“I’m sure you can fight your own battles, Ellen.”

“What’s wrong?” Mairie asked, peering over his shoulder at the tableau. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rebus said. He picked up the phone, but thought better of it, let it clatter back into its cradle again. “After all,” he said, “tomorrow is another day.”

“Not just another day, John,” Mairie reminded him. “It’s when everything finally kicks off.”

“And here’s hoping London doesn’t get the Olympics,” Wylie added. “We’ll be hearing about it from now till doomsday.”

Rebus had risen to his feet, still seemingly distracted. “Beer time,” he stated. “And I’m buying.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Mairie sighed. Wylie went to fetch her jacket and bag. Rebus was leading the way.

“Not leaving that?” Mairie hinted, nodding at the photo he still held in his hand. He glanced down at it, then folded it into his pocket. Patted his other pockets before resting his palm on Mairie’s shoulder.

“I’m a bit short, as it happens. Any chance of a loan…?”

Later that evening, Mairie Henderson returned to her Murrayfield home. She owned the top two floors of a detached Victorian pile and shared the mortgage with her boyfriend, Allan. Problem was, Allan was a TV cameraman, and she saw precious little of him at the best of times. This week was turning out to be pure murder. One of the spare bedrooms was now her office, and she made straight for it, throwing her jacket over the back of a chair. The coffee table didn’t have room for even a single mug of the stuff, covered as it was with piles of newsprint. Her own cuttings files took up a whole wall, and her precious few journalism awards were framed above the computer. She sat down at her desk and wondered why she felt so comfortable in this cramped and stuffy room. The kitchen was airy, but she spent very little time there. The living room had been swamped by Allan’s home cinema and stereo. This room-her office-was hers and hers alone. She looked at the racks of cassette tapes-interviews she’d done, each one encapsulating a life. Cafferty’s story had demanded more than forty hours of conversation, the transcripts stretching to a thousand pages. The resulting book had been compiled meticulously, and she knew she deserved a bloody medal for it. Not that one had been forthcoming. That the book sold by the truckload had done nothing to alter the flat fee she’d signed up for. And it was Cafferty who appeared on the talk shows, Cafferty who did the bookstore signings, the festivals, the circuit of celebrity parties in London. When the book had gone into its third printing, they’d even changed the jacket, magnifying his name and shrinking hers.

Bloody nerve.

And when she saw Cafferty these days, all he did was tease her with the notion of a further installment, hinting that he might get another writer this time round-because he knew damned well she wouldn’t allow herself to be conned in the same way. What was the old saying…? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Bastard.

She checked for e-mails, thinking back to the drink she’d just had with Rebus. She was still annoyed with him. Annoyed that he hadn’t given her an interview for the Cafferty book. Without him, it had been Cafferty’s word alone on so many events and incidents. So, yes, she was still annoyed with Rebus.

Annoyed because she knew he’d been right to refuse.

Her fellow journalists thought she’d probably cleaned up on the Cafferty book. Some had stopped talking to her or answering her calls. Jealousy doubtless played a part, but they also felt they had nothing to offer her. Work had dried up. She found herself scratching around, penning pieces about councillors and charity workers-human interest stories with very little interest. Editors sounded surprised that she needed the work.

Thought you’d cleaned up on Cafferty…

Naturally, she couldn’t tell them the truth, so she made up lies instead about needing to keep her hand in.

Cleaned up…

Her few remaining copies of the Cafferty book were stacked beneath the coffee table. She’d stopped handing them out to family and friends. Stopped after watching Cafferty share a joke with a daytime TV host, the audience lapping it up, Mairie feeling grubbier than ever. But when she thought about Cafferty, she couldn’t help picturing Richard Pennen, too-glad-handing at Prestonfield House, cosseted by yes-men, buffed to a spotless sheen. Rebus had a point about the Edinburgh Castle dinner. It wasn’t so much that an arms dealer of sorts had found himself at the top table, but that no one had taken any notice. Pennen had said that anything he’d given to Ben Webster would have been declared in the register of members’ interests. Mairie had checked, and it looked as though the MP had been scrupulous. It struck her now that Pennen had known she would look. He’d wanted her looking into Webster’s affairs. But why? Because he’d known there was nothing for her to find? Or to tarnish a dead man’s name?

I like this guy, Ellen Wylie had said. Yes, and after a few minutes’ chat with Westminster insiders, Mairie had started to like him, too. Which only made her trust Richard Pennen all the less. She fetched a glass of tap water from the kitchen and settled again at her computer.

Decided to start from scratch.

Typed Richard Pennen’s name into the first of her many search engines.

15

Rebus was three steps away from the tenement door when the voice called his name. Inside the pockets of his coat, his fingers curled into fists. He turned to face Cafferty.

“Hell do you want?”

Cafferty wafted a hand in front of his nose. “I can smell the booze from here.”

“I drink to forget people like you.”

“Wasted your money tonight then.” Cafferty gave a flick of his head. “Something I want to show you.”

Rebus stood his ground a moment, till curiosity got the better of him. Cafferty was unlocking the Bentley, gesturing for Rebus to get in. Rebus opened the passenger door and leaned inside.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere deserted, if that’s what’s worrying you. Point of fact, place we’re going will be packed.” The engine roared into life. With two beers and two whiskeys under his belt, Rebus knew his wits weren’t going to be the sharpest.

Nevertheless, he got in.

Cafferty offered chewing gum and Rebus unwrapped a stick. “How’s my case going?” Cafferty asked.

“Doing just fine without your help.”

“As long as you don’t forget who put you on the right track.” Cafferty gave a little smile. They were heading east through Marchmont. “How’s Siobhan shaping up?”

“She’s fine.”

“Hasn’t left you in the lurch then?”

Rebus stared at Cafferty’s profile. “How do you mean?”

“I heard she was spreading herself a bit thin.”

“Are you keeping a watch on us?”

Cafferty just smiled again. Rebus noticed that his own fists were still clenched as they rested on his lap. One tug of the steering wheel, and he could put the Bentley into a wall. Or slide his hands around Cafferty’s fat neck and squeeze…

“Thinking evil thoughts, Rebus?” Cafferty guessed. “I’m a taxpayer, remember-top-bracket at that-which makes me your employer.”

“Must give you a warm glow.”

“It does. That MP who jumped from the ramparts…making headway?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.” Cafferty paused a couple of beats. “It’s just that I know Richard Pennen.” He turned toward Rebus, pleased by the visible effect of this statement. “Met him a couple of times,” he continued.

“Please tell me he was trying to sell you some iffy weapons.”

Cafferty laughed. “He has a stake in the firm that published my book. Meant he was at the launch party. Sorry you couldn’t make it, by the way…”

“Invite came in handy when the toilet paper ran out.”