Set in Darkness (27 page)

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.