as they stared at the wallpaper and dreamed of the past.

There was a scrum outside Rebus’s chosen shop. Cars had drawn up kerbside, music blaring from within. Two dogs were attempting to copulate, cheered on by their youthful owners as girls squealed and looked away. Rebus went inside, the glare forcing his eyes closed for a moment. A pack of lorne sausage, four rolls. Then up to the counter for cigarettes. A white poly bag to take his purchases home. Home meant turning right, but he turned left.

He needed to pee, that was all, and the Royal Oak was near by. Just off the main drag, the place never seemed to close. Thing was, he could use their toilet without entering the bar, so it wasn’t as if he was going there to drink. You walked through the doorway, and the bar was straight ahead through another door, but if you headed down the stairs, that’s where the toilets were. The toilets, plus another, quieter bar. The upstairs bar at the Oak was famous. Open late, and always, it seemed, with live music. Locals would sing the old songs, but then some Spanish flamenco guitarist might do his piece, followed by a guy with an Asian face and Scots inflections playing the blues.

You never could tell.

As Rebus made for the stairs, he looked in through the window. The pub was tiny, and packed this night with gleaming faces: old folkies and hardened drinkers, the curious and the captivated. Someone was singing unaccompanied. Rebus saw fiddles and an accordion, but resting while their owners concentrated on the rich baritone voice. The singer was standing in the corner. Rebus couldn’t see him, but that’s where all eyes were focused. The words were by Burns:

Rebus was halfway down when he stopped. He’d recognised one of the faces. Back up he went, his face a bit closer to the window this time. Yes, seated next to the piano: Cafferty’s pal, the one from the Bar-L. What was his name? Rab, that was it. Sweating, hair slick. His face was jaundiced, eyes dull. His fist was wrapped around what Rebus took to be a vodka and orange.

And then the singer took a step forward, and now Rebus saw who it was.

Cafferty.

As the verse ended, Cafferty glanced towards the window. He was smiling grimly as Rebus pushed open the door, starting the final verse as Rebus made his way to the bar. Rab was watching, trying to place him perhaps. One of the barmaids took Rebus’s order: a half of Eighty and a whisky. There was no conversation in the bar, respectful silence and even a tear in one patriot’s eye as she sat on her stool with her brandy and Coke raised to her lips, her ragged boyfriend stroking her shoulders from behind.

When the song finished, there was applause, a few whistles and cheers. Cafferty bowed his head, lifted his whisky glass and toasted the room. As the clapping subsided, the accordionist took it as his cue to commence. Cafferty accepted a few compliments as he made his way to the piano, where he leaned down to mutter something in Rab’s ear. Then, as Rebus had known he would, he came over to the bar.

‘Something to ponder, come the election,’ Cafferty said.

‘Plenty of rogues in Scotland,’ Rebus said. ‘I can’t see how independence would mean less of them.’

Cafferty wasn’t going to rise to it. Instead, he toasted him, emptied his glass, and ordered another. ‘And one for my friend Strawman.’

‘I’ve got one,’ Rebus said.

‘Be nice to me, Strawman. I’m celebrating coming home.’ Cafferty eased a folded newspaper out of his pocket, placed it on the bar top. It was folded at the commercial property section.

‘In the market?’ Rebus asked.

‘I might be,’ Cafferty said with a wink.

‘What for?’

‘I hear there’s a killing to be made, way the Old Town is now.’

Rebus nodded towards the piano, where Rab had angled his chair, the better to watch the bar. ‘He’s not just on the booze, is he? What is it, jellies?’

Cafferty looked over towards his minder. ‘Place like the Bar-L, you take whatever you need. Mind you,’ he smiled, ‘I’ve been in cells bigger than this.’

Two glasses of malt had arrived. Cafferty added a dribble of water to his, while Rebus watched. Rab seemed to him such an unlikely companion — doubtless fine in a place like the Bar-L; you’d need muscle there. But out here, back on his home ground where he had all the men he needed, what was it tied Cafferty to Rab, Rab to Cafferty? Had something happened in jail... or was something happening out here? Cafferty was holding the jug above Rebus’s glass, awaiting a reaction. Rebus nodded eventually, and when the pouring was done raised the glass.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘Slainte.’ Cafferty took a sip, let it roll around his mouth.

‘You seem surprisingly chipper,’ Rebus told him, lighting a cigarette.

‘What good’s a long face going to do?’

‘You mean apart from cheering me up?’

‘Ah, you’re a hard man. I sometimes wonder if you’re not harder than me even.’

‘Want to put it to the test?’

Cafferty laughed. ‘In my current condition? And you with a face like thunder?’ He shook his head. ‘Another time maybe.’

They stood in silence, Cafferty applauding when the accordionist finished. ‘He’s French, you know. Barely a word of English.’ Then, to the musician: ‘Encore! Encore, mon ami!’

The accordionist acknowledged this with a bow. He was seated at one of the tables, a guitarist beside him tuning up for the next slot. When he began to play again, something a little more sombre this time, Cafferty turned to Rebus.

‘Funny, you bringing up Bryce Callan the other day.’

‘Why?’

