“At least we can rule Tench out as a suspect,” Wylie was saying.

“Maybe.”

“Siobhan said you’d be arresting some kid from Niddrie?”

“Probably already in custody.”

“So it has nothing to do with the Clootie Well or BeastWatch?”

“Coincidence, that’s all.”

“So what happens now?”

“Your notion of a weekend break sounds good. Everybody’s back to work on Monday…we can organize a proper murder inquiry.”

“You won’t be needing me then?”

“There’s a place for you if you want it, Ellen. You’ve got a whole forty-eight hours to think it over.”

“Thanks, John.”

“But do me a favor…give Siobhan a call tomorrow. Let her know I’m worried.”

“Worried and sorry?”

“I’ll leave the wording to you. Night, Ellen.” He ended the call and studied his face in the bathroom mirror. He was surprised not to see scourge marks and raw flesh. Looked much the same as ever: sallow and needing a shave, hair unkempt, bags under his eyes. He gave his cheeks a few slaps and headed through to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee-black; the milk had decided it was sour-and ended up seated at the dining table in the living room. The same faces stared down at him from his walls:

Cyril Colliar.

Trevor Guest.

Edward Isley.

He knew that on TV the main topic would still be the London bombs. Experts would be debating What Could Have Been Done and What to Do Next. All other news would have been pushed aside. Yet he still had his three unsolved murders-which were actually Siobhan’s now that he thought of it. Chief constable had put her in charge. Then there was Ben Webster, receding into obscurity with each turn of the news cycle.

Nobody’d blame you for coasting…

Nobody but the dead.

He rested his head on his folded arms. Saw the well-fed Cafferty descending that million-pound staircase. Saw Siobhan falling for his tricks. Saw Cyril Colliar doing his dirty work and Keith Carberry doing his dirty work and Molly and Eric Bain doing his dirty work. Cafferty coming downstairs, perfumed from the shower, smelling sweeter than any nosegay.

Cafferty the mobster knew Steelforth’s name.

Cafferty the author had met Richard Pennen.

Who else…?

Who else have you talked to…?

Cafferty with his tongue protruding…Maybe Siobhan herself…

No, not Siobhan. Rebus had seen the way she acted at the murder scene-she hadn’t known a thing.

Which didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted it to happen. Hadn’t wished it into existence by letting her eyes meet Cafferty’s for just that second too long. Rebus heard a plane climbing into the sky from the west. There weren’t many late flights out of Edinburgh. He wondered if maybe it was Tony Blair or some of his minions. Thank you, Scotland, and good night. The summit would have enjoyed the best the country had to offer-scenery, whiskey, ambience, food. The morsels turning to ash as that red London bus exploded. And meantime three bad men had died…and one good man-Ben Webster-and one Rebus wasn’t sure about even now. Gareth Tench might have been acting from the best of motives, but with his conscience hammered into submission by circumstance.

Or he could have been on the cusp of wrenching away Cafferty’s tarnished crown.

Rebus doubted he would ever know for sure. He stared at the phone lying in front of him on the dining table. Seven digits and he’d be connected to Siobhan’s apartment. Seven tiny points of pressure on the keypad. How could something be so difficult?

“What makes you think she’s not better off without you?” he found himself asking the silver lozenge. It replied with a bleep, and his head twitched upward. He snatched at it, but all it was trying to tell him was that its battery was low.

“No lower than mine,” he muttered, rising slowly to his feet to seek out the charger. He’d just plugged it in when it rang: Mairie Henderson.

“Evening, Mairie,” Rebus said.

“John? Where are you?”

“At home. What’s the problem?”

“Can I e-mail you something? It’s the story I’m writing on Richard Pennen.”

“You need my proofreading skills?”

“I just want-”

“What’s happened, Mairie?”

“I had a run-in with three of Pennen’s goons. They were wearing uniforms, but they were no more cops than I am.”

Rebus eased himself down onto the arm of his chair. “One of them called Jacko?”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve met them, too. What happened?”

She told him, adding her suspicion that they might have spent time in Iraq.

“And now you’re scared?” Rebus guessed. “That’s why you want to make sure there are copies of your piece?”

“I’m sending out a few…”

“But not to other journalists, right?”

“Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”

“No copyright on scandal,” Rebus agreed. “Do you want to take things any further?”

“How do you mean?”

“You were right the first time-impersonating a cop is a serious matter.”

“Once I’ve filed my copy, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, but thanks for asking.”

“If you need me, Mairie, you’ve got my number.”

“Thanks, John. Good night.”

She ended the call and left him staring at his phone. The charge symbol came on again, the battery taking its little sips of electricity. Rebus walked to the dining table and switched on his laptop. Plugged the cable into the phone socket and managed to get himself online. It never ceased to amaze him when it actually worked. Her e-mail was waiting for him. He clicked to download it and added her story to one of his folders, hoping he’d be able to find it again. There was another e-mail, this time from Stan Hackman.

Better late than never, it read. Here I am back in the Toon and about to hit a few nightspots. Just time to let you know about our Trev. Interview notes say he moved to Coldstream for a time-don’t say why or for how long. Hope this helps. Your pal, Stan.

Coldstream-same place as the man he’d had the fight with outside Swany’s on Ratcliffe Terrace…

“Clickety-click,” Rebus said to himself, deciding he was owed a drink.

Saturday, July 9, 2005

25

Only a week since Rebus had walked down to the Meadows and found all those people there, dressed in white.

A long time in politics, so the saying went. Every moment of every day, life moved on. The hordes of people making the pilgrimage north today would be headed for the outskirts of Kinross and T in the Park. Sports fans would venture farther west, to Loch Lomond and the final rounds of the Scottish Open golf championship. Rebus figured his own route south would take under two hours, but there were a couple of detours first-Slateford Road to start with. He sat in the idling car, staring up at the windows of the converted warehouse. Thought he could tell Eric Bain’s flat. The curtains were open. Rebus was playing the Elbow CD again, the singer comparing the leaders of the free world to kids chucking stones. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Bain himself shambling into view, returning from the corner shop. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. His shirt wasn’t tucked in. He carried a carton of milk and wore a dazed expression. In most people, Rebus might have put it down to tiredness. He rolled down his window and sounded the horn. Bain took a second or two to recognize him and crossed the road toward the car.

“Thought that was you,” Rebus stated. Bain said nothing, just nodded, mind elsewhere. “She’s left you then?” This seemed to focus Bain’s thoughts.

“Left a message saying someone would come by to pick up her stuff.”

Rebus nodded. “Get in, Eric. We need to have a little chat.”

But Bain stood his ground. “How did you know?”

“Talk to anyone, Eric, they’ll tell you I’m the last one who should be giving relationship advice-” Rebus paused. “On the other hand, we can’t have you passing inside information to Big Ger Cafferty.”