19

The buzzer woke him.

He stumbled through to the hall and pushed the button on the intercom.

“What?” he rasped.

“I thought I worked here.” Tinny and distorted but still recognizable: Siobhan’s voice.

“What time is it?” Rebus coughed.

“Eight.”

“Eight?”

“The start of another working day.”

“We’re suspended, remember?”

“Are you still in your jam-jams?”

“I don’t wear them.”

“Meaning I need to wait out here?”

“I’ll leave the door open.” He buzzed her in, collected his clothes from the chair by the bed, and locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear her tapping on the door, pushing it open.

“Two minutes!” he called out, stepping into the bath and under the nozzle of the shower.

By the time he emerged, she had seated herself at the dining table and was sorting through last night’s photocopies.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. He was halfway through knotting his tie. Remembering that he wouldn’t be going into work, he tugged it free instead and threw it toward the sofa. “We need supplies,” he told her.

“And I need a favor.”

“Such as?”

“A couple of hours at lunchtime-I want to take my parents out.”

He nodded his agreement. “How’s your mum doing?”

“She seems okay. They’ve decided to give Gleneagles a miss, even though climate change is on today’s agenda.”

“They’re heading home tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“How was the show last night?” She didn’t answer straightaway. “I caught the last bit on TV-thought I might have seen you bopping down front.”

“I’d left by then.”

“Oh?”

She just shrugged. “So what are these provisions?”

“Breakfast.”

“I’ve had mine.”

“Then you can watch me while I demolish a bacon roll. There’s a café on Marchmont Road. And while I’m tucking in, you can call Councilman Tench, fix up a powwow.”

“He was at the show last night.”

Rebus looked at her. “Gets about a bit, doesn’t he?”

She’d wandered over to the stereo. There were LPs on a shelf, and she picked one up.

“That was made before you were born,” Rebus told her. Leonard Cohen, Songs of Love and Hate.

“Listen to this,” she said, reading the back of the sleeve. “‘They locked up a man who wanted to rule the world. The fools, they locked up the wrong man.’ Wonder what that means?”

“Case of mistaken identity?” Rebus offered.

“I think it’s to do with ambition,” she countered. “Gareth Tench said he saw you…”

“He did.”

“With Cafferty.”

Rebus nodded. “Big Ger says the councilman’s got plans to put him out of the game.”

She put the record back and turned to face him. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Depends what we get instead. Cafferty’s view is that Tench himself would take over.”

“You believe him?”

Rebus seemed to be considering the question. “Know what I need before I answer that?”

“Proof?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “Coffee.”

Eight forty-five.

Rebus was on his second mug. All that was left of his roll was a side plate spotted with grease. The café had a good selection of papers, Siobhan reading about the Final Push, Rebus showing her photos from yesterday’s shenanigans at Gleneagles.

“That kid,” he said, pointing at one, “didn’t we see him?”

She nodded. “But not with blood gushing from his head.”

Rebus turned the paper back toward him. “They love it really, you know. Bit of blood always looks good to the media.”

“And makes us look like the villains of the piece?”

“Speaking of which…” He lifted the CD-ROM from his pocket. “A going-away present from Stacey Webster-or Santal, if you prefer.”

Siobhan took it from him, holding it between her fingers as Rebus explained the circumstances. When he’d finished, he took Stacey’s business card from his wallet and tried her number. There was no answer. As he tucked the phone back into his jacket, he could smell the faintest trace of Molly Clark’s perfume. He’d decided Siobhan didn’t need to know about her, wasn’t sure how she would react. He was still thinking it over when Gareth Tench walked in. Tench shook hands with both of them. Rebus thanked him for coming and gestured for him to sit.

“What can I get you?”

Tench shook his head. Rebus could see a car parked outside, the minders standing next to it.

“Good idea that,” he told the councilman, nodding toward the window. “I don’t know why more Marchmont residents don’t use bodyguards.”

Tench just smiled. “Not at work today?” he commented.

“Bit more informal,” Rebus explained. “Can’t have our elected politicians slumming it in cop-shop interview rooms.”

“I appreciate that.” Tench had made himself comfortable, but showed no sign of removing his three-quarter-length coat. “So what can I do for you, Inspector?”

But it was Siobhan who spoke first. “As you know, Mr. Tench, we’re investigating a series of murders. Certain clues were left at a site in Auchterarder.”

Tench’s eyes narrowed. His focus was still on Rebus, but it was clear he’d expected some other conversation-Cafferty, maybe, or Niddrie.

“I don’t see-” he started.

“All three victims,” Siobhan went on, “were listed on a Web site called BeastWatch.” She paused. “You know it, of course.”

“I do?”

“That’s our information.” She unfolded a sheet of paper and showed it to him. “Ozyman…that’s you, isn’t it?”

He thought for a moment before answering. Siobhan folded the sheet and put it back in her pocket. Rebus winked at Tench, conveying a simple message: She’s good.

So don’t try jerking us around…

“It’s me,” Tench finally conceded. “What of it?”

Siobhan shrugged. “Why are you interested in BeastWatch, Mr. Tench?”

“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

Rebus gave a cold laugh. “That’s a bit of a leap to make, sir.”

Tench glowered at him. “Never know what Cafferty might try and hatch-with a little help from his friends.”

“I think we’re straying from the point,” Siobhan interrupted. “We need to interview anyone who had access to that site, sir. It’s procedure, that’s all.”

“I still don’t know how you got from my screen name to me.”

“You forget, Mr. Tench,” Rebus said blithely, “we’ve got the world’s best intelligence officers here this week. Not much they can’t do.” Tench looked ready to add some remark, but Rebus didn’t give him the chance. “Interesting choice: Ozymandias. Poem by Shelley, right? Some king gets a bit above himself, has this huge statue built. But over time, it crumbles away, sitting there out in the desert.” He paused. “Like I say, interesting choice.”

“Why so?”

Rebus folded his arms. “Well, this king must have had some ego-that’s the point of the poem. No matter how high and mighty you are, nothing lasts. And if you’re a tyrant, your fall’s all the greater.” He leaned forward a little across the table. “Person who chose that name wasn’t stupid…had to know it wasn’t about power as such-”

“-but power’s corrupting influence?” Tench smiled and nodded slowly.

“DI Rebus is a fast learner,” Siobhan added. “Yesterday, he was wondering if you might be Australian.”

Tench’s smile broadened. His eyes remained fixed on Rebus. “We did that poem at school,” he said. “Had this really enthusiastic English teacher. He made us memorize it.” Tench offered a shrug. “I just like the name, Inspector. Don’t read any more into it.” His gaze shifted to Siobhan and back. “Peril of the profession, I suppose-always looking for motive. Tell me, what’s your killer’s motive? Have you considered that?”

“We think he’s a vigilante,” Siobhan stated.

“Picking them off one by one from that Web site?” Tench didn’t look convinced.

“You’ve still yet to tell us,” Rebus said quietly, “your own motive for being so interested in BeastWatch.” He unfolded his arms and laid his palms on the tabletop, on either side of his coffee mug.