‘Just that I’d been meaning to call Barry, see how old Bryce was doing.’

‘And what did Barry say?’

Cafferty looked down into his drink. ‘He didn’t say anything. I got as far as some dogsbody, who told me he’d pass my message on.’ His face was dark, but he laughed anyway. ‘Wee Barry still hasn’t got back.’

‘Wee Barry is a big player these days, Cafferty. Maybe he can’t afford to be seen with you.’

‘Aye, well, good luck to him, but he’ll never be a quarter the man his uncle was.’ He drained his glass; Rebus felt obliged to order refills. Between times, he drained his half-pint and the blended whisky which had accompanied it, so he could now concentrate on the malt. Why the hell was Cafferty telling him all this?

‘Maybe Bryce did the right thing,’ Cafferty said, as their drinks came. ‘Getting out like that, retiring to the sun.’

Rebus added water to both glasses. ‘You thinking of following him?’

‘I might at that. I’ve never been abroad.’

‘Never?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘The ferry to Skye, that was enough for me.’

‘There’s a bridge these days.’

Cafferty scowled. ‘Wherever they find romance, they replace it.’

Privately, Rebus didn’t disagree, but he was damned if Cafferty was going to know that. ‘The bridge is a lot handier,’ he said instead.

Cafferty’s scowl looked even more pained. But it wasn’t that... he was in real pain. He bent forward, hand going to his stomach. Put down his drink and fumbled in his pocket for some tablets. He was wearing a dark woollen blazer with a black polo neck beneath. He shook two tablets out, washed them down with water poured into an empty glass.

‘You okay?’ Rebus asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

Cafferty caught his breath at last, patted Rebus’s forearm as though reassuring a friend.

‘Bit of indigestion, that’s all.’ He picked up his drink again. ‘We’re all on the way out, eh, Strawman? Barry could have gone the way of his uncle, but instead he’s a businessman. And you... I’ll bet most of your CID colleagues are younger, college-educated. The old ways don’t work any more, that’s what they’ll tell you.’ He opened his arms. ‘If I’m a liar, let me hear it.’

Rebus stared at him, then looked down. ‘You’re not a liar.’

Cafferty seemed pleased to have found common ground. ‘You can’t be too far off retirement.’

‘I’ve a few years in me yet.’

Cafferty raised his hands in surrender. ‘The phrase more’s the pity never entered my mind.’

And this time when he laughed, Rebus almost joined in. Another round of whiskies was ordered. This time, Cafferty added a vodka and fresh, which he took over to Rab. When he came back, Rebus asked again about the bodyguard.

‘Only, the way he looks tonight, I’m not sure he’d be much use to you.’

‘He’d do fine in a clinch, don’t you worry.’

‘I’m not worried. I’m just thinking this may be the best chance I ever get to take a pop at you.’

‘Take a pop at me? Christ, man, state I’m in, if you sneezed I’d be in a thousand pieces on the floor. Now come on, have another.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

‘At this hour?’ Cafferty’s voice had risen so much, other drinkers were looking at him. Not that he was paying them any heed. ‘No crows to scare off this time of night, Strawman.’ He laughed again. ‘Not too many of these old howffs left, eh? It’s all theme pubs now. Do you remember the Castle o’ Cloves?’

Rebus shook his head.

‘Best pub there was. I drank there often. And now... well, down it came. They built a DIY store where it stood. Just up the road from your cop shop.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I know the spot.’

‘All changing,’ Cafferty said. ‘Maybe you’d be better out of the game, after all.’ He lifted the glass to his lips. ‘Just a thought, mind.’ He finished the drink.

Rebus took a deep breath. ‘Ah-choo!’ Making show of sneezing across Cafferty’s chest, then studying his handiwork. His eyes met Cafferty’s. If looks were weapons, they’d have cleared the pub. ‘You lied to me,’ Rebus said quietly, walking away from the bar as the guitarist finally got his instrument in tune.

‘You’ll go to your grave a gobshite!’ Cafferty yelled, brushing flecks of saliva from his polo neck. His voice stilled the music for a moment. ‘Hear me, Strawman? I’ll be dancing on your bastard coffin!’

Rebus let the door close behind him, inhaled the street’s smoke-free air. Noises off: more kids heading home. He rested his head against a wall, a cold compress for his burning thoughts.

I’ll be dancing on your coffin.

Strange words to come from a dying man. Rebus walked: down Nicolson Street to the Bridges, and from there down into the Cowgate. He stopped near the mortuary, smoked a cigarette. He still had his bag with him: rolls and sausage. He felt like he’d never be hungry again. His stomach was too full of bile. He sat on a wall.

A jig it would be, unrestrained and awkward, but a jig all the same.

Back up Infirmary Street. Back along to the Royal Oak. He kept back from the windows this time. No music: just a man’s voice.

Cafferty again; another of Burns’ songs. His voice full of pain and pleasure, pulsing with life. And Rab, seated by the piano, eyes almost closed, breathing laboured. Two men fresh minted from the Bar-L. One dying in full voice; the other wasted on freedom.

It was wrong. It was very, very wrong.

Rebus felt it in his own doomed heart.