‘Just a few questions, Mr Hammell,’ Page said. The suit he was wearing seemed more tailored than ever.
‘This place smells like a wrestler’s kecks,’ Hammell replied, his mouth twisting in distaste.
‘It’s not great,’ Page agreed, casting an eye around the interview room’s scarred walls. ‘But it’s what’s available.’
‘So not just psychology, then?’
Page looked at him, all innocent. ‘Sorry?’
‘Thinking it might unnerve me, get me to say something I shouldn’t?’
Siobhan Clarke looked down at the floor and pretended her tongue was dislodging something from between two teeth. It was the only way to stop from smiling. Hammell had read Page’s thinking to the letter.
‘Anyway, many thanks for sparing the time,’ Page said. ‘Just want to clear up a slight discrepancy.’
‘Oh?’ Hammell sat low on the chair, legs splayed in front of him, like a boxer at rest between rounds.
‘What we’re wondering,’ Clarke interjected, ‘is why you didn’t tell us you were at the bus station with Annette.’
‘I don’t remember anyone asking.’
‘You didn’t need to be asked, Mr Hammell.’
‘Who says I was there anyway?’
‘CCTV,’ Page interrupted, trying to wrest the interview back from Clarke. ‘Looks like you were having a few words with her.’
‘The camera doesn’t lie. I’d told her one of my guys would drive her to Inverness, but she didn’t want that.’
‘Might I ask why not?’
‘Because she’s a stubborn little madam, and she thought she might have to say thanks.’ Hammell’s tone betrayed his irritation. ‘Didn’t turn down cash for the train, though. Next thing I know, she’s at the bus station — cheaper than the train and she can pocket what’s left.’
‘Were you following her?’ Clarke asked.
‘Sort of.’
‘Why?’
‘To make sure she was telling the truth. Way she is, it was just as likely she was going to see one of her junkie pals in Sighthill and crash there for a few days.’
‘So you followed her to the bus station?’
‘To Waverley first. She checked the train prices on one of the machines, then didn’t bother buying a ticket. Trailed her to St Andrew Square and. . well, you’ve got that on camera, right?’
‘An argument,’ James Page said.
‘Just me telling her to catch the bloody train. But she dug her heels in.’
‘And you didn’t tell us any of this because. .?’
‘For one thing, it’s not relevant.’
‘And for another?’ Clarke asked.
There was a moment’s flickering self-doubt in Hammell’s face. ‘I didn’t want Gail to know.’
‘Why not?’
Hammell shifted in his chair. ‘I wasn’t sure how she’d take it — me snooping like that. But it’s how I am. I need to have a bit of control over a situation.’
Page considered this, leaning back and folding his arms. He was about to ask something, but Clarke got there first.
‘What can you tell us about Thomas Robertson?’
‘Look, I’m giving it to you straight — not holding back.’
‘And we appreciate that, Mr Hammell,’ Page assured him.
‘Okay then.’ Hammell paused. ‘He’s the one you think snatched Annette.’
‘Is that why you were in Aberdeen?’
‘Robertson has previous.’
‘Not in the abduction line he doesn’t.’
‘No, but he probably knows a few villains up where he comes from.’
‘You were finding out if one of them might have taken her? Why would they do that?’
‘To get at me.’
‘And did you make any progress?’
‘Nobody’s talking. But Robertson’s name’s out there now — they know I want a word with him. .’
The room fell silent again until Siobhan Clarke asked a question.
‘Who told you Thomas Robertson was of interest to us?’
‘What?’ Hammell’s eyes narrowed.
‘It’s not common knowledge.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No,’ Clarke stated.
‘Well, his name’s out there.’
‘Yes, but who told you?’
His eyes met hers. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said, his voice level and emotionless.
And for some reason, Siobhan Clarke knew.
Who else was it going to be, after all?
‘What are you doing here?’
Rebus looked up from his toasted sandwich. ‘It’s a cafe’ he replied. ‘I’m having something to eat.’
‘The usual?’ the guy behind the counter called to Clarke.
‘Just a flat white,’ she told him, sitting down opposite Rebus.
‘Didn’t realise you had a monopoly on this place,’ Rebus commented, glancing through the window towards Leith Walk.
‘I don’t.’
‘But you’re annoyed I’m here.’
‘I’m annoyed at you full stop.’
Rebus put down the sandwich and wiped his fingers on the tissue-thin napkin. ‘What’ve I done now?’
‘You went and talked to Frank Hammell, didn’t you?’
‘Is that what he says?’
‘He didn’t have to say it.’
‘Does Page know?’
He watched her shake her head. The coffee arrived. It was instant, some granules floating on the surface.
‘Are you going to tell him?’
She glanced up at him. ‘This is the sort of thing that would have Fox and his team dancing in the street.’
‘When Thomas Robertson went AWOL, my first thought was that Hammell had nabbed him.’
‘Something you decided to keep to yourself.’
‘I went to see Hammell. He denied it.’
‘So you gave him Robertson’s name?’
‘Half the internet knew we’d lifted someone for questioning. It would have taken him ten minutes to find out what I told him.’
She placed her elbows against the edge of the table and leaned in towards him. ‘You’re not CID, John. This isn’t your job any more.’
‘So people keep reminding me.’ He had prised open the remains of the toastie in order to study its contents: a processed cheese slice and thin, pallid ham. ‘Did your own chat with Hammell shed any light?’
‘He says they argued because he’d given her money for the train.’
‘Did you ask him what he was doing in Aberdeen?’
‘He was looking for Robertson.’
Rebus stared at her. ‘He admitted it?’
She nodded. ‘Meaning he doesn’t have Robertson.’
‘Always supposing you take him at face value.’
‘Which you don’t, I suppose?’
‘Odd that he’d just come out and tell you. If anything does happen to Robertson. .’
‘Hammell’s just put himself forward as chief suspect.’ Clarke was thoughtful. Rebus lifted his beaker of tea, but a cooling scum had gathered on its surface.
‘I need a drink,’ he said.
‘You really don’t.’
‘I think I do, otherwise I’m going to be tasting that ham all afternoon. You coming?’
‘I’ll stick to coffee.’ As he started to get up, she gripped his forearm. ‘If Page smells it on your breath. .’
‘That’s why pubs sell mints, Siobhan.’ And with a wink and a smile, he was gone.
She picked up the coffee and blew on it. Fox was right, of course: John Rebus was the loosest of cannons, and no constabulary had room for those any more. He’d also warned her that Rebus’s mere proximity might damage her chances of further promotion. And hadn’t everything been fine at Gayfield Square until Rebus had barged his way in? A good team, a great boss, and no errors of judgement. Not that Rebus had had anything to do with her missing Hammell on the CCTV: she alone was to blame, and she’d apologised again that morning to James Page. Malcolm Fox’s words were sloshing around in her head: Call me any time you think he’s floundering — floundering or diving to the bottom. .
But that was how Rebus worked: kicking up all the sand and sediment, then studying what effect it had and what was uncovered in the process.
‘It’s too hot?’ the guy behind the counter called over to her. She realised she was still blowing on the coffee, blowing so hard some had sloshed over the side.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she assured him. And to prove it, she took a sip.
In truth, the liquid in the beaker was lukewarm at best, but she drank it anyway.